“Which gallery?” I asked.
“Selwyn’s on Summer Street,” Charles replied. “Old Mr. Selwyn died ten years ago, but the gallery still carries his name. I asked the current owner if he could tell me who bought the Asazuki from the gallery, but he had no idea. The relevant sales records were destroyed in a fire shortly after Mr. Selwyn’s death.”
“Too bad he didn’t keep them on a computer,” I said.
“Mr. Selwyn was too old a dog to learn new tricks,” said Charles. “He preferred paper records. An unlucky preference, as it turns out.”
I couldn’t help but admire the energy Charles had put into his revenge plot, even though I deplored the plot itself.
“Whoever bought the painting from the gallery must have known what it was worth,” I said. “Why would he shove it in a box with a bunch of worthless daubs?”
“Who knows?” said Charles. “The owner may have died without informing his relatives of the painting’s value. It’s the sort of thing that happens all the time in the art world. Grant insists, however, that the Asazuki was never in with the disposables.”
“If it wasn’t there in the first place,” I said, “and you didn’t put it there, how did it get there?”
“I’ve been mulling it over,” said Charles, “and it’s a funny thing, but I seem to recall hearing an odd noise in the back garden a couple of nights before I found the Asazuki. I thought it was the shed door rattling in the wind—Grant can’t be bothered to latch it properly—but it could have been someone closing the door.” He raised his hands, palms upward. “Who could it have been, though? The art fairy, leaving a treat for me because I’ve been a good boy?”
I laughed and said, “I doubt it.”
“I do, too,” said Charles. “A human being must have put the painting in the shed. I can’t imagine why he would and I sincerely wish he hadn’t. The Asazuki has caused nothing but strife.”
“Don’t blame the painting,” I said severely, “or the person who gave it to you. You used a rare and wonderful work of art to score cheap points off of someone you love. If you want my honest opinion, Charles, I think you should be ashamed of yourself.”
“I am,” said Charles, looking crestfallen. “I behaved like a school-yard bully.” He scanned the green frantically, as if he were searching for a lost puppy. “I don’t know what I’ll do if Grant doesn’t come home.”
“He’ll come home,” I said soothingly. “He just needs a little time to simmer down. For all you know, he could be working out a way to apologize to you. He said some pretty nasty things the other day.”
“Nothing more than I deserve,” Charles said ruefully. “I am a paranoid neat freak with delusions of grandeur.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” I said gently. “But Grant thinks you are, most of the time.”
Charles managed a small smile.
“If Grant rings you, will you tell him how sorry I am?” he asked.
“I’ll tell him,” I promised, “but I’m sure you’ll speak with him before I do.”
I reached over the white picket gate to pat Charles’s shoulder, turned, and struck out once more for George Wetherhead’s house. I’d taken no more than ten steps, however, when Elspeth Binney rushed up to me, looking desperate.
Twenty-two
“I’m so glad you’re fit again, dear,” said Elspeth. “Bill—”
“—told you I was on my deathbed,” I broke in, nodding. “Not true. I’m fine.”
“I wish I were,” she said. “I must apologize to you for the way Jemma behaved the other day.”
“She was a tiny bit intrusive,” I allowed.
“A tiny bit?” Elspeth exclaimed and the floodgates opened. “She’s a barbarian! She stays up half the night, sleeps until noon, eats whenever it suits her, and leaves dirty dishes, clothes, and photographs strewn all over my cottage. I found a brassiere hanging on the back of my Windsor armchair this morning and a bowl of congealed porridge on my Queen Anne table. It left a ring.” She raised her eyes to the heavens and groaned softly. “I wondered what it would be like to live with an artist and now I know. It’s like being locked in a prison cell with an ill-mannered, self-centered adolescent.”
“I’m so sorry, Elspeth,” I said. “Have you asked Jemma to be a little more considerate?”
“I’ve dropped several broad hints,” said Elspeth, “but she’s impervious to them. Honestly, Lori, I wouldn’t mind clearing up after her if she was doing something worthwhile, but her photographs are . . . are . . .”
“Unique?” I ventured.
“They’re appalling,” Elspeth said hopelessly. “I don’t know why she chose to take them at such odd angles. I suppose she considers it artistic, but the results are terribly unflattering. Everyone looks demented. If Jemma’s photographs ever get into print, no one in Finch will ever speak to me again.”
“If the publisher doesn’t like them, they won’t be included in the book,” I said. “Who is Jemma’s publisher?”