The Carousel Painter (21 page)

I’d been lulling in a self-imposed stupor when I heard Tyson say, “From what you’ve told me, the only stranger in your home since you last saw the necklace is Carrington.”

I snapped to attention as if I’d been whapped by a cold, wet towel. “Excuse me?
What
did you just say? Are you accusing me of theft?” I imagined that my eyes were now bulging like a giant frog—or was it a toad with those protruding eyes? “Surely I misunderstood.” My voice croaked like a bullfrog. It took only the fleeting thought of frog eyes, toads, and croaking to send me into a fit of giggles. I couldn’t stop. Tears trickled down my cheeks while Mr. and Mrs. Galloway stared at me. They appeared disgusted by my behavior, and I did my best to hold my breath and gain control.

“She doesn’t mean to be rude,” Augusta said. “You recall she does this when she’s upset.”

“Or when you have feelings of guilt?” Tyson leered across the room and cut me with a steely look.

Fear overtook me, and the laughter stopped midgiggle. There was no doubt in my mind that he was accusing me of stealing Mrs. Galloway’s necklace. How
dare
he? Would Mr. and Mrs. Galloway think I would do such a thing?

“You don’t believe him, do you? I have never stolen anything in my life.” I hesitated and quickly recanted. “Except a few slices of bread from Leclair’s Bakery one day when I was very hungry,” I admitted. “But nothing else. And why would I steal from the very people who have done the most to help me?”

They didn’t respond. They were all staring at me as though they considered me a suspect. All except Augusta. In her eyes, though, I detected a hint of worry.

Finally I said, “I think you should call the police. Then I’m certain the true thief will be caught.”

Mr. Galloway immediately concurred, though Tyson did his best to convince him the police couldn’t do any more than he’d already accomplished. While Augusta took her mother upstairs to lie down until the police arrived, Mr. Galloway departed for the police station, leaving me, once again, alone with Tyson.

“Why are you doing this? You know I would never steal from the Galloways.”

He shrugged before dropping into a nearby chair. “All things considered, you
are
the most likely suspect. The servants have worked here for years. You’re the only unknown component in the equation. I truly believe the police will draw the same conclusion.”

Tyson was pleased with himself. I could tell by the way his chest expanded when Augusta returned to the room—as if he’d been anointed with some special power that I couldn’t comprehend. Maybe he was right. I certainly didn’t understand why the Galloways had listened to him accuse me of stealing before they decided to contact the police. And now I was concerned Mr. Galloway would tell them I was the prime suspect. They might not even look for the real thief. I tried to calm myself by remembering one of my father’s admonitions about never borrowing trouble. It didn’t help.

Augusta did her best to act the proper hostess while we waited, but I suspected she had allied herself with Tyson. She was fawning over him, and she couldn’t meet my eyes. Every time I caught her looking at me, she glanced away. What would it be like to be locked up in a jail, I wondered? Would I giggle or cry when they slammed the door and tossed me into a dank cell with nothing more than bread and water?

I was contemplating the idea when Mr. Galloway entered the house accompanied by a short, bald man with a tiny mustache that curled on each end. He didn’t look like a policeman, but Mr. Galloway introduced him as a detective with the Collinsford Police Department. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or frightened when Mr. Galloway informed us Detective Nelson Lawton had been with the Pinkerton Agency for a year before joining the Collinsford Police Department. The detective immediately corrected him.

“Nearly two years,” Detective Lawton said. He appeared eager to impress us with his competence. “Let’s begin at the beginning.”

Not wanting to laugh at the tiresome remark, I curled my lips inward until I was sure they had completely disappeared from sight. Mrs. Galloway was summoned from her room, and once again the routine questions were asked—and answered, mostly by Tyson. I seemed to be the only one who noticed he had taken over as the self-appointed authority on all that had occurred. I also noticed Detective Lawton giving me sidelong glances each time Tyson mentioned my name.

