Palettes, Patriots, and Prats: Esther Brookstone Art Detective, #4

By Steven M. Moore

Esther Brookstone, ex-Scotland Yard inspector in the Art and Antiques Division and ex-MI6 spy during the Cold War, and new husband, Bastiann van Coevorden, have just returned from their honeymoon cruise down the Danube, refreshed and reinvigorated despite Bastiann's having to handle a murder investigation as his last assignment as an Interpol agent. Esther is content running her gallery, and Bastiann works as a consultant for MI5. They hope to enjoy their active golden years together, but more adventures as sleuths await them, colliding with their idyllic existence, as they aid an American artist, try to thwart a Russian assassin, and go after the illegal art trade and human traffickers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven M. Moore
• Release date: May 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201954567

Steven M. Moore

If you’re reading this, thank you. Not many people find me...or recognize me as an author of many genre fiction novels. Maybe it’s because my name is too common—I thought once about using a pen name...and probably should have. Maybe it’s because I don’t get many reviews. (It's not hard to write one once you've read one of my books: just say what you like and dislike in a few lines, and why.) I know you have many good books and good authors to choose from, so I’m honored and humbled that you are considering or have read some of mine.You’re here on Smashwords because you love to read. Me too. Okay, maybe you’re here to give someone the gift of an entertaining book—that’s fine too. I love to tell stories, so either way, you’ll be purchasing some exciting fiction, each book unique and full of action and interesting characters, scenes, and themes. Some are national, others international, and some are mixed; some are in the mystery/suspense/thriller category, others sci-fi, and some are mixed-genre. There are new ones and there are evergreen ones, books that are as fresh and current as the day I wrote them. (You should always peruse an author's entire oeuvre. I find many interesting books to read that way.)I started telling stories at an early age, making my own comic books before I started school and writing my first novel the summer I turned thirteen—little of those early efforts remain (did I hear a collective sigh of relief?). I collected what-ifs and plots, character descriptions, possible settings, and snippets of dialogue for years while living in Colombia and different parts of the U.S. (I was born in California and eventually settled on the East Coast after that sojourn in South America). I also saw a bit of the world and experienced other cultures at scientific events and conferences and with travel in general, always mindful of what should be important to every fiction writer—the human condition. Fiction can’t come alive—not even sci-fi—without people (they might be ET people in the case of sci-fi, of course).I started publishing what I'd written in 2006—short stories, novellas, and novels—we’d become empty-nesters and I was still in my old day-job at the time. Now I’m a full-time writer. My wife and I moved from Boston to the NYC area a while back, so both cities can be found in some novels, along with many others in the U.S. and abroad.You can find more information about me at my website: https://stevenmmoore.com. I’m also on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorStevenMMoore; and Twitter @StevenMMoore4.I give away my short fiction; so does my collaborator A. B. Carolan who writes sci-fi mysteries for young adults. See my blog categories "Steve's Shorts," "ABC Shorts," and the list of free PDF downloads on my web page "Free Stuff & Contests" at my website (that list includes my free course "Writing Fiction" that will be of interest mainly to writers).I don't give away my novels. All my ebooks are reasonably priced and can be found here at Smashwords, including those I've published with Black Opal Books (The Last Humans) and Penmore Press (Rembrandt's Angel and Son of Thunder). I don't control either prices or sales on those books, so you can thank those traditional publishers for also providing quality entertainment for a reasonable price. That's why you won't find many sales of my books either. They're now reserved for my email newsletter subscribers. (If you want to subscribe, query me using [e-mail].)My mantra has always been the following: If I can entertain at least one reader with each story, that story is a success. But maybe I can do better than that? After all, you found me!Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Book preview

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the author’s prior written consent. Small sections of this novel may be quoted for review purposes.

This book is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, products, and incidents are either creations of the author’s imagination, or used as historical and venue background for the story. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, events, locales, or products is coincidental, with some exceptions, but all are used in a fictional context. No endorsement is implied in mentioning them, nor are any opinions expressed by fictional characters necessarily those of the author.

