The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Part 21

"I can't let you have more than $5000. Abigail wants to go for her MA degree next sem-"

"You don't have a daughter named Abigail."

"Mistress. Will $5000 help?"

"Sure, yes. I've got a lead on a new art director job and right after the first of the-"

"Another job in the Apple?"

"No, it's just over in Norwalk. Near Wilton here. A small, aggressive young agency that specializes in health food and herbal remedy accounts."

"Have you considered trying one of those career counselors? It's probably not too late, even at your age, to start fresh and-"

"My age? I'm two years, Roy, younger than you are."

"Well, I'm nearly fifty."

"You're nearly fifty-one. I'm forty-nine. And I'll tell you something else-having a d.a.m.ned birthday so close to Christmas is not that great. This year especially, since I'm not married or seeing anybody seriously, I got hardly any presents or even-"

"You maybe shouldn't become serious about another woman, Harry. Not right yet anyway," advised his brother. "Four marriages gone flooey is enough for now."

"Three marriages gone flooey."

"Was there one that didn't go flooey?"

"There were only three marriages all told, Roy."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I've kept track."

"Only three, huh? Let's see ... there was the fat one. Was that Alexandra?"

"That was Alice, who was plump and not fat."

"Hereabouts we judge a woman who tips the scale at two-fifty plus as fat."

"At her peak she weighed one seventy-five."

"That's still pretty close to fat, Harry. And then there was that crazy skinny one. What was her name? Some kind of flower."

"Pearl."

"That's the one. Loony as a fruitbar."

"Nutty as a fruitcake."

"Exactly."

"No, I wasn't agreeing, I was just correcting your cliche. Pearl was a mite eccentric, yes, though certainly not crazy."

Out in Oregon his brother made a grunting sound. "The first one wasn't too terrible. The best of the lot, in fact. Was her name Amy?"

"Yep."

"She was halfway good-looking, too."

Harry asked, "Could you, Roy, FedEx me the check?"

"Things that bad?"

"The condo payment is a mite past due. And-" His phone signaled that he had another call. "Hold on, Roy, I have another call." He pushed a b.u.t.ton. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Gee, you sound awful. Are you sick?"

"No," he said tentatively.

The woman continued, "You sound absolutely rotten. I bet it's another of those frequent bouts of bronchitis you were always having."

"I've had bronchitis exactly twice in my entire life, Amy."

"Most people never have it at all," said his first wife. "Listen, can I talk to you?"

"Hold on a minute. I'm on the other line with Roy."

"Roy?"

"My brother. The best man at our wedding."

"Was his name Roy? That all seems like a hundred years ago and I try not to clutter my memory with all that old junk. Give him my best, though."

He pushed a b.u.t.ton and said to his brother, "I've got to take this other call. Send the money and-"

"It's a woman, isn't it? I can tell by the furtive tone of your voice."

"Do I also sound like I have bronchitis?"

"Is this some new lady? You really, Harry, in your present state shouldn't even consider-"

"It's only my ex-wife. It's Amy. She sends you her best wishes, by the way."

"She wasn't half bad, especially compared to what came later. Merry Christmas-and, oh, happy birthday."

"Thanks, Roy.... h.e.l.lo, Amy, what is it?"

And that's when he first heard about what was up in the attic of the Southport mansion she and her latest husband had recently moved into.

The Southport mansion was less than a block from the Sound. A century-old Victorian, it rose up three stories and was encrusted with intricacies of gingerbread and wrought iron.

Harry arrived there at a quarter past one the day after his former wife's call. Standing on the wide front porch, he noted that they had a new Cyclops alarm system.

"Late as usual," Amy observed as she admitted him to the large hallway. The house was filled with the scents of fresh paint, new carpeting, furniture polish, and cut flowers.

"It took longer to drive over here from Wilton, probably because of the wind and sleet. And then, too, I-"

"You never were very good at planning anything, even a simple visit from one town to another." She helped him out of his overcoat, holding it gingerly and then rus.h.i.+ng it into a large closet. "Isn't this the same shabby overcoat?"

