Martha Grimes - The Blue Last

She nodded and nodded.

“What I propose is that I purchase this, which would prevent his seeing it and, and, Miss Eccleston, should Mr. Jasperson-or you-come across any other such, you will be so good as to let me know right away. Agreed?”

Oh, she was happy! “Why, yes, of course. Yes.”

Melrose took out his checkbook, slapped it open on the writing table, pushed over the tea caddy and said, “I want this too.”

“Oh,” she said, as if he’d pinched her. “Certainly. That’s three hundred, that is.”

Melrose wrote out a check for twenty-three hundred pounds and ripped it out. “There you are. Now, I’d like you to keep the panel here until I can come and collect it. The thing is, I’m meeting Mr. Trueblood and wouldn’t want him to start asking what’s in the parcel.”

“Delighted, delighted to hold it for you. I’ll just put it in back.”

“I’ll take the tea caddy. You needn’t wrap it.”

She ferried the panel away.

On the way to the door, Melrose hauled off and kicked the putti.

Then he drove back to Long Piddleton; he had shut up Agatha and now he would have to shut up Theo Wrenn Browne.

The bell over the door of the Wrenn’s Nest Bookshop jangled unpleasantly, like a pinched nerve, as if anything coming under the purview of the store’s owner reflected the owner’s temperament.

Melrose waited, tapping his fingers on the counter, looking out of the shop’s bay window at the Jack and Hammer directly across the street. His friends were gathered there, apparently having a merry time. Trueblood, in particular. Theo Wrenn Browne would be waltzing right over there when he saw them in that window seat, eager to impart any unwanted information he had to share about Trueblood’s painting.

“Why, Mr. Plant. What a pleasant surprise!”

Liar.

“Whatever brings you here?”

“Books, oddly enough. Where are your art history books?”

“Art? History?” A finely wrought eyebrow was raised.

“Now, put those two words together, Mr. Browne, and you’ll be very close to what I came in for.” He should, he supposed, be milder, but Browne was such a goddamned fool.

Theo Wrenn Browne tilted his head in the direction of some shelves. “Over here.”

Melrose followed him. The pickings were slim, which didn’t bother Melrose at all, since he didn’t intend to pick anything. What he wanted was to know exactly what Browne knew about the other panel in Jasperson’s shop. Certainly, Browne would be delighted at any opportunity to burst Trueblood’s little balloon.

“Now, here’s a nice one.” Browne tried to foist Andy Warhol on him.

“No.” Melrose pulled down some lackluster study on Flemish art, then reshelved it. Only one book bore at all on the subject-that is, to get the subject going: Early Renaissance Art. He started thumbing through the thick slick pages. “Ah. Brunelleschi… Donatello… Masolino…” he read in a whisper.

“What are you looking for, Mr. Plant?”

“Italian Renaissance paintings.” And he continued in that reverent way: “Giotto… Masaccio…”

“Oh!” said Theo, happy to recognize a name, happier to have bad news to impart. “Mr. Trueblood’s so-called painting.”

“ ‘So-called’?” Melrose managed to look confused. “I don’t know why you say that. We’ve just got back from Florence.” He turned back to the book and muttered, “The Church of San Giovenale a Carcia-”

“And-?” Theo prompted him.

“And what?”

“You said you just got back from Florence.”

“That’s right.” Melrose continued his whispered communion with the book. “San Gimignano… Monteriggioni…” The pages fluttered. Melrose hadn’t the vaguest notion what he was doing. But he had some dim idea that it would come to him.

Frustrated, Theo insisted. “You said you just got back from Florence. ”

“Uh-huh.”

“But you said it as if that explained something.”

“Florence-” Melrose paused. “Florence explains every thing!” He clapped an arm about Browne’s shoulders, a gesture that completely stumped Theo. He tried to step back, but Melrose had him in a lock.

“The Brancacci Chapel!” Here Melrose threw out his other arm and drew, between thumb and forefinger, a banner in air and, as if reading the print thereon, exclaimed, “The Brancacci Chapel! You’ve seen it, of course?”

“I? Uh, no, no. Now if you’d just let me get back to-”

Melrose’s arm tightened and he began to walk both of them to the store’s big bay window. “Imagine!” he exclaimed. Across the street were his friends seated at their favorite table-Trueblood, Diane Demorney, Joanna the Mad, Vivian Rivington. “Imagine we are within this glorious chapel, face-to-face with the frescoes. Just close your eyes-”

Theo didn’t want to.

“And imagine seeing Adam and Eve and the expulsion from Paradise.” Trueblood had his head in his hands much like the figure of Adam, and Joanna, her head thrown back in a rictus of laughter that bore a stunning resemblance to Eve’s howl. Melrose was rather enjoying this reenactment. “Then we have Tribute Money -” Dick Scroggs had entered the perimeter of the window. “Next, we have St. Peter Healing the Sick with his Shadow. ” Melrose made a wiping motion with his hand, as if scenes were appearing and disappearing, as if they were watching a dumb show. Mrs. Withersby hove into view, the veritable model for the poor wretch begging for St. Peter’s help. In the case of Withersby, it was bumming cigarettes and whatever else life had on offer.

“Uh, Mr. Plant, I think, yes, I think that’s my phone ringing!”

Melrose hugged him closer. “Let it ring, let it ring. Let me tell you about San Gimignano-” And Melrose did so, told him about San Gimignano and Siena, in mind-withering detail, all the while enclosing the bookseller in an iron grip. Finally, he released him and said, “I must be on my way. Coming to the pub, are you?”

“Uh, no. No, I think not. Not this evening.” He took several steps backward.

“Pity. Good evening, then.” Melrose whistled himself out the door.

“Good lord, Melrose! Where have you been? We’re all dining at Ardry End tonight. It’s Christmas Eve.” Diane Demorney made these announcements as if they had just then come to mind unbidden by outside exigency. “Are we exchanging presents tonight, then?”

Marshall Trueblood lit a cigarette. “You mean for what you actually want?”

“Very funny. But were we to get something for everyone? That would make-” she counted the people around the table by actually pointing her finger. “If Agatha’s coming, that’s, let’s see, six. If everyone is to give everyone else a gift, that’s-” Running out of fingers, she squeezed her eyes and put her hand to her forehead.

Joanna said, “Count me out, Diane. I’ve got to be on my way to Devon this afternoon. Promised I’d turn up for Christmas dinner tomorrow.”

“Where in Devon?” Diane asked, not happy with a further refinement on a problem she hadn’t yet solved.

“Exmoor.”

Diane’s martini actually stopped on its way to her mouth. “Exmoor? But people don’t live there, do they? It’s a moor. ”

“You’ve never been righter, Diane.”

People waited patiently, for Diane’s present count. Finally, Vivian said, “Diane, if there are six people and all six are giving each of the others a gift, then-” Vivian made an encouraging noise.

“Easy for you to say, Vivian, you’ve already done yours.”