Three Dog Island Read online

  The answer hit me again—because they didn’t want anyone to know it had been stolen.

  An instant later, Josh had a theory of his own. “Maybe they broke it? By accident?”

  His made perfect sense. “Of course. And it would have to be a ceramic artist who could duplicate his work. Or at least attempt to.”

  “Is his work that difficult to duplicate?”

  “His stone and marble sculptures, yes. He’s a master. The clay models, not quite so much. But that’s where he creates the concept. It’s his concepts and the energy he gives his pieces that are unique.” Maybe this wasn’t going to be so difficult to figure out after all. The list of suspects had suddenly narrowed considerably—all ceramic sculptors on the island. The only problem was, I knew from experience that when solutions seemed simple, they proved to be anything but.

  Chapter 8

  I had become comfortable with Josh living at the cottage. Maybe solitude and I were not as compatible as I had originally thought. But it was September and he needed to be in school. I could be liable for keeping him out, to say nothing of all the other ramifications about which I did not know and did not want to know. For all I knew he had committed a crime and I was harboring a criminal. Or a runaway. Maybe his mother had not sent him away. Maybe it was all a lie.

  But I didn’t think so, just as I did not think Jasper Rosenthal was becoming senile.

  “Would it be okay?” Josh interrupted my thoughts.

  I looked in the direction of his nod. My old guitar. Other than to dust it off on occasion, I hadn’t picked it up since I’d put it there the day I had moved to the island. I had not played it since. In fact, I could not remember the last time I had played it. Joe thought it was reminiscent of my hippy days, which was undoubtedly the reason I loved it so much.

  “Sure,” I said to Josh. “Can you play?”

  “A little, but my specialty is—”

  “What?” I pried.

  “Saxophone.”

  “Really? Maybe I can borrow one for you to play.”

  “I have one of mine with me.”

  “Ah, so that’s why your duffle bag was so heavy. I figured it was the books.”

  He laughed. It was a wonderful sound. “Both. I couldn’t have left home without my sax.” He tightened the strings as he tuned my poor neglected guitar. Once he had accomplished that task, which he was amazingly adept at, he played a couple songs. I didn’t recognize them, but they were very soothing to hear, and most likely to play.

  “You’re very good.”

  “Naw. It’s the sax I’m—”

  “Go get it.”

  His eyebrows raised in question. “Someone might hear. I figure the guitar is safe because they’d think it’s you playing.”

  I shook my head. “No one on the island even knows I play the guitar. I don’t think there’s cause for concern. This is the country. Neighbors are a long distance away. Besides which, Sasha is my closest neighbor.”

  “What about the lighthouse? I’ve seen a guy coming and going from there.”

  I’d forgotten. “Don’t worry about him. He just uses the lighthouse as an artist studio. He paints up there. He’s only there in the early mornings before he goes to work which he does pretty much seven days a week—around ten o’clock.”

  “You’re sure?” He had put down the guitar. His body language was easy to read. He resembled Rocky when he was shaking with anticipation over a bone you were about to throw him . . . or a piece of a scone.

  “If he did hear you or see you by some fluke, we’ll just tell him you’re my nephew.”

  Josh smiled. I didn’t know if it was because it meant he could play his sax or if he liked the idea of being someone’s nephew.

  He played like an angel, or at least a musician straight out of New Orleans. I knew the song well. “Up a Lazy River.” Charlie’s band played it often. Josh would have done him proud. I could stop worrying about Charlie’s reaction to my letting Josh stay at the cottage with me. While Charlie McNair might charm the down off a duck with his impish smile, Josh would charm the old PI with one bar of his music. It was no coincidence that I’d been the one to find Josh. It was synchronicity at its best.

  When he set down his sax, he looked straight at me, waiting for a word of approval, I suspected. Again he reminded me of Rocky who, other than when his stubborn streak kicked in, still looked to me to see if he had done okay, if I approved, if he could stay. But Josh reminded me of someone else as well. Jasper’s “Circle of Musicians.” They had their stories, their pain and sadness, but they still knew how to find joy in their music.

