Софи Райан - A Whisker Оf Trouble

“Well, excuse me for hoping you’re right,” Ethan said.

Mr. P. nodded and started up the stairs. Elvis was on his way down. The old man stopped for a moment to stroke the top of the cat’s head. Elvis made a soft murp and came purposefully down the rest of the steps. He eyed Ethan through narrowed green eyes, walked around us in a wide curve and headed for the workroom.

“Ethan, do you have Mr. Logan’s contact information?” I asked. I’d tried the number on the business card Nick had given me. All I’d gotten was voice mail.

He made a face. “I’m going to sound like the stereotypical absentminded professor, but I don’t. He contacted me. After I told Ronan about the phone call, he took care of it after that.” He smiled. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I said. “The police are looking into the fake wine angle as far as Mr. Quinn’s death is concerned.”

“Well, I can tell you that Logan is a reputable dealer. At least that’s what Quinn said.”

The phone rang over at the cash desk and I saw Charlotte head over to answer it.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” Ethan said. “Will you let me know what Caulfield says about the train set?”

I nodded. “I will.”

“And would it be a problem if the wine collection stays where it is for now?” he asked. “I moved everything into the kitchen so Quinn could go through the bottles.”

I smiled. “We can work around them for now, but it would be nice to have the space for the sale weekend.”

He pulled his keys out of his pocket. “I’ll talk to Detective Andrews. If the collection is evidence of . . . something, maybe she’ll want to take all of it to the police station. Otherwise I’ll just have to find a way to dispose of it.” He sighed softly.

“Thanks,” I said.

Ethan headed out and Elvis came back from wherever he’d gone. He rubbed against my leg and I bent down and picked him up and went upstairs to my office. Mr. P. was just turning off the printer/copier.

I picked up the original photo that he’d just copied and studied it. Elvis poked his head around to have a look as well.

“We’re not wrong,” Alfred said.

“No, I don’t think you are,” I said slowly.

Elvis meowed his agreement. “It’s unanimous,” I said. “Ethan said Ronan Quinn told him your suspect is a reputable wine broker.”

Mr. P. hiked his pants up a little higher under his armpits. “Reputable is as reputable does,” he said, raising an eyebrow at me.

Chapter 15

I walked back downstairs with Mr. P. “Sarah, what exactly do you know about Ronan Quinn?” he asked.

“Well, he was extremely knowledgeable about wine. He had the designation of Maître Sommelier from the Union de la Sommellerie Française. And he’d been an expert witness in several court cases.”

“I don’t suppose Nicolas has said anything to you about the man?”

“Where are you going with this?” I asked, leaning back and studying him. He might have looked like an unassuming little old man, but there was a sharp intellect underneath his mild expression.

“I’ve just been thinking, what exactly do we know about Mr. Quinn’s character?”

“Are you asking if he was like Caesar’s wife?” I teased.

His eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “Above reproach?” he said. “Yes. I guess that is what I mean.”

“You’re thinking maybe he wasn’t?” We were stopped in the middle of the store.

Mr. P. looked thoughtful. “I’m not exactly sure, my dear,” he said. “So if this sounds off-the-wall, I won’t be offended by you pointing it out.”

“I somehow doubt anything you’re going to say will be off-the-wall,” I said. For the most part Alfred could be counted on to be the voice of reason, especially when Rose got her mind set on something. “What are you thinking?”

“We know that Mr. Quinn was also a broker, a dealer who sold wine to collectors.”

“Yes.”

“And we know that he was investigating the con artists who had defrauded Edison Hall and other people.”

I nodded.

Mr. P. cocked his head to one side. He reminded me of an inquisitive baby bird. “What if everyone is wrong about Mr. Quinn?”

I rubbed the space between my eyes. I was beginning to get a headache from trying to follow Mr. P.’s reasoning. “What do you mean by wrong?”

“Well, not to speak ill of the dead, but what if he got involved in the fraud investigation to protect himself? Do you see where I’m going?”

I reached over and straightened the pillows on the nearby tub chair. “I do,” I said. “You think that maybe Quinn could have been part of the original con. That maybe he was involved in some way with selling those fake bottles of wine.”

Mr. P. nodded. “We’ve all been assuming he was completely aboveboard.” He held up one veined, wrinkled hand. “And maybe he was.”

“But maybe he wasn’t,” I finished. I pointed to the photo Alfred was still holding. “So how does Thorne Logan tie in to this? You do have a photo of him talking to that woman who seemed to be promoting exactly the kind of thing Edison ended up losing his money in.”

“What if Mr. Logan is the one in the white hat?” Mr. P. asked. “What if he was talking to that woman because he was trying to get more information about the con? What if he wasn’t part of it at all?” He held up the photo. “What if he was trying to catch the people who were? He was at Feast in the Field twice and he tried to buy a bottle from Edison Hall’s collection. We’re just assuming he’s part of the con. That doesn’t mean he is.”

It didn’t seem like a good time to point out that I hadn’t assumed anything. “I don’t know,” I finally said.

It was far-fetched. But there was also a vein of logic that ran through the old man’s reasoning. I pulled a hand over the back of my neck. The headache had crept up over the top of my scalp. “I can’t tell you you’re wrong.”

“I think it’s worth doing a little more digging into Mr. Quinn’s background,” Mr. P. said.

I let out a slow breath. “I think it is.”

He smiled. “I’ll let you know what I find out.” He headed for the sunporch, moving quickly like a man with a purpose, which in fact he was.

Charlotte walked over to me. She held out a blue message slip. “Someone from Seaward Properties called. They want some measurements off the chandelier from Doran’s.”

She was referring to the chandelier that Mac and I had brought into the shop. It had once been the focal point of the Portland department store. I’d bought it back in the fall along with several mannequins and a few other things. It had almost been sold twice.

I held up my crossed fingers. “Maybe third time’s the charm.”

“Oh, I hope so,” she said. “I hate to think of that beautiful old piece ending up out of the state or even worse.”

“Not going to happen,” I said. “I think Mac’s made the sale, but if we can’t find a home for that light here in town, I’ll twist Sam’s arm until he lets me hang it down at The Black Bear.”

Charlotte laughed. “I think a chandelier is just what that place needs.”

I went up to my office and called the Seaward office. We set up a time for someone to come take some measurements.

Elvis had come back upstairs while I was on the phone, settling himself on my desk directly in front of the phone so that when I went to hang up I had to reach around him to do it.

“Mrr?” he said in what seemed—at least to me—to be an inquiring tone.

“If this newest development proposal actually goes ahead”—I held up my crossed fingers—“we may finally have a home for that big brass chandelier.”