The Coloring Crook Read online

  “Creepy, isn’t it?” Veronica tilted her head up to stare at the towering building. “It’s probably worth a fortune but you couldn’t pay me to live here.”

  “Did you see the face in the top window?” I asked.

  Veronica shuddered. “Eww. No!”

  I checked my watch. “I’m going to Color Me Read. See you later.”

  On my way, I paused briefly at a bakery to buy a package of pecan honey buns. They were so fresh the pastry box warmed my hands as I carried it.

  The bookstore was only five blocks away, located on a busy street. An ideal location, actually. An awning hung over the front of the building, and show windows on both sides of the front door displayed books. I unlocked the door, flipped the closed sign to open, punched in the alarm code, and deposited the honey buns by the coffeemaker. After starting the coffee, I flicked on lights as I walked through the store. The building had been someone’s home once. The parlor with a lovely fireplace was furnished with comfortable couches and chairs where customers could pause and relax. The owner made sure we carried a good selection of international newspapers to draw in the diplomatic community. Even though many of them were available online, a surprising number of people preferred the paper editions.

  Coloring books were located on a back wall of the parlor. I was proud that my adult coloring books were featured among them. While I managed the bookstore by day, I drew adult coloring books at night. I straightened our selection a little bit.

  At the moment I was working on a book about gardens and flowers. I was thinking of calling it Color My Garden. It was the middle of the summer, so I was spending my spare time in beautiful gardens around the city. I was far from a botanist, but I was learning about the parts of plants as I sketched them for the book.

  I turned on classical music at a very low volume, and opened the box of honey buns.

  I carried a mug of coffee and a honey bun up to the third floor to my boss, John Maxwell. He hailed from a wealthy family that was well-known in Washington, DC. Once a professor, he now spent his days pondering the mysteries of the planet and often went on adventures in search of famous objects that had been lost. One of my favorite things about working in his bookstore was eavesdropping on conversations between the professor and his intellectual friends who dropped by.

  The colors of Professor Maxwell’s hair always fascinated me. His neatly trimmed beard and mustache were white as snow. But toward his ears they morphed to pepper, only to change back to snow again. Yet the top of his head was solid pepper. He wore the lines of age in his face with grace. Altogether, he was still a handsome man. He was also the most fascinating person I knew, with interests that varied from the location of the Holy Grail to aliens from outer space and whether Hitler actually died in his bunker.

  While he was brilliant, he loathed confrontations. And he had the most peculiar habit of being oblivious about the time of day, which was something I couldn’t comprehend. I was a stickler for being on time and couldn’t resist collecting clocks that I found interesting.

  He sat at his desk, holding a section of the newspaper in his hand. “Florrie, my dear! Thank you.” He eagerly accepted the coffee and drained it by half. “Look at this.”

  He handed me the newspaper. It was folded to a tiny article that most people wouldn’t even notice. The headline read “Orso Released.”

  Chapter 2

  Professor Maxwell grimaced. “Over two decades ago, Orso Moschello drove a van that was picking up priceless items to be delivered to a local museum.”

  “Like an armored truck?”

  “Quite the opposite. He was a trusted man who understood the value of antiquities. The belief is that it’s far safer to transport such items in a regular vehicle that doesn’t call attention to itself.” Professor Maxwell grinned at me. “Every day there are vehicles passing this bookstore that contain amazing things. But only a handful of people know that the driver isn’t just an ordinary fellow off to work. There are priceless and sometimes even dangerous items hitching a ride. For instance, if I had a couple of gold bars to be delivered to the bank, I might ask you to drive them over because no one would think a thing about it.”

  “You’re not sending me anywhere with bars of gold are you?”

  He laughed. “Not today. Anyway, after the precious cargo was received and unpacked, it was discovered that four items had gone missing. Among them was a small sunflower painting by van Gogh that my father was lending to a museum for an exhibit. It has never been found. Everyone hoped Orso would tell us what he did with the stolen goods but he kept his mouth shut.”

