by Sara Rosett
Thacker laughed. “Me? No, I’m retired now…well, semi-retired. Mostly, I leave things like that to the kids, like your husband. What do you say? You can drive up Saturday and stay the weekend in a small apartment we own. Your husband can join you on Saturday after the conference. A weekend in Vail…is a wonderful thing. I wouldn’t pass it up, if I were you. You can meet my wife, Mary, and I’ll tell you all the details about the sculpture. I think you’ll find the story quite…entertaining.”
She wouldn’t get as much relaxing time at the hotel while Jack was at his conference, but this opportunity was too good to pass up. “I’d love to.”
6
Saturday
Zoe saw the sign for Vail and put on her blinker. She had departed Denver early that morning, leaving Jack to attend his last conference sessions. He had grumbled in a good-natured sort of way, “Go ahead. Go to the mountains without me. Have lunch with a multimillionaire. I don’t mind. I’ll just stay here and work.”
Zoe knew he was joking. “It’s only a few hours.”
As soon as the conference ended tonight, Jack was scheduled to catch a Denver-to-Vail shuttle, which would drop him off at the Vail town center. Zoe and Jack would have the evening and the whole day tomorrow to explore the village and the mountain.
Zoe parked in the multilevel parking garage, which seemed sort of an odd thing to have nestled next to a ski village, but she supposed it was needed during the winter season when the area would be packed. For now, there were only a few cars, and she easily found a parking space, which she assumed meant the village wasn’t quite as busy during the fall as it would be in a few months.
She stepped out of the car and took a deep breath of the crisp evergreen-scented air as she zipped up her jacket. She’d known the mountains would be cooler than Dallas, but the air had a sharp edge that made it feel like winter was only days away.
She followed the directions in the email she received from someone named Kaz Volk and made her way through the village to Fredrick Thacker’s cabin. If she hadn’t known she was in Colorado, she might have thought she was in a Bavarian village. The towering mountains in the background, the steep roof lines, the overflowing flower baskets, and the fretwork on the wooden balconies, combined to give the village a definite Alpine air.
It was odd to think that this morning she started her day on the flat plains to the east side of the Rocky Mountains in Denver, and in only a couple of hours she had driven a road that had taken her through small mining towns into the heart of the mountains. She had enjoyed the drive as it traced along the course of a sparkling river and through a tunnel that burrowed through one of the mountains where she crossed the Continental Divide.
As she walked past designer boutiques, high-end art galleries, and restaurants with umbrella-shaded tables outside, her phone buzzed with the text from Harrington. Zoe had texted him after speaking to Fredrick Thacker, but because Harrington was out of the office and on a trip to Japan, she hadn’t expected to hear back. Her steps slowed as she read the message.
Interesting that the ballet dancer belonged to Thacker. Good idea to meet with him. Be careful, though. I’ve heard some interesting rumors about him that hint at unsavory things.
Zoe resumed walking. Interesting that Harrington wanted to give her a little warning about Thacker. She strolled by fancy boutiques and a couple of ski rental shops, then managed to resist going inside a gourmet chocolate shop. She found Thacker’s cabin on the far side of the village. Tucked up at the base of the mountains, it was a perfect location. Walk out the door, and you’d be on the slopes.
It was more extreme luxury home than cabin. The multi-story building with fieldstone and wood accents had a ground floor with two double garages and three stories of living space above. Zoe climbed the wooden staircase to the deck that looked as if it encircled the whole building then crossed to the huge wooden front door.
She was surprised when Thacker opened the door. She’d expected someone like a housekeeper or maid to greet her. Zoe recognized him immediately, even though it had been several years since his online ads had gone viral. His narrow face was a little bit more padded, and his longish straight brown hair was now tinted with gray around his temples, but otherwise he looked the same. He held a glass of white wine in one hand. “Welcome, Mrs. Andrews. Come in, come in.”
“Call me Zoe, please.”
As she stepped inside, Thacker said, “And you must call me…Fred.”
