A Little Learning (4 page)

“Don’t worry about me. I can make my own excitement.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He grinned. “I seem to recall we made a bargain not long ago. I’ve kept my end of it. I am legally employed. You were supposed to continue your art work, right, Mrs. Fairweather?”

“Yes, and the minute we get home, I’m going to see what can be done.” In fact, I’d been anxious to get to my studio. My fingers were practically itching to hold a brush or pencil. “I can’t neglect Nathan’s case, though.”

“It’s not a very huge case, is it?”

“Shana suggested I might find more work in another town.”

“You want to move?”

“No, just commute. Maybe to Rossboro. Know anything about it?”

“Oh, Jeff and I did Rossboro.”

“I’ll bet you did.”

“The knife trick.”

“You weren’t throwing knives at each other, were you?”

“No, you set a knife point up and cover it with a paper cup. Then you turn away and have the mark—excuse me, the audience member—put three more paper cups on the table, and you slam your hand down on the ones without the knife. It’s very exciting.”

“Ow. I’m glad I never saw you do that one.”

“It’s very easy if you know the secret.”

“How long were you in Rossboro before you were chased out?”

“Long enough. It’s a nice town. Bigger than Celosia, but most towns are.”

“I think I want to have a look.”

“Okay.”

I felt a little guilty. After all, I’d convinced Jerry to settle down, something I never thought he’d do. He liked the house. I liked the house. If I found work in Rossboro, or anywhere else, a long commute would quickly get old. Well, it was too soon to start worrying about this.

“Do you remember if there were any museums or art galleries?”

“A forger I knew worked in the museum.”

I wasn’t going to ask.

“When do you want to go scope it out?” Jerry asked.

“Some time soon. Shana’s already suggested a road trip, but you can come, too.”

“Ride with the most beautiful woman in town?” He paused just long enough. “And Shana? Great! I’m there.”

“We might leave you home.”

On the drive home, Jerry put in a CD. I recognized the “Barcarole” from
The Tales of
Hoffmann
. It’s a slow, sensual duet that flows along like the gentle rocking of a gondola. I heard this tune a lot in college. Jerry liked to listen to it just before an important exam.

He took the piece of paper out of his pocket. “I need inspiration for this riddle you gave me.”

“Got it solved yet?”

“I wonder what it means by a sparrow from ancient times.”

“A really old bird?”

“I looked up ‘sparrow,’ in the store, thinking it might have another meaning. Here’s what Mister Webster says, ‘Any of several small dull singing birds.’”

“That’s harsh. Not only are they small, but they’re dull.”

He turned the music down a little. “When are you going to Chateau Groundhog?”

“I called and set up an appointment for tomorrow morning.”

“So she’s really going to see you?”

“I guess being an artist has its uses.”

“You’re using the power, the power isn’t using you.”

I leaned over and gave him a kiss. “Thank you.”

He looked at the riddle again. “How much money will Fenton get if he solves this riddle?”

“He didn’t say. But if he doesn’t solve the riddle, all the money goes to—and you’re going to love this—building bat houses.”

He laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“Elijah and Val must have been pals.”

“Sounds like they were drinking buddies.” Jerry folded the riddle back into his pocket. “I’m glad to know I’m not the only one with a screwy uncle.” He dug into his other pocket. “We got a new shipment of Bufo cards in today. I had to beat the crowds back with a stick. Want a sticker? I thought I’d decorate the kitchen.”

“No, thanks. I have enough to do for tonight.”

Besides reviewing my own paintings, I needed to work on some sort of presentation for Rachel’s class, so when we got home, I said, “I’m going to do some art stuff now, so don’t give me any more grief.” I was halfway up the stairs when I heard the steady hum of the fan. “Didn’t Nell fix the air conditioner?”

“She called and said she needed a part. She’ll be by tomorrow.”

