Andrea backed out of the driveway and started down the road. “We’ll go back to the hotel and check the pictures in our room. Maybe it won’t be too much trouble to get them out of the frames if Mr. Wainwright did the framing himself. We can start with the ones in our room, and if the paintings aren’t there, we’ll check the other rooms when we have a chance.”
“I wonder what condition the paintings would be in if another painting has been stuck on top of them all these years.”
“Stuck is probably right,” Andrea said, “if they’re oils. Considering the heat and cold, and the age of the varnish, there’s no telling. Oils can be cleaned and restored, though, so all won’t be lost if we find them.” I tingled with excitement all the way back to the hotel. It would be a stroke of luck if the Monets were under the black bear prints in our very own room. I could hardly wait. Asbury was behind the desk, looking at a newspaper, when we arrived.
“Hi, Asbury,” Andrea said. “All quiet here today?”
“Quiet as a cemetery.”
“No one checking in or out, I guess.”
“Not a soul. We’ll have a rush tomorrow, with folks arriving for the weekend, but no one’s supposed to check in today. I’m just here to answer the phone while Ivy cleans.”
As we went down the hall, Ivy was just opening the door to Gunter Bosch’s room. “Did you have a good visit with Birdie Lancaster?”
I was too impatient to get to our room and check out the back of the pictures to hang around in the hallway, talking. “It was very good. We’ll tell you all about it when we have a chance to sit down for coffee.”
Andrea opened the door to our room, and for a moment I completely forgot the Monets. Sitting on top of the chest was a bouquet of peach-colored roses. Andrea’s face lit up like I’d never seen it before. “Would you look at that!” I said, dying to know what the card, sitting on a pronged holder amid the roses, said about who had sent them.