The Carousel Painter (38 page)

She feigned a look of indifference and batted her lashes. “He has become somewhat a bore of late. I thought he’d be the perfect companion while in the islands, but his business interests keep him much more occupied than I’d realized.” Holding her little finger at the perfect angle, she sipped her tea.

“So you’re seeing other gentlemen?”

Augusta settled the cup on the matching saucer. “No one in particular. Tyson remains my favorite suitor, but he is most difficult to figure out. One minute I believe I know him quite well, and the next he’s a stranger. Have you ever known anyone like that?”

“Only you.” I chuckled. “You’ve become a bit of a stranger over the summer.”

Augusta’s eyebrows dipped low, and she tightened her lips into a pout. “That isn’t kind at all, Carrie. After I’ve gone against my parents’ wishes and told you about the necklace, how can you say I’ve become a stranger?”

I reached across the table and patted her arm. “You’re right. I am deeply indebted that you’ve taken me into your confidence. It’s just that you
act
so different—so proper and refined.”

Her shoulders drooped into a slump. “Mother insists. She says if she hears even a whisper that I’m not behaving in a genteel manner, she’ll force me to attend Mrs. Bogart’s Finishing School again in the fall. I couldn’t bear another three months of classes with Mrs. Bogart.”

I remembered Augusta’s description of the classes she’d been required to complete before coming to France. “Then I’ll forgive you,” I said.

“Good!” She lifted a strawberry from the plate of fruit the waiter had recently placed on the table. “I’m surprised you’ve said nothing about your father’s artwork. Weren’t you excited? I think Father could find a buyer for your pieces, and at a handsome price.”

Apparently no one had mentioned the missing paintings to Augusta. It took only a moment to explain the loss. “Thankfully the one of me on the carousel horse remains in my bedroom. I doubt I’ll ever locate the others. Detective Lawton is working on that case, as well.”

“Mmm. You may be right. That man’s ability to solve crimes hasn’t been stellar thus far. I’m surprised he worked for the Pinkerton Agency.

Let’s hope your paintings will be found. With money from those paintings, you could quit your job at the factory. Wouldn’t that be grand?”

“You believe they would fetch that much?”

“Father said there were art dealers in New York City clamoring for them. Two dealers went to France hoping to locate some of them.”

Such furor. And to think that only a year ago, the money from one of Father’s paintings would barely cover our rent for a month. How did people decide art was worthless one day and worth a fortune the next? Who made these judgments? And why did others abide by their decisions? Such a mystery.

“They may find several pieces hanging in Madame Leclair’s bakery,” I said. “I’m sure she would rather have money than the paintings. Maybe she’d use a few coins to purchase Stormy a nice piece of fish at the market.” I smiled, remembering the fat silver-gray cat I’d left with Madame Leclair. Had he ever missed me? He was an independent sort, but I liked to think that on occasion he wondered where I’d gone.

“I don’t know if you’d ever consider selling the carousel painting, but I’m sure it would fetch a huge price. I think the art dealers would find it the most beautiful of all.”

“My father painted that when I was a young girl.” I shook my head. “It brings back fond memories of my childhood. I could never sell it.”

Augusta forked a piece of melon onto her plate and sliced it into small pieces. “If you change your mind, you need only tell me or Father. He will see to the arrangements.”

I couldn’t meet her gaze. Augusta took for granted her father would live forever, yet his death lurked around the next corner.

Josef was nowhere in sight when I returned home, but a note on the foyer table stated that Mrs. Wilson and Mr. Lundgren had gone down the street to visit with the neighbors. I waited on the porch for a short time but finally went upstairs. No light shone beneath Josef’s door. He’d either gone to bed or returned to the factory to finish his paper work.

I’d been excited to tell him that Mrs. Galloway’s necklace had been recovered. In retrospect, it was probably better to keep that news to myself. Had the thief been apprehended, there would be no reason to withhold the news. But I was still considered a suspect—and Josef would ask far too many questions.

I prepared for bed and then opened my Bible. I’d been reading it every night. Mrs. Wilson said reading the Bible every day was a good habit and the best way to learn what God wanted us to know. I didn’t doubt her word, but I figured I’d forget what I had read in Genesis by the time I finished Revelation. She said not to worry about that because when I finished, I should start all over again. Apparently Mrs. Wilson had high hopes for how much I’d accomplish each evening.

I continued to read until the sound of Mrs. Wilson’s chattering voice drifted up from the sidewalk below. Mr. Lundgren laughed at something she said, and soon the front door opened and closed. I placed my Bible on the small table and stared at the painting hanging on the opposite wall. A little girl sitting on a beautiful carousel horse. What was more important: a painting hanging on the wall, or a factory that crafted carousel animals? Which would my father choose, I wondered.