Nell Brenner’s our resident handywoman. She said she’d always wanted to get her hands on the Eberlin house. I think she got more than she bargained for. She certainly has her hands full with all the repairs the old house needs. When Jerry and I first saw the house, Jerry was delighted by its spooky appearance, but I was appalled by its rundown condition. We soon realized most of the scabbiness was on the outside. Jerry’s Uncle Val hadn’t felt the need to mow or paint, but he lived very simply. We didn’t find clutter or piles of clothes and food wrappers. Inside, the rooms had been bare and dusty with Victorian style furniture. Now the hardwood floors were shiny and the high ceilings free of cobwebs. The kitchen needed just a little updating. We kept the sturdy white wood cabinets and wooden table and chairs. Most of the upstairs bedrooms just needed a paint job, and with Jerry’s unwanted assistance, Nell transformed the living room into a calm blue room with a white sofa and crystal lamps. Jerry hung the rescued “Blue Moon Garden” over the mantel.

I needed two more pictures to go with “Blue Moon Garden” to the Weyland Gallery. I checked by my parlor studio. Tacked to my easel was Austin’s latest offering, a pencil drawing of an impossibly big wheeled car with a forest of huge tailpipes jutting out behind and a grill like a shark’s grin. Denisha hadn’t shown an interest in art, but Austin had notebooks filled with detailed sketches of fantasy cars, motorcycles, dinosaurs, and spaceships. I decided I wouldn’t mind showing kids how to draw. I’d helped Austin with perspective and shading. I could start with some simple shapes and explain the same concepts to Rachel Sigmon’s class.

I sat down for a moment in one of Uncle Val’s beautiful old Victorian chairs. I had coveted this room from the beginning. The size and shape, the light, everything was perfect for a studio. I had all my art supplies neatly arranged and lately, I’d had plenty of time to paint. Now that I’d confronted the critic who made my first and only exhibit a nightmare, I felt much more confident in my work, but I wasn’t sure I was ready for another show. And what could I possibly use for the New Artists Show?

Propped along the walls of the parlor were my on-going projects: a landscape of the fields and trees in front of the house, some small drawings of wildflowers, a couple of abstracts, Austin and Denisha holding Austin’s boxer puppy, and Jerry’s portrait, which was only a rough pencil sketch. Still, I’d manage to capture the sparkle in his gray eyes and a hint of his smile. I’d drawn him leaning over the front porch railing, his head turned toward me, his impish expression suggesting I’d just caught him planning some grand scheme. Okay, so it wouldn’t take a lot of work to finish that, and maybe I could use the landscape, if I added more light and color. Of course, there was another painting I’d started of the fields in front of the house that would be a perfect complement to “Blue Moon Garden” if I could get it ready in time.

I looked around the parlor, imaging all the paintings framed and hanging on the walls of an art gallery or museum. I needed to prove to myself that I was a legitimate artist. But the cost of framing, hiring a hall, publicity—I’d have to solve several cases for some very wealthy people before an exhibit was possible, but this Weyland Gallery show was a huge first step toward making this dream a reality.

And you have a case, I told myself. If you help Nathan Fenton get his fortune, who knows? He might be willing to sponsor you. At least he paid his fee. At least you don’t have to hold fake séances like your husband. Of course, if I had my way about it, this would be the last fake séance he would hold.

By the time Flossie Mae Snyder and her niece, Sylvie, arrived promptly at nine, I’d made a lot of progress on the fields painting and decided that was enough for tonight. Jerry had a table and chairs arranged in the middle of the parlor and several fat candles glowing. Flossie Mae does not look like the kind of woman who’d believe in talking to the dead or anything paranormal. She’s a tall, thin woman with a stern demeanor. Sylvie, who is plump and excitable, looks exactly like the kind of woman who’d believe in ghosts. There must be something in Jerry’s performances that enthralls them, because they keep coming back for more.

“Let’s see what Aunt Marie and Aunt Marge have to say tonight,” he said as they took their places around the table. “Mac, would you mind getting the lights, please?”

I sighed and turned off the parlor lights. Jerry, Flossie Mae, and Sylvie held hands. Jerry closed his eyes and took some long deep breaths. “I call to the spirit world. I request your guidance. Come to me. Show me the way.” After a while, he spoke in a distant voice. “I am here.”

