Winning Amelia Page 8

  “Sorry, no can do.”

  “Please.” She caught his sleeve. “You said you paid thirty. I’ll give you fifty.”

  “Wish I could help you, but like I just said, I was too busy to fix up that frame. Once I got it home I could see it would have taken way too much work, so I got rid of it.”

  Amelia let go of Kemp and pressed her hand to her stomach. She looked sick. “You got rid of it? How?”

  “I gave it to my aunt.”

  “You gave it to your aunt,” Amelia repeated, her voice rising.

  “What’s your aunt’s name, Kemp?” Hank asked. “We’d like to talk to her.”

  “Oh, she’d get a kick out of this story. She used to be a huge fan of Magnum P.I. She keeps saying how it was far better than the new cop show that’s shot in Hawaii. Both her husbands had a mustache like Tom Selleck’s. She’ll be disappointed with your car, though. Ever thought of getting a red one?”

  “Her name, Kemp?” Hank prodded.

  “Hazel Blight. Blight’s her second husband. She used to be a McClelland. Her first husband sold drilling rigs, traveled all over the world, built a snug little house near Coderington for when he retired but then they put the hydro lines through. Ended up with a tower right behind his back door that wrecked his view. I think the disappointment’s what killed him.”

  Coderington was a dot on the map about thirty minutes farther east of here. “Does she still live in the same place?” Hank asked.

  “No, her second husband runs a dairy operation on the Trent. He was a bachelor until she married him, never threw anything out. Talk about junk! The old farmhouse was packed to the attic and the barns hardly had room for the cows. There must have been four generations’ worth of furniture and tools. Aunt Hazel’s been cleaning off the good pieces and carting truckloads to the big flea market near Barrie every weekend for years and still hasn’t hit bottom. That’s why I gave her the painting, so she could add it to her booth. She knows about antiques and stuff like that, figured she’d get at least twice what I paid for it...” He broke off as Amelia stumbled backward to her stool. “Hey, sorry.”

  Hank stifled the urge to hug her. He squeezed her shoulder instead. “We’ll drive up there first thing tomorrow.”

  Amelia nodded tightly. Her jaw flexed as if she were grinding her teeth.

  “Good luck,” Kemp said. “You never know, maybe the painting hasn’t sold yet. It was pretty bad, no offense.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE 400 MARKET got its name from the route number of the six-lane highway that went past it, which was the main thoroughfare running north from Toronto. Commuter traffic from the surrounding communities funneled through the road on weekdays, and at peak times on summer weekends city dwellers escaping north to their cottages in the Muskokas made the route resemble a slow-moving parking lot. Due in large part to its advantageous location, the flea market had undergone three expansions during its nearly forty years in business and now boasted over five hundred vendors inside its large indoor facility, plus more outside during the warmer months. Of the thousands of shoppers who went through it each weekend, only half came from the immediate area. Tourists, cottagers, passing truckers, families on their way to visit relatives...everyone loved hunting for bargains.

  But Amelia was in no mood to appreciate the atmosphere or the merchandise. She wove her way through the slow-moving browsers, past racks of postcards, T-shirts and purses, glass cases crammed with sausages and beer nuts, shelves of potted plants and silk flowers, her attention fixed on the carved oak china cabinet she glimpsed near the end of the aisle.

  Kemp had provided detailed directions to Hazel Blight’s booth. He’d given them his aunt’s cell phone number, too, but every call Hank had made yesterday evening had gone straight to voice mail. The same thing had happened during the drive here this morning. Of course, Hank’s standard-model sedan wasn’t equipped with options like Bluetooth or hands-free calling, so he had pulled over to the side of the road and stopped each time he’d used his phone. That, coupled with his careful driving, had pushed their arrival to well past noon.

  She had restrained her urge to complain. After their blowup at Kemp’s, she was grateful he was still helping her. But that was Hank. Even as a teenager he’d been responsible. Solid. Dependable. Until the time he had rejected her love and broken her heart...

