Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

Simon went on, looking unseeingly at the faces in the group before him. He was thinking that seven o’clock would be too early. There were bright gleams in the Florida night sky at that hour, and the area blazed with Christmas lights. If he was even seen on the museum grounds after hours it would be all over before it began. He could hear his boss saying, “That’s what I get for hiring a black kid.”

He continued, glancing back at the painting, “This is the portrait in oils of Dorothea Fox-Nugent, founder of the museum. It was commissioned by her husband, a wealthy businessman, for the opening of the museum in 1935. That opening, which was held on Mrs. Fox-Nugent’s fortieth birthday, was the event of the year in Sarasota and was attended by this city’s most distinguished society.”

Even eight o’clock would be risky, he thought, and if there was a moon... He went on, “Mrs. Fox-Nugent is wearing a sky blue satin evening gown designed for her in Paris especially for the occasion.” Here Simon smiled a little, as he had learned to do. “Some members of proper Sarasota society of that day considered the gown a bit daring and décolleté.”

A little girl in the group said, “What’s decol — decol — what?” and everybody laughed.

Simon smiled at her. “It means very low cut. However, Mrs. Fox-Nugent was noted for her daring — and for her diamonds. Observe that she is wearing a tiara, rings, necklace, and earrings of these jewels. She was considered striking rather than beautiful, with dark brown hair and a diminutive figure.”

“What’s dimin—” the little girl started to say, but her mother shushed her.

“Very small,” said Simon patiently. He was thinking that “very small” might also describe his chance of getting away with tonight’s crazy plan. Glancing at his watch, he continued, “The museum is a replica of a sixteenth century French château. It was built here in Sarasota by the Fox-Nugents not only as their home, but also to house the splendid collection of paintings and sculptures acquired during many years of travel. Upon opening it to the public, the Fox-Nugents moved their living quarters to the spacious top floor of the château. After her husband’s death, Mrs. Fox-Nugent continued to expand the collection until her own death in 1960. With its fine view of the Gulf of Mexico, this small but elegant museum is one of Sarasota’s most popular attractions.”

A man in the group asked, “Is it owned by the city?”

“Excuse me?” Simon’s thoughts had begun to wander again. Suppose somebody saw the stuff in his locker...

“I said, does the city of Sarasota own this place?”

“No. The Dorothea Fox-Nugent Museum is privately owned and operated by a board of trustees.” He moved forward. “Please take a few minutes to look around this room, which holds the finest paintings of the collection. On the right wall you see a Copley, a Sargent, and a Tintoretto. On the left wall, a Hals and a Veronese. On the rear wall,” he knew his voice changed as he got to the rear wall, “is an early Van Zeller, one of his most beautiful Nativities. It depicts Mary, Joseph, and the child Jesus in a raised structure resembling a dovecote.”

Simon was always annoyed by the people in these groups who, instead of turning to look at the works of the masters, continued to gawk at the portrait of Mrs. Fox-Nugent. When they raved about it he always wanted to say, “It’s nothing but a second-rate pretty picture and it doesn’t belong in here.” In a way, though, it did. Her museum had been a wonderful gift to the city, and the lady probably deserved to be surrounded by her best treasures. But in Simon’s estimation, the portrait was flashy and too flattering. He’d seen photographs of Dorothea Fox-Nugent and learned a lot about her during his training course. He respected what she’d done for Sarasota, but he thought she looked rather bossy and stuck up.

He said, “Are there any questions?”

Staring at him, a fat woman asked, “How old are you?”

Simon wanted to say, “I didn’t mean personal questions,” but he smiled politely.

“Twenty.”

The little girl asked, “What’s your name?”

“Simon.”

Now everybody was staring at him. He was used to it. He knew he looked great in the red museum blazer, and as the only black tour guide he’d be bound to attract attention.

An elderly man asked, “Are you a student?” to which Simon nodded. “Where?”

“The Ringling School of Art.”

The man smiled. “You’re very well versed in your subject, young man. You give a good tour.”

“Thank you.” The closing bell rang shrilly. “And thank you all for coming. Let me remind you that the museum is not open on Christmas Day.”

There was a patter of applause and the room began to empty. Simon waited until the last person had cleared the door then snapped off the lights. Through the dimness he could still see the gleam of Mary’s halo in the Nativity. He smiled at it thinking, Just a few more hours and you’ll be mine, all mine!