"Oh, I love Erie," Nicci said. "Were you born there?"
"Not far away. In Titusville."
"When did you put in your papers?"
The man looked at the ceiling, calculating. "Well, let's see." He paled slightly. "Wow."
"What?"
"I just realized that it was almost ten years ago."
Jessica would bet the man knew exactly how long it had been, probably down to the hour and minute. Nicci reached out, touched him lightly on the back of his right hand. Jessica marveled. It was like watching Maria Callas warm up for a performance of Madame Butterfly.
"I bet you could still fit into that uniform," Nicci said.
In went the gut another inch. He was kind of cute in his big, smalltown-boy way. "Oh, I don't know about that."
Jessica couldn't help thinking that, whatever this guy had done for the state he had definitely not been an investigator. If he couldn't see through this line of crap, he couldn't have found Shaquille O'Neal in a day-care center. Or maybe he just wanted to hear it. Jessica saw this sort of reaction in her father all the time these days.
"Doug Prentiss," he said, extending his hand. Handshakes and introductions all around. Nicci told him they were Philly PD, but not homicide.
Of course, they'd known most of this information about Doug before they'd set foot in his establishment. Like lawyers, cops liked to have the answer to a question before it was asked. The shiny Ford pickup parked closest to the door had a license plate that read DOUG1, and a sticker in the back window that read STATE TROOPERS DO IT ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD.
"I imagine you're on duty," Doug said, ready to serve. If Nicci had asked, he probably would have painted her house. "Can I get you a cup of coffee? Just brewed."
"That would be great, Doug," Nicci said. Jessica nodded.
"Two coffees, coming up."
Doug was off like a shot. He soon returned with two steaming mugs of coffee, along with a bowl of individually packaged creamers on ice.
"Are you out here on official business?" Doug asked.
"Yes, we are," Nicci said.
"If there's anything I can do to help, just ask."
"I can't tell you how happy I am to hear that, Doug," Nicci said. She sipped from her cup. "Good coffee."
Doug puffed a little chest. "What's the job?"
Nicci took out a nine by twelve envelope, opened it. She extracted the photograph of the farmhouse, slid it across the bar. "We're trying to locate this place, but we're not having too much luck. We're fairly certain it's in this zip code. Does it look familiar to you?"
Doug put on a pair of bifocals, picked up the photograph. After looking at it carefully he said, "I don't recognize this place, but if it's anywhere in this area I know who would."
"Who is that?"
"A woman named Nadine Palmer. She and her nephew run the little arts-and-crafts store down the road," Doug said, clearly pleased to be back in the saddle again, even if it was just for a few minutes. "She's a heck of a painter. So's her nephew."
72
The Art Ark was a small weather-beaten store at the end of the block, on the one and only main street in the small town. The display in the window was a cleverly arranged collage of brushes, paints, canvases, watercolor pads, along with the expected silo-and-barn landscapes of local farms, produced by local artists, painted by people most likely instructed by-or related to-the proprietor.
A bell over the door announced Jessica and Nicci's entrance. They were greeted by the aroma of potpourri, linseed oil, and a subtle undercurrent of cat.
The woman behind the counter was in her early sixties. Her hair was pulled into a bun and held in place by an elaborately carved wooden pick. If they were not in Pennsylvania, Jessica would have placed the woman at a Nantucket art fair. Maybe that was the idea.
"Afternoon," the woman said.
Jessica introduced herself and Nicci as police officers. "Doug Pren- tiss referred us to you," she said.
"Good-looking man that Doug Prentiss."
"Yes he is," Jessica said. "He said you might be able to help us."
"Do what I can," she replied. "Name's Nadine Palmer, by the way."
Nadine's words promised cooperation, even though her body language had tightened up a little when she'd heard the word "police." It was to be expected. Jessica brought out the photograph of the farmhouse. "Doug said you might know where this house was."
Before Nadine looked at the photograph she asked, "Might I see some ID?"
"Absolutely," Jessica said. She pulled her badge, flipped it open. Nadine took it from her, scrutinized it.
"Must be exciting work," she said, handing the ID back.
"Sometimes," Jessica replied.
Nadine picked up the photograph. "Oh, sure," she said. "I know the place."
"Is it far from here?" Nicci asked.
"Not too far."
"Do you know who lives there?" Jessica asked.
"Don't think anyone lives there now." She took a step toward the back of the store, yelled, "Ben?"
"Yeah?" came a voice from the basement.
"Can you bring up the watercolor that's leaning up against the freezer?"
"The small one?"
"Yes."
"Sure thing," he replied.
A few seconds later a young man came up the steps carrying a framed watercolor. He was in his early to mid-twenties, right out of central casting for small-town Pennsylvania. He had a shock of wheat- colored hair that fell into his eyes. He wore a navy blue cardigan, white T-shirt, and jeans. He was almost feminine in his features.
"This is my nephew, Ben Sharp," Nadine said. She went on to introduce Jessica and Nicci and explain who they were.
Ben handed his aunt the tastefully framed and matted watercolor. Nadine put it onto an easel next to the counter. The painting, realistically rendered, was almost an exact duplicate of the photo.
"Who painted this?" Jessica asked.
"Yours truly," Nadine said. "I snuck out there one Saturday in June. A long, long time ago."
"It's beautiful," Jessica said.
"It's for sale." Nadine winked. From the back room came the sound of a teakettle whistling. "If you'll excuse me a second." She walked out of the room.
Ben Sharp looked between his two visitors, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, rocked on his heels for a moment. "So, you guys are up from Philly?" he asked.
"That's right," Jessica said.
"And you're detectives?"
"Right again."
"Wow."
Jessica glanced at her watch. It was past two. If they were going to track down this house, they had better get going. She then noticed a display of paintbrushes on the counter behind Ben. She pointed to it.
"What can you tell me about these brushes?" she asked.
"Just about anything you'd like to know," Ben said.
"Are they all pretty much the same?" she asked.
"No, ma'am. First of all, they come in different grades-master, studio, academic. All the way down to economy, although you really don't want to paint with economy. They're more for the hobbyist. I use the studio, but that's because I get a discount. I'm not as good as Aunt Nadine, but I'm coming along."
At this, Nadine reentered the shop with a tray bearing a steaming pot of tea. "Do you have time for a cup of tea?" she asked.
"I'm afraid we don't," Jessica said. "But thanks." She turned to Ben, held up the photograph of the farmhouse. "Are you familiar with this house?"
"Sure," Ben said.
"How far away is it?"
"Maybe ten minutes or so. It's kind of hard to find. If you like, I can show you where it is."
"That would be very helpful," Jessica said.
Ben Sharp beamed. Then his expression darkened. "Is that okay, Aunt Nadine?"
"Of course," she said. "Not exactly turning away customers, it being New Year's Eve and all. I should probably just close up and pop the Cold Duck."