  No, she had to stop thinking about that. The past didn’t matter. Only the painting, and the future it would give her.

  “That must be her in the green shirt,” Hank said. He had no trouble keeping up with her pace. He moved so smoothly he didn’t seem to be hurrying at all.

  Amelia detoured around a couple pushing twins in a double baby stroller and spotted the woman Hank must have meant. She wore black jeans and a moss-green sweatshirt with a screened print of a loon on the front. Her salt-and-pepper hair had more salt than Kemp’s, and she was several inches shorter than him, but there was a strong family resemblance in the broad forehead and lantern jaw. She and a thirtysomething, deeply tanned woman in white Bermuda shorts were standing beside a battered, galvanized-steel milk can.

  “You don’t see many of these cans anymore,” the older woman was saying. “My husband’s family used them back before the dairy started sending around the milk tanker, so it’s a real collector’s item.”

  “It’s lovely, but I’m not sure what I’d do with it.”

  “I had an interior decorator come by here a few weeks ago. She was looking for a milk can just like this one to use for holding branches or flowers or some such. That’s why I brought it in.”

  “Yes, I can see how that would work.”

  “She called it a focal point. Gives a room that professional touch.”

  “I’m still not sure. It seems a bit too rustic.”

  “I also have some earthenware crocks that might interest you. The interior glaze is a lovely chocolate-brown and the outside is a neutral tan, which would go with any decorating scheme.”

  Amelia tuned out the sales pitch and scanned the three-sided booth. Maximum use had been made of the limited space. The oak china cabinet that had drawn her attention initially, itself for sale, was packed with an assortment of teacups and glassware. A vintage quilt was displayed over a ladder-back chair. Antique tools and kitchen gadgets crowded a multitiered table in the center, while an assortment of old feed signs and sepia-tinted photographs hung from the dividing walls. The variety of items did appear to be a sampling of someone’s barn and farmhouse attic, as Kemp had said.

  She couldn’t see her painting.

  Maybe Hazel had changed her mind about selling it, or had forgotten to bring it. Maybe this was the wrong booth.

  “Mrs. Blight?” Hank asked.

  The customer in the white shorts was moving away, cradling an earthenware crock in her arms. The woman with the loon sweatshirt zipped a pink fifty into a pouch at her waist and nodded to Hank. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

  He introduced himself and Amelia. Hazel’s eyebrows shot up when she learned of Hank’s profession. She scrutinized his face, but if she was hoping for any resemblance between him and her TV hero, she kept it to herself. Hank got straight down to business. “We were talking to your nephew, Kemp. He said he gave you a painting last week?”

  “Yes, that would be the Mathers.”

  Mathers? That must have been the scrawled signature that Amelia had never been able to decipher. “Was it an oil painting of a farm?” she asked.

  “Yes, the scene featured a farmhouse and weathered barns on a hill.”

  That confirmed it. Hazel had the painting. Amelia’s chest went tight. She clenched her hands to control their sudden trembling...and to stop herself from tearing apart Hazel’s booth to find where she’d stashed it.

  “I also have some excellent sepia portraits. They’re real collector’s items.”

  “We’re more interested in the painting,” Hank said.

  “That surprises me. Jonathan Mathers isn’t all that pop
ular.”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “I’ve run across a few of his canvases over the years, mostly at church rummage sales. He wasn’t a real artist—he was a doctor in Brighton maybe fifty years ago or so. He painted rural scenes as a hobby and gave them as presents to his relatives. That’s why the paintings show up at rummage sales. No one wants to keep them.” She gestured toward a brass-framed, oval mirror that leaned against the rear wall. “Now that mirror is a true gem. It’s been in my husband’s family for several generations and would add flair to any room.”

  Amelia recognized the same kind of redirect that had been used on the previous customer. She cleared her throat. Even so, her voice sounded raspy. “Mrs. Blight, where is the Mathers painting?”

  “It used to be right there,” she said, tipping her head toward an empty space on the back wall. “I sold it first thing this morning.”

