Рита Браун: Out Of Hounds

“Ah. I never think of that,” Betty murmured.

“How did he come up with the Munnings’s idea?” Sister echoed Betty’s question.

“He had visited The Munnings Art Museum in England. Learning about Florence Carter-Wood gave him the idea that a painting featuring her would be worth quite a lot. There were fewer of them. Then he also realized that the sidesaddle paintings existed in small number compared to the rest of Munnings’s work. Hence the idea to steal what showed Florence or a figure that could be Florence as well as other beautiful women. The key was the rarity.”

“It must have worked.” Weevil wanted to hold Tootie’s hand but, of course, did not.

“Yes, it did. He had an oil prince with God knows how many skyscrapers in Dubai.”

“One person?” Sister’s voice rose.

“A prince, a leader, they all must have money beyond imagining. Yes, it was one person. One person with billions. He sent his personal jet to pick up the paintings here and in Kentucky.”

“How do we get them back?” Betty wondered. “And why don’t you say his name?”

“Because I spoke to our State Department in Washington as well as a few of my buddies in the C.I.A. To openly shame someone with whom our country does critical business would be foolish, and dangerous in a different way.”

“How do we get the paintings back?” Tootie had little patience for high-level politics, perhaps a feature of her generation.

“I believe our government will, and I think much of the money is still in Carter’s possession.”

“Why?” Gray wondered.

“Because he tried to buy me off.” Ben smiled. “Which will be another charge against him.”

“Who murdered the drivers and was Parker Bell part of it?” Weevil could still feel the force of that kick.

“Parker had gotten wind of the driving. He knew some of those men from his time in the pen. Others were imprisoned elsewhere but they knew one another. Parker wanted in on the take. He would have been killed ultimately but he didn’t know that. He saw money. So Carter realized he had to go. He also realized, thanks to Parker, that he would have to kill the drivers, save one, one that he trusted or perhaps was his partner. That man that escaped in Shelbyville. Carter killed Parker himself. He doesn’t admit it, but it falls into place.”

“Why won’t Carter identify the Gulf corpse?” Walter asked.

“We don’t know enough. He’s told us some truths, some half-truths, and some outright lies. Once he hires a good lawyer, and with his money he will, the lawyer will try to bargain first. We might be able to pull some stuff out. But it was a network. It was well-organized and it was to be Carter’s grand accomplishment. He would make so much money, which he did, he wouldn’t need to worry about money again.” Ben stared at the fire for a moment. “I don’t think he would have stopped. There’s a high to getting away with this, plus the money.” Then he smiled. “He had Fennell’s lead shanks used because they are so supple yet sturdy. Idiot bragged no one was killed with shoddy goods. The murders were like dominoes. One driver killed another then he was in turn killed until only the Shelbyville man was left. Possibly the drivers from the Headley-Whitney Museum’s heist, too. We’ll get to the bottom of that.”

“Was Buddy Cadwalder part of this?” Sister wondered.

“No. Carter said Buddy was a straight arrow plus he wasn’t smart enough to pull off something of this size.”

“If Carter were so smart, he wouldn’t have gotten caught,” Tootie quite rightly said.

“Sister scared him,” Ben informed her. “And he knew she was closing in because she figured out the Florence Carter-Wood link.” Ben looked out the window a moment at the downpour. “Having seen photos of the famous Florence at Sunset painting plus those of Florence herself, she was quite beautiful, as was Munnings’s second wife. But Florence really was a sorrowful figure, not of her own doing, I think.” Ben smiled a sad smile.

“He didn’t think out how to kill me?” Sister mused.

“He said you were always smart. Plus he didn’t know who you would tell. He told me he bore you no personal animus, it was strictly business, and he felt he had to get rid of you fast.”

“Lucky for me, Gray rode in the back with me and the hounds turned back. If it weren’t for Betty, Tootie, and Weevil, he would have succeeded.”

“Sister, the odds were against you, but who is to say?” Ben smiled at her. “Over time the details of names, perhaps hidden contacts, will leach out, but you have the big picture. And of course, Carter believed the rarity of sidesaddle and Florence’s image would drive up the prices for those special paintings, which it did. Which isn’t to say the value of the works featuring other women were low. Far from it.”

“You know, Ben, Munnings never spoke of Florence but I think he was haunted by her.” Sister then changed the subject. “Would anyone like tea or coffee or something stronger? I should have asked before we sat down.”

All demurred.

Walter shook his head slightly. “Sister, we both lose our bet. Both wrong. You thought the thieves would be part of the show world and I thought they’d be part of the art world, dealers, museums. Well, we saved money.”

She laughed. “That’s one way to look at it.”

CHAPTER 38

March 16, 2020 Monday

Still cool, the rain had stopped, clouds scattered. Golly reposed in her bed as did the two dogs, while Sister cracked eggs into a mixing bowl. This morning, rain free, called for her famous omelet as well as bacon. As she was whisking eggs with a little milk in the bowl, Gray walked in.

“Coffee this morning or tea?” he asked.

“Tea, Irish Breakfast. It’s in the green tin.”

They focused on their respective chores, then Gray said, “St. Patrick’s Day parade canceled. Happened days ago but no time to take notice and now St. Patrick’s Day is almost upon us.”

“We can wear green tomorrow.”

“Yes, we can.” He smiled then trotted upstairs to the bedroom to his closet, where he pulled out a long thin box, beautifully wrapped in hunt-club colors, dark green with a gold ribbon.

He came back down, placed the box on the table.

“That’s pretty.”

“How about you open it after breakfast.”

“Aha. The wrapping is green. Is it an early St. Patrick’s Day gift?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

They ate those fluffy omelets, biscuits with Irish butter.

While the dogs would prefer meat to omelets, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t beg. Golly, on the other hand, waited for bacon. She knew she’d get a piece and each dog also got a piece of bacon, for Sister had made a lot of it.

After polishing off the last piece of bacon…Gray nabbed it…Sister carried the plates to the sink.

“I’ll do the dishes,” Gray volunteered.

“We can share. I’ll scrape and you wash.”

“Come here and open your present,” he urged her.

She sat down and, per usual, painstakingly opened the paper, folding it for future use, as well as saving the lovely gauze ribbon. She lifted up the box top.

“How fabulous.” She took out a leather-wrapped crop, a stag handle exactly the right size, a thong and cracker. “The collars are gold. Oh, initials.”

He read them out loud. “N. L. A.”

She looked over at him. “And?”

“Nancy Langhorne Astor.”

“Gray. It’s sensational. However did you find this?”

“My secret, but she was a neighbor, almost, over there at Mirador. Born in 1879. We missed her by a few years.” He smiled.

Sister ran her hands over the crop. “What a thoughtful gift.”

“It’s a bribe.” He reached for her hand. “I can’t wait for the next Sadie Hawkins Day to be married to you, so I am asking you now. Will you marry me?”