Three Dog Island Page 7

  “Recently. A week or so?”

  He thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. “Tuesday before last, Jeff Conrad rented a boat for the day. He rents one a couple times a month—he and some friends like to go fishing.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Jeff is a kid here on the island. Early twenties. Lived here all his life.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Good kid. Does odd jobs on the island—whatever needs doing. Anything from raking leaves to building fences to delivering groceries.”

  “You’re sure they go fishing?”

  “Always have their fishing gear with ‘em.”

  Reasonably good evidence. “Any others?”

  “Hank Yates rented one. Same day. Brought it back the following day. Knew your Aunt Winnie, I’m sure. Henry Yates, but goes by Hank.”

  Another Henry! I thought I’d gone through the entire book of Henry’s when I was trying to solve the mystery of the body buried in my rose garden. I must not have made it to the end of the alphabet. “Did he say why he needed it?”

  Burt scratched his head again. “Don’t recall, but it’s usually just to get out there in the water and away from his wife.” He chuckled at that.

  “Thanks, Burt. Hey, by any chance did you notice any dog fur on any of those boats?”

  “Nope, can’t say as I did. They usually come back to me pretty clean but I always spiff ‘em up so they’re ready for the next customer. What are you thinking?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing really. Thanks, Burt.”

  I left the store frustrated. I felt as if I were treading water. That happened when I set about tasks for no logical reason or if I didn’t have the guidance or stamp of approval from my intuition. I’d be better off at home rolling dough for scones or punching some clay. At least then I’d be giving my intuition a chance to speak to me.

  Chapter 7

  “You had a phone call,” Josh said as I peeled off my jacket and tossed my car keys and purse in their favorite spot on the kitchen table.

  “You answered it?”

  “No, but they left a message.” He was smiling.

  I eyed him suspiciously. Obviously he’d heard the message. Probably Holly with her enchanting voice. “My daughter?”

  He shook his head. “Someone named Alice Mason.”

  “From the art co-op?”

  “They’ve accepted your application and want you to bring over your work as soon as you can.”

  “But they haven’t even seen it! Just a couple photographs with my application.”

  “She mentioned some guy, Jasper somebody? Called her last night?”

  I looked heavenward. “Thanks, Winnie.”

  “Winnie?”

  “My great aunt,” I explained. “This was her home. She left it to me when she died recently. Jasper Rosenthal, who’s a well-known local sculptor, was a close friend of hers. They started the art co-op many years ago.”

  “Are some of the paintings on the walls hers?” He nodded toward the painting of the lighthouse and another one of Winnie’s rose garden.

  “All of them. The cottage hasn’t changed a lot. I’ve kept her dishes, furniture, art work . . . “ And, of course, her photograph albums and diaries which had given me great insight as well as comfort.

  Josh put the kettle on the stove. He already knew the afternoon routine. So did Rocky, or maybe it was the sound of the refrigerator door that caused him to move from his favorite spot by the fireplace to his other favorite spot, under the kitchen table.

  I unwrapped the shepherd’s pie I’d brought home from the pub and set it in front of Josh. “I assume you haven’t had lunch.”

  He didn’t respond which meant he had ignored the time and hunger pangs, still uncomfortable assuming the food in the refrigerator was his for the taking.

  After he finished eating, Josh helped me pack up my wealth of work. It consisted of three vases, two jugs, and four decorative bowls. Not much to show for the hours of work I had put in as a potter, but all the other pieces had been put to good use and were comfortably tucked away in my kitchen cupboards or were holding flowers or miscellaneous thumbtacks, screws, and paper clips. There were still some nude stragglers sitting on the garage shelf waiting for me to determine what glaze to sheathe them in.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I told him as I climbed into the car an hour later.

  “Jenny, you really don’t have to worry. I’m used to being alone.”

  “I know, but it can get lonely—”

  “I’m good, Jenny. Really.” Of course he was. He was warm and well-fed . . . and alive.

  Ten minutes later I was parked outside the Anamcara artist co-op, staring at the group of people inside. It didn’t take more than the hair on my arms standing on end for me to glean that something was wrong.

  “Jenny!” Sheriff Sam greeted me at the door.

  “What’s going on?”

  He pulled me aside. “It’s very strange. I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Make of what, Sam?”

  “Jasper Rosenthal insists that his artwork has been tampered with. Actually, he insists that part of it isn’t his work at all.”

  “What?”

  “Sounds weird to me too. He thinks part of his clay model has been replaced with a fake. I thought maybe you could help me out here.” Sam grinned, showing his dimples as though they had some magical power of persuasion. I controlled the urge to straighten his thick brown hair that was as messy as my son’s usually was.

  “You know I’ll help any way I can, Sam. What do you need me to do?”

  “Do you know Jasper?”

  “Yes, he was a dear friend of my aunt’s.”

  “Oh, yeah. Do you think he’s . . . all right?”

  I frowned. “Yes. Of course he is.”

  “But he spends so much time alone, I thought maybe—”

  “He’s a reclusive artist, Sam, not a nut case. I’m sure he’s not mistaken. An artist knows his own work. Something must be going on here if he says it is.”