Summary

Esther Brookstone, ex-Scotland Yard inspector in the Art and Antiques Division and ex-MI6 spy during the Cold War, and new husband, Bastiann van Coevorden, have just returned from their honeymoon cruise down the Danube, refreshed and reinvigorated despite Bastiann’s having to handle a murder investigation as his last assignment as an Interpol agent. Esther is content running her gallery, and Bastiann works as a consultant for MI5. They hope to enjoy their active golden years together, but more adventures as sleuths await them, colliding with their idyllic existence, as they aid an American artist, try to thwart a Russian assassin, and go after the illegal art trade and human traffickers. Mystery, suspense, thrills, and intrigue once more await readers.

What Reviewers Said about Previous Books in the Esther Brookstone Art Detective Series...

Rembrandt’s Angel...

"...is a complex thriller with several plots intertwined throughout the story. It is recommended for serious mystery fans who are looking for not only a challenging read, but also one that allows readers to become an armchair adventurist and detective, along with Brookstone and van Coevorden, spanning many different parts of the globe."—Lynette Latzko, Feathered Quill Book Reviews

Son of Thunder...

...is an exceptionally well-crafted and well-researched novel. Even though I haven’t read the previous novel in the series, I had no trouble becoming invested in the story and getting involved in the protagonists’ lives. I enjoyed the connection between Esther and Bastiann and how they seemed to balance each other out. While Esther is a firecracker, Bastiann is the calm soul that brings her back to earth while helping her fly. I also enjoyed how Esther seemed to bring a lot to the story. From her quirky personality to her great sense of humor, she made things work while having a grand time. The development of the story was great, the plot was incredibly rich and the characters were super entertaining. It is a great story and I cannot wait for more. —Rabia Tanveer, in her Readers’ Favorite 5-star review.

Death on the Danube...

...is the third book in the ‘Esther Brookstone Art Detective Series’ by Steven M. Moore, and it is a wonderful blend of mystery and murder; a story that will be loved by fans of sleuth novels.... Steven M. Moore is a master storyteller who creates characters with depth and thrusts them into complex situations. I loved the way the relationship between Esther and Bastiann is written, the great pacing, and the wonderful writing.—Gobi Jane, in her Readers’ Favorite 5-star review.

British, Scottish, and Irish Dialects

Note from Steve: Just like the US has Bostonian and Texan dialects, the UK and the Republic of Ireland have regional dialects. I tried to include all those appearing in the novel, but I possibly missed a few...or included a few extras from previous novels? And please don’t hold it against this Yank if my definitions aren’t one hundred percent correct. (While I might be responsible for some errors, Google and Microsoft Word were willing accomplices!)

A

aggro—aggravation

Auld Reekie—Edinburgh, Scotland

B

barney—verbal skirmish

beck—creek, small river

biro—ballpoint pen (named after the inventor)

blaggard—scoundrel

blather—talk, often without rhyme or reason

bloke—fellow, guy

blues and twos—emergency vehicles, or patrol cars in general (for blue lights and two people)

bollix—bungle

bollocks—general swear word (literally, testicles)

boot—trunk

brae—a steep bank or hillside

C

car park—parking lot (usually seen as two words, but sometimes as one)

ceilidh—gathering with Gaelic folk music, singing, dancing, and/or storytelling

chap—fellow, guy

chappie—fellow, guy

chat up—flirt

chinwag—conversation, discussion

CID—Criminal Investigative Department

chuffed—pleased

copper—policeman or policewoman

crisps—potato chips

D

DS—Detective Sergeant

DC—Detective Constable

DI—Detective Inspector

DCI—Detective Chief Inspector

do an early dart—leave business early

do a runner—flee, disappear

donkey’s years—a long time

dosh—money (wad)

droll—boring, irrelevant

E

eejit—fool

F

fag—cigarette

feckin’—not as strong as the American version, yet also used to emphasize

fiver—five-pound note

fuggy—(of a room or atmosphere) warm, stuffy, smoky

G

give stick—beat up, verbally or physically

gobshite—mean or contemptible person

gobsmacked—astonished, astounded (a gob was a wad of tobacco)