  “That was incredible. You play soprano sax.”

  “I play alto sax too, but I couldn’t bring both.”

  “Where did you learn to play like that?”

  “My grandfather. He was a musician.” He glanced down at his beloved instrument. “This was his.”

  No wonder he’d chosen to bring that one. “Your mother’s father?”

  “No. My father’s. We’re kinda close—since my father left.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Olympia.” He tucked his saxophone carefully into its case, all the while watching me. “You’re wondering why I didn’t go to him.”

  The thought had crossed my mind.

  “I figure it’s the first place they’d think to look for me, after my cousin’s. Besides, I can’t stay with him there. He’s in a rest home.”

  “You miss him.” I was stating the obvious. His eyes were showing just the slightest hint of moisture. Clearly, his grandfather was the one person he could trust not to betray him.

  I did not want to bring up the subject, but steering clear of it was not going to give him any comfort either. “Josh?”

  “I know. I can’t stay here forever.”

  His mind reading ability put mine to shame. “You can stay as long as you need to. I’m just not sure how we can do this. Legally you need to be in school.”

  “I know. But if I went out there again, they’d find me. I really think I’m in big trouble, Jenny. I think they might want to kill me.”

  He didn’t need to tell me that. Otherwise, he would not have subjected himself to staying on that miserable island. “Maybe we can figure out a way to do home schooling, at least until we figure out what’s going on with this corrupt cop who’s after you.”

  “How’re we gonna do that?”

  “Well, did I mention that I’m a private investigator?”

  “I saw your cards on the bookcase.”

  “I work with my father, Charlie McNair. I’ll put him on the job. Between the two of us, we should be able to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Thank you, Jenny. I really appreciate all—everything.”

  “I should warn you though, Charlie and his friend Malcolm MacGregor might be coming up for a visit soon.”

  “He won’t like me being here?”

  “Well, he is a typical protective father.” I smiled to help put his mind at ease. “But if you play your sax for him, he’ll be putty in your hands.”

  “He likes music?”

  “Loves music. He plays trumpet—has a band in Seattle—but I honestly doubt anyone in his band can touch you.”

  There was a hint of pride in that smile.

  “But be forewarned, as adorable as Charlie can be—and no, I’m not prejudiced—even at his age the women flock to him—but he’s going to grill you like you’ve never been grilled before.”

  Josh winced. A visceral memory? “Is he—will he be—mean about it?”

  I chuckled. “Charlie McNair? Never.”

  Josh’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “But?”

  “But he does his job well. Especially when he cares about you. He’ll want to know everything you saw and heard in the last few weeks.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “Yeah, well it gets a little tougher when he wants to know everything you don’t remember seeing and hearing.”

 
; He took a deep breath and let it out with a whistle. “That’s okay. I don’t mind. As long as he can figure out what’s going on. I just—”

  “Don’t want your mother to get in trouble?”

  “Right.”

  “Josh?”

  “I know, it doesn’t look good for her.”

  “Is there anyone you can live with once this is resolved?”

  “I could probably stay with my aunt and uncle and cousins for a little while. I don’t think they’d let me stay permanently. Their place is really crowded with the four kids, and when I was there, I could hear stuff. It sounded like they’re not getting along too well. But I’ll be okay, Jenny. I can stay on my own. Once I know I’m safe.”

  I shook my head. “Aside from the fact that you’re too young, it’s harder than it looks. Is there anyone else? Do you have any siblings?”

  “My older sister, but she’s in college back east. She doesn’t know anything about this. She barely even speaks to my mom.”

  “Who’s paying for her school?”

  “She’s putting herself through. Works nights as a waitress, goes to school during the day.”

  He probably figured he could do the same thing. Only problem was, he was under age. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out.”

