The Mysteries of Max: Books 25-27

Chapter 20

The doorbell rang and since Marge had stepped out to visit their daughter next door, and Vesta hadn’t arrived home yet, Tex opened the door. He found two women on the doorstep, one tall, one short, who were beaming at him.

“Dr. Poole?” asked the short one. “Doctor Tex Poole?”

“Yes,” he said cautiously. Patients sometimes had a tendency to show up unannounced at the house, drop their pants and show him a suspicious spot on their buttocks. It had already caused some hilarity amongst the neighbors, and not a small measure of embarrassment for Tex himself.

The tallest of the twosome stuck out a hand and showed him a card. “My name is Iris Johnson. And this is my sister Mira. We’re insurance brokers. We specialize in art. Are you an art collector, Dr. Poole?”

“Well, yes, I am,” he said.

“May we come in for a moment? Many art collectors neglect to insure their precious collections until it is too late.”

“What my esteemed colleague means to say is that a private home is often less than ideal for storing valuable works of art,” explained Mira Johnson.

“A fire, a burglary, a water leak… They can all have devastating effects on your collection. And that’s where we come in.”

“Johnson and Johnson will insure your collection at a reasonable price.”

“A very reasonable price.”

“So you don’t have to lose sleep over any contingency that could occur.”

It all sounded very plausible to Tex, and he found himself nodding along as the two insurance brokers explained to him the ins and outs of their unique offer.

“Come in,” he said. “I hadn’t really thought of insurance, but you’re absolutely right.”

“Thank you, Dr. Poole,” said Mira as they accepted his invitation and entered the house.

And as they stepped into the living room, Iris caught sight of Big Gnome #21 and said, “Ah!”

“A-ha!” said her sister and colleague.

“Wonderful.”

“Beautiful.”

“Stunning.”

“But is it insured?”

“Um, no, actually it’s not,” said Tex, a little sheepishly. Both women tsk-tsked freely, and took a seat on the sofa, offering a great view of the painting of the grinning gnome.

“First we need to ascertain its value,” said Miss Johnson. “Isn’t that right, Iris?”

“Absolutely right, Mira.”

“Do you have any idea of its value, Dr. Poole?”

“Actually, I do. Apart from the emotional value, which is considerable—”

“Obviously.”

“The artist is a man named Metzgall. Jerome Metzgall.”

“Ah, the famous Jerome Metzgall,” said Iris, nodding like one who knows.

“You’ve heard of him?” asked Tex, well pleased. It was the first time anyone acknowledged what he’d known all along: that he’d made the right choice when he’d sunk a large chunk of his savings into the painting.

“Oh, of course. In our line of work it’s important to be well informed,” said Mira.

“How much did you pay for it?” asked Iris, taking a more direct approach.

Tex licked his lips, then darted a quick look in the direction of the living room door. The price he’d paid was a sore point between himself and his wife. Marge hadn’t approved of the purchase, and had told him he might as well have put their money on fire. “I bought it direct from the artist. A real bargain.” He cut another glance in the direction of the door, then lowered his voice. “He took twenty-five thousand for it. And when you know that some of Metzgall’s paintings now go for a hundred thousand on the specialized sites…” He let his words trail off, but raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

Mira and Iris Johnson needed to hear no more.

“A real bargain, Dr. Poole,” said Iris. “A genuine Metzgall for that price? You are a very lucky man indeed.”

“Very lucky,” said her sister, nodding seriously.

They both openly admired the painting, and it warmed Tex’s heart to such an extent, after the distinct froideur with which his own family had welcomed his purchase, that he actually got up and asked if he could offer the ladies coffee or tea.

They both declined, however, and he sat down again.

“Now imagine a flood, Dr. Poole,” said Iris.

“Or a house fire,” suggested Mira, just throwing it out there.

“Or, God forbid, a burglary.”

“Your painting—your precious Metzgall—would be gone.”

“Poof!”

“Destroyed.”

“All of your money lost!”

“That would be terrible,” said Tex, swallowing with some difficulty as he gazed at the beloved portrait of his beloved gnome.

Iris took a sheaf of documents from her briefcase and placed them on the coffee table. “Johnson and Johnson has a solution for you, Dr. Poole.”

“A plan!” said Mira.

“For a small price you can insure your painting so you’ll never have to worry again.”

“Never have to think about that flood, that house fire—that devastating burglary.”

And as both women launched into their sales pitch, Tex found that he’d already made up his mind to take them up on their offer. They were absolutely right: why spend twenty-five thousand dollars on a painting and then cavil over a measly couple of hundred bucks for the insurance?

“Done deal,” he said finally, even before they’d finished outlining paragraph 16 of their policy and stipulating contingency 623 and exceptions 1022 through 2025.

It was only after they’d left, and Marge walked in and found the documents he’d signed with a flourish, and heaved the exaggerated sigh of the much-put-upon wife of a rabid collector, that he wondered if he’d done the right thing.

But then he looked at Big Gnome #21’s smiling face and he was strong again.

Yes, he’d done the right thing.

A real collector took out insurance.

And he was a real collector. A collector all the way.