Free The Stargazey by Martha Grimes Page A

and himself and took up his own cup. “Well, wander around is all I do—except when I’m sitting around—so it’s a comfort to have someone to wander with, if only in dreams.”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m only telling you for—”
    (Your own good.)
    â€œâ€”your own good, Melrose.”
    (Right again.)
    Agatha’s threat never to speak to him again (after the dog and chamber-pot affair) had, unfortunately, not been carried out. How he wished he were back in the little courtroom listening to Marshall True-blood’s excellent defense of Ada Crisp. That had been an unexpected treat! Agatha had dragged poor Miss Crisp up before the magistrates, not only citing the secondhand furniture shop for displaying wares on the pavement (tables, chairs, and chamber pots), thereby endangering life and limb, but also accusing Ada Crisp’s little terrier of attacking her when Agatha went belly-up. Marshall Trueblood, having appointed himself as attorney for the defense, made mincemeat of Agatha’s solicitor’s arguments. For once he wished Agatha would drag somebody else into court. Perhaps he could get her to sue him. Well, he’d have to drop dead first, he supposed; then she could contest the will. Only he wouldn’t be around to see it.
    He picked up Jury’s postcard and inserted it as a bookmark in the old cookery book. He had set his man Ruthven the task of looking up the recipe Jury was betting him ten pounds he couldn’t find. Ruthven (who had been a part of the Ardry-Plant staff for what seemed a hundred years) would, of course, get the ten pounds.
    Agatha stopped reading snippets of Melrose’s Telegraph aloud to him long enough to marmalade a scone and pick up his Country magazine, which she held at arm’s length (what, he wondered, were her bifocals doing for her?). Now she was reading an article about the museum theft some months ago.
    â€œ —the hitherto undiscovered painting by Marc Chagall only recently acquired by the Hermitage and believed to have been painted before he fled to Paris in the early twenties. The painting, titled Wingless, Wingless Angels, is the only Chagall in the museum. It is believed to have been part of the spoil seized from the homes of the wealthy during the revolution.
    â€œCut right out of the frame on the wall of the Hermitage. Look at it.” Agatha turned the magazine for a moment toward Melrose, then back again. “What an absurd picture. It’s got people all floating around, and there’s even a cat. Can’t imagine what the man must be thinking of. All this modern art is just too much for me. Give me a nice Rubens.”
    â€œYes, well, that’s probably what the thief said: ‘Give me a nice Chagall.’ ”
    â€œI wouldn’t give tuppence for them—these paintings that are nothing but little squiggles of paint or great big squares—”
    â€œAre you referring to Mr. Pollock and Mr. Rothko?”
    â€œWhat difference does it make? A painting should be of something, shouldn’t it?”
    â€œI daresay Mr. Pollock and Mr. Rothko think theirs are .” Why was he contributing to this inane exchange? He had only himself to blame for its continuance.
    â€œIt’s valued at nearly a quarter of a million, it says here.” Agatha gave the magazine a little slap, as if spanking it for its headstrongness.
    â€œThe Chagall? Hmm. That’s not really much for taking such chances, is it?”
    â€œ You should talk!”
    Melrose looked up, surprised. But why should he be surprised? Any attempt at an ordinary conversational exchange was doomed with Agatha. “ I should talk? Sorry, I don’t get your drift.” The painter Chagall inspired Melrose to do a bit of artwork of his own. He picked up a pencil and started drawing little fish heads, making the eyes big and blank.
    â€œIt’s fine for those of us who