goolies—testicles

GP—General Physician

grass on—rat on

H

hire-car—rental car

I

Iron Lady—Margaret Thatcher

K

kerb-crawler—prostitute (kerb is curb in the US)

knackered—exhausted

L

do a lie-in—sleep late

loo—bathroom, WC

lorry—truck

M

marra—mate (Cumbrian dialect)

mash—brew of tea, but not tea bags

mobile—cellphone

monkeys—500-pound note

MPs—members of parliament

N

nappies—diapers

nick—steal (verb); arrest (verb); police station (noun)

niggling—trifling, annoying

nipper—child

numpty—stupid or foolish person

nutter—crazy person

O

old chestnut—adage or saying

P

peckish—hungry

pillock—fool

pish-tosh—only a trifle

plonker—a fool

plods—coppers

PM—prime minister

prat—a stupid or foolish person

publican—owner of a pub

punter—bettor (British); customer (Irish)

R

rozzer—copper

rugger—rugby player

S

SCO19—Specialist Crime and Operations group (SWAT group in the US)

scarper—flee

scrote—lowlife

scrum—disorderly crowd

shite—what you expect, but not considered swearing as such

skelping—unusually large or outstanding

SIO—Senior Investigating Officer

SOCO—Scene of Crime Officer (US CSI)

sod—annoying person (noun); deprecate or disparage (verb): Sod it!

stunner—pretty woman

T

takeaway—fast food the buyer picks up

taking the Mickey—taunting, joking, or being otherwise unreasonable

taking the piss—see immediately above

telly—television

tipple—imbibe an alcoholic beverage

tippler—habitual drinker

toff—aristocrat, or member of the privileged classes

trainers—sneakers (US East Coast) or tennis shoes (US West Coast)

trawl—search

tuck in—more eating than going to bed

twaddle—nonsense

twit—foolish or stupid person (applicable to both sexes in Britain)

W

wag—a person given to droll, roguish, or mischievous humor

Wellies—overshoes

wrinklies—elderly people

Y

yob—rude or aggressive person

Cast of Principal Characters

Reginald Reggie Fox = Esther’s upstairs neighbor

Esther Brookstone = ex-Scotland Yard inspector and ex-MI6 agent, now retired

Bastiann van Coevorden = ex-Interpol agent, now retired and MI5 consultant

Roberta Bobbie MacDonald = American artist

Angela Randazzo = Bobbie’s agent

Frederic Freddie March = a duke who’s an MI5 consultant

David Thackeray = Scotland Yard DCI

Ricardo Silva = Brazilian artist

Jeremy Brand = MI5 agent

Sergei Yahontov = Russian assassin

Janos Rakoczy = Hungarian assassin

Sir Archibald Wheeler = shipping magnate and MP in the House of Lords

Security Agencies: Acronyms and Comparisons

Internal security: British MI5 : US FBI & DHS : French DGSI : Russian FSB

External security: British MI6 : US CIA : French DGSE : Russian SVR

Notes:

The MI in MI5 and MI6 stands for Military Intelligence

FBI = Federal Bureau of Investigation

DHS = Department of Homeland Security

CIA = Central Intelligence Agency

The DGS in DGSI and DGSE signifies General Department of Security..., while I means Interior, and E means Exterior

FSB = Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service

SVR = Russia’s Federal Security Service

Metropolitan Police—also called the Met or the Yard (for Scotland Yard, which is used for both the Met and the City of London Police), is the general policing organization for England and Wales; it covers general crime throughout the region with its many divisions, including Esther’s old Art and Antiques Division, but it also covers crimes associated with the Official Secrets Act and railroad terminals and some local airports.

Police Scotland—created in 2013 to unify policing in all of Scotland, and nearly the size of the Metropolitan Police with all its divisions and bureaucracy.

Garda—a police force in both the Irish Republic and Northern Ireland (British)

Bundespolizei is used in both Austria and Germany and means Federal Police.