Sylvie was almost bouncing in her chair. “It’s us, Aunt Marie!”

“This is your Aunt Marge, my child.”

“Sorry, Aunt Marge. We wanted to know about the watch.”

“The watch. Yes, my child. Soon we will reveal the door.”

“Door?” Flossie Mae said. “What do you mean?”

Yes, Jerry. Where are you going with this?

“The door that leads to understanding,” he said.

“Understanding what?”

“To find what you seek.”

“There’s a door somewhere?”

Jerry made a funny gargling noise that made Flossie Mae gasp. “The spirits are restless,” he said in his faraway voice. “Let me try again.”

Flossie Mae and Sylvie sat absolutely still. When Jerry opened his eyes, the women jumped.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “There’s a lot of confusion in the spirit world tonight. Did Marge or Marie come through?”

“Marge did,” Flossie Mae said. “She mentioned something about a door to understanding.”

He nodded. “Sometimes the spirits speak in their own language, and we have to figure out what they mean. Is there a door in your house or in one of their houses you haven’t tried?”

“Oh!” Sylvie said. “Flossie Mae, that little door that goes out to the porch Uncle Ray boarded up. Have we been out there?”

“There’s nothing out there but trash and spiders.”

“Maybe we ought to look.”

“Well, all right. It’s worth a try, I suppose.”

Jerry saw them to the door. Sylvie chatted on about how it was always such a thrill to talk to her aunts. Flossie Mae tried to hand him some money, but he folded the bills back into her hand.

“This one’s on the house, Mrs. Snyder.”

“Thank you, but we really should pay you for your services.”

“How ‘bout you pay me when we find the watch? It won’t be long now.”

“Very well. But I’ll insist you take half of whatever the watch is worth.”

“Well, that was nice,” I said, after Flossie Mae and Sylvie had gone. “But they’re never going to find a watch that doesn’t exist.”

“Have a little faith. All I have to do is go into Parkland and find a big gold watch with an ‘S’ on it and make it magically appear during a séance.”

“And how are you going to pay for this big gold watch? Aren’t they expecting it to be worth a lot of money?”

“I’m working on that.” He blew out the candles and moved the table and chairs back to one side of the parlor. Then he said, “Were you serious about little Horry?”

His question took me by surprise. “What?”

“Earlier today, when we were talking about girls’ names. You want to have a Hortensia?”

Where was all this coming from? “Sure, and a Dorcas and an Ermintrude and a Trumilla.”

“Seriously.”

Seriously? Jerry was rarely serious about anything. I tried to keep things light. “But we already have two children, one of each.”

“Those are on loan. Do you want kids?”

“We’ve had this talk.”

“Yeah, but we’re married now. That might make a difference.”

“Not to me,” I said.

“Okay.”

I could tell he wanted to say something else. “How important is it to you?”

“It’s not,” he said. “I just thought you might have changed your mind.”

“No, I haven’t.”

But later that night, as I lay curled up next to Jerry in bed, my head on his shoulder and my hand on his chest, listening to him sleep, I wondered, as I had many times before, what our children would be like. I had finally married my best friend, and our relationship was stronger than ever. I’d always said I didn’t want children, but now that I had someone who would be a wonderful father, maybe I should reconsider.

No, I thought as I snuggled in closer. I had all I wanted right here.

Chapter Two

The next morning, I got up early and worked on the sketch of Jerry. I didn’t want to add too much, so I spent a lot of time looking at the drawing from all angles, pondering what to do. Finally I decided not to do any more. Maybe the painting of the kids and the dog would be a better choice. Or maybe it would be too commercial. I went round and round arguing with myself until it was time to go to Chateau Marmot.

Satterfield Drive was a long driveway that wound through pine trees and bushes in need of a good trim. Then the road circled a dry stone fountain and stopped in front of a tremendous house. The chateau was made of plain gray ivy-covered stone with a tower on each side. The windows were dark, and for a moment, I thought no one was home. I didn’t see any other cars, so I parked the Mazda beside a sad-looking stone planter filled with weeds. I rang the doorbell beside the huge wooden door and heard chimes echo in the distance. In a few minutes, the door opened.

