The Missing Masterpiece

by JeanneM Dams

Overview

Quelle horreur! A French holiday leads to disaster for American Anglophile Dorothy Martin in this engaging new cozy mystery.

When Dorothy Martin goes to France – alone because Alan is stuck back home in Sherebury with a broken ankle – she worries about her ability to get along in a language she barely speaks, and in a country she hasn’t seen for over fifty years. But by the time Alan joins her a week later, Dorothy has found herself embroiled in one mystery after another: a woman drowning in quicksand; a man suffering a near-fatal fall in the abbey at Mont Saint Michel; and a missing American archaeologist – all seemingly connected to a monk named Abelard who has been dead for almost nine hundred years.

It isn’t until another body is discovered that Dorothy’s ability to ‘think outside the box’ finally unravels the threads of a despicable scheme.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781847518255
Publisher:	Severn House Publishers
Publication date:	08/01/2018
Series:	A Dorothy Martin Mystery , #19
Edition description:	Reprint
Pages:	224
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.60(d)

Read an Excerpt

The Missing Masterpiece

A Dorothy Martin Mystery

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By Jeanne M. Dams

Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2017 Jeanne M. Dams
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84751-825-5

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CHAPTER 1

I ignored the phone. My mobile was on the coffee table, and with two cats in my lap, not easy to reach. Everyone knows, of course, that disturbing a sleeping cat is NOT DONE. The cats will forcibly remind anyone of that who attempts this gross breach of manners.

Alan knows the rules. He put down his book, got up, and picked up my phone just as it stopped warbling. 'Gilly,' he said, looking at the display, and handed it to me.

I called back. 'Sorry, love, I couldn't make it to the phone in time. What's up?'

'Oh, Dorothy, the most wonderful thing!' I held the phone a little farther from my ear while she went on. 'You'd never guess!'

'You've sold one of the big pieces. Diana, maybe?' Gillian was a young sculptor whose fame was spreading. In defiance of current trends in art, she did absolutely beautiful figurative work, and the buying public loved it. She had recently completed a life-size bronze of Diana the huntress, complete with bow and a wreath of oak leaves in her hair.

'Better than that! I'm doing a show in May, and you'd never guess where!'

'I give up.'

'Bayeux! You know, in Normandy?'

'I have a vague idea. I saw the Bayeux tapestry about fifty years ago, but I don't remember much about the town. Is it big enough to make a show there worthwhile?'

'Only about the size of Sherebury, but masses of tourists come to see the tapestry. A new gallery opened about a year ago, and they've had such great success with paintings that they're branching out into sculpture, and oh, Dorothy, they chose me for their first major sculpture show!'

'Shows their good sense. May, you say? That's doesn't give you a lot of time, does it?' I looked at the crackling fire and the dog asleep on the hearth rug. Outside the sky was dark grey, the trees black leafless skeletons. January was being its usual grim, depressing self.

'I have tons of small things ready, and three big ones in the clay. You haven't seen those. There's a gorgeous David, and a really ugly Goliath to go with him, and an Eve. I haven't started work on Adam yet, but I'll have time to do a maquette before the show.'

'Biblical themes? That's new for you, isn't it?'

'Our new bishop preached that really great sermon about the Old Testament – remember? – and got me interested. Gosh, there are enough really great characters there to keep me going for years. Samson and Delilah, Moses, Abraham and Sarah and Isaac – the lot. I know they've all been done before, but not the way I'll do them!'

'You're very brave to take on David. There've been a couple of pretty good takes on him already.'

'I can't compete with Michelangelo. Nobody can. But I've never honestly liked the Donatello or the Bernini. The one's too smooth and effete, and the other's too fussy. No, you wait till you see mine! And that's why I called, actually. Not just to blether on, I mean. What I really wanted was to beg you and Alan to come with me. My French isn't wonderful, and Alan's is terrific. But it's more than that. The people at the gallery speak really good English. But I want someone to – well – just be there for me.'

