The Missing Masterpiece: A Willow Bridge Mystery - Book 1, page 1
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
It was a sunny day in June, and the arts festival was in full swing in Willow Bridge. The streets were busier than usual, with people chatting and laughing as they made their way to the village hall where many works of art would be displayed. The streets were lined with stalls where independent local artists were showcasing their impressive creations.
Retired couple, George and Lydia Hartley, walked through the village holding hands. They were looking forward to seeing the artwork in the village hall, especially since they knew one of the local artists, Lance Booth, who was showing his pieces for the first time.
As they strolled along, they passed the familiar sights of the village. The bakery had a queue out of the door, with the smell of fresh pastries drifting in the air towards them. The bookshop window was filled with new titles, and the post office was busy with people sending off their parcels and letters before the office closed early that day, as it did every Saturday. The stone bridge, which had been there for centuries, looked the same as ever, with the Willow River flowing quietly underneath it.
Children ran past Lydia and George, their laughter filling the air, while their parents followed with picnic baskets, heading towards the park. George nodded at a few people he knew and said hello. Lydia stopped to admire a display of hand-crafted jewellery on one of the market stalls. She released her husband’s hand and picked up a necklace.
She said, “George, look at this lovely necklace. Isn’t it gorgeous? I love those tiny gemstones on it. Shall I buy it?”
George answered, “It is lovely, but haven’t you got enough necklaces already?”
Lydia chuckled. “You can never have too many necklaces, and earrings come to that. I think I will buy it. It’ll match that new dress I bought last week. And I am supporting local traders by buying it.” She gave the young woman behind the stall a smile and handed over the necklace.
George smiled at his wife, and joked warmly, “Any excuse. It is lovely, though.”
As Lydia was about to pay for the necklace, she spotted some matching earrings and decided to buy those too. Once her purchase had been completed, she thanked the young woman and walked away with George. She took his familiar hand in hers and smiled up at him.
They hadn’t got very far when Lydia let go of his hand again.
“Books!” she declared happily and strode towards a stall that was selling second-hand books.
George let out a low groan. “And now I’ve lost you for the next hour.” He followed his wife, who was scanning the items on display. He was about to point out that she had enough books, but stopped himself in time because he knew what her reply would be.
Instead, he said, “Is there anything you’d like to buy?”
Without taking her attention off the books, Lydia answered, “I’d like to buy all of them. But I won’t. Not today, anyway. Oh, George, look! There are some detective novels that I haven’t read yet.”
George grinned at his wife. “How is that even possible?” he joked. “I thought you’d read every detective story that had been written.”
She glanced at George and smiled. “Not quite. You know I love a good detective story. I can’t get enough of them.”
George stayed at Lydia’s side as she bought some books. He said he was impressed that she only bought five.
Lydia explained why. “I can’t fit anymore in my bag. I knew I should have brought a bigger bag. Anyway, I can come back later, if we have time.”
George held his hand out towards her and said, “Are we ready for the village hall now?”
“Yes,” Lydia replied. “We’re ready. George, wouldn’t it be amazing if we could solve a mystery? A proper mystery with clues and things like that.”
George’s eyebrows rose. “I’m not sure about that, Lydia. I wouldn’t want to come across a murdered body. And I don’t want you to, either.”
Lydia shook her head. “No, I don’t want to get involved in a murder. Just a mystery, that’s all. Anyway, let’s talk about Lance and his paintings. I’m so proud of him and all that he’s achieved. I can’t wait to see his pictures on the wall, on display for the whole world to see, as they should be.”
George chuckled. “On display to anyone who’s in Willow Bridge today. Not the whole world, not yet, but I’ve no doubt he will soon. He’s a talented lad. I wish he believed in himself more.” Concern flickered in his eyes.
Lydia said, “I know what you mean. He’s been that way since he was a child. I still remember all those times he came into the library when I worked there. He was with his mum and shyly asked if we stocked any books on art. I found him all the ones we had and told him he could borrow them. Oh, his little face when I told him that! I can see it now. He lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree. He loved looking at those art books. And when he brought them back, he told me he wanted to be a painter one day.”
George nodded. “And I remember how proud you were of him when he brought his first pictures into the library to show you. And how you pinned them on the wall behind in the counter.”
Lydia laughed lightly. “Yes, I wasn’t supposed to display anything that wasn’t official library information, but once I showed them to John, he was the manager at the time, he was more than happy to keep them there. And the pictures were of local places and people, so they were part of what was happening in the village. Everyone who visited into the library loved those pictures, and I made sure to tell little Lance that every time he came in.”
George gave Lydia a proud look, and said, “It was because you believed in his talent that he became a painter. You always made time to talk to him, and to encourage him to pursue his dreams. I don’t think he would have become the artist he is today without your support.”
