The Stubborn Schoolhouse Spirit (The Penelope Pembroke Cozy Mystery Series) (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Sam was gone the next morning, but Bradley showed up for breakfast. “There was a break-in at Pembroke Point last night,” he said.

“No!” Jake leaned forward. “Anything taken?”

“All of the Bancroft portraits, including the smaller ones upstairs.”

“Oh, Bradley, that’s terrible!” Penelope rested her hands on his shoulders but only briefly. “I’m almost afraid to ask if you had them insured.”

He shook his head. “The appraiser told me they were worth around a million dollars. I was going to talk to an insurance agent this week, and I had a guy coming from
Little Rock tomorrow to install the alarm system.”

Penelope sank into her chair. “Oh, Bradley.”

He shrugged. “It’s water under the bridge. I’ve notified the state police, and they’ll take it from there. Fortunately, Chuck and the appraiser took some photographs, so at least they’ll be identifiable if they’re ever found.”

“Oh, Bradley.”

“It’s my own fault, Mother. I just dragged my feet on this. I made sure Dad had the house insured for replacement value, not that it could be replaced, but since the paintings weren’t declared at a specific value, they’re just considered part of the furnishings.”

“Did Chuck realize what was happening?”

“He didn’t hear a thing. The thieves got in through the double doors from the verandah to the dining room. Jimmied the lock, which was old and not that secure anyway.” Bradley ran one hand through his hair. “I was just careless. I can’t do two jobs, which is why I hired Chuck, and he told me…”

“Like you said, son, water under the bridge.” Jake rested a hand on his grandson’s arm. “Maybe they’ll turn up.”

“I hope so, not because they’re worth a million dollars but because they belong to the Point.”

“They’ve been there a long time,” Penelope said. She hesitated, “You don’t think Chuck…”

“He’s already blaming himself. He said he was so excited about the portraits that he talked too much.”

“Who did he talk to?”

“Marlo Howard for one, but she’s into art and antiques, so I don’t see any harm in that. He said she was interested in seeing them, but he told her he’d have to ask my permission to take her into the house.”

“Maybe she went in without permission,” Penelope muttered.

“Why would you say that, Nellie?” asked Jake.

“I don’t know. I don’t particularly like her, I guess, and I can’t tell you exactly why.”

“It’s done, Mother,” Bradley said. “If anyone’s to blame, I am.  I guess I don’t have to tell you not to blab about this.”

“Our lips are sealed, Brad,” Jake said.

Bradley nodded. “Now how about breakfast? I’ve got to get to the station.”

****

When Sam called after midnight, Penelope didn’t think he seemed too surprised about the missing portraits. He said all the right things, but she got the idea he knew about the theft before he called. “I have a few tidbits for you, if you’re interested,” he said without missing a beat. “Do you have a pen and paper handy?”

“Hang on.” She dug a pad of paper and a pencil in need of sharpening from the lamp table by her bed. “Go ahead.”

“Jessie Ruth Ives married J. Compton Collier in White Plains, New York, in 1937. She gave her age as forty-one. Collier died in 1940.”

“Then they weren’t married long.”

“Long enough for her to inherit a considerable fortune. His will was probated in White Plains, and his estate was valued at two and a half million dollars, plus a home in White Plains, an apartment in New York City, and a summer home in Maine. Every cent went to her.”

“He was an art dealer, so shouldn’t he have had a gallery or something?”

“It was in his partner’s name. Also, it seems she never lived in White Plains or New York City.”

“How do you know?”

“She filed a separate income tax return in Arkansas every year they were married.”

“So she was wealthy in her own right?”

“Not really. Her sources of income were some stocks and bonds and rent from the school property.”

“So she did own everything.”

“And paid some hefty property taxes, too, I imagine. You can check that locally.”

“Does it matter?”

“It might. She had a comfortable income before she married Collier, but I’m thinking the taxes would’ve taken a pretty big bite out of it.”

“Maybe that’s why she married Collier, because he could help her pay the taxes. If it had been me, I’d have just sold off everything. She wasn’t using it.”

“The school was.”

“So why didn’t the town pay the taxes?”

“Beats me. Listen, I want you to get her will from the courthouse and see how she left things.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

“If you’ll answer a few more questions for me. In 1941, a year after her husband died, she built the new library as a memorial to him. Why would she do that? It doesn’t sound like much of a marriage to me.”

“You never know what two people will be happy with.”

“None of it makes any sense.”

“She was well-respected in Amaryllis, wasn’t she?”

“Oh, yes, I remember her well. Everybody wanted to be invited to tea with Miss Jessie Ruth. Every charitable organization went to her first when they were trying to raise money. She gave dozens and dozens of scholarships to local students who couldn’t have gone to college otherwise. She was very generous.”

“How much did that photographer leave her?”

“His will just
says all his property. There was no dollar amount, and I didn’t ask for the probate papers with the inventory.”

“So she probably had his studio cleaned out and sold the equipment. I’ve got to go, Nell. Are you staying away from the school like I told you?”

“Yes, but not because you told me to. It’s just plain too cold to work in there without any heat.”

“I don’t care about the why, just that you’re not poking around in there.”

“Are you? Poking around, I mean.”

“You never know. Night, Nell. See you around.”

See you around. In the kitchen. On the stairs. Apparating out of the shadows. You’re a pain, Sam-whoever-you-are. A real pain.
She turned off the lamp and sat in the darkness hugging herself and wishing it were Sam’s arms around her.