'Your parents ...' I began.

'They can't come!' It was nearly a wail. Gillian was in her twenties, and a proudly independent young lady, but she adored her parents and remained very close to them. 'Dad's off to Mumbai next week for a year. He'll be a consultant to their security bureau, and Mum's going with him. He's going to be frightfully busy and doesn't think he can get away, even for a little while. He's tried to persuade Mum to come for the opening, but she's not about to let him be without her. She worries about his health.'

'Oh, dear! Nothing serious, I hope?'

'Dad says not. He's just a bit rundown still from that bout of flu last month. That sort of thing always hits him really hard, poor dear. So you see, I really, really need someone to hold my hand, and you're sort of my honorary grandparents, so you will come, won't you?'

Alan, who had heard every word of her excited narrative, reached for the phone. 'Gilly, Alan here. Of course we'll be happy to come with you. I've wanted for years to take Dorothy to France, and Bayeux is a perfect place to begin. A fascinating city in itself, and quite near Mont-Saint-Michel. And then there's Monet's garden at Giverny, and Honfleur, and Rouen ... altogether an embarrassment of riches. We're delighted for you, Gilly. We'll work out travel details when we're nearer to the time, shall we?'

'Yes, but I'm going to call the gallery right this minute and have them book a room for you at the same hotel they've arranged for me. The seventeenth May; put it on your calendar now!'

I smiled at Alan as he put down the phone. 'Gilly's twenty-four going on twelve. She's as excited as a kid at Christmas.'

'She has a right to be. A solo show at her age is a major accomplishment. I hope you don't mind my agreeing without consulting you.'

'Don't be silly. I'm excited, too. I don't remember a thing about France, and it seems silly that we've never been there, when it's so close. We'll have a wonderful time, and the kids will get spoiled to death by Jane. Won't that be nice?' I petted Emmy fondly. She yawned, gave Sam a half-hearted swat, and went back to sleep.

CHAPTER 2

The older I get, the faster time seems to pass. The weeks between mid-January and mid-May seemed endless looking forward, but they passed so quickly we barely had time to make all our arrangements. We'd fly to Paris, and then Gilly would go on to Bayeux, a few days early to get the show set up. After a brief, tantalizing glimpse of Paris for the American who hadn't been there for over fifty years, we'd hire a car and drive to Bayeux.

I was just getting excited about the whole thing when the blow fell. Three weeks before we were to leave, Alan broke his left ankle. It was Watson's fault. Our big, lovable mutt is getting on in years, and has become a bit deaf. Snoring away near the Aga, he didn't hear Alan come into the kitchen until he was quite near. In an excess of doggie enthusiasm, he got to his feet and leaned his considerable bulk against his adored master. Alan, ready to step over the dog, was off-balance. Down he went, one foot sliding under the stove in his effort to avoid Watson. He heard the crack, he said later, as the bone went.

I wasn't home at the time. Gilly had persuaded me that I needed some new clothes for the trip. I was in a fitting room at our small local Marks and Spencer, hoping that the lovely sweater I'd set my heart on would fit me, when my mobile rang. Alan, sensibly, had first called for an ambulance and then phoned our next-door neighbour, Jane Langland, who called me.

I was far more upset than Alan, who took it all calmly enough. 'Not the end of the world, darling,' he told me from his hospital bed. His voice was a little slurred; the pain meds were beginning to take effect. 'It'll heal quickly if I do as they tell me, which I have every intention of doing.'

'It's the end of our trip, though,' I said, trying not to snivel. 'Not that it really matters, as long as you're going to be all right. But Gilly will be so disappointed.'

'There's no reason to disappoint her. You two can go.'

'Oh, no! Not without you! Your French is the reason she wanted us, and I couldn't possibly manage alone.'

'Mmm,' was his only reply as he slid into drugged sleep.

The argument continued when he woke up in the morning, and Gilly joined in on Alan's side. 'The people at the gallery say almost everyone speaks some English, at least, and they'll help if we can't manage.'

