The Purloined Paintings

One-2

THREE HOURS LATER, Helen has been gently loaded in the car by a very caring and patient orderly who is probably glad to see her go. At Martin’s insistence, we have rented a hospital bed that will go in Helen’s living room while Anna sleeps in Helen’s room so that she will not be alone at night.

As we drive to Helen’s apartment, we pass The Painted Lotus. There are a couple of police cars out front and I’m surprised to see a visibly upset Dr. Martin Maycord sitting on a bench in front of the gallery. Detective Dan Conway’s standing over him, appearing to ask him questions. Officer Nina Hallstead stretches crime scene tape across the entrance.

“I hope nothing’s wrong,” I say.

“Unfortunately, there probably is,” Helen says as she strains to look at the scene. “Probably a break-in. We’ve had some vandalism complaints from Bethany over the last few months.”

I slow down as we pass, but continue on.

Helen shouts, “Turn around! Go back!”

“Helen,” I say evenly, “you just got out of the hospital. Let me remind you that the only reason you were able to do so is because you promised Martin—”

“Please, Tom,” she pleads, “you’ve got to go back. I just need to know what’s going on. Then I’ll go home and be a good patient. I promise.”

She’s already trying to turn around in her seat, which I know is dangerous to her ribs, so I say, “OK, Helen. I’ll take you there, but please sit back and stop trying to turn around.” This seems to pacify her and I turn the car around.

I pull into a space by the curb, and Helen rolls down her window, breaking one of Martin’s rules that she not use her right arm for anything, even if it is just pressing a button. “Dan! Dan!” she calls. He turns around and appears startled to see her. Nevertheless, he walks over to where we are.

“I thought you were still in the hospital?” the ex-Marine asks. He sounds concerned, but there’s something else in his tone that sounds very un-Dan like. Usually, Dan’s a jovial, big, boisterous guy who’s as tender with his six-year-old daughter Catherine as he is tough on a suspect.

But he sounds flat. The bags under his eyes and the light stubble on his face add to the effect.

Before Helen can answer Dan’s question, I say with slightly less anger in my voice than I actually feel, “She’s supposed to be. Dr. Maycord released her on the condition that she go home and rest.”

“Then why the hell aren’t you doing that?” Dan growls.

“We are on the way to my apartment, where there’s a nice cozy hospital bed and a solicitous Anna waiting for me,” Helen explains. “But do you really think I’m not going to stop when I see all this? What’s going on? Why is Dr. Maycord here?”

Dan hesitates. “Look, Helen, you’re off duty. Just go home and—”

“I’ll call Gladys,” she says. “You know I’m going to find out anyway.”

I sigh. “You might as well tell her, Dan. You know how she is.”

Dan looks at me. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way, Father.”

I get a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Find out what?”

“Bethany Grable. She’s dead. Shot in an apparent robbery.”

The blood rushes from my face. “What?” I whisper.

I feel Helen’s comforting hand on mine. “Tom, I am so sorry. I know she was a friend of yours.”

“Not mine as much as Joan’s, but yeah, I always liked her,” I say, wiping a tear from my eye. “She was very good to me after Joan died.”

“I only met her that one time when we went to the gallery show a few weeks ago, but she seemed quite lovely.”

I nod. “She was. A lovely person.”

Helen turns her attention back to Dan, and asks, “What happened?”

“Dr. Maycord called it in,” Dan says. “He’s so distraught I haven’t been able to get much from him. Apparently, he came to the gallery to meet with Grable, heard yelling coming from the office, then a shot. He ran into the office and saw her lying on the floor. From the look of him, he tried to save her.”

It’s then that I see Maycord’s white dress shirt is covered in blood, his hands red from the same substance.

“It’s dried by now,” I whisper to myself. “There’s no saving that shirt.” In my mind, I can see him trying to stop the bleeding from the gunshot wound, pressing for all he’s worth, the frustration and fear building from deep within. Was it worse because he knew it was futile? That the damage caused by the bullet invading Bethany’s body was too severe?