“Victoria Satterfield” was a name that conjured up images of a haughty patrician dowager. The woman who greeted me was small and frail with huge dark eyes.

“Ms. Maclin? Come in, come in.”

I shook her cold little hand, feeling tiny bird-like bones. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Satterfield.”

“Please call me Tori. Come into my study and have a seat.”

For my visit, I had put on my best blue slacks and a white eyelet blouse over a white lace camisole. Tori appeared to be wearing a dress made of brown leaves. She led me down a cold stony hallway to her study. The study was as dark as a cave. Fiona Kittering had said Tori Satterfield was an artist, but I saw no evidence of this. Small flower-shaped lamps burned in the corners and on the little round table. I was almost afraid to sit in the delicate chair, but it held me. Tori perched on the edge of her chair. Her wispy hair strayed from its untidy bun. I could see now that the brown dress was tattered and seemed to camouflage her. She indicated the large pile of newspaper clippings on the table.

“I was just working on my scrapbook.”

The table was covered with newspapers, scissors, glue, and scraps of colored foil. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the gloom, I saw the entire room was filled with stacks of newspapers and magazines. Stacked on the bookcases were dozens of scrapbooks crammed full, papers hanging out in all directions.

“You’ve done a lot of work, Tori.”

“Oh, I just love it. My scrapbooks are my passion.”

All I could think of was, one spark from a match, and the whole house goes up like a bonfire.

“Are your scrapbooks all about your life?”

Tori hugged her little stick arms. “Oh, my, no. I can’t think of anything more boring. They’re about ballet. I love the ballet.”

“You’re a dancer?”

“Well, for a brief time I was.” She dragged one of the scrapbooks off the shelf and heaved it onto the table. Bits of dust and yellowed paper billowed up as she turned the pages. “Here I am.”

The photograph showed a younger beaming Tori dressed in a white tutu and carrying a bouquet of roses as big as she was. Also on the page was a program trimmed with pink candy and silver stars.

“Very nice,” I said.

“When I was sixteen, I was Clara in
The Nutcracker
for the Parkland Ballet. The happiest day of my life.”

As she looked at the picture, her expression was anything but happy. It was the most melancholy expression I’d ever seen. If my whole happiness was tied to that one moment, I’d be melancholy, too, I thought, wondering what had happened to change that radiant girl in the picture into this fragile little woman hiding among stacks of old newspapers. According to the date on the program, Tori had been sixteen twenty years ago, which made her a surprisingly young thirty-six, about Nathan’s age. I’d first thought she was older.

“Tori, may I ask you about your husband?”

She sighed. “He decided he didn’t want to live here any more.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Oh, in a way, I guess it’s better. The Fentons never accepted me, and that made him mad, but he took his anger out on me. I never understood that. I don’t know what I could’ve done to make things better.”

“Your husband’s cousin, Nathan, asked me to help solve a riddle Elijah Fenton left as a clue to Nathan’s inheritance. Do you know anything about that?”

“No.” Tori closed the scrapbook. Her little hand lingered on the cover. “I gave up my dance career when I married Aaron. I don’t think he ever understood why I liked it so much. He never wanted to go to the ballet with me. After a while, he never wanted to go anywhere with me.”

“I’m sorry. Do you go to Parkland to see the ballet?”

“No. That’s where Aaron is, and I don’t want to see him.” She sighed. “They did a wonderful
Copelia
last season, though. I read all about it. I have all the reviews in one of my scrapbooks. Let’s see.” She pulled another scrapbook from the stacks and looked through the wide pages. “Here. I did this whole section in green and yellow to match their costumes.”

Perhaps this was what Fiona meant by art. Tori had used pinking shears to create a rick rack border around the newspaper articles and lined the border with shiny green and yellow paper.

