The Portrait of Doreene Gray (37 page)

Kroger pulled out one of the knife's blades and slit the paper all the way around its perimeter. He gave back the knife and pulled the paper off the frame.

The back of the painting lay revealed, its canvas edges stapled taut around a wooden stretcher.

Kroger looked at Michael. “Now what?”

“Take it out of the frame and pry the staples off.”

“Wait just a minute.” Max took a step toward the table but was stopped by Hanley's arm across his chest. “Taking the canvas off the stretchers is not good for the paint. It can crack or flake.”

“That's a risk we're going to have to take.” Kroger turned to the man with the cart. “Excuse me…”

“Dave,” the man provided.

“Dave. Can you get me a medium-sized, flathead screwdriver?”

Dave lifted a clanking canvas bag from the cart and set it on the table. “You'll want a pair of bent-nosed pliers, too.”

Max leaned over Hanley's outstretched arm. “If you tell me what you're looking for, maybe I can help.”

“We're looking for the portrait of Doreene Gray,” Kroger said. He pried up the first staple.

Max made an exasperated noise. “You said Lyndsay and Reynaldo had it when you caught them. Did you lose it already?”

“They had the first portrait, yes.” Kroger tossed a staple on the table. It made a slight metallic sound as it bounced. “Now we're looking for the second portrait—the one that disappeared from the van.”

“There were
two
portraits?” Max said.

“Yup.” Kroger pried up a second staple and froze as the canvas made a slight cracking noise.

Max groaned. “I'm going to file a claim against your department, Detective Kroger.” He waved an arm to take in the TSA agents. “Against everybody here. You're damaging my property.”

Hanley smiled. “I'll make sure to pass your message on to the head of Homeland Security.”

Kroger pulled all the staples from one side of the canvas, then carefully pulled the stiff, bent edge of the painting away from the stretcher. “Hmm.”

“Can you see anything?” Michael asked. “Is there a second canvas?”

Kroger pulled the canvas out farther and peered at the underside. His mouth twisted to one side. “Nope. It's just one painting.”

Michael went over to him. “Let me see.” He lifted the canvas up and examined the edge of the painting. Then he lay it flat again. He took the screwdriver from Kroger's hand and removed three more staples from a second side.

Max crossed his arms over his chest and looked at the painting glumly. “You might as well take it off completely. It'll have to be restretched, and who knows what that will do to the impasto.” He glared at Kroger. “And who is going to pay for all this?”

Kroger looked at Michael and raised his brows. “That's a good question.”

Michael peered under the canvas again before straightening. “Did you check out the officer who drove the van?” He cleared his throat. “Your nephew?”

Kroger nodded. “He hasn't gotten any sudden cash windfalls that we can tell.” He crossed his arms. “And his mother vouches for his good character.”

Michael made an apologetic face.

“And before you ask,” Kroger went on, “we searched the entire van. Took all the panels off, inside and out.”

“And you searched it
right after
the painting went missing?” Michael asked. “Not the next day or anything?”

Kroger nodded slowly. “Right after.”

Michael looked into space, drumming his fingers.

“Do you
mind
?” Max pointed to where Michael's fingers drummed on the surface of the painting.

Michael looked down. “Sorry.” He lifted his hand.

Max turned to Suki, who still had a camera trained on them. “I hope you're getting all this. I'm going to want it for court.”

She gave him a thumbs-up.

Michael went to the crate, which leaned against one of the railings on either side of the cart. He reached into the interior, pulled out a foam pad with a scritch of Velcro, and tossed it on the floor. He did the same with the rest of the pads.

Kroger rubbed his forehead as he watched. “We checked the inside of the box.”

Michael turned on his cell phone's light and aimed it inside the foam-free crate. Squinting, he angled both the phone and his head in several directions. Finally he examined the outside of the crate.

“What are you looking for?” Kroger asked.

Michael straightened. “Can we take the crate apart?”