Preface

My dear friend Esther Brookstone can’t seem to stay out of trouble. With her current husband, Bastiann van Coevorden, also retired, one would think the happy couple would just go off into the sunset and enjoy their golden years together. After all, she has two pensions from His Majesty’s government and healthy savings, because her three previous husbands left her modestly well off. And Bastiann has his pension from Interpol and collects consulting fees from Robert Winston’s insurance company.

Yet la grande dame either finds more trouble, or it finds her. In the following pages, I replay my role as Watson to her Holmes and chronicle for the fourth time more adventures of this inimitable art detective. As is my custom, I take liberties by filling in where I lack specific knowledge. Enjoy.

George Langston, London

Chapter One: London, England

Reggie Fox set the alarm for Esther’s flat and then exited. He made sure the key properly engaged the dead bolt and headed for the lift.

He’d completed his daily task: Adding to the mail piled  high on Esther’s counter. She does her duty by His Majesty’s postal service, he thought. He wasn’t about to sort it either. He had no idea what advertisements and catalogs she’d want to read or keep. He never hesitated—they always went into his bin—whereas old women often insisted on paging through them.

An arrogant bloke who looked down his nose at most people, he prided himself on his appearance and spent so much time in the pursuit of the ladies that he had never managed to settle down with one. Deep down he knew he was like Henry Higgins, a professor of French in his case, although he knew a bit about comparative linguistics; he would also spend his last days as a lonely bachelor. But he was addicted to the conquest and frustrated that Esther hadn’t succumbed to his charms.

His relationship hadn’t started out well, but he liked his old neighbor enough and had once imagined they might become an item...or at least one of his conquests. After all, I’m a debonair and still sexually active old fellow with a pulse and plenty of money. For a widow, what’s not to like?

Bastiann, on the other hand, was a walking wine barrel, a Humpty Dumpty shaped fellow, a rough man one might expect to be employed as a bouncer at some London night club. She’d chosen him over me. Here I am, a witty fellow who can chinwag with aristocratic old ladies and young students alike, as long as they’re attractive females! Esther was a good-looking older woman who had resisted his many charms, though, so he had to give the ex-Interpol agent some credit.

Can I even count her as a friend? He thought she might just tolerate him because she found him useful sometimes. If he traveled, she’d look after his mail and check his flat; and she expected that favor to be returned. He thought she had the better part of that bargain. He had to admit her life was more exciting than his. His sporadic trips to the continent, now complicated by Brexit, couldn’t compare with her treks around the world.

He called the lift and took it down to the building’s car park, essentially a stuffy, gloomy basement area mostly empty at that time of day. When the doors opened, he looked out.

Ever since that psychotic Italian had attacked Esther, Reggie had been wary of dark places where people parked their cars, especially their own building’s car park. He stepped out and looked from side to side and towards the rear. Reginald Fox, you old paranoid sod! There’s no one here!

He then realized he still stood frozen in front of the elevator, lost in thought like some senile old man. Embarrassed at his daydreaming, he looked into the dim recesses of the car park to find his BMW.

That’s when they tackled him, one from each side. He went down.

***

One thug held him down while the other went through his pockets. Reggie saw the latter bloke stand and go through his wallet. Common muggers! Plods were never around when you needed them.

You’ll find nothing worthwhile in there, he said. I was on the way to the bank. He immediately regretted that statement. Stupid prat! They’ll take you there and steal your money.

The one sitting on him clocked him once, and Reggie spit blood. Will they kill me if they find nothing worthwhile? That happened sometimes on the telly.

The one with the wallet crouched again and found his BMW’s fob. Nice set of wheels, Guv, but I hate Nazi cars. What’s wrong with English-made, old bean?

Before Brexit, most BMW parts were made here. Most motorcars are assembled elsewhere from parts—

The other’s fist slammed into his mouth again.

My friend knows I hate blathering eejits too. Oi! Two sets of keys. The man kneeled again. Reggie could smell his whiskey breath. Now, old man, let’s play a wee game, shall we. I guess the ring with only two keys is the one I need to open Esther Brookstone’s flat?