  “It was insured, wasn’t it?”

  The professor became grim. “Human error. The museum was supposed to insure it during transit, but the gentleman who should have signed the insurance document was out with the flu, so it was never processed. As you might imagine, there was a big legal fuss. The museum paid a token amount with the caveat that should the items be found, they would be returned to their rightful owners.”

  “Which would be you. You’re hoping this Orso fellow will talk now?” I asked doubtfully.

  “He has served his time. If he were a good man, he would reveal the whereabouts of the items. Of course, if he were a good man, he wouldn’t have stolen them to begin with.”

  Uh-oh. If I knew the professor as well as I thought, he would embark on a search of his own. “So what are you going to do?”

  He took the newspaper from me and slapped it on the desk a few times. “That is what I have been contemplating this morning. What would you do if you had been released from prison?”

  I thought for a moment and understood where he was going with that question. “I guess I wouldn’t have any money, so I would collect the goods from where I stashed them and sell them.”

  “Precisely. After all those years in the slammer, he probably doesn’t have any funds. Not to mention the difficulty of getting a job. He’ll be headed wherever he hid them.”

  “Please don’t tell me you intend to follow him.”

  “No, my dear. I intend to wait until he offers them up for sale. A pity really. The sale of stolen goods will land him back in prison.”

  I left him contemplating the life and fate of a thief and hurried down the stairs.

  Veronica walked in, beating the first customers by two minutes, and the store began to get busy.

  An hour later the buzzer at the back door sounded. Probably a book delivery on the alley side of the store. I trotted down the stairs, unlocked the door, and opened it.

  A man I didn’t know fell partly inside the bookstore and lay crumpled on the ground. Streaks of blood ran down his face.

  I glanced around quickly. There was no one in sight. The alley was calm. Not even a cat slinked by.

  He looked to be about thirty years old. I kneeled on the floor. “Are you okay?”

  It was a stupid question. The blood on his face was clear proof that he needed help.

  He was on his elbow, struggling to rise. Reaching his hand out to me, he asked, “Could you help me up?”

  “Of course.” I said it with confidence that I didn’t feel. But I wanted to assist him. I scurried to his other side. “Sling your arm around my neck.”

  He complied quickly. Between pushing off the ground with his right hand and holding on to me with his left, he was able to stand. “Do you see anyone?” he asked.

  I assumed he was worried about the person who had attacked him. As we shuffled inside the store, I glanced around again. “Nope. All quiet back here.”

  He moved faster than I had expected. I wondered if fear of someone was motivating him. In minutes we were inside and the door was closed. I took care to lock it in case the person who clobbered him came back.

  He sagged a little bit. Breathing heavily, he leaned against the door. “Thanks.”

  I fetched a chair. He perched on the edge as though he thought he might have to flee.

  “Do you think you can walk up the stairs?” I asked.

>   “What’s upstairs?”

  “This is a bookstore. You’d be more comfortable there while we wait for 911.”

  “You don’t have to go to that trouble. I’ll be fine.”

  Maybe he didn’t know he was bleeding. He needed medical help. “Rest here. I’ll be right back.”

  He grabbed my hand. “No 911. Please don’t make a fuss. I just need a few minutes to catch my breath and then I’ll be on my way.”

  I bent toward him. In the gentlest voice I could muster, I said, “You appear to have a head injury. I think you’d better have someone look at it.”

  His brown eyes met mine and he reached up to touch his head. He lowered his hand and viewed the blood on his fingers. Unlike me, who would have been upset, he didn’t even wince. He said calmly, “I’ll get checked out by my doctor. Thank you for your concern.”

  “Head injuries can be serious.”

  He smiled at me. “I’ll be okay. Maybe you could get me a wet paper towel? I don’t want to scare people.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Uh . . . I don’t know your name.”

  “Florrie. Florrie Fox.”