  “All the same, Jenny, could you kind of talk to him and get a feel for how he is? This doesn’t make a lot of sense. Why would someone steal the clay model instead of the stone sculpture—that’s what’s valuable. And why just one piece of it? And why replace it with a fake?”

  They were good questions. The answer that kept coming to me was that they did not want anyone to know it was stolen. Unfortunately that didn’t make a lot of sense either.

  “Besides that, there was no break-in here,” Sam said. “Not a single window was broken and none of the locks were tampered with.”

  That did make it more peculiar. I left the sheriff and went to talk to Jasper. His eyes were dull and he was unshaven. My guess was that he hadn’t slept since I’d seen him the day before.

  “Thank you for coming, Jenny.” Apparently he assumed that someone had informed me of what was going on and that I had come on his behalf.

  “What’s happened?” I asked.

  He showed me the clay model of his stone sculpture. For as long as I could remember, Jasper had displayed the progression of his artistic creations which included a clay model and sketches. Rubbing his hand across the two feet tall figure of the boy, he said, “This is my work. But this isn’t.” He touched the other piece with the large clouds weighing down on the boy. As though repulsed by this part of the sculpture, he withdrew his hand.

  I didn’t ask how he knew. He was the artist. Of course he knew, the way anyone would know if they were putting a glove on a hand that wasn’t theirs. Instead I turned my attention to the stone sculpture, the far more valuable piece. He had no doubt that it was his. I looked at the clay model of his other sculpture, “Circle of Musicians.” There were four of them, each holding an instrument. They were each a sculpture in their own right, but very different as individual pieces, as they were when not holding their instruments. They were transformed by the circle and by the instruments, from loneliness an
d despair to joy. Jasper was a genius. “What about this one? This is yours?”

  “Yes. All of it.”

  “So, someone came into the gallery and took part of your cloud model and replaced it with a copy.”

  “That’s right.” He turned and looked at me with his artist eyes. “I know everyone here thinks I’m hallucinating . . . or senile, but—”

  “I don’t doubt you for a moment, Jasper.”

  He sighed. “You are so very much like your aunt.”

  It was the greatest compliment anyone could give me. “Now we just need to figure out who did this and how,” I told him. It was the why that more often than not solved the puzzle. But in this case, I had a hunch it would be the how. “When did you realize the switch? That might help us figure out when it happened.”

  Jasper’s shoulders slumped even more. “That’s another reason they seem to think I’ve lost my mind.” He motioned toward the group of people across the room. “I didn’t realize it until the middle of the night. I was here yesterday, remember, when I saw you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t realize it then. I wasn’t paying attention. I should have, but I was focused on setting up my new piece, and I was only looking at it from this side. The boy looks fine, but there was something about it, the way the cloud came down and touched his hand. It just wasn’t right. It hit me in the middle of the night. I thought maybe something had happened to it so I came back today. I really didn’t want to leave my studio and come into town—two days in a row. But— I had to force myself.”

  “And when you saw it, you knew it wasn’t your imagination? That this part isn’t yours?”

  “That’s right. But it doesn’t help that there was no sign of a break-in.”

  “An inside job.” Or a job carried out when the co-op was open—but considering the size of the piece, a near to impossible task.

  He nodded. “It’s the only thing I can think of.” His voice reflected his weariness.

  “Jasper, why don’t you go home and rest? I’ll talk to Sam and see if we can make sense of this.”

  “Will you, Jenny?”

  “We won’t stop until we solve this.” At least, I wouldn’t.

  “I’m not sure Sam is taking me seriously. That deputy of his just kept saying there was no break-in.”

  “Maybe not, Jasper, but I’m taking it very seriously.” I pulled out my detective card which was behind my minister card, and handed it to him. “We’ll figure it out.”

  When Jasper gave me a quick hug, I realized just how thin he was. “Thank you, Jenny.”

  “No problem. And thank you for getting me into the co-op.”

  “My pleasure.”

  This time I pulled Sam aside. “Okay, I know it sounds farfetched, but I believe him. Tell me what you know. Who has access to the gallery? Do all of the artists?”

  “No,” Sam said, “Just Alice Mason who runs it and Ramona Dale and Army. One of them is always here when the gallery is open. And of course Jasper has a key from the days when he and your Aunt Winnie founded it.”

  “That simplifies things.”

  “Not really. These people have been running this place for years. I can’t believe any of them would have tampered with someone else’s art work.”

  Honestly, neither could I.

  “Do you think you could check them out for me, Jenny?”

  “Since you’re obviously reluctant to do it? Fine.”

  Sam smiled sheepishly. I understood. It was challenging being a sheriff in a small town—or on a small island—where everyone knew you and you knew everyone. Or maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe Sam just didn’t believe Jasper’s story enough to be willing to appear the fool for asking questions and giving it credibility. “It’s okay, Sam. So, there was absolutely no sign of a break-in?”

  “Right. And you saw Jasper’s work. There’s no way anyone could carry out a piece that size without someone noticing.”

  “It is large. And heavy.” But as Charlie often said, sometimes the impossible proves to be precisely what happened. I went back over to Jasper’s display. “Under the circumstances, I’m surprised Jasper didn’t take his stone sculptures home with him.” I told Sam. “They’re extremely valuable.”

