Tomorrow's Vengeance

FOURTEEN

‘Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us.’

King James Bible, Hebrews, 12:1.

I hadn’t even rolled out of bed the next morning when the telephone on my bedside table burbled. It was Hutch, getting straight to the point. ‘I thought Mrs Milanesi was going to bring in her mother’s scrapbook.’

‘She didn’t?’ I threw the duvet aside and padded barefoot to the bathroom.

‘No, she didn’t. I can proceed without it, of course, but having a copy of that scrapbook could grease a few wheels.’

I promised Hutch I’d follow up with Izzy right away.

Izzy picked up on the first ring, sounding breathless. ‘Hello.’

‘Izzy, this is Hannah Ives. My brother-in-law just called asking about your mother’s scrapbook. He’s wondering when you’re going to bring it in. I’ll be happy to drive you into his office, if that’s helpful.’

‘Oh, Hannah, I can’t find it!’

‘What do you mean, you can’t find it?’

‘I always keep it in my bottom dresser drawer. After I showed it to Naddie, though, I put it on the table in the hallway, ready to take to Mr Hutchinson. But it’s not there now.’

‘Maybe you put it somewhere else?’ I suggested.

‘Maybe, but I don’t think so.’

‘When was the last time you saw it, before you put it on the table in the hallway, I mean.’

‘A couple of nights ago. I took it to dinner so I could show it to Naddie.’

I suppressed a sigh of relief. At least Naddie would confirm that the scrapbook existed, that it wasn’t simply a figment of Izzy’s imagination.

‘Maybe I belong in the memory unit.’ Izzy began sobbing.

‘Don’t be silly,’ I soothed. ‘Most of the time you’re sharp as a tack.’

‘No, I’m not. I’ve lost my best hairbrush. I mislay my reading glasses all the time. I can never find my tweezers. But they can all be replaced. Nothing can replace my mother’s scrapbook. Nothing! I’m just sick about it.’

‘What does the scrapbook look like, Izzy?’

‘It’s green leather with “Fotografie” embossed on the front. The pages are black, with punched holes, and it’s all bound together on the narrower side with a black shoelace.’

Ah. I’d had a smiliar scrapbook in junior high, full of photos I’d clipped out of teen magazines of heartthrobs like Paul McCartney and Davy Jones.

‘I distinctly remember bringing it home from dinner at the colony and putting it on the table, ready to take to Mr Hutchinson. Naddie even brought over a huge Ziploc bag for me to put it in. I didn’t know Ziplocs even came that big. We sealed it up and I stuck one of my mailing labels on the outside, just in case.’

‘Don’t worry, Izzy. We’ll find it. I’m going to call Naddie and we’ll come over and help you look.’

Izzy protested, saying she was too embarrassed but, like good friends everywhere, we didn’t listen. Twenty minutes later I’d picked up Naddie and we were standing on Izzy’s stoop.

‘Come in!’ she called from inside when I knocked.

I turned the knob and went in. ‘Don’t you lock your doors, Ysabelle?’

Izzy emerged from the kitchen looking surprised. ‘No, why would I? Calvert Colony is safer than Fort Knox.’

Obviously. I stole a glance at Naddie, who was already poking around among the magazines on the coffee tabletop.

‘I’ve looked everywhere!’ Izzy wailed.

Well, not everywhere, I thought, channeling my mother, or you would have found it.

While Izzy sat in an armchair like a lump, quietly sniffling into a ragged tissue, Naddie and I turned her town home upside down, searching closets, under beds and sofas, between cushions and even the trash can and recycling bin Izzy kept under the sink.

‘I’m just sick about this,’ Izzy sobbed when we rejoined her in the living room, empty handed.

‘All is not completely lost,’ Naddie said, surprising us both. If you remember, Izzy, when you showed me your mother’s scrapbook at dinner the other night I took photographs of several pages with my iPhone, including the page with the painting featuring Umberto.’

Naddie slipped the iPhone out of the pocket of her slacks and powered it on. Perched on the arm of Izzy’s chair, she leaned over and thumbed through the photographs. I stood behind the chair and looked over her shoulder.

Naddie had photographed six pages in all, each page featuring at least two paintings.

‘Naddie,’ I said, ‘you are a treasure.’

‘I just can’t understand what happened to it!’ Izzy whined.

I finally voiced what I had started thinking ever since I found myself rooting through the newspapers and empty pizza boxes in Izzy’s recycling bin. ‘Somebody stole it, Izzy.’

‘But who would do that?’

‘I don’t know, but I think it’s a much more reasonable explanation than you losing your mind.’

‘Have you had any visitors?’ Naddie asked.

Izzy shook her head miserably.

‘A cleaning lady?’

‘I wish.’

Naddie got up from the arm of Izzy’s chair and sat down next to me on the sofa. ‘What’s your brother-in-law’s email address, Hannah?’

I gave it to her and watched while Naddie tapped each photo, selecting it, then emailed the lot to Hutch. With a whooshing sound, they were on their way.

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ Izzy said. ‘How fortunate that you took those photos!’

‘Better that than nothing,’ Naddie said. Turning to me, she said, ‘So you think the scrapbook was stolen?’

‘It’s the obvious conclusion.’

‘But who would do that?’ Naddie wondered.

As far as I knew, the list of suspects was short. ‘The only people who are aware of the existence of Letizia Rossi’s scrapbook are Hutch, Izzy, Naddie and me.’ When I finished ticking the names off on my fingers, Izzy flushed.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘I brought the scrapbook to dinner to show Naddie, as I said. We were there early, so before they served the appetizers I opened the scrapbook up on the table – that’s when Naddie took the photographs. When Safa came in, she had to see it, too. That meant Masud saw it as well, of course. Pretty soon we had attracted a bit of a crowd.’

‘That’s true,’ Naddie said. ‘Then Izzy started telling everyone about how she was going to get her painting back.’

I suppressed an anguished moan.

‘Even that horrible Richard person was there,’ Naddie added. ‘He was Christie’s guest at dinner, sitting all lovey-dovey at a corner table for two.’ Naddie stabbed a finger at her open mouth and made a gagging sound.

‘“So great a cloud of witnesses,”’ I muttered.

‘Indeed,’ Naddie said.

‘But I still don’t understand,’ Izzy said. ‘What would anyone at Calvert Colony want with my mother’s scrapbook?’

Hutch, I knew, had kept the identity of his client confidential, so even the staff at the Baltimore Art Gallery – the only people I could imagine having any interest in it – wouldn’t know where to come looking for it.

‘It’s a puzzlement,’ I said.