I pressed my hand down the gray silk dress and imagined myself twirling around the dance floor. I’d had no particular desire to attend this evening’s party, but even a stuffy dance would have provided more enjoyment than Detective Lawton and his copious questions.

After all, what difference did it make where I was born, and why did he need every address where I’d lived for my entire life? He wrote down the information as though his very life depended on it. As I watched him, I had the fleeting notion that perhaps
my
life depended upon what he was writing. Instead of thinking about the dance, I wondered if I should be constructing a defense.

“Tell me, Miss Brouwer, did you have access to the necklace in question?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, I lived here for a time—as a guest of the Galloways—until I secured my own living quarters.”

“Hmm. And from what you’ve told me, you’re currently living in The Bottoms, isn’t that correct?”

He made it sound as though living in The Bottoms was a crime in and of itself. “I live in a boardinghouse close to my work, and it is, as you say, located in The Bottoms.”

“So it is safe for me to assume you are living on a small income?”

Oh, he was thinking that because I was poor, I had a motive to steal from the Galloways. Well, he wasn’t fooling me in the least! “I am living on an adequate income, but even if I were starving, I wouldn’t steal from the Galloways.”

“Except for perhaps a few slices of bread?” Tyson asked.

I wanted to reach across the distance that separated us and smack the grin from his face, but I forced myself to remain calm and offered the detective a sweet smile. At least I hoped it was sweet. I was having difficulty getting my lips to cooperate. “I don’t think a couple slices of bread taken from my landlady’s bakery equates to stealing a valuable necklace,” I countered.

“No, it doesn’t. But if a suspect shows a propensity toward such behavior . . .” The detective’s incomplete sentence hung in the air like an unspoken accusation.

CHAPTER
15

W
hen I arrived at work Monday morning, I removed my coat and sat down at my work area. I was more than thankful Mr. Tobarth didn’t ask about my weekend, for I wanted all memories of the previous days to flee from my mind. Dwelling on what I now considered a horrid visit wouldn’t resolve anything.

With my paints before me, I studied the variety of colors. I wanted the perfect shade to stripe my horse. My eyes flitted from one hue to the next, but soon the paints mocked me. The colors floated before my eyes like a multitude of vibrant silk gowns—like the gowns worn by Mrs. Galloway’s female guests on Saturday evening. I cringed at the thought.

Strange how I’d been initially delighted to go and visit the Galloways. I’d been eager to escape my difficulties at work and step into their problem-free world. But within hours of my arrival, I’d wanted to flee their home and return to The Bottoms. The remainder of the visit had been disastrous. Mrs. Galloway had insisted upon attending the party after Detective Lawton departed.

Mr. Galloway had vehemently advised against the idea, but his wife would not be denied. She was determined to increase the social stature of the Galloway family, and this was a party where all the right people would be in attendance. Those she wanted to impress. Those she wanted to infiltrate. Those she wanted to
be
.

Though I kept my opinion to myself, I, too, thought she should remain at home. There would be other opportunities to gain favor among the members of Collinsford’s upper class. However, Mrs. Galloway had won the argument. We all attended the party.

I think she enjoyed making an entrance. She was most pleased to explain her pasty complexion, her near fainting spell, and the tragedy that had befallen the Galloway household. The dowagers gathered around and offered sympathy as they listened to her tale of woe. Instinctively they clasped a hand to their own heavily bejeweled necklines or wrists.

Mrs. Galloway’s cheeks gradually took on color as she basked in their attention. She obviously believed a stolen necklace had established her as a member of polite society. I had my doubts. Though my understanding of societal rules was limited, I thought it would take more than a piece of stolen jewelry to penetrate the ranks of the prune-faced women.