'What about Paris? I'd be alone there, and I can't say the idea thrills me.'

'You'll love Paris, dear heart, and it's only for a few days. And I'll join you just as soon as the doctor gives me permission. It won't be long.'

It was Jane, our next-door neighbour, pet-sitter and dear friend, who finally persuaded me, though. 'Non-refundable bookings,' she said. 'Far too late to change. No travel insurance?'

Well, no. We hadn't thought the insurance necessary.

'One flight's not too bad. Fifty pounds or so?'

'About that.'

'All the flights, hotels, trains – a tidy sum to lose.'

It was a valid argument. Alan and I aren't impoverished, but we're not rolling in wealth, either. Dropping a whole bunch of money for nothing isn't in our DNA.

So I went ahead with plans, though dispiritedly. Travel with Alan is fun. Travel alone, not so much.

Really, though, it hadn't been so bad, I mused as I sat in my hotel in Bayeux. Paris was pretty much what I had expected. Noisy, crowded, fascinating. Once Gilly had left, I'd explored the city in my favourite mode, afoot. I'd bought a really good French phrase book before I left Sherebury, along with a detailed map of Paris, and was able to get around reasonably well. My English friends had told me to expect Parisians to be rude, and some of them were, but no more so than the residents of most big cities. It helped that I tried to speak French, even though I did it badly. At least I was making the attempt, and most of the people I dealt with seemed to appreciate that.

It was all a bit exhausting, though, and I looked forward to my nightly phone calls to Alan, so I could carry on a real conversation. I was careful to stress the high points – the Louvre, the market stalls on the Left Bank, the exquisite food – and downplay the annoyances. Once I started talking about Bayeux, though, it was easy to be enthusiastic.

'I can't wait for you to get here! The gallery's wonderful, and the people are really nice. And oh, my, the hotel! Several notches above our usual, Alan. You're going to love it.'

There was a sigh at the other end of the line. 'My dear, I'm afraid I've bad news for you. I can't come tomorrow. The doctor's not so happy about my progress, and wants me to stay off my feet for at least another week.'

'But ... but that means you'll miss the opening, and Bayeux, and ... oh, Alan!'

'I'm just as upset about it as you are, love. I had looked forward to seeing Bayeux again, but the doctor says it would be most unwise for me to travel just now.'

'And what about Mont-Saint-Michel? I've been reading guide books, and it sounds as if it's all hills and steps.'

Another sigh. He tried to hide it, but it came through. 'If my memory serves me, you're quite right. Shall we, as they say, cross that bridge when we come to it?'

Cross it in a wheelchair, I thought but did not say. 'I think I may just come home. Gilly's opening is tomorrow, and I can't leave her in the lurch for that, but then ... oh, Alan, it's no fun without you!'

'You're just tired, darling. And hungry, probably. Have you eaten?'

I bit back a retort. Alan thinks all my problems can be solved by food. 'No. I just got settled in. Gilly has a few loose ends to tie up at the gallery, and then we're going to have dinner somewhere. Probably here in the hotel; it's easiest.'

'Don't do that. Ask the concierge about the best place to eat. And promise me you'll make it a thumping good meal.'

'It'll cost a fortune.'

'Probably. Remember all the French meals I haven't had these past few days, and all the money that's saved us, and blow it all, if you can. Include some excellent wine and drink a toast to me. Promise?'

I promised, reluctantly, and ended the call. Catching a glimpse of my face in the mirror over the dresser, I decided I'd better rearrange it. Gilly would be here soon, and I didn't want to show her how depressed I was.

As I washed my face and applied a little fresh makeup, I thought about when Alan and I had first met Gillian Roberts, a graduate teaching assistant at Sherebury University, embarking on her very first job, intimidated and unsure of herself. We had become embroiled in a series of nasty incidents at the art college, including the death of the department chairman, and had become almost surrogate parents, or grandparents, of young Gilly, who rapidly blossomed into a major talent in the art world. She'd had a solo show in London, but this was her first outside England. She was riding the crest of a wave, and I couldn't pull her down.