  He nodded, but discouragement and fear had ensconced themselves in his shoulders.

  “We will, Josh, I promise, and until we do, you can stay here as long as you need to.”

  “Sorry, Jenny. I’m not buying it. I think Jasper’s been on his own too long. Living the life of a hermit does stuff to you,” Sam said. “Or, it could be senility has set in.”

  “He’s only in his early seventies, Sam.”

  “Maybe he’s inhaled too much clay and dust from those stones,” Deputy Dan chimed in.

  I turned and glared at him and he went back to filling out a report for a drunken overnight guest of the jail. So much for Dan being my buddy.

  “Alzheimer’s can hit much earlier than that, Jenny.”

  I knew that all too well. “He does not have Alzheimer’s, Sam. He’s an artist. He knows his work.”

  Sam sighed and sat back down at his desk chair. “I know he was a friend of your aunt’s, but we can’t investigate a crime if we don’t even think one was committed.”

  I groaned out loud. This was the first time Sam and I had disagreed on anything. “But a crime was committed.”

  “No evidence of a crime as far as we can see,” Dan said under his breath.

  I glared at the back of his head.

  “He does have a point, Jenny,” Sam concurred.

  “Okay, clearly you two don’t understand the importance of an artist’s work. A piece of artwork was tampered with.”

  “It was just the clay model,” Dan said. “It’s not like it was his expensive sculpture. I don’t know what the big deal is.”

  Now I was angry. My throat was constricted and my fists were clasped in attack mode. “It’s a huge deal,” I said through clenched teeth. “It was his creation.” I’d like to have seen him try to create something. I turned to Sam. “That makes it a crime.”

  Sam scratched his head. A moment later he was nodding. It was a slight nod, but a nod all the same. Just as he was about to speak, Dan jumped in again.

  “I’ve talked to the three other people who have access to the gallery, Jenny. Not one of them would have done anything to harm a piece of Jasper’s artwork.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because Jasper’s artwork supports that gallery. Without his sales, they wouldn’t even be open.”

  I hated to admit it, but he did have a point. “What if it were an accident? They knocked it off its stand by accident and a piece broke off or worse, it shattered. They were so upset that they went home and replicated it.”

  “How could they have done that?” Dan asked.

  Had the deputy taken over this office? I turned to Sam, forcing him to become part of this conversation. “From a photograph. Every piece of art in that gallery has been photographed. And Jasper’s progressive sketches are on display. They could have photographed those as well.”

  Dan gave me a less than friendly look. Unlike Sam who always appreciated my input, Dan’s ego obviously did not like being one-upped by a private citizen.

  “Why wouldn’t they just fess up to it and tell Jasper so he could fix it himself?” Dan said.

  “Scared? Embarrassed? Horrified?”

  Sam and Dan’s sighs were in sync as were their shaking heads. When had Sam tossed in the towel on this one? When we’d spoken last, he was at least open to the concept that a crime had been committed. He’d even asked me to question the three key possessors. But apparently Dan had already done that and had come to his own conclusions.

  I left the sheriff’s office frustrated and even more determined to figure out what was going on. I went directly to the gallery. If Josh’s theory was correct and someone had accidentally broken the sculpture and replaced the broken piece, it had to have been done by a ceramic sculptor. Alice Mason painted jewelry. As I recalled, Ramona Dale worked with glass. That left Army. My intuition went crazy, telling me that no way could Army have done this. I believed it.

  “Hello, Jenny. Did you come in to see if any of your work has sold?” Alice asked.

  “Not exactly, but has it?”

  “Actually—” She found a couple tags in the drawer beneath the cash register and handed them to me. “One vase and one jug.”

  “Wow!”

  “I think we’ve priced them too low maybe?”

  I didn’t care. It was selling. Someone had liked it well enough to put out some money. “I’d better get busy and finish glazing some of my other pieces.” But right now, there were other things I was dealing with. “Thanks, Alice. I’ll consider raising the prices. I was wondering though, what days does Ramona Dale work?”