“Is she still there?” I ask Dan.

He nods. “The state ME’s van hasn’t arrived from Baltimore yet.”

I’m not wearing my clericals, but I reach past Helen and open the glove compartment. I get the purple stole and small container of holy oil I keep there now. When I’m in my collar, I always carry some with me.

“Take me to her,” I say.

I hear Helen trying to unbuckle her seat belt. Turning to her, I say, “Oh, no. You’re staying right here.”

“I just want to—” Helen says.

“—look at the scene, I know. Ain’t gonna happen. You stay here.”

She glares at me, then slumps back into the seat.

I get out of the car, and Dan leads me past Martin. He’s put his head in his blood-covered hands, a picture of grief. Whatever his relationship was with Bethany, if it was just as her business partner or if it was more personal, finding her the way he did has devastated the man.

I walk behind Dan through the gallery where Helen and I strolled only a few weeks ago. One of the paintings had been Joan’s, a work I hadn’t seen before. It had brought back memories of my late wife, memories made easier somehow standing next to my wife-to-be.

“She’s here, Father,” Dan says quietly, standing in the open doorway to what I recognize as Bethany’s office. “Hey, clear out for a minute,” he commands whoever’s inside. A crime scene technician scurries out. I walk past Dan into the small room.

Bethany’s lying under a sheet on the floor. The back door Joan told me Bethany had installed when she bought the place is ajar. Around me, crowded into the small space, are piles of papers, books, and art supplies. Empty boxes sit on the desk, and on the floor are more boxes labeled “files” and others “donate.” Her filing cabinets are pulled open, and it appears that someone was in the process of emptying them.

“This . . . this isn’t right,” I whisper.

I shake my head and kneel at Bethany’s body. Pulling the sheet down just enough to uncover her forehead, I recite the ancient prayers—in Latin instead of English, something I spent a lot of time reviewing while sitting in Helen’s hospital room while she slept—before making the sign of the cross with the oil on her forehead.

I have no idea of Bethany’s spiritual state. She often spoke of not believing in God, at least not as the Church defines Him. But her work often had a deeply spiritual, even Catholic component. A painting of Jesus the Divine Mercy she did hangs in my office, a Christmas gift from Helen. She must have been Catholic at some point, maybe raised in the Church but rejecting the faith of her youth like so many.

Still, because I believe God’s mercy is boundless, I whisper, “When you see Joan, tell her I said hello. You’ll like our daughter. She looks just like her mother.”

Carefully replacing the sheet, I rise to my feet and look around the office again. Bethany was a delightful bohemian artist, but like Joan, she was meticulous in her habits. Her studio, as best as I can remember, was always neat and orderly. I can only remember being in her office once, picking up a p*****t for one of Joan’s paintings that she sold, but I have the impression it, too, was well-organized.

This office is anything but. It looks for all the world like—

“Anything wrong, Father?” I jump when I realize Dan’s standing right beside me.

“Huh? No. I’m done, thank you.”

“Of course,” he says, looking at me with a quizzical eye. “Are you sure you’re OK? You looked somewhere else for a moment.”

I smile sheepishly. “No, no, everything’s fine. It’s just . . . the office. It doesn’t look right to me.”

Dan c***s his head to one side and crosses his arms. “Really?” he says with a crooked smile.

“Yeah. It looks like Bethany was packing. Has Martin mentioned anything about her leaving town?”

Dan shakes his head. “He hasn’t said much of anything.”

“I mean, all the boxes, the piles of paper. I just saw her a couple of weeks ago, we’ve known each other for years, and I’m sure if—”

“Father,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t you think you’d better be getting Helen home?”

“Of course, I was just—”

“Listen!” he snaps. “I know how much you enjoy following Helen around playing Father Brown—oh, she’s told me about your weird insights—but this is my crime scene. It’s a robbery gone bad. Nothing more. Just leave it to the professionals for once.”