Zoe hadn’t been quite sure what he was going to say and had braced herself for anything from Chairman of the Board to Supreme Overlord.
“Of course…Fred,” Zoe said with a pause of her own. She didn’t think she’d be able to toss his name off easily, but she’d try. He had presence even dressed down in a worn sweatshirt with the word Vail printed across it in capital letters, a pair of faded jeans, and red cowboy boots. It was not at all the look she expected a multimillionaire to have, even on a Saturday afternoon at home.
He waved the wine glass. “Come this way,” he said, indicating a large living area dominated by a flagstone fireplace that filled one wall running up to the rafters. Wood beams traced across the openness of the two-story ceiling. The room was furnished with a mixture of casual furniture in leather with a rustic edge to the design. The living area connected to an open kitchen and beyond it, a glass wall gave a view of the mountains. A plump blonde woman in a bright multicolored floral top with black leggings was moving back and forth across the kitchen from the glass-fronted cabinets to the professional gas range.
“Mary,” Thacker said, “Zoe Andrews is here.” He motioned to the living area and said to me, “You can leave your stuff in here.”
The painting over the fireplace drew Zoe’s attention. She thought it might be a Salvador Dalí and wondered if it was an original, but she didn’t have time to look closely. She dropped her messenger bag on the couch and draped her jacket over it, then followed Thacker to the kitchen.
Zoe guessed Mary was near Thacker’s age, which was listed on his Wikipedia bio as fifty-eight. With her bouffant blond hair, chunky gold jewelry, and perfect makeup that included hot pink lipstick that matched her pink fingernails, Mary resembled many of the society wives that Zoe had met on her recent tour of art gallery openings.
“Nice to meet you.” Mary shook Zoe’s extended hand, then said, “I’m a hugger,” and gave Zoe a quick embrace as a cloud of flowery perfume enveloped her. Mary stepped back and tugged at the frayed neckline of Thacker’s sweatshirt. “I can’t believe you’re wearing this ratty old thing.”
“It’s my Vail sweatshirt,” he said. “I wear it every time I’m here.”
“I know,” Mary said to Zoe in a what-can-you-do tone of voice. “Men and their clothes.”
She patted Thacker on the shoulder. “Go change into that nice cashmere sweater I bought you the other day. Lunch is almost ready.”
Thacker said to Zoe, “You can see who runs things here, right?” He set his glass of wine on the granite countertop. “I shall return…shortly,” he said before climbing an open-tread staircase.
Mary waved Zoe into the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Zoe felt as if she was technically at work, so she said, “Water or a ginger ale, if you have it.”
A woman with dark hair pulled up in a bun, wearing a plain T-shirt and jeans, glided through the kitchen as silently as a ghost, carrying a laundry basket full of clothes in her arms. Mary checked the stainless steel refrigerator then said to the woman, “Bring in the extra ginger ale from the other refrigerator.” The woman nodded and slipped out, then returned a few minutes later with a ginger ale. She added several cans of it to the refrigerator then poured a glass for Zoe. Zoe took it with a smile. The woman’s expression didn’t change. She told Mary she was going to pick up the dry cleaning and left.
Mary opened the oven door, and the aroma of roasted chicken wafted through the air. She looked critically at the roasting pan, then grabbed a couple of dishtowel
s, and used them like potholders to lift the pan out of the oven.
“It smells delicious,” Zoe said.
“We’ll sit down to lunch in a few minutes. I’m so glad you could come.”
“It was nice of you and Mr. Thacker to invite me.”
Mary took out a chef’s knife, efficiently carved the chicken, and placed it on a platter. “Freddie does like to have his entertainments.” Mary’s tone had a critical undercurrent, which drew Zoe’s attention, but Mary’s face was blank as she focused on cutting the meat. Zoe didn’t like the idea of being anyone’s entertainment, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
Mary walked to a dark hallway that branched off the kitchen and called, “Kaz, lunch,” then she retrieved the platter of chicken and put it on the table.