Reggie spat blood. You’d guess wrong. And I don’t know any Esther Brookstone.

The next blow broke his nose. The kneeling man then grabbed his cheeks and stretched them, let them go, and then slapped them.

Listen to me, prat, my patience’s not what it used to be, not that it ever was good. Why not make it easy on yourself?

I don’t converse with dirty scrotes, Reggie said, reaching all the way back to language from his childhood he rarely used now. He spat out more blood.

The other’s fist raised, but the squatting man stood and stomped on Reggie’s abdomen.

Beat the crap outta him to teach him a lesson, he said. And make sure he don’t wake up for a while, but don’t kill him. Then meet me upstairs. One of these keys has to work.

***

Reggie went in and out of consciousness. When conscious, he empathized with Esther. He now knew how she must have felt when that psychotic Italian kidnapped her. It was a wonder she could later face that awful man and get the best of him. That woman has spunk!

A long time later, the two thugs exited the lift and each one gave him a kick in the ribs for good measure as they passed by.

I tried, Esther, he mused. I really did. He lapsed into unconsciousness once again.

More time passed...and then he heard someone approaching. Have they returned?

Chapter Two: Argyllshire, Scotland

Some years ago, Bobbie MacDonald was desperate and would have lived anywhere but New York City. She ended up moving as far away from there as she could easily manage. Argyllshire, with its lonely landscapes and brooding skies, seemed far enough from those who pitied her or might pursue her. Dr. Blake had told her it would be good for her to get away for a while, and she did.

That for a while had become seven years, the last five at her secluded home on a bluff on Scotland’s wild Atlantic coast. She valued her solitude. Even her weekly trip to the little village for staples still resurrected her paranoia, although the old gentleman who ran the market there was as nice as he could be. A typical taciturn Scot, but a kind, fatherly figure all the same. She attributed her agita more to leaving the house and making the three-mile lonely trip on a winding country road that rarely had traffic.

She put the grocery bags in the back of her little Morris and opened the driver’s door, eyeing the sky as a few clouds seemed to scud along the green hilltops. At home she’d seen on her laptop they were in for a storm, or at least a bit of rain, but for now the clouds only gave a hint of its approach. The forecast was for Helensburgh, and that biggest town in the area was twenty miles south of the village. The storm could stay south too, but there was no guarantee. There never was in Scotland.

Maybe I can still get some painting done? Her house sat overlooking a remote sea loch where she could look down and watch the waves crash onto the moraine from her living room. She painted in her studio around the corner from there where the soft northern light was optimal when the weather was good.

She’d never thought of her dark red hair and blue eyes as particularly Celtic, but she could blend in with the locals, better if she weren’t so neurotic and shy. The taciturn Scots always welcomed her with their nods and smiles, even the women who had every reason to be threatened by the curvaceous beauty if they were married or in a serious relationship. She never tried to accent that beauty, though, using little makeup and dressing simply. Most of the time when she was painting, she wore a physician’s smock. Once white, it was spattered with all sorts of vivid colors that had accumulated over the five years. Few people saw her like that, though, and she’d be embarrassed if they did, because she often wore nothing but panties under it, especially during the hot months.

She had moved there to have a quiet life, one where she could paint in peace. After spending two years in London, she had fled the big city and its neighborhoods that often reminded her of Manhattan’s West Side. Now her contacts were few and mostly out of necessity. Her canvases, easel, and palette were her closest friends, and they allowed her to capture the beauty of the wild Scottish landscapes she so prized.

Her trips for groceries calibrated time for her. Without them, she wouldn’t be able to measure its passage. Her idyllic existence now featured only a few major events beyond those weekly shopping trips: Her agent visited from time to time to take her paintings to galleries up and down the coast, even to London; and Dr. Blake occasionally called at random times from the US, calls Bobbie often found annoying. That woman was never satisfied. Bobbie liked her, but she seemed to believe Bobbie would go off the rails again. Sometimes she didn’t even answer the phone when the psychiatrist’s name came up.