CHAPTER
27

T
wo days later Detective Lawton met me outside the factory at lunchtime. Had he come to arrest me? I looked over my shoulder, hoping to catch sight of Josef, but I remembered he’d gone to the train station to check on a shipment of lumber. My mouth felt like a drought-ridden prairie. When I tried to swallow, a dry breath of air caught in my throat. I coughed until tears trickled down my cheeks.

I didn’t detect any compassion in the detective’s eyes. I swiped away the tears and tried to calm my escalating fear. I didn’t want to go to jail, especially for something I hadn’t done. But it seemed Detective Lawton was determined someone must be punished. I didn’t think he cared if he had the proper person or not—just so someone paid the price for committing the crime.

He waved me toward the tree where Josef and I usually sat. “Good afternoon, Miss Brouwer.”

“Detective.” That was as much as I could manage without suffering another coughing spasm.

“I find myself in need of your assistance, Miss Brouwer.”

I sat down on the bench and told myself to breathe.

The detective was staring at me. I opened my mouth, but my voice refused to cooperate. I signaled for him to continue.

He sat down beside me and finger-pressed the brim of his hat between his fingers. “I don’t know how much information Miss Galloway has divulged.” When I didn’t comment, he continued. “I know the two of you enjoyed a lengthy dinner at the tearoom a couple of nights ago.” He waited.

“We did.” I hoped he didn’t notice my surprise—or fear. My hands remained steady, but my insides quivered like Mrs. Wilson’s grape jelly.

He’d obviously been unable to hear our conversation or he wouldn’t be quizzing me.

I didn’t want to betray Augusta’s confidence. Now I wished I’d stopped her before she’d divulged the secrets. Instead, I’d clung to every minute detail and even longed for more. I massaged my throat with my fingertips and hoped the detective would take the cue. If he wanted to talk, I’d listen. Otherwise, I had nothing more to say.

“Sorry you’re having problems with your voice,” he said. “I’m going to tell you what I need from you, and if you still haven’t regained your voice, you can just shake your head to let me know if you agree or disagree.” He grinned. “Unless you have a speedy recovery. In that case please don’t hesitate to use a verbal response.”

Almost word for word, the detective’s information matched what I’d heard from Augusta. He rested his forearms across his thighs and looked over his shoulder at me. “I need your help, Miss Brouwer.”

I touched the tip of my index finger to my chest. “Me?”

“Yes. If I’m to absolve you of the crime, I’ll need the owner of the pawnshop to see you. He says he can identify the young woman who brought him the necklace and rings.”

I stared at him, stupefied by the request. “You want me to travel to Cincinnati so this man can look at me?”

“Not exactly. Do you by any chance have a recent photograph or drawing of yourself?”

I shook my head. Sending a photograph certainly made more sense than traveling to Cincinnati, but photographs had been an unknown luxury in our home. Other than the painting of me on the carousel horse, I had nothing to offer. And that picture would be of no help in making a proper identification.

Detective Lawton tented his fingers beneath his chin. “Would you object to having a likeness drawn? We have a policeman who does an excellent job. And since you’re an artist yourself, you could help with any changes before I’d send it off.”

The proposal held little appeal, but if I objected, the detective would think I had something to hide. “If this man says I’m
not
the woman, will you then eliminate me from your list of suspects?”

He smiled and gave a firm nod. “I know this isn’t pleasant, but I’m required to follow every lead.”

“I hope you’ve followed the leads I’ve mentioned as closely as you’ve followed me, Detective. When am I required to sit for this drawing? It must not interfere with my employment.”

Before the detective departed, we agreed to meet outside the police station the following evening.

Time dragged the next day. While working on the carousel animals, I considered how I would react to seeing my likeness drawn by someone other than my father. I’d painted portraits of others. But except for the painting hanging in my bedroom, no one had ever drawn or painted me. Until now I’d not given the matter much thought, but it did seem somewhat strange—much like the cobbler’s children needing their shoes repaired. By the end of the workday, I’d begun to look forward to seeing the completed drawing.

After supper Josef excused himself and returned to the factory. He’d been following this same routine each day, determined he would leave everything in perfect order for the new owners. My pleas that Josef continue to seek financial backing had fallen on deaf ears. He’d accepted defeat. And though he’d not mentioned moving to Philadelphia again, I worried he might make plans that didn’t include me.

While Mrs. Wilson and Mr. Lundgren performed their nightly ritual of washing and drying the supper dishes, I retrieved my bonnet and reticule. “I’m going out for a while.” I hurried down the front steps before either of them could question me.

Detective Lawton stood outside the police station as promised. He whisked me through a side doorway and into a small office with only enough room for a small table and several chairs. The detective introduced me to the artist, Mr. Feldham, a paunchy man who appeared far too soft and old to perform much police work.

Detective Lawton pointed to one of the chairs. “You can sit there. I’ll stand.” He rested his back against the door, with his legs crossed at the ankle and arms folded across his chest. I didn’t know if he’d chosen to lean against the door in order to keep others out or to keep me in, but I believed it was probably both.