The Stolen Canvas (17 page)

He took her in his arms, felt her trembling against him, and his heart seemed to crack. “Are—are you sure?” he whispered. And he felt her nodding her head against his chest.

In a few seconds she stepped back and drew her breath in sharply. She crossed her arms in front of her. “I’m—I’m sorry. It’s just that I feel so—”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but Ian knew precisely what she meant. She had been violated. Someone had taken something precious to her.

“They were here yesterday morning. I know it,” she wailed. “And now they’re simply gone.” She dropped down on a large trunk. Ian stood above her, placing his hands on her shaking shoulders.

The attic was tidy—for an attic. He knew Annie had put in a lot of hours going through Elizabeth Holden’s treasures. Had someone unknown broken in and stolen the canvases? The attic’s windows were shut tight as a drum with no sign of entry. In his heart he knew the thief had to be someone who came and went at Grey Gables—someone who knew the canvases were there and knew of their value. Someone like Tara Frasier.

As though he’d voiced his suspicions aloud, she whispered, “She wouldn’t! She wouldn’t do this.” Her imploring green eyes searched his. “Someone else must have …” She didn’t complete her sentence but leaped up and ran down the stairs.

Ian followed her to the front door where they examined the lock and casing. No sign of jimmying, and the wood was unmarked. Together they hurried to the back door. It too was closed, though not locked. Obviously, the thief—and Ian had a pretty good idea who the thief was—had fled through the back of the house, taking the Betsy Originals with her.

“Who else comes and goes from Grey Gables beside Tara?” Ian said, the question more of a statement. “There’s Wally, of course.” He was sometimes short of money and had access to the house, but he was a trusted friend. Annie’s friend.

“No,” she said, “Wally wouldn’t.” She shook her head from side to side and sank down on a kitchen chair.

Ian wanted to shout or hit something. He’d find Tara Frasier and shake the truth out of her. He’d make her confess and return Annie’s property. He pulled her toward him, held her, and felt her whole body go limp.

“Where is she? Where is Tara?” he demanded. Annie had taken the little fraud into her home, fed her, befriended her, and all the while she was snooping around, waiting for the right moment to steal from her!

“I don’t know,” Annie said barely above a whisper. “I didn’t see her this morning. She was still in bed when I left. She’s been so tired working extra hours while Carla was in the hospital. Last night she didn’t even want supper when she came home.”

As though on telepathic cue, they both headed for the guest room—Tara’s room. Ian pushed the door all the way open, and they stepped inside. The bed was made, the room neat and orderly, as though freshly prepared for a new guest’s arrival.

Annie rushed to the closet, staring in with that same shocked, sorrowful look that tore at Ian’s heart. “Her things are gone,” she said in a small voice. “She didn’t have much, but it’s all gone—her yellow duffle bag—everything.” She paused as the little black kitten scampered into the room and leaped onto the white bedspread. “Everything,” she repeated, “except Blackie.”

“Annie,” he said, wishing he could comfort her but finding no words.

“She loved that kitten. Why would she leave it behind?”

Ian gritted his teeth. The girl had pretended to care about Annie too, but it had all been an act—an awful joke. “We have to call the police,” he said, pulling out his cellphone.

“No. Wait. Not yet,” Annie said, turning toward him. Then rushing past him she picked up something from the pine dresser. A small square of white paper. She read it out loud, her lips pale and trembling.

“I’m sorry. Thank you for everything. I’m so sorry.”

“That’s it?” he heard himself say incredulously. “She steals art worth twelve to fifteen thousand dollars, and she’s
sorry
?”

Annie shook her head. “I just don’t understand it. How can she hope to sell them? Any gallery would check the provenance of the artwork. Tara’s too smart to think she could get away with this. Besides, how could she do it? She doesn’t have a car. She either walks or takes my bicycle to the shelter. And I saw the bike when we came home tonight.”

Ian drew in his breath and ran a hand through his hair. Of course, she couldn’t hop on a bike with four huge needlework pieces in heavy frames. She had to have access to a car, or to someone with a car. She had to have an accomplice. “Has she made any friends here yet?” he asked, trying to keep the anger out of his voice.

“Only the girls at the Hook and Needle Club.” She crossed her arms over her chest as though the summer night was cold. A tear rolled down her cheek. “She was learning how to knit.”

“Come on,” he said, pulling her gently by the arm. “We’ll go talk to Reed.” Reed Edwards, the chief of Stony Point’s small police department, had an office just down the hall from Ian’s. Annie trusted him; maybe she’d feel better talking to him in person. But regardless of what happened, Ian wasn’t about to leave her alone at Grey Gables tonight. He’d call Alice and arrange for Annie to stay with her.

