The Golden Hen

Chapter 3: Operation Cluck

Neal's loft. August 26, 2004. Thursday evening.

Neal sat at the small dinette table in his loft. He'd brought home two books on Fabergé from the university's art library. Sonya's photos were displayed on his laptop. But nothing was providing much help. It was now Thursday evening, and despite intensive searches, the hen was still AWOL. With each passing day, the odds of recovering it grew more remote. Frustrating was too mild a term for this case. Depressing? Disheartening? All of the above?

He stood up to stretch his legs and went over to the French doors overlooking the terrace. Rehashing the case was going nowhere. Staring at the photos was certainly not providing any leads. Would painting spark inspiration?

Recently he'd been experimenting with different techniques. In a week he could move into his assigned studio at Columbia where he'd prepare works for the end-of-year exhibition. He only had the vaguest ideas of what he wanted to paint. Swirling patterns and colors, but nothing gelled. Just like the hen ...

He let his thoughts drift as he observed the night sky. Suddenly something clicked. The cobalt blue of the horizon transitioned to a darker palette of Prussian toward the zenith. That was a start. He shoved the laptop and book to the side and retrieved his watercolor paints.

Sometime later, the soft iambic pentameter of a knock alerted him to Mozzie's arrival. "Door's open," he called out. Leaning back in his chair, he lay down his brush and flexed his fingers.

"The artist at work," Mozzie commented as he walked in. He approached the table to scrutinize the watercolor Neal had painted. "Study in Blue, I assume. Reflective of your mood perhaps?"

Neal winced as he began cleaning up his supplies, "Tell me you've found something to improve it."

"Stop looking at the stars when we are all in the gutter."

"Is there a particular reason you're mangling Oscar Wilde?"

"I have a lead on the phantom hen," he replied gleefully.

"You found her roost?" Neal said, excitement pulverizing his prior gloom.

"Not quite, but we're getting closer. Remember Jimmy the Sneak?"

"Is he still in New York? I thought he'd gone back to Chicago."

"No, he's still holding on, which is rather amazing after that debacle last year." Mozzie retrieved a glass from the kitchenette and helped himself to the open bottle of wine on the counter. "I tried to warn him, but would he listen to me? Of course not. He was convinced that Wilkes would be his ticket to riches. It's as if—"

"Focus," Neal said impatiently. "What did you discover?"

Mozzie exhaled and took a sip. "If you insist. Nice wine, by the way, although a little too much tannin."

Neal groaned. "Tonight, please."

Mozzie smiled complacently at his impatience. "It appears that Jimmy was contacted by our mystery assailant. Jimmy told me that a certain Frank Harper approached him looking for a fence. Harper claims to have come into possession of, and I quote, 'a valuable jeweled bird' and wants to unload it fast."

"Frank Harper? Never heard of him. Do you know anything about him?"

"Not at first, but Jimmy supplied a few details. Harper's a low-level gutter feeder out of Philly. I don't think he's been here very long. Jimmy said he's the type you don't want to make mad, but then Jimmy's afraid of his own shadow. How he's managed to stay in business is beyond me. Anyway, supposedly Harper is beyond nervous about this 'jeweled bird.' He worked himself into a lather just to find a fence. If you want to meet him, we should let Jimmy know."