The Last of the Stanfields(107)
“I know you’re not going to want to hear this, GH,” he said. “But I think I asked you for an antique sled, not a chest of drawers.”
“Indeed, you did,” George-Harrison shot back. “And I asked you for any leads on my father, only about a thousand times. Since you never had any, or at least none you were willing to share, I had to go out and do some digging of my own. Which took a very long time. Nobody can be in two places at once, as they say. So, it was either hit the road or work on your sled. So, the sled had to wait, you see. Count yourself lucky. I started that old chest of drawers a while back, and spent all day today putting the finishing touches on it so I wouldn’t come empty-handed.”
“I see,” Pierre grunted. “So, the whole dinner invitation, introducing me to this fine young lady . . . was just a trap?”
“What good would that be, since you don’t know anything?”
“Easy now,” Pierre cautioned. “Don’t make a scene and get all nasty in the middle of a restaurant. I never told you anything because I wasn’t allowed to. I made a promise. And a promise is a promise, as they say.”
“What exactly did you promise?”
“Not to say a word, GH. Not while she’s still around.”
“But she’s not really still ‘around,’ now is she, Pierre? The woman you made that promise to is gone; she doesn’t even know who she is most of the time.”
“I will not have you talk about your mother like that.”
“It’s sad but true, and you know it. You’ve seen it yourself, many times over. You think I’m blind? You didn’t think I’d recognize all the furniture you brought out there to spruce up her bedroom? Bedside table, pedestal table next to the door, Victorian armchair by the window . . . You’ve gone to see her enough times to bring a whole bedroom set.”
“Well, somebody had to go.”
“Don’t play the guilt card. I’m sure she prefers getting attention from you over me any day. Now, I’m asking you to do exactly what you should have done from the minute I told you about that letter, and tell me what you know.”
“What I know? First, you tell me: What’s any of this got to do with your new friend here?”
“Eleanor-Rigby is Sally-Anne Stanfield’s daughter,” George-Harrison responded, calm and steady as always.
Pierre’s face gave him away, leaving no doubt that he knew of my mother. George-Harrison summarized everything we had learned since the last time he had seen Pierre, before the trip even started. By the time he had finished recounting the tale, Pierre agreed to fill in the missing pieces.
“On the night of the heist, after the deed was done, your mothers went back to their loft apartment. They stashed away what they had stolen and met up with their buddies on the Baltimore waterfront. Apparently, it was a night to remember. While all others in attendance thought they were celebrating the inaugural issue of the Independent, your mothers were celebrating their heist, which was somewhat ironic considering what would happen the day after that first issue hit the newsstands.” He shivered at the thought. “The police were extremely thorough and diligent with their investigation, but the only fingerprints they found on the safe were Robert’s and Hanna’s. With no proof of forced entry, they could only come up with two hypotheses. One: it was an inside job; the thief was an employee. Two: the whole thing was a sham. The Stanfields were already very wealthy, so the idea of them committing insurance fraud seemed far-fetched. Hanna Stanfield was more afraid of a scandal than losing money, especially since her livelihood was built around her reputation. Highly renowned art collectors entrusted her with rare works of art. Imagine what they would think when they heard that a priceless painting had been stolen right out of her own home! So, of course, she didn’t say a word about it to the police.”
Pierre stopped short at the sight of our stunned faces. “What? What did I say?” he asked, but George-Harrison and I were both in a state of absolute shock. The puzzle pieces all seemed to fit, and the anonymous letter began to make sense. Before Pierre could continue, George-Harrison asked what happened to the painting, but the antiques dealer just shrugged.
“All I know is that your mothers had a terrible falling-out over that painting, not because of the insane value of the thing, but because it was of such importance to Hanna Stanfield. As I understand, it had belonged to her father, and Hanna was more attached to that one painting than the rest of her entire collection combined. That may be the very reason Sally-Anne stole it, or so May suspected.
“She didn’t commit the robbery because she wanted to keep the Independent from going under, but out of revenge, plain and simple. When put on the spot, Sally-Anne swore up and down that she had no idea the painting was there, that she had just stumbled upon it in the safe and grabbed it without thinking. But May didn’t buy that, not for a second. She was infuriated at having been manipulated and used. The problem was, she wasn’t the only one. And that’s where poetic justice comes in. If Sally-Anne hadn’t been so bold as to publish that article blatantly smearing her family’s name in the first—and, as it turned out, last—issue of the Independent, putting her own initial on it like a point of pride, Edward would have never figured out who had written it. But the damage was already done. Her brother instantly pieced things together and thought that he had been played for a fool. Up until that point, he had thought that May had done what she did only out of . . . well . . .”