  “Jack Miller. Florrie, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention my presence to anyone else.”

  I studied him for a long moment. He dressed like a preppy in a blue button-down shirt and khakis. Brown hair the color of chestnuts waved in a well-behaved manner. His lips were thin and serious, but there was a spark of humor and kindness in his eyes. I didn’t know what was going on with him, but he appeared to be thinking clearly.

  Still, I hesitated to promise anything of the sort. I dodged his request. “I’ll just get some hydrogen peroxide.”

  I dashed up the stairs and could hear Veronica at the front desk. I recognized the voice of a customer asking for the book he had ordered on seventeenth-century witch trials in Norway.

  In haste, I grabbed paper towels and hydrogen peroxide. I carried them down the stairs guardedly, half expecting that he might not be there.

  Jack had cracked the door and was peering outside. At the sound of my footsteps, he glanced back at me with wary eyes.

  He closed the door, flipped the bolt, and sat down. “Thanks for helping me, Florrie.”

  “So what happened to you?” I dabbed at the blood on his face and worked my way back toward his wound.

  “I’m not quite sure. I’m still trying to figure that out.”

  I looked into his eyes. “Someone clobbered you, but you don’t know why?”

  He smiled. “I realize that must sound strange, but I’m a little confused about it.”

  His primary injury was near the top of his head, well hidden by his thick hair. I saturated a paper towel with hydrogen peroxide and pressed it against the wound.

  Jack squeezed his fingers into a fist but didn’t complain.

  “I’m putting some pressure on this to try to stop the bleeding,” I said. “And if I were you, I’d stay away from that guy.”

  “That’s exactly what I intend to do.” Jack tilted his face up at me and grinned. “I don’t mean to sound unappreciative, but are we done?”

  I lifted the paper towel. “Your head is still bleeding. I don’t know where you’re off to, but you have blood on your shirt and khakis.”

  “Guess I’d better go home and change. Thanks, Florrie. I owe you one.”

  I grinned. “I’m hoping I won’t ever be in the same situation. Stop by sometime and let me know how you’re doing. Okay?”

  He flashed me a thumbs-up and opened the door two inches wide. He stood quietly, as if he was depending on his hearing as much as his vision. And then, in a flash, he was gone, leaving only the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and soiled paper towels as evidence of his presence.

  * * *

  After the drama of finding Jack at our door, I was a little bit jittery. Just before noon, the members of the Hues, Brews, and Clues coloring club filtered in for their coloring session, including Zsazsa. I longed to join them to calm my nerves. As the founder of the group, Veronica handled most of the details, but newcomers approached me at the checkout counter to ask where the group was gathering. It seemed like additional members joined each time they met.

  Our favorite pizza parlor down the block, Twisted Toppings, delivered seven pizzas for the group. I paid for them and hoped seven would be enough. It was hard to gauge how many we would need.

  Olivia Beauton, one of the original members, barged into the bookstore without a word. She carried her favorite Poly-chromos colored pencils and made a beeline for the coffee.

  She was followed by her sister, Priss, who smiled at me. “Hi, Florrie.”

  Olivia and Priss were in their sixties, only a year apart in age. The family resemblance was uncanny. They had the same lively hazel eyes and their noses were identical, right down to the slightly elongated tip and delicately flared nostrils. Even the little laugh lines around their mouths had formed in the same way. Olivia was plump and clearly the bossier of the two, while Priss was thin and fidgety but laughed easily. Olivia wore her hair in a short cut, while Priss’s blond hair curled in loose coils around her shoulders. She had a tendency to wrap a strand around her finger. It seemed to me that Priss was always a step or two behind her sister.

  The moment Nolan Hackett walked by, the Beauton sisters turned their attention to him. A firecracker could have gone off behind them and they wouldn’t have torn their eyes away.

