Chapter 8
Genevieve circled the statue twice before reaching out and gripping one of the gargoyle’s wings. It was hard and unyielding. She shoved against it, and it didn’t budge as she had expected.
How the hell did they move him? And how many guys did it take? Small, red-brown splatters of blood stained her patio, and a pinkish stain lay close to the garden hose.
As amazed as she’d been to see the gargoyle gone, she was even more amazed that he’d been returned. She scanned every inch of him to make certain he sustained no damage, and breathed a sigh of relief when she found none.
She called the sheriff’s office to let them know, and then, on impulse, dialed Jonathan Taylor in Scotland.
She’d read the brief history provided by the owners, but she needed details. The more she thought about what Miranda and Juliet said about the magical force field that encompassed the sculpture, the more she was convinced it was important to know more.
“I can email you all the information I have. Based on the castle records, Ian Cair MacLeod had the statue carved for his castle garden. No one knows why. He was rumored to have a cruel streak and a bad temper, as did his wife. So perhaps his perverse humor played into it. The gargoyle stayed in the gardens in one spot or another until we moved it here to be sold at auction.” He paused. “Is there a problem with the statue?”
Genevieve “No. Not at all. I just wanted more background on him. I’ve been doing some research about the history behind grotesques. Some of it has inspired changes in one of my own projects.”
“I hope you haven’t decided to carve garden gnomes,” he teased.
Genevieve chuckled. “No. I think gnomes might be too much of a niche market for me.”
“So he’s settling in?”
She laughed. “He’s been cleaned, and has his own spot under the eave of my patio, where he can greet all my visitors and stay out of the weather. I can send you photos.”
Jonathan chuckled. “It sounds like we’re sharing a pet long distance.”
“It does. Is there any mention of who might have carved him?”
“No. But then sculptors of that era didn’t sign their work as artists do now. And unless the work was commissioned by a castle owner and contracted, there would be no record of it.
“Although you might want to look in the National Archives online. They have managed to copy many historic records into their system so historians can study them without handling the originals, though you can do that as well on-site. And you might even try calling. They are very helpful with pinpointing information if they know what you’re asking about.”
“I’ll think I’ll do that and see what I can discover. This is becoming a treasure hunt. Your history is so rich and diverse.”
“And so long,” he said, the dryness in his tone inspiring her chuckle.
“Mine is just as long, just not confined to one country. I appreciate your help, Jonathan.”
“You’re quite welcome. If ever you get back to Scotland, don’t hesitate to call me. We’ll go out for Greek or Chinese next time.”
She’d found him good company, and he hadn’t tried to pressure her into more, so she came away with the feeling she’d made a friend. “What, no haggis or blood pudding?”
“I could take you out for that as well, but trust me, neither will live up to their hype.”
“We have a few dishes here in Kentucky I could introduce you to if you decide to visit the US. Nothing as colorful as haggis, unless I did traditional burgoo, which used to mean whatever roadkill you found, or whatever animal you could hunt, like opossum, raccoon, or squirrel.”
The sound of Jonathan’s laughter made her smile. When she hung up a few minutes later, she opened her computer and went on the Scottish National Archives site to see how many answers she could find there.
There were a few documents involving Ian Cair, but nothing about her gargoyle. She scrubbed her scalp, finger-combed her hair, and rubbed her eyes. Perhaps a student with research experience could do this for her. She certainly wasn’t very good at it, and she needed to get some work done.
She reached for her cell phone and called Miranda, who said, “I’m already researching. I haven’t found anything yet, but I’ll keep looking.”
“Thank you. I’ll forward everything Jonathan sent. You might find it helpful.”
She paced to the breezeway and checked on the statue again. “He disappeared last night, and I called the police. This morning he was back. How many people do you think it would take to move him?”
Miranda’s silence stretched on. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t have thought anything but a forklift could do it.”
“The base was still on my patio. Only the statue was moved.”
“He wasn’t damaged in any way?”
“No. But there was blood on the patio. Whoever stole him may have been injured.”
“You need to be careful and lock your doors, Gen. Promise me you’ll do that. And it wouldn’t hurt if you had a security system installed.”
Miranda was the cautious twin, while Juliet was bolder. But after finding the blood, Genevieve did feel a little concerned. Simon had been after her for two years to have a system installed. This might just be time to do it. “I’ll think about it. And I always lock my doors. I promise.”
She opened her studio door to let in the summer breeze while she worked. She absolutely could not lock up while she worked, even though she turned on the vacuum to suck away the dust.
She worked steadily until her shoulders ached from either holding the saw or hammering away at the stone. She unplugged the saw, brushed it free of stone dust, and placed it in the cabinet. Next she used a soft brush to clear away the fine particles clinging to the sculpture, and did the final cleanup around the project with a broom and dustpan.
She ran her hands over the rough image, which, with its angular edges, looked more like a robot than a person. She would fine-tune with a power chisel tomorrow, and more with a hammer and chisel then sandpaper, but she was pleased with the progress.
She removed her work jumper and, careful to keep the mask over her face, gave it a quick shake outside. After pulling the kerchief covering her hair free, she washed her hands and face with cool water and gentle soap. Handling marble seemed to suck the moisture from her skin, but she couldn’t touch the stone with any kind of lotion or oil on her hands. It would stain it. She rubbed moisturizer into her face and hands now to combat the dryness.
She hadn’t slept very well after all the excitement the night before, and decided to sit on the patio with the gargoyle in the late afternoon sun to relax before cooking dinner. She closed up the studio and locked it, then went into the kitchen to fix a glass of iced tea.
Butterbean followed her when she went out on the patio. She pulled a lounge chair close to the sculpture and watched the cat rub and loop around his legs. She stared at the gargoyle, once again taking in his pain-filled snarl.
“Who took you? And how did they get you off my patio?”
When silence bounced back at her, she took a sip of tea and shrugged her tired shoulders. “It had to be a prank. Probably a group of football players, or the wrestling team.”
She eyed the foot-thick, roughly chiseled base the gargoyle crouched on. It was much less refined than the sculpture itself. Perhaps the two pieces were the work of two different sculptors. She’d have to mention it to Miranda. She tilted her head back against the mesh and closed her eyes. The idea of getting up and going inside flitted through her thoughts, but she was comfortable here.
Her eyelids drooped, heavy with exhaustion. She drifted off.