“Can I help?” Zoe asked as Mary crossed in front of her to the large refrigerator and took out a deep wooden bowl filled with salad.
“There’s not much to do. You could put the bread in this basket.” Mary gestured to rows of bread cooling on a rack.
Thacker thumped down the stairs in a rush. He retrieved his wineglass and peered over Mary’s shoulder as he gave her waist a quick squeeze. A look that could have been irritation traced over Mary’s face as Thacker said, “Looks good.” He said to Zoe, “There’s a reason I asked you to lunch. Mary’s culinary skills deserve a wider audience than just me and Kaz.”
Zoe picked up the basket of rolls and turned to place it on the long glass-top table beside the expansive windows. She nearly dropped the basket. “Is that the—?”
She took a step closer and realized it was exactly what she thought it was. The sculpture of the ballet dancer examining her foot sat in the middle of the table surrounded by four place settings. Zoe wouldn’t have been surprised to see an arrangement of flowers or a bowl of fruit in the center of the table. Seeing valuable art so casually displayed caught her off-guard.
“Indeed, it is.” Thacker released Mary and topped off his wine. He lifted the bottle and raised his eyebrow at Zoe. She shook her head, and indicated she already had a drink.
Mary brought the salad to the table and waved Zoe into the seat on the side of the table opposite the window. “You sit over there where you have a view.” Mary walked around the other side and drew out a chair. “I get to see the mountains all the time.” As Thacker set his glass down, Mary said to him, “You know, we really should think about getting a round table instead of this long rectangular thing.”
Thacker nodded, but clearly he wasn’t interested in chatting about decorating. Mary let out a small huff, presumably because Thacker didn’t respond to her. Zoe wasn’t sure if he intentionally ignored Mary, or if he just wasn’t aware she was annoyed. He waited until Zoe was seated, then motioned to the sculpture. “Our ballet dancer has been returned home, just where she should be.” He picked up the platter. “Chicken?”
Zoe transferred a couple of pieces of chicken to her plate then carefully reached around the sculpture to hand the platter to Mary. “Sorry that I’m staring. It’s so unusual to see it sitting here on your table, just like it was sitting on the island in my kitchen. I didn’t think you’d have it back yet or that it would be out…” she waved her hand, “…in the open.”
“You think I should have it tucked away behind glass with special lights and alarms?” Thacker passed Zoe the salad.
“Something like that.” She placed a serving of salad on her plate and passed the bowl to Mary.
“I don’t understand all that rigmarole.” Thacker waved his fork. “It’s a whole lot of stress and worry…and expense,” he said. “No offense taken, I hope, considering the work your husband does.”
“No,” Zoe said. “It’s your artwork. You can do whatever you want with it. How did you get it back so quickly? And who stole it? Did the FBI figure it out?”
“And therein…,” Thacker said with his characteristic pause, “…lies the tale that you’ve travelled so far to hear.”
Quick footsteps sounded behind Zoe. A skinny man in his late twenties circled around the table. He pushed up a pair of square glasses with earpieces so thick that they almost looked like blinders as he sat down beside Mary. “Sorry,” he said as he placed his cell phone beside his plate. He wore a red T-shirt under a tan zip-necked fleece with a pair of jeans, and hiking boots. Springy curls of black hair covered the top of his head, but the sides of his hair were cut short around his ears.
“How’s the rubber ducking going?” Mary asked.
“Slowly,” he said. This must be Kaz, Zoe decided as the man focused on filling his plate.
Mary turned to Zoe. “If you’re around these guys long enough, you’ll pick up some of the jargon,” she said. “Kaz is debugging code. Kaz, this is Zoe. She helped Freddie get his little ballerina back.”
He nodded at her.
“Nice to meet you,” Zoe said. “I think I had an email from you.”
Kaz bobbed his head again and applied himself to cutting his chicken. As Zoe buttered her roll, she couldn’t help but compare the two men at the table. While Thacker was relaxed and affable, Kaz sat hunched over, his gaze often straying to the screen of his phone, which flickered with incoming notifications. Zoe assumed from the email comment from Mary and the fact that Kaz was eating with them that he was on a slightly higher level in the household than the woman with the laundry basket since she was retrieving the dry-cleaning instead of eating chicken with them.