"Same as what?"

"It certainly resembles the shabby old overcoat you insisted on wearing back when we were ... um ... together."

"Married. We were married." Harry thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and glanced around. There were several small abstract paintings on the walls, bright and in silvery metal frames. He couldn't identify the artist.

"Yes, they're Businos." She smiled thinly and nodded at the nearest painting, which was mostly red.

"Oh, right, Busino." He had no idea who the h.e.l.l Busino was.

"What happened to your hair?"

He reached up and touched his head. "Still there, Amy."

"Not very much of it," she observed. "You used to have a great deal much more hair back when we were ... um ... cohabiting."

He asked, "What about the paintings you wanted me to look at?"

"My husband ... have you ever met Tops?"

"Tops? Your husband's first name is Tops? No, I'd remember if I'd ever encountered somebody who was named Tops. What's it short for?"

"Nothing. It's a nickname. Obviously."

"Is he home?"

"No, he's with his parents over on Long Island. I'll be joining them Christmas Eve day. I find two days with Mommy Nayland is all I can safely tolerate."

"What do they call Tops's father?"

"Jared."

Harry nodded. "About the pictures?"

"I was trying to say that Tops has a full head of wavy hair."

"I once did myself."

She sighed briefly. "Follow me," Amy invited. "We left them up in the attic after we found them last month. You see, as I mentioned to you over the telephone yesterday, many years ago an art director from some New York advertising concern lived in this house. A coincidence, isn't it, since you're an art director, too? His name was ... um ... Hoganbanger."

"I doubt it."

"Something like that. Perhaps Bangerhagen." She started up the ornate staircase. "Tops and I think they may be from the 1950s or possibly earlier. Left behind by the art director. It's old artwork by various artists, stuff he must have brought home. This Hagenfarmer seems to-"

"Do you mean Faberhagen? Eric Faberhagen?"

"That sounds about right. Have you ever heard of him?"

"Sure, he was a famous art director in the 1930s and 1940s. He still gets written up in advertising graphics magazines now and then," Harry answered. "He worked for the agency that, back then, had the Kubla Kola account."

"Yes, some of these awful paintings have cola bottles in them."

Harry felt a sudden tightening across his chest. He let out an inadvertent gasp, took hold of the bannister. "Really?" he managed to say.

"Have you had a physical exam lately? Climbing a few flights of stairs shouldn't-"

"It's the bronchitis, that's all."

"With all the weight you seem to have put on, you have to think seriously about your heart."

"I weigh exactly what I did while we were ... um ... married."

"C'mon, Harry." She laughed. "You used to be quite slim."

"I was never slim, no."

"Well, certainly slimmer than you are now," she insisted. "Two more flights to go. Can you make it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I understand you're not married just now."

"I'm not."

"I've been meaning to call you before this. Ever since Tops and I bought this place five months ago and I quit working with Thigpen Reality," his former wife told him as they began another flight. "The thing is, Tops isn't that keen on my seeing old beaus ... or old husbands. But when we came across these old advertising paintings, it occurred to me you were the perfect person to tell us what they're worth. I got Tops to see it my way. And, really, there's no reason why you and I can't be friends again-in a distant way at least."

"When you moved out you implied you never wanted to see me again. Let's see ... the exact words were 'I never want to look at that awful pudgy face of yours as long as we both shall live.' "

"Well, then I guess you were overweight back then, too," she said, nodding slowly. "As I told you, I weed out my memories fairly often. I have no recollection what I might have said to you eleven years ago. Did my remarks hurt you?"

"Not as much as the bricks."

"Oh, my. Did I throw a brick at you, Harry?"

"Bricks, plural. Three."

"I have no recollection. Wherever did I get bricks?"

"The bookcase in my den was constructed from boards and bricks."

"Oh, that ugly thing. Yes, I remember that," she said. "Tops and I got to talking, after we discovered this small cache of old advertising art that had been mouldering in the attic for untold years, and I suggested that it might be worth something. Tops simply wants to donate it to St. Norby."