****

In the morning over breakfast, she asked Jake if he ever saw Jessie Ruth’s husband. “Can’t say that I did.” He buttered his toast, cut it in fourths, and spread orange marmalade on each small square.

“Apparently they never lived together, at least not often.”

“I remember she’d be gone for a few weeks and then come back. Never said where she went, and no one ever asked, I’m sure.”

“He died in 1940.”

“That doesn’t ring a bell. But Collier Memorial Library was dedicated the next year. I remember that well, because it was a big deal, all people could talk about until Pearl Harbor happened a few months later.”

“Do you think she gave away all her money, or did that great-nephew get it?”

“What nephew?”

“Lewis. The one who brought all those boxes to the library.” Penelope’s mouth went dry.
Lewis. Louie.

“Never saw him but once, and that was at Miss Jessie Ruth’s funeral.”

“I don’t remember him, but he stayed long enough to empty out her house and put it on the market.”

“That’s what people do when someone dies.”

“Listen, Daddy, I’ve got some things to do in town.”

“How’s the museum idea coming along?”

“It’s not. The easiest thing to do would be use the second floor of the school, but we can’t even finish on the first floor. We need a philanthropist like Jessie Ruth to fund us.”

“I’m sure she would if she could. That building was important to her.”

“Why do you think so?”

“She was always saying her life wouldn’t have been what it was without her mother and the school.”

“And J. Compton Collier and his money.”

Jake shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

“I guess not, Daddy. Have a good day. I’ll be home at noon to make some sandwiches if you’re here.”

****

As soon as she’d cleaned the kitchen, Penelope went to the courthouse and prowled among the will abstracts. Deciding not to raise questions by asking for a copy of Jessie Ruth’s will, a more recent document than any she’d previously asked for, she copied down the pertinent information, thanked the clerk on duty, and called Mary Lynn from her cell phone. “Meet me at the library.”

“I’m not even dressed.”

“You’re nekkid as a jaybird?”

“No, I’m not, I’m…oh, never mind. I’ll be there, and if I scare everybody to death because I’m not made up, it’s your fault.”

****

Shana left the storeroom door ajar so she could see
anyone who came to the circulation desk. “What’s all this about?”

Penelope opened her notebook. “I looked at Jessie Ruth Collier’s probate papers. She was filthy rich.”

“We knew that,” Mary Lynn said.

“No, all we knew was that she was rich. I’m talking megabucks here.”

“So who got them?” Shana asked.

“With the exception of a few bequests to some friends—and, of course, the school property, the great-nephew got everything.”
             

“A great-nephew by marriage, right?” Mary Lynn tugged at her hastily thrown-on sweatshirt. “But I guess she didn’t have anybody else to leave it to.”

“Well, seeing as most of it came from her husband, I guess it was only right it went back to the Collier family,” Shana said.

“His name was Collier. Lewis Collier. Listen, Shana and I had good luck trolling the internet before,” Penelope replied. “Maybe we could search for this Lewis Collier and come up with something.”

“Why do you need to know about the man who inherited Jessie Ruth’s money?” asked Mary Lynn.

Penelope hunched forward. “Do you remember the older man who came to the Valentine Ball with
Marlo Howard? She introduced him as Louie—or maybe Lewis, I’m not sure at this point.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“She said he was an art dealer.”

“So?”

“Jessie Ruth’s husband was an art dealer.”

“So?”

Penelope shrugged. “I just think it’s strange that Marlo started her business here in Amaryllis. It would be even stranger if she had some connection to the Collier business.”

“I don’t care if she does or not. All I can think about is
not being able to work at the school again until spring.”

Which Sam doesn’t want us to do for some odd reason, and I’m beginning to think it has something to do with
Marlo Howard and art and maybe even Lewis Collier. And then there’s Chuck Runyon. How does he know Marlo? And is he really as innocent in the theft of the Bancroft portraits as Bradley seems to think he is?

Shana spent a few minutes on the computer and came back holding a piece of paper in her hand. “There wasn’t much, but I printed it out. He’s an art dealer, all right, in
White Plains, NY. The Collier-Bennett Gallery. Says his great-uncle J. Compton Collier started it back in 1927. No information about his personal life, just that he was known for finding rare and unusual works of art.

“The plot thickens,” Penelope muttered.
Rare and unusual, like the Bancrofts. He’d be interested in those all right.

Mary Lynn stood up. “Then you better stir it before it sticks. I’m going home and finish cleaning house.”

****

Penelope stopped at the Garden Market and ran into Chuck Runyon at the meat counter. He dropped his eyes immediately. “Nobody’s blaming you, Chuck,” she said.
Well, maybe I am, a little bit.

“I feel like I’ve made a real mess,” he muttered.

“Nobody knows anything. Bradley told Daddy and me because we’re family.”

“He said not to mention it.”

“Have you?”

Chuck’s eyes widened. “Of course not!”

“Good.”

“I just wish…”

“Let’s just hope they’ll turn up.”

His face creased with real misery. “People who buy black
market art don’t put it on display. They just want it for themselves.”

“Pride of possession.”

“Right. And the money, of course.”

“But they get caught sometimes.”

“Sometimes.”

“You can’t beat yourself up. Just go back out to the Point and keep doing the good job Bradley says you’ve started.”

“I guess that’s all I can do.”

“Right. What are you buying?”

“My mother sent me her recipe for meatloaf. Do I go for the ground chuck or the ground round?”

“Ground round,” Penelope said, plucking a package from the meat case. “Less fat.” She put the meat in his hands. “Come by the B&B for coffee sometime.”