Lydia waved her free hand in the air as if dismissing George’s words. “I didn’t do anything special. He would have become a painter, no matter what. Anyway, you did your bit by writing that article about him in the local newspaper after he’d won that painting competition organised by his school. How old was he? 8? 9? Something like that. The whole village was so very proud of him. Do you miss being a journalist, George?”
He shook his head. “Nope, because I get more time to be with you in our golden retirement ages. I love this slower pace of life, don't you?”
Lydia answered, “Yes, of course. But sometimes, well, sometimes, I could do with an adventure. With you, of course.”
They walked into the village hall, ready to admire Lance’s paintings.
George said, “I was hoping Lance would be here so he could listen to all the compliments he’ll get about his work.” He glanced at the framed paintings on the walls, searching for Lance's name. "Poor lad, he's still fretting over what people will think and say when they see his paintings. But he doesn’t need to worry at all."
Lydia sighed. "He told us he'd only come at the end of the festival, didn't he? I can understand why he might be nervous about what people say, but I suppose that’s part of being an artist, isn’t it?”
She looked as if she were about to say something else, but then a commotion caught her attention. “George,” she said. “Something’s wrong.”
Chapter 2
Lydia gestured towards a small crowd gathered near one of the walls. Hushed voices full of concern drifted towards them. Lydia and George shared a look and then walked towards the crowd.
Cheryl Atkins, who was in charge of the village hall, was at the side of the crowd, looking flustered. "It was right there, on the wall, just minutes ago," she was explaining to someone, her hands gesturing towards a space on the wall.
Lydia leaned closer to George, whispering, "What's happened here?"
Before George could reply, they overheard a man in a tweed jacket say, "But there's supposed to be four of Lance's paintings on display at the festival. The programme said so." His finger jabbed towards the gap between two framed pieces.
Cheryl, now even more upset, wrung her hands. "I can only apologise. The fourth painting was there a minute ago. I don’t know where it’s gone.” Tears filled her eyes. The man in tweed gave her a hard look and stormed away.
Lydia frowned. What a rude man! She hurried over to Cheryl and gently placed her hand on Chery’s arm. In a low voice, Lydia said, “What’s happened?”
Cheryl moved away from the muttering crowd. She gulped, and said, “I really don’t know. All four of Lance’s paintings were there first thing this morning. Lots of people saw them. But as the hall got busier, our little cafe became swamped with orders for tea and cakes and I had to help out. For a while, I couldn’t see the paintings because of people waiting to be served. I only knew something was wrong when I heard complaints coming from this area." She glanced towards the wall again. "I don’t know where that painting has gone. I feel so guilty for not keeping a closer eye on it.”
Lydia said kindly. "This isn’t your fault. Do you think the police should be notified? Or maybe you should let Lance know first?"
Cheryl frowned at the wall. “I don’t know,” she said. "What if it's jus
"But if it's been stolen, Lance needs to know," George said firmly. "And the police should be informed sooner rather than later."
Cheryl nodded and said George was right. She would have to call the police and then break the news to Lance.
Lydia took a step closer to the wall and peered at the empty space. She said, "Maybe someone did take it by mistake, as you said. Maybe they thought it was for sale and that they could pay for it later, or something like that. It's hard to think someone would actually steal it."
Cheryl let out a small sigh, the worry lines on her forehead softening slightly. "I would really like to believe that, Lydia, that it’s just an honest mistake. Do you think it’s possible?"
Lydia moved back to Cheryl’s side and said, "Would you mind if George and I ask around before you call the police? It's possible someone in town knows something." She glanced over at George, who after a moment’s pause, nodded in agreement and said asking a few questions wouldn’t hurt and it shouldn’t take long.
Cheryl's eyes lit up with a mix of hope and gratitude. "Oh, would you? That would be such a help. Yes, perhaps it was a genuine mistake and nothing else."
"And let's not worry Lance just yet," Lydia added reassuringly. "He’s already worried about this exhibition, and knowing one of his paintings has gone missing will worry him even more. Hopefully, we’ll find the painting soon. Is that okay with you, Cheryl?”
"Yes, of course. Thank you, both of you," Cheryl said, a small smile appearing on her face.
Lydia said, “I haven’t seen Lance’s latest work because he wanted the pictures to be a surprise for me and George. You’ve seen the painting, though, the one that’s missing. What did it look like?”
Cheryl nodded at the wall. “Similar to the ones still there. The paintings are part of a series. Let’s move closer and you’ll see what I mean.”
George, Lydia, and Cheryl moved closer to the wall. They stood side by side, taking in the three remaining paintings that Lance had crafted with such care. Each canvas depicted a different season in Willow Bridge and had simple titles, the first one being Winter in Willow Bridge. Beneath the title was the date that the image had been captured.
The winter scene captured the town square blanketed in snow. The old stone bridge had a dusting of frost, and tiny, festive lights glowed from the windows of homes, casting a warm, inviting glow. In the painting, townsfolk were wrapped up in scarves and hats, some tossing snowballs, others carrying wrapped parcels. Among the painted people were images of George and Lydia. They were heading towards the glow of a cafe.