As she drove by Police Scotland’s substation, she tapped her horn. She didn’t know if Rafael or Sam were in there, but Dotty would be. Whoever was there would be worried if she didn’t let them know she’d made her weekly trip to buy groceries.

Sam, the younger constable, looked like he’d just graduated from high school, but Dotty had told Bobbie he was twenty-eight. Rafael was Bobbie’s age and a sergeant; he’d invited her to a traditional ceilidh soon after her arrival, but she hadn’t followed that with any other attempts at socialization. Dotty, a good-natured woman, and Dan, the old owner of the grocery, were good friends.

Rafael had installed her security system and taught her how to use it. With its videocams, motion sensors, and control panels, one in her entrance hall and the other in her bedroom closet, the high-tech system always reminded her of the cities she’d left behind. They also seemed out of place in her haven between the sea and braes of Argyllshire.

These were the principal characters in Bobbie’s world now, except for the agent and Dr. Blake, who were more denizens of the urban world Bobbie had abandoned. Rafael and Sam manned the substation; Dotty was the dispatcher. At least one copper was on duty 24/7, but Dotty was there only on weekdays from eight to five. She answered calls at home otherwise, and could dispatch Rafael or Sam, or someone from the main office in Alexandria. She was also the go-to person for fire and ambulance service, although the main hospital, Vale of Leven District Hospital in Alexandria, was about forty minutes away.

Dan, Rafael, and Sam were nice enough, but they were men. Bobbie had a problem with most men now. Dr. Blake hadn’t said it directly, but Bobbie thought the psychiatrist wouldn’t believe Bobbie was cured until she could relate better to men. She’d told the doctor several times, though, that she just hadn’t found the right guy.

She sighed. Not going to happen anytime soon either.

***

Bobbie saw a strange car parked in front of her place when she returned with the groceries. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the wheel and slowed down. Should I park in the drive or ditch the car and run? Clouds, darker now, and scudding across the intense blue sky, seemed to echo those doubts, telling her to save herself.

She wasn’t expecting any visitors. Her agent wasn’t supposed to come until the following week. Besides, she had an older Mercedes; this one looked new and had the temporary plates to prove it.

In her panic, she was still able to note that Rafael’s system had a serious flaw: The deck videocam could only reveal a person was there if Bobbie was in the house looking at the tiny little screen that was part of the control panels. She went to the front porch to peek into the cottage. She could see all the way through and out a back window to the raised deck attached to the kitchen.

Someone sat there, admiring the magnificent landscape. My landscape! Bobbie did that a lot, from her back picture window in winter and that same deck in summer. Surprisingly, the primeval loneliness of the vista always calmed her.

She couldn’t tell if her visitor was a man or woman—the jacket had a hood, not up, but high enough on the neck to hide the length of the hair—so she circled the house to where three steps took one to the deck’s level. She saw the face from the top step.

Angela? You gave me a fright!

The woman turned her head. Sorry, Bobbie. I tried to call. Is your mobile off?

Sometimes the reception isn’t very good here. How long have you been waiting?

Not long, and it’s no problem. I’m a week early. I just sat here enjoying the view.

Bobbie pulled a chair over and sat next to her agent. She gripped the arms of the chair to keep her hands from shaking.

The tanned woman at Bobbie’s side would turn heads in any world capital. She had an indeterminate ethnicity, but some of the tan was the natural pigmentation of a daughter of southern Italy. Her dark hair caught the highlights even from the anemic Scottish sun that now played tag with the increasingly dark clouds, and her eyes twinkled with mischief.

Bobbie had always admired the fiery Italian. Unlike Bobbie, Angela was an extrovert. Although she preferred Glasgow to London, Bobbie knew Angela felt more comfortable in a big city. To be fair, she loved the wild landscapes around Bobbie’s sea loch because Angela treated a visit there as a country outing. She’d told Bobbie that many times, but Bobbie could see through the charade. Angela was a city girl who was a bit lost in the wild;