Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Fifty-Eight
We walked quickly around the house
and located a door where no servant had been posted. Inside, we passed through
a marble-floored vestibule into a breakfast room crowded with serving tables.
Shep nonchalantly helped himself to an olive from one of the large glass
dishes, and then we moved on toward the main hall where many of the guests had
gathered to admire the wedding gifts.
“Now, don’t swipe any of the
silver,” Shep said. “I think that fellow over by the stairway is a private
detective.”
“He seems to be looking at us
with a suspicious gleam in his eyes,” I said. “I hope we don’t get tossed out
of here in a dramatic scene.”
“We’ll be all right as long as
Mrs. Furstenberg doesn’t see us before the ceremony.”
“Do you suppose Mr. Furstenberg
could be here, Shep?”
“Not likely. It’s my guess that
fellow will never be seen again.”
“Dad doesn’t share your opinion.”
“I know,” Shep admitted. “We’ll
keep watch for him, but it would just be a lucky break if it turns out he’s
here.”
Mingling with the guests, we
ambled around a long table where the wedding gifts were displayed. The future
Mr. and Mrs. Atwood had made quite a haul. There were dishes of solid silver,
crystal bowls, candlesticks, jade ornaments, tea sets and gold-plated serving
platters.
“Nothing trashy here,” muttered
Shep.
“I’ve never seen such an elegant
display. Do you suppose that picture is one of the gifts?”
I pointed to an oil painting that
stood on an easel not far from the table. So many guests had gathered around
the picture that I could not see it distinctly.
At my elbow, a woman in rustling
silk said to a companion: “My dear, a genuine Van Gogh! It must have cost a
small fortune!”
When the other guests had moved
aside, Shep and I walked closer to the easel. I’m no expert on art forgery, but
it looked like a genuine Van Gogh to me. However, it was not the authenticity
of the painting which interested me. It was the subject matter.
“Will you look at that!” I
whispered to Shep.
“What about it?”
“Don’t you notice anything
significant?”
“Can’t say I do. It’s just a nice
picture of a drawbridge.”
“That’s just the point, Shep! A
drawbridge!”
Shep looked at the painting
again, more carefully this time.
“It looks a lot like the bridge
which was built over the river,” he observed. “You think this picture is a copy
of it?”
“Shep, your knowledge of art is a
disgrace to journalism. This Van Gogh was painted ages ago and is priceless.
Don’t you see, the drawbridge has to be a copy of the picture?”
“Your theory sounds reasonable,”
Shep admitted. “I wonder who gave the painting to the bride? There’s no name
attached.”
“Can’t you guess why?”
“I never was good at kid games.”
“It’s clear as crystal,” I
whispered. “This estate with the drawbridge was built by Clarence Furstenberg.
He must have been familiar with the Van Gogh painting and had the real bridge
modeled after the picture. For that matter, the painting may have been in his
possession—”
“Then you think the picture was
presented to Cybil Furstenberg by her father?”
“Yes, I do. Only a person very
close to the bride would have given such a gift.”
Shep squinted at the picture
thoughtfully.
“If you’re right, it means that
Clarence Furstenberg’s whereabouts must be known to his family. His
disappearance may not be such a deep mystery to Mamma Furstenberg and daughter
Cybil.”
“It would make a grand story if
only we could learn what became of him.”
“Sure. Front page stuff.”
“If Mrs. Furstenberg would just
answer our questions about this drawbridge painting—”
“I’m afraid Mamma Furstenberg isn’t going to break down and tell all,” Shep said. “But buckle on your steel armor, old girl, because here she comes now!”
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