Page 78 of Road Trip
Therese was flipping through the museum websites she’d bookmarked on the computer. She looked up, her expression stricken.
“You don’t think the Rossingtons, or the Irish government, or whoever, could try to make us give back the portrait, do you?”
“I’m guessing they couldn’t, but I’m no expert. Somehow, there’s got to be a way for us to prove that Kathleen didn’t steal that painting, or murder Lady Delia.”
“How do we prove a double negative?”
“We’ve got to do more legwork while we’re here where everything began. Liam says there’s a small historical museum at the library. His mom used to work there. Wonder if it’s open on Saturdays?”
Therese jumped up from the bed. “Let’s go find out. I’m getting cabin fever sitting around in this room. I know where the library building is. It’s in the village proper, next to a teashop, which reminds me, I’m starved.”
CHAPTER 34
“Still raining,” Therese said, when they reached the inn’s lobby. It was a steady drizzle, the wind had picked up, and it felt chilly to the two Southerners. “The one time I could really use a nice walk.”
“Maybe later.” Maeve retrieved the keys to the rental car from her purse. They’d only driven a few hundred yards when Therese spotted a lone figure, draped in an oversized mackinaw, trudging along the side of the road.
“Stop the car,” she told her sister. “I think that’s Esme Rossington.”
Maeve eased the rental onto the narrow shoulder of the road. “I bet she’s walking back to the Willow Tree to retrieve her helper—and her truck.”
Therese jumped out of the car, holding the passenger door open. “Miss Esme,” she called to the solitary walker. “Can we give you a lift?”
Esme Rossington approached the car warily. She peered in at Maeve, then looked back at Therese. “You two again.”
“Please get in the car,” Maeve replied. “You’re soaked.”
“Very well.” The old woman climbed into the passenger seat and Therese got in the cramped back seat.
Rain streamed from the brim of Esme’s hat and off her waterproof jacket. She was still wearing the mustard-colored sweater Maeve had seen her in the night before, with corduroy trousers whose legs were tucked into a pair of ancient-looking Wellingtons. She reminded Maeve of Paddington Bear.
“Where to?” Maeve inquired.
“Back to the pub. I’ve got to collect Reggie and my truck.”
When they were on the road again Esme turned around and stared at Therese. “So. Sisters. Not much of a family resemblance, is there? One of you a dirty blond, the other a brunette.”
Therese laughed at the description of her hair color. “I’ve been dying my hair since I was fourteen.” She pushed her bangs away from her face. “Now, look again. We both have the same high forehead, which we got from our mother’s side of the family.”
Esme turned her attention to Maeve, who’d fastened her hair in a loose ponytail with her bangs swept off her face.
“And both of you with a widow’s peak,” she mused. “My dad had one too. Handsome man. Died with a full head of hair on him. But now Geoffrey, my brother, was completely bald by the time he was thirty. Took after our mum’s side.”
Esme reached into her pocket and unwrapped a cellophane-wrapped hard candy, which she popped into her mouth.
“This painting you’re on about,” she said abruptly. “That was a long time ago. They’re all dead now. My dad, his wife, the villains who stole my family’s art. They went to prison, but now everyone is dead and buried. So why do you care?”
Therese cleared her throat. “Because our great-grandmother was accused of stealing a valuable portrait from the manor house. And of murdering the woman who gave it to her. Kathleen brought that painting to the States with her. It’s hung in our mother’s house for our whole lives. We want to clear her name. But we also want to find out how a portrait of Lady Geraldine, painted by the same artist, came to be stolen from Tarrymore fifty years later—and then, how that painting came to be auctioned off by a New York gallery fifty years after the robbery, and sold for over a million dollars.”
“Your painting must be a fake,” Esme said. “And I wouldn’t know about any painting being auctioned off in the States. So you’ve come a long way for no good reason.”
“It’s not a fake,” Therese said hotly. “And we’re going to prove that.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the car, and then Maeve pulled into the parking lot at the Willow Tree. It was still before noon, and there were only two cars in the lot, a small white compact and a pickup truck.
“You can put me out here,” Esme said. She reached into her pocket again and brought out two more candies. “Take these,” she said, placing them in Maeve’s hand. “Butterscotch rum. From a shop in the village. My favorite.”
“Okay…” Maeve said, looking at Therese’s amused expression in the rearview mirror.