I stare at Dan. I’ve never heard him speak to me like this. “Sure,” I say. “Sorry.”

Without another word, he turns on his heels and walks out of the office. I take that as my cue to follow.

Soon we’re back at the car, a very perturbed-looking Helen in the passenger seat.

Turning to Dan, I say, “Thanks.”

“Of course,” he says. Then, hesitating, he adds, “Look, Tom, in there. What I said. I’m—”

“No, you were right,” I say, shaking my head. “No problem. We’re good.” Then, cranking the car, I say to Dan, “It seems like you have everything well in hand. Helen, shall we leave Dan to it?”

“Not yet,” she says, leaning across me. “Dan, what about forced entry? Any sign?”

I can see Dan watching her. She’s obviously in pain, and there are small beads of sweat forming on her forehead. He catches my eye, as if saying, She really doesn’t look too good.

Still, he answers her question. “There doesn’t appear to be, but right now I have no way of knowing. It’s still early.”

“So it could have been jimmied,” Helen says. “Did Maycord say if the door was locked or unlocked when he arrived?”

“He hasn’t said much of anything yet, Helen,” Dan replies. Though obviously trying to be patient, he’s getting a little irritated at being second-guessed.

Whether she realizes it or not, Helen is cradling her left side where the stitches from the surgery are. I don’t like the look of this and say, “We need to get you home. Thanks for letting us interrupt you, Dan. We’ll be on our way.”

“No,” she says, reaching out with her left hand and turning the engine off before snatching the keys from the ignition. “I need to stay around to try to talk to Martin.”

“No, you don’t,” I say, trying to grab for the keys as she drops them down the front of her blouse.

Sighing, I say, “Helen, please at least try to be reasonable. Dan can handle this, and you need to get back to your apartment to get settled in.”

Her azure blue eyes have taken on an almost fevered look and I can tell the adrenaline has kicked in.

“I can rest later,” she says quickly. Then, turning to Dan, she asks, “Did you cordon off the entire building? You know there’s a back studio that’s separate. Did you get that too?”

“Yes I did, and I also have an officer stationed between the buildings to keep an eye on both of them.”

“Well, you’re going to need someone at the front door, too.”

It's obvious now that he’s had enough. “Yes, Helen, and that has already been arranged. Now, since you still have dressings on your hand and probably elsewhere from where IVs and drains were just a few hours ago, why don’t you do us all a favor and go to your apartment and get some rest? If you do so right now, I promise to stop by tonight and update you. Otherwise, I will just place a report on your desk for when you get back.”

I want to hug Dan and offer him a dozen masses for the soul of his choice but Helen growls, “Dan, do I need to remind you that I am Acting Chief of this department?”

“No,” he says firmly, “you were Acting Chief of this department until you were shot by a psychotic Director of Religious Education and nearly died. You will be Acting and, if there is any justice, permanent Chief when you return. But right now I am Acting Chief.”

“Your point being?” Helen snaps.

“My point, Helen, is that right now you have no authority here. You are not my boss, you look worse than a number of victims I’ve called ambulances for, and, unlike the good Father here, I know how to search someone without getting emotionally involved. Therefore, rest assured, I will get those keys back from you.”

I nearly choke trying to keep from laughing and yelling, “Go Dan!” at the same time.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Helen says, glaring at him while instinctively using her left hand to cover her cleavage.

“Try me,” Dan says, leaning in slightly.

Helen glares at him with her dueling pistol eyes for a moment. “Oh, dammit! All right!” she grumbles. “Both of you close your eyes.”

We do so, and a moment later I hear the keys being placed back in the ignition.

As I crank the car, Helen points at Dan and says, “You’d better stop by.”

Without missing a beat, Dan replies, “I have to. Miriam’s making you dinner tonight.”