They steered clear of Annie’s houseguest for the remainder of their supper and drove to Grey Gables after dessert, which for him was chocolate cake. Annie ordered a more sensible raspberry sorbet. Her plan was for him to pick up a canvas for the auction in New York, which Stella had arranged. Stella’s cousin, who ran the auction, had showcased other Betsy Originals with good success, and this one would benefit the animal shelter.
“It’s a quick business trip,” he said after parking the car. It was dark as they walked toward Grey Gables; only a handful of stars winked over the house. “I’ll take the red-eye tonight and be back late tomorrow. I’ll drop the canvas off at the gallery for you.”
“Thanks, Ian. The last one netted almost $3,000. I can hardly believe it! Gram wouldn’t believe it either. But I think she’d be pleased to know her work is benefitting the community.” Annie turned the key in the lock. “Miss Boots has deserted me. She’s usually here with the welcome mat out,” she said. “She doesn’t like prowling around after dark like a common Tom. But she’s been acting a little weird since the advent of Blackie.”
Ian followed Annie inside and shut the door. “Blackie?”
“One of the abandoned kittens Mary Beth found. It’s Tara’s kitten actually. She treats it like a princess and keeps it in her room when we’re away.”
Her room. Was Annie carrying hospitality a bit too far? Was she setting herself up for disappointment? She had no good reason for mistrusting Tara, but something about her just didn’t ring true.
Grey Gables lay in silence. Apparently Tara Frasier, who’d been gone all day, had still not returned. At the worried look on Annie’s face, Ian felt quick vexation. The girl hardly expressed appropriate behavior toward a generous hostess.
“Come on up,” Annie said. “The 24 x 36s are on the shelf in the attic. I wrote ‘Country Meadow Fantasy’ on top so it would be easy to identify for you. It’ll just take a minute.”
Ian switched on the light and guided Annie gently by the elbow as they climbed the stairs. The skirt of her blue dress swished softly as she moved, and Ian felt breathlessness not related to stair climbing.
“There you are!” Annie called as she opened the attic door. Boots leaped out, preened around Annie’s legs, and stood looking at her with a disdainful expression.
“How’d you get in there?” She scooped Boots up in her arms and handed her over to Ian. “Talk to her while I get the picture.” Ian sat down in the small settee in the hallway and stroked the cat’s fur.
Suddenly he saw a tiny black shadow dart out of the bedroom adjacent to the settee—the girl’s room. The door had been left partially open and the kitten had escaped. Boots hopped off his lap and gave chase. “Blackie’s broken out and the National Guard’s going after him!” he called to Annie, amused and hoping Boots’s intentions were benign.
When Annie didn’t respond, he returned to the attic doorway and saw her scrambling among boxes, pushing crates aside. She paused, her hand on the rungs of the ladder from which she’d just descended. She stared up at the shelves.
“Problem?” he asked, stepping inside. One look at her stricken face, and he was no longer amused by animal antics. “What is it?” he rasped.
“They’re gone—the four pictures I put on the top shelf!” She’d turned as white as his Sunday shirt, and her eyes were filled with shock and hurt. She stared at him, her lower lip quivering. “Gram’s beautiful needlework. It’s gone!”
He took her in his arms, felt her trembling against him, and his heart seemed to crack. “Are—are you sure?” he whispered. And he felt her nodding her head against his chest.
In a few seconds she stepped back and drew her breath in sharply. She crossed her arms in front of her. “I’m—I’m sorry. It’s just that I feel so—”
She didn’t finish the sentence, but Ian knew precisely what she meant. She had been violated. Someone had taken something precious to her.
“They were here yesterday morning. I know it,” she wailed. “And now they’re simply gone.” She dropped down on a large trunk. Ian stood above her, placing his hands on her shaking shoulders.
The attic was tidy—for an attic. He knew Annie had put in a lot of hours going through Elizabeth Holden’s treasures. Had someone unknown broken in and stolen the canvases? The attic’s windows were shut tight as a drum with no sign of entry. In his heart he knew the thief had to be someone who came and went at Grey Gables—someone who knew the canvases were there and knew of their value. Someone like Tara Frasier.