An Exclusive Short Story from Nita Prose

The Missing Mona Lisa

Mrs Bambury is a regular at the Trifle Café. In no other way is she regular. She is, in fact, most unusual. You wouldn’t know to look at her. A matronly woman with owlish glasses, Mrs B is the last person you’d notice in a room, a fact she considers an advantage in her profession.

Before work each day, she eats breakfast at the café – a heaping portion of trifle served with a cup of tea. The bells chime as she walks through the door of the busy establishment, her mouth watering at the display of macarons, the rows of pastel cupcakes, the bowl of fresh trifle. 

Mrs Bambury sits at her usual table and Angie, her favourite waitress, delivers a mound of trifle and a steaming cup of tea. 

‘Thank you, my dear,’ Mrs B says. She’s fond of Angie, a hard-working waitress with a warm heart, though – it must be said – terrible taste in men. 

‘There was a break-in at the café overnight,’ Angie whispers. ‘Can you believe it?’

Mrs B can believe it. Break-ins have risen tenfold in the city in just the past year. Need or greed? Mrs B understands the former; it’s the latter she’ll never comprehend.

‘You reported the crime?’ Mrs B asks.

‘The manager did. They’re sending an officer.’

‘So a lot of cash was taken?’

‘None,’ Angie replies. ‘It’s strange. The back door was wide open when I arrived, but I locked it last night. The only thing we believe was taken was . . . that.’

Angie points to a bare spot on the café wall where a picture used to hang: a faded poster of the Mona Lisa, mounted in an unusual gilt frame. 

‘Nothing else was taken?’

‘Not even a cupcake,’ Angie replies.

‘Who closed with you last night?’

‘Vlad, the new dishwasher.’

‘Did he take the key home?’

‘No,’ Angie answers. ‘I did. Almost left it at home this morning, but Russell pressed it into my hand. First time I’ve seen him out of bed so early. He’s got a job prospect, Mrs B!  An interview! Just when I thought I’d shacked up with another bad egg.’

Mrs Bambury’s smile resembles the tatty Mona Lisa’s that used to hang on the wall. Mrs B met Russell a few months ago, sniffed about him the unmistakable pong of a human parasite. But she has never interfered in Angie’s personal life. A girl learns in due time – her mother’s words, spoken years ago, now echo in Mrs B’s mind. 

The café door chimes and a young police officer saunters in, heading straight for Mrs B. ‘Detective,’ he says. 

‘Mrs Bambury to you, Billy,’ she replies curtly.

‘Sorry, I forgot.’

Her new recruits often did. They could not comprehend why an investigator of her stature wished to be addressed as a simple missus.

‘The sergeant sent me right over when we got the B and E call. He said if it’s the Trifle Café, Mrs B will take an interest.’ The officer eyes Mrs B’s untouched dessert. ‘Trifle for breakfast?’

‘Can I get you some, officer?’ Angie asks, her voice kitten soft. 

‘He’s working,’ Mrs Bambury answers for him. ‘Billy, take Angie’s statement. This break-in is unusual. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s not to overlook the unusual.’  

The officer gazes at Angie. ‘Your boss suspects the dishwasher. New guy. A “person of interest”.’

‘Vlad’s no troublemaker,’ Angie says.

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Officer Billy replies. He tips his cap to Mrs B, then follows Angie to the kitchen. 

Mrs B is glad to be alone. She’s about to take a bite of delicious trifle, but her eye is drawn to the outline on the wall where the faded Mona Lisa print used to hang. Funny how some things leave an impression through absence, rather like the chalk line on the ground once a body is removed. 

Suddenly laughter peals from outside. On the pavement, two men converse. One is Mr Greaves, an appraiser for Sotheby’s. Mrs B met him years ago when investigating a museum heist – a man with a face as dour as his name. He’s speaking to Russell, Angie’s boyfriend. 

Suddenly, there’s a tumult at the back of the café. Billy emerges with an aproned lad in one hand, a knapsack in the other. He frog-marches Vlad to Mrs B’s table, Angie following close behind. 

‘Detective,’ the officer says. ‘This kid is so dumb he thought that poster was the real Mona Lisa. He stole it, look.’ He brandishes the dishwasher’s knapsack, with the crumpled Mona Lisa print sticking out the top.

‘Release him,’ Mrs Bambury demands.

‘But the proof’s in his bag!’

‘Let. Him. Go.’

Reluctantly, the officer follows orders. The café door chimes and Mr Greaves strides in.

‘Excuse me,’ Mrs B says as she makes her way to the appraiser. They converse quietly by the door. Satisfied, Mrs B returns to her table where Billy, Angie and Vladimir wait. 

‘You’re free to go back to work, dear,’ Mrs B says to Vlad, who nods and hurries away.

Billy stares in disbelief. ‘Why’d you let him go?’

‘Because your culprit is there.’ Mrs Bambury points out the window, where Russell smiles as he chats on his cell.

‘Who’s he?’ Billy asks.

‘My boyfriend,’ Angie admits, tears starting to form in her soft eyes. 

Mrs Bambury pats Angie’s hand. ‘Plenty of fish in the sea.’

Soon, Mrs B will explain everything, first to Angie, then to Billy, her station’s daft new recruit. She’ll reveal how Russell arrived at Sotheby’s that morning with a gilded frame so unusual that Mr Greaves knew instantly it had, centuries ago, contained the work of an Old Master, though in recent decades it had contained nothing more than a faded cardboard print of the Mona Lisa. Clearly, Russell knew a thing of value when he saw it, whether it was a good-hearted woman or a priceless antiquity. And he had no qualms about theft, break and entry, or framing an innocent young man.  

Mrs Bambury sits. She mulls what Mr Greaves told her at the door. ‘Many of us know the names of famous painters, but not the names of their framers. Their work is exquisite, highly prized, but their identities remain a mystery. Interesting, no?’ 

Mrs Bambury picks up her fork. At last she takes a bite of sweet trifle followed by a delightful sip of tea. 

She can’t help but agree with Mr Greaves. What he said – it was most interesting.