Marcia Muller - The Plague of Thieves Affair

She was passing near the exhibition again when Callie, resplendent in a blue organdy gown with extravagantly puffed sleeves, her blond hair intricately coiled as usual, approached her. “Oh, my dear, it’s such a magnificent collection! The Marie Antoinette... why, I’ve never seen anything quite so breathtaking.”

Her cousin had a tendency to gush when she was excited. Sabina smiled and agreed that the Marie Antoinette was a remarkable historical piece.

Callie drew her aside, into an unoccupied spot near one of the pedestal-displayed sculptures. “I really do wish you’d limit your professional activities to this type of endeavor, Sabina. It’s much more befitting a lady, even a lady detective, and considerably less dangerous.”

“So you’ve said before.”

“Yes, and perhaps one day you’ll heed my words.”

“Perhaps.”

“You certainly won’t have any trouble in these genteel surroundings, I’m sure of that.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Of course I am. Oh... I see Hugh gesturing this way, I think he wants me to meet someone. We’ll talk again later.” Callie patted her arm and flounced away.

Sabina had known her since her childhood in Chicago, and their friendship had blossomed again after she discovered that Callie, too, had moved to San Francisco. Her cousin had married Hugh French, a protégé of her banker father, in a lavish wedding that had cost the princely sum of fifty thousand dollars, and Hugh had in turn built himself a considerable fortune in stock market speculation; they had been Sabina’s entry into the sphere of the city’s elite, which had led to more than one discreet job for Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services.

But Callie constantly fretted over the hazards of detective work, and longed to see Sabina “settle down” to home, hearth, and motherhood. An inveterate matchmaker, she had been instrumental in promoting Sabina’s brief liaison with Carson Montgomery. She approved of John as a potential mate, too, though warily because of his work and because of what happened to Stephen. She would be ecstatic to know that her cousin was considering even a mild dalliance with her business partner, which was why Sabina had no intention of confiding in her.

She made her way over to the food buffet. If one could call cheese, crackers, nuts, skewered pieces of fruit, and a variety of canapés food. On impulse she sampled one of the canapés.

Wrong choice. Olive and anchovy paste. Blah!

A man whose large corporation strained the buttons of his lacy white shirt stepped past her and stood studying the offerings. This fellow has never missed a meal, she thought — words her late mother had been prone to utter in public in embarrassingly loud tones. And every one of those meals seemed to have expanded his stomach while leaving the rest of him more or less normal size. Then she chided herself for being unkind. He didn’t partake of any of the food, possibly because none of it appealed to him or perhaps because he was on a diet.

He caught Sabina’s eye, smiled, and chose to compliment the table. “A sumptuous buffet, is it not?”

“Very nice.”

The corpulent man persisted. “Allow me to introduce myself. Thaddeus Bakker, of the Sacramento Bakkers. Quite a prominent family, if I do say so myself. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

“Of course,” she said politely, although she had not.

“May I ask your name?”

“Sabina Carpenter.”

“A pleasure, Miss Carpenter. Or is it missus?”

“Missus.” She didn’t add that she was a widow.

“Ah. A most excellent exhibit, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes. Are you a connoisseur, Mr. Bakker?”

“Of antique handbags and reticules?” The idea seemed to amuse him. “No, no, merely an art lover and a student of history in all its forms. And you, Mrs. Carpenter? A connoisseur?”

“You might say that, yes.”

The lack of encouragement in her voice for further dialogue wasn’t lost on him. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll have another look at the exhibit.” He moved away ponderously toward the display table.

One of the clerks, Martin Holloway, a small man with delicate features and taffy-colored hair, appeared with a plate of creamy cheese wedges — French Brie, evidently. He directed a brief and somewhat harried smile at Sabina before hurrying off. One of the guests, a man with a tortoiseshell pince-nez, stepped out to squint through its lens at the Brie wedges as if he found them suspect. “Harrumph!” he exclaimed three times in succession, as though something were lodged in his throat. One of the olive and anchovy canapés, perhaps, Sabina thought wryly. The portion of the one she’d eaten had not gone down well.

She started back to her observation point near the gallery entrance, only to be approached again by Callie. The velvet-cushioned settee there was unoccupied; she perched on it, not because she was tired but as a respite from the jostling crowd. The large number of bodies and the gallery’s steam heat made the atmosphere close. Every time the door opened and someone entered or exited, there were welcome breaths of cold night air.

Her day had been an uneventful one. She’d heard nothing from Madame Louella or Slewfoot, nor had she had any sort of response from Charles Percival Fairchild III, alias Sherlock Holmes. Not that she’d expected or even hoped for a quick response to her personals ad; it might take days, and she might never receive any communication at all. Likely she would hear from an impatient Roland W. Fairchild again before she had any news of his elusive relative.

Andrew Rayburn appeared in front of her. Here in his gallery he seemed less fussy and more cheerful; the large turnout obviously pleased him, despite the fact that no one was buying any of the expensive art works on display. “All seems to be going quite well, Mrs. Carpenter. Quite well indeed. You’ve seen nothing, ah, out of the ordinary, I trust?”

“Nothing whatsoever.”

“Splendid.” He rubbed his hands together. “Splendid,” he said again, and vanished among the guests.

Sabina stifled a yawn. Nothing out of the ordinary, nor would there be, she felt sure, the rest of this evening or either of those to follow.

The door opened and she looked up to see a tall, spare gentleman with a long mane of gray hair and a flowing beard to match, dressed in evening clothes and top hat and carrying a blackthorn walking stick. Her first impression was that he resembled photographs she’d seen of Southern military officers. But that walking stick didn’t fit the image. In fact it seemed familiar—

Abruptly she stood as the newcomer turned toward her. Half hidden in the whiskers was a thin, hawklike nose and a pair of piercing eyes that regarded her alertly and with a hint of amusement. He bowed and said, “Good evening, my dear Mrs. Carpenter.”

Nothing out of the ordinary? Days before I had any news of Charles the Third, if at all? How wrong I was! For there he stands, popped up like a bad penny and wearing one of his silly disguises.

“My apologies for the tardiness of my arrival,” he said in his perfect imitation of a British accent. “I was unavoidably detained.”

“Tardiness?”

“I trust, given the atmosphere of pleasant camaraderie in the room, there has been neither incident nor suspicious activity.”

“No, there hasn’t, but...”

He peered keenly at her. “I daresay you seem surprised to see me, dear lady. Surely you knew I would come tonight in answer to your summons.”

“Summons? You mean the personals ad in the newspapers? I hoped you’d respond, yes, but... here, tonight?”

“Indubitably. I peruse the newspapers daily, as a private inquiry agent of stature must and as you correctly intuited I would.”