“He said you were always smart. Plus he didn’t know who you would tell. He told me he bore you no personal animus, it was strictly business, and he felt he had to get rid of you fast.”
“Lucky for me, Gray rode in the back with me and the hounds turned back. If it weren’t for Betty, Tootie, and Weevil, he would have succeeded.”
“Sister, the odds were against you, but who is to say?” Ben smiled at her. “Over time the details of names, perhaps hidden contacts, will leach out, but you have the big picture. And of course, Carter believed the rarity of sidesaddle and Florence’s image would drive up the prices for those special paintings, which it did. Which isn’t to say the value of the works featuring other women were low. Far from it.”
“You know, Ben, Munnings never spoke of Florence but I think he was haunted by her.” Sister then changed the subject. “Would anyone like tea or coffee or something stronger? I should have asked before we sat down.”
All demurred.
Walter shook his head slightly. “Sister, we both lose our bet. Both wrong. You thought the thieves would be part of the show world and I thought they’d be part of the art world, dealers, museums. Well, we saved money.”
She laughed. “That’s one way to look at it.”
CHAPTER 38
March 16, 2020 Monday
Still cool, the rain had stopped, clouds scattered. Golly reposed in her bed as did the two dogs, while Sister cracked eggs into a mixing bowl. This morning, rain free, called for her famous omelet as well as bacon. As she was whisking eggs with a little milk in the bowl, Gray walked in.
“Coffee this morning or tea?” he asked.
“Tea, Irish Breakfast. It’s in the green tin.”
They focused on their respective chores, then Gray said, “St. Patrick’s Day parade canceled. Happened days ago but no time to take notice and now St. Patrick’s Day is almost upon us.”
“We can wear green tomorrow.”
“Yes, we can.” He smiled then trotted upstairs to the bedroom to his closet, where he pulled out a long thin box, beautifully wrapped in hunt-club colors, dark green with a gold ribbon.
He came back down, placed the box on the table.
“That’s pretty.”
“How about you open it after breakfast.”
“Aha. The wrapping is green. Is it an early St. Patrick’s Day gift?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
They ate those fluffy omelets, biscuits with Irish butter.
While the dogs would prefer meat to omelets, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t beg. Golly, on the other hand, waited for bacon. She knew she’d get a piece and each dog also got a piece of bacon, for Sister had made a lot of it.
After polishing off the last piece of bacon…Gray nabbed it…Sister carried the plates to the sink.
“I’ll do the dishes,” Gray volunteered.
“We can share. I’ll scrape and you wash.”
“Come here and open your present,” he urged her.
She sat down and, per usual, painstakingly opened the paper, folding it for future use, as well as saving the lovely gauze ribbon. She lifted up the box top.
“How fabulous.” She took out a leather-wrapped crop, a stag handle exactly the right size, a thong and cracker. “The collars are gold. Oh, initials.”
He read them out loud. “N. L. A.”
She looked over at him. “And?”
“Nancy Langhorne Astor.”
“Gray. It’s sensational. However did you find this?”
“My secret, but she was a neighbor, almost, over there at Mirador. Born in 1879. We missed her by a few years.” He smiled.
Sister ran her hands over the crop. “What a thoughtful gift.”
“It’s a bribe.” He reached for her hand. “I can’t wait for the next Sadie Hawkins Day to be married to you, so I am asking you now. Will you marry me?”
She held his hand, leaned over to kiss him. “You are the kindest, smartest, handsomest of men. I will marry you and hope I make it to one hundred.”
He stood up, walked behind her to wrap his arms around her. “Thank God we weren’t killed. Made me think how much I love you. I don’t know why I didn’t ask before. It seemed unnecessary, but after almost being murdered, I want you as my wife.”
“At least you know what you’re getting into.” She laughed then quietly said, “We were lucky Saturday. Very lucky.”
“Given this virus, I have no idea when we can have a ceremony but I would like something small, something so Aunt Daniella can come as well as our best friends, celebrate with people we love. We’ve both been around long enough to know, well, a lot.”
She stood up, faced him, hugged him, and put her cheek next to his. “The until-death-do-us-part part is closer.”
He hugged her more tightly. “One can die at any age. But now we truly know it, so I say let’s make the most of every minute. Oh, I have one more present.”
“You’re spoiling me.”
“Men are supposed to spoil women. Once the weather permits, the drive out to the paved road will be lined with pink and white alternating dogwoods. One pink. One white. You love color. So there.”
“I’ll have to think of something for you. Those are two extraordinary presents.”
“You’re my present.” He kissed her again, then said, “Strange, isn’t it, that we need death to teach us about life.”
“I’ve never felt so alive or so young.” She kissed him again, marveling at how things change in the blinking of an eye.
You never know.
AFTERWORD
The paintings herein stolen are not owned by my fictional characters. I claimed a fiction writer’s liberty.
Perhaps you’ll be motivated to seek the works out or look at as many Munnings’s paintings as you can. He was one of England’s greatest painters.
We are currently in the midst of a flowering of equine art in the United States. Art, like hemlines, goes in and out of fashion. Equine art and the requisite good draftsmanship are out of fashion. A regiment of gifted artists can barely scrape out a living, with few exceptions. My prayer is this changes and my fellow country people will soon appreciate these remarkable artists.
This novel was written in real time. I thought, fool that I am, well, this will be fun, as I’ll be perfect on the weather, which is important for the Sister Janes. Halfway through, clear about plot, bam, the coronavirus knocked me sideways, as such a global phenomenon will affect my characters. How could I ignore it? So I did the only thing possible. I took it day by day, changed things, and implored the gods for help for all.
May you be well.
We’ll get through this.
Up and over,
Rita Mae
Dear Reader,
I wish for you incendiary passion, whatever it may be. Otherwise you will slide into the abyss of middle-class tedium. Even if you are poor as a church mouse, and I have been, you live a life of inner richness.
Allow me to acknowledge your life. As to your passions, your laughter, your loves: Do it now. You’ll be dead a long time.