“This season they’re doing
Sleeping Beauty
. I know it’s going to be amazing. I’m thinking of using that silver foil, the kind you see on Christmas wrapping with little rainbow highlights. I don’t know what it’s called.”

“Hologram?”

“Yes, with all the colors. And I’ve got all different kinds of lace for borders. You’re an artist, too, I understand. What kind of art do you create?”

“Paintings mostly, some pen and ink and pencil drawings, abstracts, landscapes.”

“I have a clipping from the
Celosia News
about the picture you did for the theater.” Again she dug into the stacks and found the book she wanted. She searched its pages and pointed proudly at the clipping. “I thought this was such a wonderful picture.”

The theater had asked me to paint a group of children in costumes. Their faces beamed up from the article. Tori had decorated this page with little balloons. “Thank you.”

“Well, I could talk about my scrapbooks all day, but that’s not why you’ve really come, is it?”

She didn’t sound angry, just disappointed. “Maybe you could help me solve this riddle,” I said. “Are there any portraits in your house?”

“Quite a few.”

“Would you mind if I looked behind them?”

“I don’t have any hidden safes behind pictures.”

“I don’t think the answer is in a safe.”

“You’re certainly welcome to look.” She brightened. “This could be like a treasure hunt.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what it is.”

“I’ve always wanted to go on a treasure hunt. So there might be something valuable behind one of the portraits?” she asked as she led me to the main hallway.

“It’s possible. The riddle says, ‘And listen where the portrait lies.’”

When I saw the long hall, I stopped. The walls on both sides were covered with pictures in huge ornate frames. Tori gave me an apologetic look. “The Satterfields and the Fentons were rather proud of themselves.”

I was going to need some help, and little Tori was much too frail to lift even the smallest pictures. “Do you mind if I come back and bring my husband to help me?”

“Not at all.”

I checked my watch. “Maybe tomorrow about this time?”

“Any time you like.” At the front door, she put her little hand on my arm.

“Madeline, I’ve really enjoyed our visit. It’s so nice to talk to a fellow artist.”

“I like ballet, too,” I said. “Maybe we could go together to see
Sleeping Beauty
.”

“Oh, I won’t be able to do that.”

I thought perhaps her health prevented her from traveling. “I’ll be glad to take you.”

Her large eyes filled with tears. “That’s so kind, but really, it’s impossible.”

“I realize you don’t want to run into Aaron, but it’s unlikely he’d be at the ballet, right?”

“I can’t go.”

I was curious, but I didn’t want to pry any further. “All right, but if you change your mind, let me know.”

As I drove away, I looked back at the chateau, hoping to see her at the door, but she’d already closed herself in.

***

I drove to my office, and as I was getting out of my car, my cell phone rang. It was Aaron Satterfield.

“Good morning, Ms. Maclin. I understand you wanted to speak to me. How can I help you?”

“I’m a private investigator, Mr. Satterfield, and your cousin, Nathan Fenton, has hired me to help him solve a riddle from your uncle Elijah.”

Aaron Satterfield gave a snort of laughter. “Oh, yes. The riddle. I received a copy of it, too, but I’ve no interest in playing my uncle’s little game. He jerked me around enough when I was younger. I’m certainly not going to drop everything and hunt all over the countryside on the off chance I might find some money.”

“Even if it’s a lot of money?”

Another snort. “My business is doing well enough, Ms. Maclin. Believe me, I’ve been the butt of too many of Elijah’s jokes to try another. Nathan can tramp through Celosia. I’ve had enough of that town.”

“How long have you been in Parkland?”

“Five years. If you live in Celosia, you probably know the whole story, although I doubt you’ve met my wife, Tori.”

“Actually, I have. I’m sorry about your present situation.”

“Yes, well, it didn’t work out. We’ll probably get divorced. I haven’t even seen her since I left. I didn’t bother coming back for Elijah’s funeral. If he hadn’t been such a jerk, Nathan would have some money by now, without having to hire outside help. I think he wants to buy a camp or something?”

“Yes, Camp Lakenwood.”