“Wait. Look. She left something.” Annie picked up a small bead ring from the dresser where she’d found the note. Next to it lay what looked like a coil of hair.

Ian stared at them in confusion. They were the items Annie had spoken of—things she said Tara had found in Carla’s bedroom.

“I want to stop by the shelter first, Ian,” Annie said with sudden force. “Maybe she’s there. Maybe she’s trying to tell me something by leaving those things behind …” But the sentence trailed off.

Ian wanted to fix this—and fix it right now. He wanted to go after Tara Frasier before she got away. They’d likely lost valuable time already. “What good would it do to go to the shelter?”

“Please, Ian,” she said, her heart in her eyes.

There was no way he could deny her. They closed the bedroom door and went downstairs together.

18

Jem prodded Tara out into the gathering night, pressing the framed canvases against her back. “Move! Head for the woods and don’t stop.” His voice was high with excitement, and he panted with exertion.

Tara struggled with her duffle bag, her feet slipping on the cobbled walk. The moon paled in the not-yet-black sky, and crickets had begun to mourn the dying day. She shivered in her light blouse and the shorts she’d worn that long day as she roamed the beach and rocky coast of Stony Point. There’d been no time to change and no time for a last look at the lovely old house. She’d had no chance to give Blackie one last cuddle.

She would have to go with Jem and carry out his plan. He expected her to do just what he said … as she always had. He snapped his fingers and little Tara would come running. She’d stumble after him and go where he wanted her to go. And she would leave another piece of herself behind that could never be recovered. She was so tired.

As she pushed forward through the lengthening grass with Jem close on her heels, the faces of her Hook and Needle Club friends flashed before her: Mary Beth, patiently guiding her fingers on the oversized knitting needles, and Alice, with gentle eyes and jingling bracelets, praising her designs and urging the adoption of her little feral kittens. Tara thought of Peggy—all innocent eyes and sweet smiles pledging a friendship that she, Tara, had refused. And there was Gwen and Vanessa and Kate … how kind each of them had been. Even Stella Brickson, who had seemed so severe and so uncompromising, had welcomed Tara in her own way; she too had tried to help.

“Not much farther now!” Jem panted.

They plunged into the dark trees. Thick shrubs scraped her face and thorny twigs clawed at her bare legs. Startled birds flapped and squawked as their woodland sanctuary was invaded. The county road on the other side of the forested strip had to be where he’d hidden the old conversion van with its fading paint and dented sides. She knew he was ashamed of it; that’s why he showed up in Stony Point with a fancy rental car. J.C., the successful businessman, couldn’t be caught dead in a wreck like that.

They’d believed him and had accepted that well-groomed, well-spoken facade. He’d fooled them—even Wally who looked at his brother with such sad affection. One could live on lies carefully chosen, carefully maintained—for a while. Then it would all come tumbling down, and the bricks would fall on the innocent. Tara thought of Annie—dear Annie. Tara could barely swallow for the rising flood of tears.

Suddenly she saw the decrepit old van that had been turned into a camper. It leaned oddly to one side where the ground was uneven. She slowed her steps, not only because she was exhausted, but because the thought of getting in it with Jem filled her with revulsion … and fear.

“Come on!” he rasped, pressing the hard frames into her back once more.

Jem was such a fool at times, so blind. How could he hope to sell original art pieces without someone checking their origin? “This is crazy! We’ll never get away with this, Jem …”

He misunderstood. “Nobody knows about this old rig. I’ve kept her hidden in a beat-up old trailer park in Petersgrove until now. They’ll never look for us in it!” He pressed up close to her. “Here, grab the keys. Open the back.”

She fumbled in his pocket. It was damp and hot, and she felt his sweating thighs through the thin material. Shaking, she pulled out a lone key with a rabbit’s foot attached to the chain. Insane laughter bubbled inside her. No one carried such a talisman anymore; but Jem swore by it. Poor, unlucky Jem!

“Quick. Back there!” He gestured for her to open the double doors at the back end of the vehicle. “That’s it.” He flung his cargo inside and jerked his head toward the driver’s door. “Now, go start it up. And kill the lights!”

He wanted her to start the engine while he arranged the canvases; then he would climb in, and they would be off. He called the shots; little Tara would obey. She understood all this in seconds.

Something rose in her like a periscope out of the ocean. She scrambled behind the wheel and gunned the engine. It started immediately—a rare occurrence for the aging machine—just as Jem closed the double rear doors and started around to the passenger door.

Only Tara didn’t wait.