Max shook his head in apparent disbelief. “You're going to damage the painting
and
the box it came in? Did I do something to piss off the government?”

Michael pointed to the crate. “This has double walls.”

Kroger frowned. “The surveillance camera in the evidence room didn't show Max doing any major woodworking.”

Max spoke, his tone weary. “There's padding between the two layers of plywood. It absorbs shock and acts as a buffer against temperature changes. Also, if something were to break the outer layer of plywood, the painting would still be protected.”

Dave joined Michael at the crate. He squatted and ran his fingertips over the screw heads. “Nice work. These are glued and screwed.”

Michael put one arm inside the crate, pressing his cheek against the edge so he could reach the very bottom. Suddenly he lifted his head and sneezed. He sniffed the opening of the box. “I smell contact cement.”

“As the man told you, it's glued together,” Max said.

Dave shook his head. “You don't want contact cement for this. Wood glue is what you want.”

“They probably used whatever would dry quickest,” Max said. “Doreene decided to ship the painting on very short notice, and it had to be custom made.”

Michael smiled. “When you measured the portrait, you jokingly complimented Maureene on using a standard canvas size. If it was standard, why would you have to custom-build anything? Rothwell's should have bunches of crates that size lying around.” Michael patted the crate. “But I do think this one is special.”

Dave went to the canvas bag and took out a large cordless drill. “I can take the screws out and use a pry bar to break the glued sections apart.
Or,
I can get a Sawzall up here and cut one end of that puppy right off. You just say the word.”

Detective Kroger turned and studied Maxwell Thorne.

Max's air of outraged irritation had vanished. Two lines appeared on either side of his mouth.

Kroger leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Let's try the pry bar first.”

*   *   *

Once the screws were removed, Dave took a hammer and chisel and gouged a hole in the seam between two sides of the crate. He laid the crate flat, put the toe of his boot in the open end to hold it still, and levered with the pry bar.

Michael watched intently. “Of course, the painting could be in the other side.”

“Or neither,” Angus said. “I still think it dissolved into the ether after Doreene died.”

Max gave Angus a sour look.

Angus returned it. “If anyone should be backing me up on this, it's you.”

Suki circled the crate, camera trained on it. As the plywood began to splinter and separate, she licked her lips.

Agent Hanley leaned toward Kroger. “Is the photographer part of your department?”

“Freelance,” Kroger said.

“I think I'll ask for a card.” Hanley angled his head toward Michael. “What about Sherlock Holmes over there?”

Kroger uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way. “Consultant.”

Hanley lowered his voice further. “And the big guy with the funny accent?”

Kroger glanced at Angus, who chose that moment to ask one of the TSA agents if he had ever seen a ghost at the airport, late at night. “My uncle, from out of town,” Kroger said. “He really wanted to watch me work.”

Hanley nodded. “That's nice.”

The plywood side of the crate came up with a sudden crunch of splintering wood. Dave reached down and wrenched the broken side free. “Well, would you look at that.”

A wrapped canvas rested in the hollow side of the crate. Detective Kroger stepped across the broken plywood and picked it up. A few foam spacers fell to the floor.

He took it over to the table and removed the bag. The portrait of Doreene Gray smiled serenely up at them.

 

Twenty-nine

“That was a nice piece of detective work,” Kroger told Michael, back in his office. They had returned to Port Townsend and stowed both the painting and Maxwell Thorne in locked rooms.

Michael's smile held more than a touch of smugness. “It was just a matter of realizing that if the painting was put in the crate, and no one removed it on the trip between the police station and the house, then it must
still be
in the crate.”

“Plus, you smelled contact cement,” Suki said. “How did that work, exactly?”

“It was like an illusionist's trick,” Michael explained. “Remember, the crate had double walls. One of the inside walls wasn't attached. Before Max took the crate to the police station, he applied some contact cement to the loose wall's edges and some on the inside of the box, where the wall was supposed to go. But when he put the wall back in the crate, he shoved it over to the opposite side, against the inner wall.”