  Personally, I failed to understand the attraction. Tall with a receding hairline, Nolan always looked exhausted. Two deep horizontal creases ran across his forehead. Pronounced bags hung under his eyes. Yet with all his wrinkles, there were no laugh lines around his mouth, only creases from age. A local real estate broker, Nolan had also been one of the original members of the coloring club, but he always seemed grumpy about it.

  Olivia and Priss tittered like schoolgirls when he joined them.

  Zsazsa whispered to me, “I don’t know what they see in him.”

  I grinned at her and shrugged. I didn’t know, either.

  I carried the pizzas to the long table where the group gathered. The scent was heavenly.

  A group of them clustered around a member who demonstrated new shading pencils she had bought.

  Zsazsa smiled at Edgar Delaney, a quiet graduate student studying for his master’s in German and European Studies. “Guten Tag, Herr Delany. Wie laufen Ihre Studien?”

  Edgar looked at her in surprise. Using his middle finger, Edgar pushed browline-style glasses upward on his nose. The glasses seemed rimless at the clear bottoms. The dark upper part matched his eyebrows and hair, a shade that made me think of used coffee grounds. A dark brown, but so close to black that it was difficult to reproduce and shade correctly with colored pencils. “I’m looking forward to coloring.”

  Someone touched my shoulder. I turned around to find Dolly clutching a tote bag to her chest. A carmine-red leather Coach purse hung from her arm.

  “I need your professional opinion,” she breathed in a low voice.

  Her complexion was pale, but she was smiling.

  “Sure. Is everything okay?”

  “I might have won the yard sale lottery.”

  Chapter 3

  Dolly opened the bag she held and thrust a book at me. A leather cover the color of cinnamon covered the pages. There was no title or author’s name on the leather. I opened it and realized immediately that the leather wasn’t bound to the pages. It was only to preserve the pages inside. They were fragile and yellowed, almost an ochre. On the top one, the title had been written in capital letters, THE FLORIST.

  My heart beat faster. Surely this couldn’t be the earliest known adult coloring book? Breathlessly, I glanced up at Dolly. “Where did you get this?”

  “I bought it at the Maury Dumont yard sale. Do you think it could be the real thing?”

  I gently felt one of the mustard-tinged pages and turned it carefully. There was no mistake. The pictures were botanical images of flowers. P
iony, double violets, and something called persicaria. “It looks real to me. I’ll have to check it out, Dolly.”

  She nodded and took a deep breath. Flapping her hands in front of her face to cool herself, she said, “I need a drink. What do you think it’s worth?”

  I smiled at her. “A bundle if it’s the real thing. Of course, that will fluctuate depending on how much someone wants it. May I take it upstairs?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Carrying the book as though it were the most precious thing in the world, and if it was real, it was definitely the most valuable thing I had ever touched, I walked up the stairs to the third floor, passed the rare book room, and stepped into Professor Maxwell’s office. Setting it on the desk, I looked the book up on his computer. It didn’t take long to find a photo of the title page. Published around 1760, there were fewer than ten known volumes in the world, most of them owned by museums.

  Touching it gingerly, I carefully compared the words on the title page to the photo to be sure they matched. A person trying to forge a copy might have misspelled something, particularly since some of the words were old English. The S in many of the words was the ancient form of a long S that resembled a lowercase f. If I recalled correctly, it went out of vogue just before the 1800s. That would certainly jibe with the age of the real book.

  Sketches of vines and delicate blooms rose on the right and left of the title and a perfect ornate script which read,

  Containing Sixty Plates of the most

  beautiful Flowers regularly dispos’d

  in their Succefsion of Bloming

  To which is added

  an Accurate description of

  their Colours with Instructions

  for Drawing & Painting them

  according to NATURE:

  Being a New Work intended

  for the use & amusement of

  Gentlemen and Ladies

  Delighting in that Art.

  LONDON

  Printed for Robt. Sayer in Fleet Street

  F. Bowles in St. Pauls Church Yd. &