  “You sold it? You had no right! It was mine.”

  Hazel took a step back. “Excuse me?”

  Hank laid a restraining hand on Amelia’s arm. “There was a mix-up at a yard sale last weekend, Mrs. Blight. Your nephew bought the painting by mistake. I explained it to him. Didn’t he call you?”

  “He might have tried. My phone battery ran down, and I didn’t bring my charger. I assure you, if there was any wrongdoing here, it was unintentional. I believed I had every right to sell that painting.”

  “We don’t blame you, ma’am, but would you happen to remember anything about the customer who bought it?”

  “I certainly do. He came around here last year, as well. I’m pretty sure it was in August then, too. He bought two small watercolor still lifes that time.”

  “Would you know how we could get in touch with him?” Hank asked.

  Hazel patted the pockets of her jeans. “Let me see. I seem to remember he might have given me his business card. He said he’s always in the market for interesting pieces by Ontario artists.”

  “We’d be grateful for any help you could give us, ma’am.”

  She bent down to retrieve a small strongbox from beneath the table, unlocked it and thumbed through the papers inside. They appeared to be receipts. “The card must be in here someplace.” She gave them a sideways glance. “While I’m busy, why don’t you two take another look at that mirror?”

  Amelia tapped her foot. “We’re really not interested in—”

  “Sure, we are,” Hank said immediately. He squeezed Amelia’s arm in warning. “Weren’t you telling me that Jenny had wanted to fix up a mirror for the back room?”

  “It’s a bargain at one-thirty,” Hazel said, making a show of continuing to rifle through the strongbox. “But I’d be willing to let you have it for an even hundred.”

  “That’s a fair price.” Hank pulled his wallet from his pocket and counted out five twenties. “A hundred it is.”

  As soon as Hazel took the money, she handed him a small white card. “Because you seem like a nice young couple, I’m letting you know that my customer only paid seventy-five dollars for the Mathers. So be careful.” She smiled as she zipped Hank’s hundred into her belt pouch. “I wouldn’t want you folks to get gouged.”

  * * *

  THE TYPICAL SUMMER Sunday evening traffic jam on the highway had begun a few hours early. Another severe weather front was predicted to pass through during the evening, causing many cottagers to get a head start back to the city. Hank kept to the slow lane, as usual, but under these conditions it didn’t make much difference. All the southbound lanes were snaking along well under the 100-kilometer limit.

  “They need to widen this highway,” Amelia said.

  “The gallery doesn’t close until five. We’ll get there.” He turned on the radio. A perky country song warbled from the speakers. “Why don’t you relax and listen to the music?”

  Relax? He had to be kidding. Amelia tapped the card Hazel had given them against her leg. It was no do-it-yourself card from a laser printer. The lettering was embossed, and the design was elegant and tasteful, no doubt the product of a professional. According to this, her multimillion-dollar ticket and the painting were now in the possession of Rupert Whitcombe, proprietor of the Whitcombe Gallery, which was located on Yonge Street in downtown Toronto. Business hours were noon to 9:00 p.m., Tuesdays to Fridays, and 11:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. on weekends. It appeared that Whitcombe’s clientele didn’t get up early or go shopping on Mondays.

  During the early days of their marriage, she and Spencer had occasionally visited art dealers together as he built his collection, but she wasn’t familiar with Whitcombe. On the other hand, there were plenty of dealers in the city she hadn’t met, since she’d stopped accompanying her husband on those excursions after a few years. Besides not sharing his interest, she just hadn’t found the time. She’d been too busy building their business to bother with peripherals, like the toys and perks their growing wealth could buy. She’d encouraged Spencer to go out alone. Trusting, gullible idiot that she was, it hadn’t occurred to her to question what he did when she wasn’t watching.

  She flicked the card with her index finger. “This doesn’t make sense. Rupert Whitcombe is a professional art dealer. Why would he scrounge around a flea market for a seventy-five-dollar painting?”

  “For the same reason he would acquire any painting—to make a profit.”

