“And we get the money,” Ethan finished. “I might be able to convince Ellie to go for that. She has some very strong opinions on anything she sees as being a handout.”
“We need to do a little more research into the value of the layout,” I said. I raised a cautionary hand. “And it’s not going to cover the cost of the surgery by a long shot.”
“But it will help me.” Ethan smiled. “Thank you, Sarah. The stress from all this has been eating me alive.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “I wish it were more.”
He wiped a hand over his mouth. “You and me both.”
Mr. P. came in from the sunporch then and walked over to us. He was carrying a sheet of paper in one hand. “Excuse me, Sarah,” he said. “Would you mind if I made a copy of this?” He held up the page, which was a photo of Thorne Logan that he’d probably printed at home.
“Go ahead,” I said.
He patted his pockets and I knew he was looking for a quarter. Charlotte, who kept the Angels’ books, insisted that they pay for copying and printing. Arguing the point had done me no good. They’d also started paying me rent for the sunporch. When I’d tried to argue against that, Rose tartly informed me that if I didn’t take the money they’d rent office space somewhere else. I couldn’t see how that would be a good idea, so I’d relented. Every month half the money went to the Friends of the North Harbor Library and the other half to the Mid-coast Animal Shelter. It made me feel better about taking the money in the first place and since they didn’t know they couldn’t argue with me over it.
Mr. P. found the twenty-five cents and held it out to me. The photo slipped from his grasp. Ethan reached out and caught it before it could hit the floor. He glanced at the picture and frowned. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Do you know this man?”
“Do you?” Mr. P. asked.
Ethan nodded. “He contacted me a couple of weeks ago. He wanted to buy a bottle from my father’s wine collection.”
“Just one bottle?” Mr. P. said. Like me, he’d noticed that Ethan had said “a bottle.”
Ethan glanced at the photo once more and handed the piece of paper back to Alfred. “Yes.”
Mr. P. and I exchanged a look. “Why did he want a bottle of wine that isn’t worth anything?” I asked.
Ethan swiped a hand across his mouth again. “Because he thought maybe it was.”
Mr. P. and I stared at him.
Ethan shrugged. “I mean he was wrong. Ronan talked to some other contact he had and whoever it was agreed that the bottle was a fake.” He exhaled loudly. “Just like all the other bottles in the old man’s collection. I don’t know why he did that to me.” It was impossible to miss the edge of bitterness in his voice. Then he shook his head and gave us a wry smile. “I don’t know how people can sleep at night, taking advantage of someone who’s old.”
Mr. P. tipped his head back and regarded Ethan thoughtfully, it seemed to me. “There’s an old saying,” he said quietly. “What goes around comes around.”
“Well, excuse me for hoping you’re right,” Ethan said.
Mr. P. nodded and started up the stairs. Elvis was on his way down. The old man stopped for a moment to stroke the top of the cat’s head. Elvis made a soft murp and came purposefully down the rest of the steps. He eyed Ethan through narrowed green eyes, walked around us in a wide curve and headed for the workroom.
“Ethan, do you have Mr. Logan’s contact information?” I asked. I’d tried the number on the business card Nick had given me. All I’d gotten was voice mail.
He made a face. “I’m going to sound like the stereotypical absentminded professor, but I don’t. He contacted me. After I told Ronan about the phone call, he took care of it after that.” He smiled. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I said. “The police are looking into the fake wine angle as far as Mr. Quinn’s death is concerned.”
“Well, I can tell you that Logan is a reputable dealer. At least that’s what Quinn said.”
The phone rang over at the cash desk and I saw Charlotte head over to answer it.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” Ethan said. “Will you let me know what Caulfield says about the train set?”
I nodded. “I will.”
“And would it be a problem if the wine collection stays where it is for now?” he asked. “I moved everything into the kitchen so Quinn could go through the bottles.”
I smiled. “We can work around them for now, but it would be nice to have the space for the sale weekend.”
He pulled his keys out of his pocket. “I’ll talk to Detective Andrews. If the collection is evidence of . . . something, maybe she’ll want to take all of it to the police station. Otherwise I’ll just have to find a way to dispose of it.” He sighed softly.
“Thanks,” I said.
Ethan headed out and Elvis came back from wherever he’d gone. He rubbed against my leg and I bent down and picked him up and went upstairs to my office. Mr. P. was just turning off the printer/copier.
I picked up the original photo that he’d just copied and studied it. Elvis poked his head around to have a look as well.
“We’re not wrong,” Alfred said.
“No, I don’t think you are,” I said slowly.
Elvis meowed his agreement. “It’s unanimous,” I said. “Ethan said Ronan Quinn told him your suspect is a reputable wine broker.”
Mr. P. hiked his pants up a little higher under his armpits. “Reputable is as reputable does,” he said, raising an eyebrow at me.
Chapter 15
I walked back downstairs with Mr. P. “Sarah, what exactly do you know about Ronan Quinn?” he asked.
“Well, he was extremely knowledgeable about wine. He had the designation of Maître Sommelier from the Union de la Sommellerie Française. And he’d been an expert witness in several court cases.”
“I don’t suppose Nicolas has said anything to you about the man?”
“Where are you going with this?” I asked, leaning back and studying him. He might have looked like an unassuming little old man, but there was a sharp intellect underneath his mild expression.
“I’ve just been thinking, what exactly do we know about Mr. Quinn’s character?”
“Are you asking if he was like Caesar’s wife?” I teased.
His eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “Above reproach?” he said. “Yes. I guess that is what I mean.”
“You’re thinking maybe he wasn’t?” We were stopped in the middle of the store.
Mr. P. looked thoughtful. “I’m not exactly sure, my dear,” he said. “So if this sounds off-the-wall, I won’t be offended by you pointing it out.”
“I somehow doubt anything you’re going to say will be off-the-wall,” I said. For the most part Alfred could be counted on to be the voice of reason, especially when Rose got her mind set on something. “What are you thinking?”
“We know that Mr. Quinn was also a broker, a dealer who sold wine to collectors.”
“Yes.”
“And we know that he was investigating the con artists who had defrauded Edison Hall and other people.”
I nodded.
Mr. P. cocked his head to one side. He reminded me of an inquisitive baby bird. “What if everyone is wrong about Mr. Quinn?”
I rubbed the space between my eyes. I was beginning to get a headache from trying to follow Mr. P.’s reasoning. “What do you mean by wrong?”
“Well, not to speak ill of the dead, but what if he got involved in the fraud investigation to protect himself? Do you see where I’m going?”
I reached over and straightened the pillows on the nearby tub chair. “I do,” I said. “You think that maybe Quinn could have been part of the original con. That maybe he was involved in some way with selling those fake bottles of wine.”