“But the old bastard didn’t like anyone having an independent thought, so he decided to play games. He didn’t like me marrying Miss Dewey, so he cut me off. Too bad he didn’t live to see how well I’m doing without his help or his money. Now he expects me to jump through hoops for a little cash? Good luck to Nathan, I say. If I could help him out, I would.”

“Do you have any idea what the riddle means?”

“Sparrows, I don’t know. Portraits—there should be some in the chateau. And as for the animals that live in packs, there used to be a pack of wolves that lived in the forest behind the chateau, but that was years ago. I’m sure they’re all gone, and what that would mean, I have no idea. I hope you can help him figure it out. Nathan deserves the money. He’ll do a lot of good with it, and I can say, ‘That fine man there is my cousin.’ But I don’t think he’ll be able to find it.”

“Do you know of anyone else who might have received a copy of the riddle?”

“My wife, perhaps. Maybe some of the women Elijah dated. He was a womanizer, even when my aunt was alive. People in Celosia will know, trust me.”

I thanked him and closed my phone. Aaron Satterfield seemed genuinely concerned about Nathan’s difficulty and unconcerned about the riddle. Then again, he could be planning to join the treasure hunt and didn’t want anyone to know.

I went into my office. I had just sat down at my desk when my phone rang again. This time it was Elijah’s lawyer, Misty May. She sounded much tougher than her name suggested. I explained that Nathan Fenton had hired me to help solve Elijah’s riddle.

“This is what I can tell you, Ms. Maclin,” she said. “Elijah Fenton left a legal will, leaving Chateau Marmot to Victoria Satterfield, as well as enough money for the upkeep of the house. The rest of his money he cashed and put in a trust fund. I’m the trustee. Whoever solves the riddle will find a key. If that person brings the key to me, then I give them the money. If no one solves the riddle by Monday, September 23, then I’m to see that his money is used to build bat houses in Celosia. It’s a bit nutty, but I’ve seen worse.”

“Do you know how many people have a copy of the riddle?”

“I mailed three letters, but Elijah could’ve sent more. He never told me exactly how many people he wanted in on his game.”

“Does the riddle have to be solved by a particular time on Monday?”

“By midnight, just like all the fairy tales.”

I hoped I could make this fairy tale have a happy ending for Nathan Fenton.

***

At one that afternoon, I went to Celosia Elementary and was directed to the art room. Two classes of fourth graders stared up at me as if I were a particularly interesting alien. I’d never seen so many intense expressions. I’d hoped that Austin or Denisha might be in one of these classes, but they weren’t.

Rachel introduced me. “Students, this is Mrs. Madeline Maclin Fairweather. She’s an artist. You may have seen the picture of the children in costumes she painted for the theater lobby. She’s here to show you how to draw faces, and I’m sure she’ll answer any questions you may have.”

Up went twenty hands.

Rachel called on one large boy in the back. “Ronald?”

“Are you the same lady who whacked Mrs. King on the head with an umbrella?”

Another boy called out, “And aren’t you the one who found the Mantis Man and pulled his arm off?”

“Yeah, and squirted old Mrs. Williams with some hairspray right in the face ‘cause she was shooting at you?”

Rachel tried to establish order. “Boys and girls, Mrs. Fairweather is here to answer art questions.”

I could see “to hell with that” written on their little faces. Ronald waved his arm. “And didn’t you find a million dollars in a box?”

“And wasn’t there a movie at your house about this guy dying?”

“Isn’t Mister Fairweather a warlock? That’s what my mom says.”

“Boys and girls, only questions about art, please.”

Ronald frowned and gave it a try. “Have you ever painted any pictures of dead people?”

Rachel shook her head. “I think that’s enough. Why don’t we get started on our pictures?”

As she passed out sheets of drawing paper, I drew several faces on the chalkboard and told the students to guess who they were. They laughed as they recognized some of their classmates.

“You see how just a few lines can change the shape of someone’s eye, or nose, or ear, or even their chin? This boy’s eyebrows go up, but this boy’s eyebrows are straight across. See if you can draw my face. I’ll try to sit still.”