  “She generally covers the weekends. She’s not married so doesn’t care what days she works so we stuck her with weekends. Did you want to ask her some questions about the crime?”

  Good to know someone else considered it a crime. “Yes, I do have a few questions for her.”

  Alice nodded. “Well, stop in a little later this afternoon. She called to say she’s bringing over more of her jewelry. Should be here in an hour or so.”

  “Thanks, Alice. Do you, by chance, have a brochure of all the artists who have their work on display?”

  “Of course, dear.” She handed me several brochures. “Great advertising. Give them out.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said, “Thank you.”

  I waited until I was at the pub, sipping my Belhaven, to read the brochure. I was right. Ramona did work with glass, not clay. She made glass jewelry. That still pointed in one direction—Army.

  “You look lost in thought,” Pen said as she joined me at my table with a Belhaven of her own.

  “Off duty?” I asked.

  “I am. It’s my day off.”

  “Do you by any chance live in this pub?”

  “You could say that. We have an apartment in the back.”

  “I think you and Mickey need a vacation,” I told her.

  “That we do. It just isn’t in the cards right now. Maybe when we”—she hesitated only slightly at the sound of glass shattering behind the bar—”have a reliable staff, we can visit family in England and Scotland.”

  “Well, you know if you need help with anything, you can call on me.”

  “We might just do that. Do you have any pub experience?”

  I chuckled and took a sip of my beer. “Just this. And if I say so myself, I’m darn good at it.”

  Pen laughed and took a long sip of her own beer and set it down, looking me in the eye. “On a more serious note—what is this we hear about Jasper’s clay sculpture?”

  “Where did you hear about it? No, let me guess. Seth’s newspaper?”

  Pen nodded. “Is it true?”

  “Well, put it this way. Sheriff
Sam and Deputy Dan don’t think there’s reason enough to investigate. They think Jasper is becoming senile.”

  “Oh my.”

  “Do you think that’s possible, Pen? How well do you know Jasper?”

  “Well, it’s hard for anyone to know Jasper, except perhaps your Aunt Winnie. That’s how we knew him. Back in the old days when we first came to the island, we stayed with your aunt as you know. He would come over to visit and they would drink tea and discuss their latest creations for hours on end. He wasn’t so reclusive back then. He came to a lot of Winnie’s gatherings. The artists on the island were all good friends back then—Winnie, Jasper, artists from Gael Island too, and Angelo and Dawn, Rachel and Michael who have passed on, and Alice Mason. She was younger but she loved to join their gatherings.”

  “Interesting. When did Jasper stop going out—other than for clay and to the co-op? I heard he even has his groceries delivered now.”

  “It’s been gradual, I think,” Pen said. “Over the last ten years. But he still visited Winnie until she passed on. I think her passing hit him hard, as it did all of us.”

  I took her hand that had opened for me. There was comfort in a common sadness.

  “But to answer your question, I really don’t think he’s become senile, Jenny. Sad, depressed perhaps, but not senile.”

  “Thanks, Pen. Another question, if you don’t mind. Do you know Army at all?”

  “Of course. He and Navy come into the pub quite often. Once a week, I’d say. He was a friend of your aunt’s as well. All the artists on the island were, really.”

  I explained the situation and asked that she keep this conversation between the two of us. “Do you think he could ever do anything like that? If he accidentally damaged another artist’s work, would he not tell them?”

  Pen thought carefully before answering. “I really don’t believe so, Jenny, but you know how we humans are—when we’ve done something wrong, something that makes us feel like a wee child who’s going to get in trouble, we react in peculiar ways, ways that are not necessarily consistent with our character.”

  True. It was hard to know what any of us would do in that situation. Yet, while all the facts were pointing in Army’s direction, my intuition was pointing away from him. It would have helped immeasurably if I could have seen toward what and whom it was pointing.