When she knocked at the door, I was ready for her.

'Wow! You're looking splendid! That's a stunning hat!'

I thought so, too. The little black-and-gold fantasy was ridiculous, but fun. It always lifted my spirits, which needed it just then. 'I talked to Alan, and he gave me firm orders to take you out to a posh restaurant for a thumping good meal. His very words. I had a little talk with the concierge, and he's booked us in to a place down the street that he assures me is "magnifique!".'

'But I thought we were going to eat here. I'm not dressed for —'

'Put on that gorgeous brocade jacket you bought last month, and change your shoes, and you'll outshine everyone in the place. Hurry. We've fifteen minutes.'

When we were seated at the restaurant, I got Gilly started talking about the show, where the pieces were displayed, how pleasant and considerate the gallery owners were, how she was feeling. 'A little jittery, I guess, but I think it's going to be all right. Yves and Hélène keep telling me the work is "merveilleux", and unless they're just trying to make me feel good ...'

'No. It is marvellous stuff, Gilly. You know it is, and I'll tolerate no false modesty. Now here we are, and we're going to concentrate on the serious business of enjoying superb French cuisine.'

I had had the concierge teach me how to tell the waiter that we had only a little French, and knew only a little about haute cuisine, and wanted him to compose a meal for us. 'Et du vin, bien sûr!' I hoped I got the request for wine right.

'Entendu, madame, mademoiselle. Un repas pour les anges, je vous le promets!' And seeing the blank look on my face, he added, 'Antoine will bring for you a meal fit for the angels in heaven!'

I thanked him and then cast about for another subject to keep Gilly from asking about Alan. 'Have you had time to see the tapestry yet?'

'No, I thought we'd wait and do that when —'

'After your opening, of course. You've been much too busy for sightseeing. You know, I have actually been here once before. Maybe I told you. I was just out of college, I mean university.'

'I do speak some American, you know,' she said, grinning.

That took me off on a tangent. 'I remember once when a woman at passport control in Gatwick asked me if I was visiting England for a vacation – not "on holiday". I must have looked surprised, because she said, "Oh, I'm bilingual." With that perfectly straight face that used to make it impossible for me to tell if an English person meant to be funny. Ah, here's our wine.'

The wine steward explained that this was a little something to go with our first course. At least I think that's what he said; unlike Antoine, he either couldn't speak English or didn't care to. It was only a half-bottle, so I didn't think it was meant for the main course. Nor do I know what it was, except that it was white, and fruity without being sweet, and a perfect match for the seafood dish that was set before us a moment later. I don't know what that was, either, though I recognized scallops and tiny shrimps. Whatever it was, it was divine.

The main course was beef. I could tell that much. It was served in a sauce that was obviously devised by a magician. With it there were little balls of potato, cooked in some ingenious way, and tiny thin French beans, and another vegetable I didn't recognize. The wine steward brought a lordly bottle of something red, tasted it himself (obviously, and correctly, not trusting our palates), decanted it in front of a candle, and finally poured it for us with gestures that turned the simple act into a religious rite. Ginny and I were perilously close to giggling by the time he left us to our enjoyment.

We hardly talked at all during our meal. Course succeeded course. A crisp, tart salad followed the beef, and then a selection of gorgeous fruits and a platter of assorted cheeses, along with the dessert course which was something creamy and frothy and sweet. A different wine had accompanied each course, the dessert one something that tasted of apricots and summer sunshine. I looked with real regret at the cheese which was waiting forlornly on the table; it looked wonderful, but there was no way I could eat another bite of anything.

'I may never eat again,' said Gilly, with a sigh, 'but oh, it was worth it. I should warn you I may run off with Alan, if he makes a habit of providing meals like this. When is he getting here tomorrow?'

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Missing Masterpiece by Jeanne M. Dams. Copyright © 2017 Jeanne M. Dams. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
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