  “He considered it, but I assured him that the perpetrator isn’t likely to return because everyone on the island knows we’re checking something out at the gallery. If there even is a perpetrator.”

  I glared at Sam, but decided to ignore his skepticism. “And if they don’t know yet, they soon will with the Anamcara Herald on the job.”

  “Speak of the devil.” Sam nodded toward the door that had just closed behind Seth Williams, local newspaperman.

  As Seth made his way across the room, I considered slipping out the back door, but decided that was incredibly juvenile.

  “Hello, Jenny.”

  “Hello, Seth.”

  After the initial look of regret in his eyes, he got down to business and questioned Sam on the events of the afternoon. I took advantage and left the two men in order to do some questioning of my own.

  I found Alice Mason behind the cash register. She was an older woman, mid fifties, I guessed, with slightly graying straight hair that hung neatly in a page boy hair cut. “I got your message, Alice. Thanks for calling so quickly.”

  “No problem, Jenny. I’m just sorry things are a bit chaotic right now—not a great welcome. Did you bring your work? We cleared a space for you over there. I hope you’re okay with it.”

  I didn’t tell her, but I was okay with any space they offered me. “That will work fine,” I told her. “I’ll bring my pieces in shortly, but I wondered if you could answer a few questions.”

  “Of course. Does it have to do with how the co-op works?”

  “No, I read the paperwork. It has to do with what happened with Jasper’s work. Has anyone else besides those of you who run the co-op ever had a key? Cleaning crew? Repair people or anyone? One of the other artists perhaps?”

  She looked straight ahead, thinking carefully before answering. “We have some very valuable work here and take every precaution. The cleaning crew comes in while one of us is here and the same is true of any workmen.”

  She went on to tell me the workmen who had come into the co-op over the past year and what jobs they had done. I took advantage of the chance to observe her closely. By the end of her account, I was convinced that she was incapable of stealing anyone else’s artwork.

  “Which is your display?” I asked.

  She proudly pointed to the jewelry display behind me. The case held several pieces of hand-painted pins and necklaces.

  “How is business?” I asked. “Are things selling?”

  “A bit slow,” she acknowledged. “Other than a few artists. Sasha’s paintings have been selling well and Dante’s pots are always popular with locals and tourists, and there’s Jasper’s work, of course. He sells at least one piece every few months. Keeps the co-op afloat really. I’m one of the fortunate ones. I don’t rely on my artwork for survival the way some of the local artists do. My husband has a good job so I get to indulge myself in spending time on my art and working here at the co-op. What about you, Jenny?”

  “I’m fortunate too,” I told her. “No husband with a job—at least not any longer, but I have a rental property in Carmel that gives me some income. And my spiritual counseling.” I didn’t mention that my father paid me well for assisting him with his cases.

  “Oh, yes, Roxie Tomkins told me that you helped her a great deal.”

  “I was actually thinking of doing some classes—centered around art therapy.”

  “Oh, that sounds like a wonderful idea. Will you hold them at the cottage?”

  “Yes, that’s what I planned—” Suddenly I realized that was not in the cards anytime soon, not as long as Josh was hiding out at my place. “But I think it’s on hold for a little while. I’m helping my father with a case he’s working on.” It wasn’t a complete lie. Charlie
always needed my help on his cases, even if it was just for me to tune into my intuition about a situation or person.

  “What kind of cases?”

  So much for not mentioning the PI business. “My father is a private detective. I’m licensed as well.”

  “Oh, how exciting that must be!”

  “Sometimes,” I concurred. Other times, it was downright boring. And then there were those few times when it was very disturbing.

  I spent a good hour setting up my display of work. Alice kindly loaned me some scarves she had in the back, to enhance the presentation of my pieces. She also helped me price each item. It was funny that I’d never even considered that part. I was just so happy to have my work sitting in a gallery on Anamcara Island. It wasn’t Seattle, but I was as happy as could be. After all, my Aunt Winnie’s work had been displayed in this very gallery for several decades. It was the big city galleries, including Seattle, that had supported her, but when we were children, she had loved taking my sister and brother and me to this gallery to show us her work and the work of her friends.

  When I got home, Josh was building a fire in the fireplace. I wondered if he thought that the more helpful he was, the longer he could stay. It was something we needed to discuss.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  I told him about my outing that had suddenly turned eventful.

  “Do you think this Jasper guy is right?”

  I sat down on the chair closest to the fire. I hadn’t realized how cold I was. The autumn dampness seemed to be settling into my bones as well as the cottage. Rocky greeted me with a gentle nuzzle, leaving his oversized head to rest in my lap, letting it work like a hot water bottle. He must have sensed the chill I was feeling.

  I heard the kettle whistle and realized Josh must have put it on the stove when he heard me drive up. When he returned from the kitchen with two cups of green tea, I answered his question.

  “I really don’t know what to think. I can’t imagine that he’d be wrong about his own work but it is very odd. Why would someone take a piece of his clay sculpture and replace it with one they made? And if someone wanted to steal something, why wouldn’t they take the stone sculpture instead of the clay model?”