Lord of the Wings by Donna Andrews Page B

Habakkuk Paltroon was a great patriot,” Dr. Smoot went on. “And fought in the Continental Army.”
    â€œIs that why he’s missing a leg?” Michael asked.
    â€œMissing a leg?” Dr. Smoot peered at the painting. He sounded agitated. “He wasn’t missing a leg when he got here.”
    â€œI don’t think he’s actually missing a leg,” I said. “I think his other leg is just hidden behind the tablecloth.”
    We all three studied Habakkuk’s one visible leg for a few moments.
    â€œYou’re right,” Michael said finally. “It just looks as if he is because from the waist down he’s facing the table, while from the waist up he’s looking out at us, with no real indication that his waist is twisted. A very uncomfortable-looking position.”
    And anatomically improbable, but I stifled the urge to say so. Dr. Smoot was so proud of the painting.
    â€œYou had me worried for a minute,” Dr. Smoot said. “I was afraid maybe his leg had flaked off. There are a couple of areas where the paint is starting to buckle slightly. I’m afraid it may not have liked being moved. I’ve notified Mrs. Paltroon.”
    â€œThe Mrs. Paltroon who runs the local DAR?” I asked.
    â€œThat’s her,” he said. “A very formidable lady.”
    I’d have called her a snob and a pain in the neck, but yeah—formidable also applied. Mrs. Paltroon treated the Caerphilly DAR chapter like a personal fiefdom, and her presence probably accounted for its remarkably small size—only half a dozen or so local women seemed to be members, even though I suspected a lot more were eligible. Most of them were probably like Mother, who was an active member of the DAR in our hometown of Yorktown, but turned up her nose at the local chapter because of Mrs. Paltroon.
    Not someone I’d want to upset, though. I could tell from the anxious expression on Dr. Smoot’s face that he wasn’t keen on doing so, either.
    â€œWell, we have a restoration expert coming in tomorrow to take a look,” he said. “And do any necessary conservation.”
    Now that Dr. Smoot had pointed it out, I could see the slight irregularities in the surface of the paint. It looked as if Habakkuk’s coat was in danger, and also the blank back wall of the room. If I had been the unknown artist, I would have painted something along that back wall. A window, a fireplace—anything to break up the rather large area of muddy tan wall that loomed behind the assembled Paltroons.
    â€œWell, we’ll see what the restoration expert says,” Dr. Smoot said, visibly wrenching himself away from the painting and looking back at us. “Meanwhile, you haven’t seen the pièce de résistance .”
    He pointed to a glass case at the very back of the museum. It was a display of jewelry. Some of the pieces looked old—Victorian, Art Nouveau, or Art Deco. Others looked modern and implausibly sparkly—like a rhinestone tiara once used, according to its label, to crown winners of the now defunct Miss Caerphilly Contest. But Dr. Smoot was indicating the object in the center of the case—the most spectacularly ugly brooch I’d ever seen. It was shaped like a black cat arching its back. The body was entirely covered with sparkly blackish stones, except for the green eyes and the colorless claws.
    â€œImpressive,” I said. Actually, I started to say “interesting,” but stopped in time. Michael managed to repress any urge to call it “ingenious.”
    â€œThe body is covered with black diamonds,” Dr. Smoot said. “The eyes are emeralds, and the claws made of white diamonds. It used to belong to the Duchess of Windsor.”
    I looked back down at the brooch. Knowing it had once belonged to a famous fashion icon didn’t change my opinion of it. Spectacularly ugly.
    â€œWhat’s it doing here?” I