Lydia smiled when she spotted herself and George and pointed the figures out to her husband. “Look, that’s the day I wore that lovely coat you bought me. I was determined to go out, even with all that snow.”
George nodded. “Ah, yes, I remember that day. We had hot chocolate in that cafe, with lots of whipped cream. I think you had marshmallows on yours, Lydia.”
“I did,” Lydia replied. “I love how Lance has captured a second in time in all its magical glory. Those seconds seem ordinary to us, but seeing them in a painting makes them extra special. He’s so talented.”
They looked at the other paintings. One was full of the golden hues of autumn, and the other with the fresh colours of spring. Each painting was the same image of the village square, but awash with different colours of the season.
“He’s really outdone himself,” George said, his voice full of admiration.
Lydia agreed with her husband. Her attention lingered on the space where Summer in Willow Bridge should have been. She folded her arms, a curious tilt to her head. "I wonder if that summer picture had something in it, something that wasn’t meant to be seen by the public," she mused. "Maybe someone in the background was up to no good. And that person has stolen the painting to destroy the evidence of their misdeed."
George looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. "You've been spending too much time with those detective novels.”
Lydia gave a soft chuckle and said, "Maybe you're right. But it's a mystery, isn't it? Let's try to solve this before Lance hears about his missing masterpiece."
George said, “Okay. And what should we do first?”
Chapter 3
Lydia said to Cheryl, "Did you get a good look at the summer painting before it went missing?"
Cheryl nodded. "Yes, I did. It was a lovely scene of the village in full summer bloom. There were plenty of people in it. You know how busy it gets in summer here. Everyone loves sitting outside the cafes basking in the sun. And I remember the date of the painting, it was the 20th of June. I only remembered that because it was my mum’s birthday and she spent the day here with me. She loves coming to Willow Bridge.”
Lydia had another question. “Have you got a copy of that painting so we can see the people depicted in it?”
Cheryl sighed. “I don’t, unfortunately. Lance kept the subject of the paintings a secret until today. He didn’t even want images of them on the programme. He wasn’t pushy or anything like that when he asked if that was okay, you know how polite he is. But I was happy to accommodate him because I’ve seen examples of his previous work and knew his latest paintings would be marvellous. I was the first one to see them this morning. They are his best ones yet.” She smiled softly.
George tapped away on his phone and then looked up. “I’ve checked Lance's online profiles. He's only posted his older works there, nothing recent. I was hoping he would have put a post on today showcasing the new paintings.”
Lydia said, “Hmm, that’s a shame. It would have been useful if we could have seen the missing painting. Anyway, let’s talk to people who are in the painting and ask discreetly if they’ve been into this hall today. If someone was doing something suspicious on the 20th of June, and they then saw themselves caught in the act, so to speak, they could have whipped the painting away and run off. Cheryl, from what you can remember, did anyone in the painting look suspicious? Shifty, up to something, that sort of thing.”
Cheryl looked taken aback. “I don’t know how to answer that. I wasn’t looking for suspicious expressions or shifty behaviour. Everyone seemed to be having a good time.” She stopped speaking, her eyes narrowed in thought. “Oh, I saw that lovely young man, Steve, in the painting looking very happy sitting outside a cafe, his face turned to the sun. He must have been taking a break from his university studies. And Steve was in here as well, about fifteen minutes ago and having a wander around. But he wouldn’t steal a painting, would he?”
Lydia knew Steve well. She said, “It seems unlikely, but he might have seen something that will help with our investigation. He can be our first witness. George, have you got a notebook? I should start writing things down.”
George put his hands gently on his wife’s shoulders. “Whoa, slow down there. You haven’t suddenly become a private investigator. We’re merely helping Cheryl with what could be an innocent mistake.” He smiled.
Lydia smiled back, somewhat bashfully. “I know, but this is how they do it in books and in movies. But I’ll try to curb my enthusiasm. Stop me if I go too far, George.”
George shook his head. “I’ll try, but you’re a force of nature sometimes, and I love you for it.” He removed his hands from her shoulders.
Lydia said to Cheryl, “We’ll see what we can find out and then come back to you. We won’t accuse anyone, of course. But if someone is guilty, they might admit it of their own free will.”
Cheryl smiled at the couple. “Thank you. I hope you find out what’s happened to that lovely painting before Lance comes back here later.”
“We’ll do our best,” Lydia reassured her.
George and Lydia said goodbye and left the hall.
As they walked away, George reached into his pocket and withdrew a notepad with a pencil tucked into the spiral binding. With a smile, he gave it to Lydia and said, “I always carry a notebook with me. A habit from being a journalist.”
Lydia smiled up at her husband. “You are wonderful, do you know that? Thank you. Right, we need to get something agreed on before we begin our investigation. Who’s going to play the bad cop, you or me?”
