Charles Bellingham was tall, portly, balding, and excitable. Though he was a night owl by nature, he was wide-awake when he pulled into my driveway.
“Lori!” he called, hauling his large frame out of his compact vehicle. “I’m glad I caught you!”
He strode to the rear of the car, popped the trunk, and removed from it something that looked suspiciously like a small, framed painting wrapped in brown paper.
“Don’t tell me,” I said under my breath. “You have wonderful news.”
“I have the most wonderful news!” Charles announced, holding the parcel next to his smiling face.
“Come in,” I said dazedly, “and tell me all about it.”
I felt as if I were caught in a recurring dream as I led Charles into the living room and watched him sit in what was swiftly becoming the most sat upon spot on the couch.
“Tea?” I said automatically.
“No, thank you,” he replied. “No fiddling with the teapot. No cups, saucers, sugar bowls, or cream jugs. Sit! Listen!”
I sank onto my armchair to await yet another revelation. Charles placed his parcel on the coffee table, spread his hands upon his knees, and glanced furtively over his shoulder.
“Are we alone?” he asked.
“There’s Stanley,” I said, nodding at the cat, who betrayed not the slightest sign of interest in our guest. “But he’s not a big talker.”
Charles gazed benevolently at Stanley, then turned his attention to me.
“I believe I’ve told you about Grant’s disposables,” he began.
“You’ve told everyone in Finch about Grant’s disposables,” I said tiredly. “It’s your favorite prank. You fool people into thinking you’re talking about adult diapers and only then do you tell them what Grant’s disposables really are. I’m not sure Grant appreciates it. For a long time, old Mrs. Wyn was convinced that he was incontinent.”
Charles sniggered. “I must remember to speak more loudly to Mrs. Wyn. Her hearing isn’t what it used to be.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “When she asked me in hushed tones about Grant’s unfortunate condition, I explained to her that his disposables aren’t personal hygiene products. They’re the ugly paintings he stashes in your shed.”
Charles Bellingham and Grant Tavistock bought and sold artwork as a hobby, but they earned their daily bread by appraising, restoring, and repairing paintings for well-to-do clients. Charles carried out the appraisals and Grant was the repair and restoration expert.
“Disposables” were the cheap and dreadful paintings Grant purchased at charity shops, car boot sales, and flea markets. He used disposables to test new products, techniques, and tools before disposing of them in his recycling bin, where, he claimed, they brought more joy to humankind than they had ever brought before.
“Why do you do it?” I asked. “Why make a joke at Grant’s expense?”
“Why do I do it?” Charles echoed indignantly. “I’ll tell you why! Grant rummages through his disposables after he buys them to make sure there isn’t a gem hidden among them. He then tosses them into the shed higgledy-piggledy and waits for me to organize his mess for him. He does it on purpose, Lori, because he knows how intensely I detest chaos. He knows I’ll eventually grit my teeth and sort the horrors—”
“You sort them?” I broke in.
“Yes,” said Charles. “By size, shape, and medium.”
“Medium?” I queried.
“Oil, acrylic, watercolor, tempera, et cetera,” Charles clarified. “I’m certain I found a still life done in gravy once, but Grant insists it was a thick impasto. At any rate, I carry out the unenviable tasks of sorting Grant’s disposables and placing them in their assigned racks in his workroom, and what thanks do I get?”
“The satisfaction of a job well done?” I ventured.
“Lori,” Charles said gravely, “there is no satisfaction to be had from handling botched paintings of clowns, cheetahs, bananas, and sunsets.”
“Someone must have loved them once,” I pointed out.
“Once was more than they deserved,” he retorted. “Yes, I have my little joke at Grant’s expense, but it’s not enough, not nearly enough, to make up for the hours I spend knee-deep in dregs. I’ve often longed to exact a sweeter revenge, and yesterday afternoon the means to achieve the ultimate retaliation fell into my hands. At long last, I discovered a hidden gem Grant overlooked, a grain of wheat he failed to separate from the chaff, the swan in the flock of ugly ducklings—”
“You found an undiscovered masterpiece,” I interrupted, repeating the words Bree had used to describe Charles’s wildest dream, “a long-lost Rembrandt.”