The evening was further marred by Tyson and his snide remarks. I did my best to avoid him, but when Augusta brought him to my side and insisted the two of us enjoy a dance, there was no escape. I questioned him at length about why he was casting blame in my direction. At first he feigned ignorance, but when I persisted, he said I shouldn’t have spurned him. Spurned him? His reply was ludicrous. He was Augusta’s beau. If only Ronald had come home from college and I’d had a proper escort, I could have avoided dancing with Tyson. He held me much too close, and when I pushed away, he snickered.

Trying my best to push the memory from my mind, I picked up a maulstick. I’d decided on a subtle shade of creamy yellow to stripe the navy blue blanket flowing from beneath the horse’s saddle.

“Nice work.”

I hadn’t heard Mr. Tobarth approach. I turned and looked up. “Thank you.”

“I see you decided on usin’ a maulstick after all.” He bit his lip between his teeth, and the veins on either side of his neck protruded like two ropes. “What’s your opinion now that you’ve tried usin’ it?”

“You were right. It helps a great deal.”

He gave a firm nod of his head, apparently pleased by my response. After selecting a brush and paint, he took his place nearby and set to work on the jumper. “Good weekend at the Galloways’?” he asked.

I’d told him about my plans; now I wished I hadn’t. I didn’t want to carry tales of what had happened. Yet I wondered if news of the theft would be in the local newspaper. Would my name be listed as a visitor at the Galloways’ home? If Tyson had his way, he’d have me listed as the number one suspect.

“Not so good.” I related the barest of details and was thankful when Mr. Tobarth didn’t ask a lot of questions.

“You go to church with the Galloways when you visit?”

I nodded. “Over at Community Central.”

We had, in fact, gone to church on Sunday. All of us. Even Tyson. I hadn’t heard much of the sermon. I’d been too busy worrying about going to jail for a crime I didn’t commit. “Do you think God lets good people suffer and bad people get away with things?”

Mr. Tobarth chuckled. “I think there’s lots of good people who suffer. Jesus was perfect. He suffered and died on the cross for our sins, didn’t He?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t seem right that good people should suffer, does it?”

“Nope. But this here’s what the preacher calls a fallen world. When Adam and Eve sinned, evil came into the world. Kinda turned things upside down and makes it hard for us to understand when good people get hurt. But the devil’s out there prowlin’ around, doing his best to cause pain and confusion.”

“Still, it’s hard to accept that good people can be accused and punished for something they didn’t do.”

He stood and carefully painted a glint in his horse’s eye, then turned and looked at me. “You talkin’ ’bout yourself or just in general?” With the stroke of his paintbrush, the animal had taken on a personality of its own. It looked kind and gentle. Like the carousel horse I’d ridden when I was a little girl.

“Both,” I said. “Do you think if people pray, God turns things around?”

“If you’re askin’ do I think prayer works, the answer is yes. But if you’re askin’ do I think God always give us the answer we want, the answer is no. We’re not supposed to understand everything that happens in this world, but one day it will all be clear to us.”

“I see,” I muttered, but didn’t really see. I wanted Mr. Tobarth to tell me God would answer my prayers in the way I had asked. I wanted to know the real thief would be found. I wanted to know I wouldn’t go to jail. Maybe all the bad things in my life would be made clear when I died, but I didn’t want to wait that long—and I wasn’t ready to die, either!

For now, I needed to concentrate on my painting, but I determined to give the matter of answered prayer more thought while I ate my lunch. I continued painting in earnest and was surprised when the buzzer sounded. I gathered my lunch pail and sketch pad, just in case I found myself unable to concentrate on prayer or God, and headed outside. Ignoring the bench, I settled beneath a big old tree. After spreading the cloth napkin across my paint-splotched apron, I took a bite of my sandwich. Did other people have problems concentrating on God? Did their minds wander when they attempted to pray? Surely I wasn’t the only one. Then again, maybe I was. If I’d grown up spending time in prayer, maybe I wouldn’t find it so difficult to focus my thoughts on God. If I could concentrate on my painting, surely I could train my thoughts to remain upon God in the same manner.