Thacker sipped his wine then leaned back in his chair. He’d already eaten half of his chicken, while Mary only nibbled at her mound of lettuce.
Thacker admired the sculpture for a moment. Zoe thought that if it were possible to caress something with your gaze, that’s what Thacker was doing. He leaned forward and wrapped his hand around the sculpture’s torso and picked it up.
He held out the sculpture to Zoe. “Here.”
“Oh, no. I don’t think I could—”
Thacker continued to hold out the ballet dancer. “I insist. It’s part of the story.”
Zoe set down her fork. She held the ballet dancer with one hand under the base and the other wrapped around the torso. Her palms suddenly felt sweaty.
“Take a look at the base,” Thacker said. “No, the underside.” Thacker waved his hand in a circular motion, meaning turning over.
Zoe didn’t want to be handling such a valuable piece of artwork, but she tilted the sculpture so that she could see the underside of the base.
Thacker leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Do you see anything interesting—any marks—on the base?”
It was relatively smooth except for a few shallow scratches on the surface.
“Keep looking,” Thacker said.
“Some of these grooves…” Zoe said. “They look a little like a letter. Maybe the letter C.”
“Yes,” said Thacker. “That’s it exactly, which stands for copy.”
7
Zoe looked from the sculpture to him and back at the sculpture. “You mean not the original sculpture? It’s a copy?”
“Yes,” said Thacker. “Amazing to think that this ballet dancer, which is exactly like the original bronzes, is not worth nearly as much as ones made in the nineteen twenties.”
“So that’s why you got it back so quickly,” Zoe said. “The FBI didn’t hang onto it longer. It wasn’t one of the original Degas sculptures.”
“Correct.” Thacker served himself another piece of his chicken. “I have copies of all my artwork made.”
“You mean you have the original as well?” Zoe asked.
With the bite of chicken poised on his fork, he gestured with his knife, making a circular motion that included the whole house. “It would be a bit careless to have the originals out. But I do want to enjoy the things I purchase.” He pointed the knife at the artwork on the far wall of the dining room, a painting of a blue butterfly. “What’s the use of having beautiful art if you can’t look at it?”
“You mean you have the original of this dancer as wel
l,” Zoe asked again because she wanted to make sure she had the details completely clear.
“Of course. I always have the original, before I have a copy made.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice as if he were telling her a secret. “I’m trusting you with this information. It’s not…general knowledge. But I know that you can keep a secret, especially in the line of work you and your husband are in.”
Zoe carefully set the sculpture down in the center of the table. She didn’t feel quite so nervous handling it now that she knew it was a copy. Actually, it was a copy of a copy. The bronzes from the nineteen twenties were made from molds from Degas’ original sculptures. “Displaying copies is actually a good system to keep the originals safe,” she said.
Zoe peered at the butterfly painting at the end of the dining room. She wasn’t good enough to know if it was an original or a copy, but she assumed from Thacker’s words that everything in the cabin was a copy. She looked from the butterfly painting to Thacker, eyebrows raised.
He nodded. “You got it. It’s a copy.”
Zoe resumed eating, but her gaze kept straying to the ballet dancer. “I think there’s more to this story.”
“Much more,” Thacker said. “How you got the copy—that’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’d love to hear the whole story.” Zoe glanced around the table and saw that Kaz, who had been eating with machinelike precision, cutting his meat and shoveling his food in, had already finished his first helping, and was reaching for another. Mary’s salad had a little dent in it, but most of her plate remained covered with food.
“A computer glitch was at the base of it,” Thacker said. “Kaz can explain all the technical jargon.”
Kaz, who was focused on his phone, glanced at Thacker but didn’t say anything. Zoe noticed that Mary was pushing lettuce around her plate as she tilted her head so that she could read the screen of Kaz’s phone over his shoulder.