“Just think,” Angus said with false brightness. “If Thorne had used odor-free poster stickum, we might still have a story.”

Kroger gave him an incredulous look. “You don't call this a story?”

“Not
Tripping
's kind of story,” Angus said.

Michael grinned at Kroger. “He's going to fire me.”

Kroger gave Angus a stern look. “You're going to fire him for cooperating with the police? If I had solved this on my own and found out you withheld information, I'd arrest you as accessories.”

Angus waved a negligent hand. “Michael's only joking. I wouldn't fire him.” When Kroger turned away, he glared at Michael.

“What do you think will happen to everyone?” Suki asked. “Maureene, Hank, Reynaldo, and Lyndsay. Max.”

“We should be able to get Max on the theft of the second painting, no problem.” Kroger blew out a breath. “The first one, maybe not. As for the others, it's hard to say. Maureene will probably get off pretty easy. She wasn't in the house when Doreene died, and as for the death of her stepfather … She was young, he was a drunk who sexually abused her—I'm guessing probation, maybe some court-ordered counseling.”

“What about Hank and Reynaldo?” Angus asked.

“That's trickier,” Kroger said, leaning back in his chair. “It's conceivable the state might try for a verdict of criminal negligence, but it would be tough to get, especially since the victim's sister will presumably be on their side. Reynaldo may just be deported, since his marriage to Doreene wasn't legal and he isn't a U.S. citizen. It turns out Hank made a lot of money in Argentina, so he can hire a good defense. I wouldn't be surprised if he helps Maureene and Reynaldo with their legal fees, too.”

“And Lyndsay?” Suki asked.

Kroger gave a low whistle and shook his head. “What a mess that is.”

“Does she know Doreene was actually her mother?” Angus asked.

“Not yet,” Kroger said. “She may find out from her attorney first. I suppose Lyndsay could claim she somehow knew Doreene was her mother, so there was no question of theft. Given that she inherits everything anyway, a judge might decide it's not worthwhile to try the case. I'm just guessing, you understand.” He looked at Michael. “I'm assuming you want to press charges against her for hitting you on the head?”

Michael gave an exaggerated nod. “
Oh,
yeah.”

Suki smiled. “That's my boy.”

“Assault, then,” Kroger said. “That's something.”

Everyone sat in thoughtful silence for a few seconds.

Angus looked at his watch. “I checked flights earlier, and there are still seats on one of today's flights out of Seattle.” He stood. “If we leave right this minute, we might be able to catch it.”

Kroger got up to shake their hands. “It's been a real pleasure. If you're ever in Port Townsend again, let me know. Michael, have you ever considered joining the force?”

Michael chuckled. “I'm pretty determined to make it as a writer, but this has definitely been a thrill. Thanks for letting us help.”

“Any time.”

They left the brick building. Outside, the sun shone brightly, and a fresh breeze blew.

“It's a good thing you're firing me,” Michael said as they walked to the minivan. “I'll need all my time if Reynaldo lets me work on his book. That story's even better now.”

Angus strolled across the parking lot, hands in his jacket pockets. “You're not fired.”

Suki smiled as she unlocked the minivan with the remote.

Michael ran in front of Angus and looked back at him. “What do you mean I'm not fired?”

“It's too early to go into details,” Angus said, opening his car door, “but Suki said something that made me think the magazine could be a bit more inclusive.”

Michael got in the backseat and tapped Suki's shoulder. “What? What did you say?”

Suki turned to look out the back window and reversed the car. “I don't remember exactly.”

Michael slumped in his seat and buckled his seat belt. “Oh, I get it.” He gave the back of Angus's head a bitter look. “It's in my contract that I can't sell any story
Tripping
covers, even if I quit first. What are you going to do, Angus, include a one-inch sidebar about Doreene in the next issue, so I can't benefit from it?”

“Certainly not,” Angus huffed. “I'm not a punitive man. I think we should serialize the whole story. Afterward, you can integrate those articles into a book.”