  “Usually galleries don’t pay an artist until the work sells. They make their money from the commission they charge.”

  “I guess Whitcombe is confident he can find a buyer.”

  “From what Hazel said, Mathers wasn’t good, and his work isn’t in demand. If there was any chance of that painting being valuable, she wouldn’t have parted with it so quickly.”

  “You’ve got that right. She’s a pretty savvy businesswoman.”

  That was true. Hazel certainly had been slick about getting paid for her information. She’d gotten rid of the painting at the first opportunity, too. There was one positive aspect to the fast turnover, though. It meant she would have had less time to stumble on the ticket.

  That might not be the case with Whitcombe. An art dealer would be inclined to inspect his new acquisition more closely than someone buying the painting on a whim at a yard sale, or someone accustomed to dealing with the contents of a hoarder’s attics and barns. And when he did inspect it, Whitcombe was bound to notice the scrap of folded paper that was wedged underneath the frame.

  Amelia glanced at her wrist, then gritted her teeth at the reflex that she couldn’t seem to shake. She looked at the clock on the car radio. “It’s almost three. The gallery won’t be open tomorrow. Can’t you go any faster?”

  Hank looked at her. “Tell that to the guys ahead of me.”

  “Maybe we should try phoning again. Whitcombe might be there by now.”

  “Chances are he’s not going to put the painting up for sale right away.”

  “We can’t be sure of that.”

  “We don’t want to tip him off how important it is to you, either, or he’ll jack up the price.”

  Amelia chewed her lip. He had a point. Until she got the painting back, her resources were limited. “Hank, please. I hate just sitting here.”

  He flicked on his turn signal.

  “No, don’t pull over! I’ll call myself.”

  “I’m not pulling over, I’m taking a shortcut.” He steered onto an exit ramp that led to a two-lane county road running perpendicular to the highway. When he had merged into the eastbound traffic, he took his phone from his shirt pocket and passed it to her. “Here.”

  She immediately dialed the number on the card. The woman who answered told her the same thing she’d told Hank earlier. The gallery owner was out of town on business but was expected back soon. She politely turned down Amelia’s request for Whitcombe’s cell number, recited their business hours and ended the conversation.

  Amelia put the phone in the empty cupholder between the seats, crossed her arms and thumped her head against the headrest.


  “No luck, huh?”

  “No.”

  “Feel better?”

  “Marginally. Thanks for humoring me, Hank.”

  “No problem.”

  Amelia focused on the countryside that paraded past. It didn’t seem as green here as it did around Port Hope. Mats of yellowed grass spiked by chicory and tufts of goldenrod choked the ditches, and rusty wire fences bordered the fields. Clusters of houses dotted the hillsides wherever the land was too steep to plow. There was a steady stream of vehicles heading east, but it was moving more quickly than the traffic they’d just left. “And thanks for getting off the highway,” she added.

  “I prefer country roads anyway.”

  Of course, he would. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Mmm?”

  “The hundred bucks you gave to Hazel.”

  “Forget it. It’s all part of the service.”

  “Hank, you said you’d donate your time, but that bribe was a direct expense. I’ll reimburse you for that, as well as for the gas you’re using.”

  “This car doesn’t burn much gas. Sometimes I go more than a week without needing to fill up, so it would be hard to keep track of how much I’m using on this case.”

  “Don’t you normally keep a mileage log when you’re working on a case?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not officially working. Besides, the hundred wasn’t a bribe, it was the cost of a true gem of a mirror, a real collector’s item.”

  She glanced behind her. Hank’s trunk had been full of fishing gear, so he’d put the mirror on its side and leaned it against the backseat. Seeing it in full daylight hadn’t made it look any better. The silver backing was worn off in blotchy streaks, and fly specks dotted the glass. “Don’t expect me to believe you actually wanted that thing.”

  “Tell you what. Give the mirror to Jenny for her next yard sale. You can give me whatever she gets for it.”

  “No, I’ll pay you what you spent.”

  “You don’t have to, Amelia.”