Stamping hard on the gas, she roared up the ridge and onto the road, praying no car would slam into her. She could see Jem waving his arms behind her and heard his angry shouts, no longer muffled lest someone hear, but reckless and loud.

What was she doing? Where could she go? Her heart beat like a hundred jackhammers. It had been years since she’d driven a car. The thing lurched and growled so noisily that she was sure everyone in Stony Point could hear. They’d come after her. They’d find Annie’s stolen canvases in her possession. For now, they were safe from Jem’s grasping hands. But where could she take them? What should she do?

“Don’t let fear keep you from doing the right thing.”

Suddenly she thought of Carla’s last advice to her. The shelter wasn’t far; she knew the way, having walked or ridden Annie’s bike to the animal shelter so many times. Two miles. She could get there and call someone. Annie? The police? They weren’t likely to believe her. She could be arrested! Maybe Jem would even report that she’d stolen his vehicle and call the law in an ironic twist of madness!

Everything could come crashing down—all the false hopes, all the lies! But she was through pretending. She was going to do the right thing.

She drove on until the line of pens at the rear of Carla’s property appeared. The van might be hidden from the road there! She cut the lights, which in spite of Jem’s order she had turned on when lurching onto the road. The dogs began to bark. She scrambled out the driver’s door and frantically called out to calm them. They knew her voice; perhaps they would stop before Jem got close enough to hear, if he guessed where she went.

Would he guess? Would he follow her here? If he ran straight for the shelter it wouldn’t take him long. Was she putting Carla in danger too? The seconds flew; the seconds dragged. Time was meaningless—only her fear and her determination were real. Annie must not be robbed of her treasures!

“Don’t let fear keep you from doing the right thing!”

Carla’s words, so fresh in her mind, rang in her ears as she banged her fists on the door. Carla might be sleeping, or she just wouldn’t open the door. She would simply holler for whoever it was to go away. Tara gasped for breath and shivered beneath the pale moon. She’d be left on the sagging shelter porch that offered no shelter!

“Tara!”

She felt herself falling into the room. Then she was caught in a pair of strong arms.

“What is it, girl?” Carla’s voice—sharp, yet kind.

“Lock the door! Turn out the lights!” she croaked, pressing further into the front room turned office where Carla stood, dressed in rumpled blue shirt and jeans.

“What is it?”

Tara raced to the hallway where she nearly collided with Boomer, the old dog who seldom barked. Recognizing her, he nudged his wet nose against her knee. Carla followed, and the two women and the dog huddled there.

Tara struggled to compose herself. “I—I didn’t know where else to go.” Haltingly, she explained how she’d been forced to steal needlework from Annie’s attic, and how she’d left Jem and raced away in his camper. “Annie’s things are in Jem’s old van parked behind the pens. “I don’t know what to do now, but I couldn’t let him take them.”

“Has he followed you?” Carla asked, pale brows furrowed over eyes that were amazingly sharp even in the darkness.

“I don’t know!” Tara wailed, feeling the wave of panic roll over her once again. “It’s all my fault.” She blurted out the whole story of how she’d come to Stony Point with Jem for the purpose of stealing from Annie. How she’d tried to make Jem change his mind. How she hated herself for all the lies. “Annie’s gone with Mr. Butler somewhere … I don’t know when she’ll be back.”

“We’ve got to find her—tell her what’s happened.” Carla brushed hair back from her face and chewed the inside of her cheek. “You’re a brave girl, Tara.” She said this with a kind of awe or pride or something Tara couldn’t describe. Of course Carla would understand—she who had suffered so long over her own mistakes. “Now, listen to me. It’s going to be all right.” She looped her arm through Tara’s. “My phone’s in the office. Do you know the num—”

But Carla’s words suddenly died when a raucous barking erupted from the dogs outside. Then came the banging of fists and rattling of the office door. Boomer gave a low, asthmatic growl but remained by Carla’s side. Tara felt her heart leap to her throat. Jem had found her. He was here! They were trapped—an aging convalescent and a skinny, weak girl!

“Hush!” Carla said, directing her words to both dog and girl. She drew her arm around Tara’s shoulder and held her still. “Does he have a gun?” she whispered as calmly as she could.

“I don’t know! I don’t think so, but he’s mean—”

“Quick—into my bedroom! There’s a lock on the door.” Carla herded her down the hallway, pushed her inside and drew the bolt across the door. She grabbed Boomer’s collar, holding him against one hip while drawing Tara to the other.

There was more banging and then the shattering of glass. Tara cringed, wishing she knew how to pray. It would be only a matter of seconds before he would be inside. Everything was tumbling down, down.