Софи Райан - Two Tall Tails

I parked on a side street a block above the art center and hurried down the hill, clutching a container with four cinnamon rolls close to my chest in case it started to pour again. The town was basically laid out like a grid. For the most part, the streets that ran up and down the hill carried on all the way to Wild Rose Bluff at the top. The bluff was the source of most of the stone in the foundations of the beautiful old buildings along the waterfront.

Mags was waiting by the back door of the old high school. “Hi,” she said.

I knew right away something was off. The smile she gave me seemed just a little forced. The long blue ombré scarf around her neck was lopsided, one end hanging much lower than the other. And her short blond curls were standing on end as though she’d run her hands through them more than once.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. Then she shook her head and swiped one hand over the back of her neck. “No, it isn’t. Ruby’s going to join us. Is it all right if I wait until she gets here to explain?”

“Of course,” I said. I wiped my feet on the mat.

Maggie took a slow, deep breath and blew it out softly. Then she smiled at me, a much warmer smile than the first one she’d given me, and we started up the stairs. “So how was your morning?” she asked. “Weren’t the books for Reading Buddies supposed to be here today?”

“They were delivered just before we opened. Abigail and I spent the morning sorting everything.”

Reading Buddies was a program that paired kindergarteners and first graders with fourth and fifth grade students to help improve the little ones’ reading skills. It was one of the first programs I’d put in place when I’d arrived at the library. We’d just received a grant to buy enough books so that every child would have one to keep—both the beginning readers and their would-be teachers.

“Did you know Mary could do calligraphy?” I asked.

Maggie shook her head. “I didn’t, but she can do so many other things it doesn’t exactly surprise me.”

Mary was Mary Lowe, who worked for me at the library. She looked like a greeting card version of a grandmother—with fluffy white hair, kind eyes and a collection of seasonal cardigans. She was also the long-running state kickboxing champion for her age and often took the stage on amateur night at a local club that featured exotic dancing.

I’d learned that Mary could do calligraphy just that morning when she’d offered to add each child’s name inside their book. At this point I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn she could solve complex calculus problems and ride a unicycle.

I could smell the pizza as soon as we got to the top of the stairs on the third floor. “What kind of pizza did you make?” I asked as I followed my nose—and Maggie—down the hall to her studio. “Not that it makes any difference. I’m just curious.”

“Chicken and roasted red pepper.” She fished her keys out of the pocket of her jeans and unlocked the door, crossing the room to check the toaster oven where the pizza was heating. I set the cinnamon rolls on the counter near the sink and shrugged off my raincoat, draping it over one of the stools around the center workspace in the bright studio. The fact that Maggie hadn’t immediately asked what was in the container was just one more indication of how preoccupied she was.

I looked around the room for a clue about what Maggie was working on. Since she’d said she wanted to wait for Ruby before she explained what was troubling her, I found myself wondering if it could be work related. An oversized pad of newsprint was attached to her easel with binder clips. I walked over to get a better look at the rough pencil sketch on the paper. It looked like a map of Mayville Heights and the surrounding area.

Maggie was primarily a collage artist these days, and she often used her own photos in her pieces. But she’d also done some large installation pieces, including a locker room scene for the town’s Winterfest celebration a couple of years before to show off the sports history in this part of the state. It had featured a life-sized version of former NHL star Eddie Sweeney, aka Crazy Eddie. The full-sized faux Eddie had led to our friend Roma meeting the full-sized, real Eddie and romance had followed.

“What are you working on, Mags?” I asked. I could make out the water and the Riverwalk in her drawing.

Maggie set down the jug of apple cider she was pouring for us and joined me by the easel. “I’m roughing out an idea for a collage map of the hiking trails in this area. It’s for the new Tourism Coalition.”

“That’s the Riverwalk, isn’t it?” I pointed to the bottom of the paper.

She nodded. “Uh-huh. And that’s the road that runs behind Wisteria Hill.”

Wisteria Hill was the former Henderson family homestead. Roma owned the property now.

Maggie pointed to the top section of the sketch. “And that’s Turtle Lake.”

“I like it,” I said.

She smiled, the first truly warm smile since I’d arrived. “Thanks. The main problem is coming up with something that has enough visual interest to be a large poster—the kind of thing that can be hung in tourist information centers, town halls, places like the library—but not so detailed that it’s useless when it gets reproduced brochure size to hand out to tourists.”

I glanced over at Maggie’s laptop on the counter. “Have you taken any photos yet?”

“Some,” she said. “And I have some older ones from Ruby that belonged to her grandfather that I really want to use. Those I need to scan.”

Behind us the toaster oven beeped and Maggie went to get our pizza. She was just putting it on the plates, three pieces of deep blue Fiestaware, when Ruby arrived. She was wearing gray leggings, a green and white long-sleeved T-shirt and a jean jacket with faux zebra collar and cuffs—her own creation, I was guessing. Her hair, with vibrant electric blue streaks, was pulled into a tight knot on the top of her head, which showed off her long neck. “Hi, Kathleen,” she said, smiling at me. The smile seemed a little forced.

Like Maggie, Ruby was a full-time artist. Her pop art paintings, done in bold acrylics as vivid as her hair, were finding fans outside of the Midwest and there was talk of a show in Chicago in the fall.

The three of us sat at the worktable with our pizza and cider. Ruby looked over at Maggie. “You didn’t tell her yet?”

Maggie shook her head. “No, I waited for you.”

“What’s going on?” I said.

Ruby made a face. “Some stuff was stolen from the store,” she said flatly.

The store was the artists’ co-op store. It was downtown on Main Street, across from the Riverwalk, and the location made it a popular spot with tourists. Maggie and Ruby worked there, as did all the other artists who were part of the co-op. Ruby was the current president of the board that ran the co-op and the shop.

I frowned at her now. “What was taken?” During the time that I’d lived in Mayville Heights, there had never been a theft at the artists’ store as far as I knew.

Maggie sighed and set down her fork. “Some woven placemats and two linen stitch scarves, the ones Ella made. They’ve been popular with tourists.”

“Do the police have any leads?”

Maggie and Ruby exchanged a look.

“You did call the police, didn’t you?” I asked, my eyes darting between them.

Maggie raked a hand through her hair. “No, we didn’t. And we don’t want to. “

“It’s complicated,” Ruby added.

My appetite suddenly disappeared, and it felt as though my stomach were trying to tie itself into a knot. I could only think of one reason for Maggie and Ruby to be so reluctant to call the police—they had to believe they knew who the thief was. I looked at Maggie without speaking. She played with her fork for a moment before her green eyes met mine.