The Lost Art: A Romantic Comedy

by Jennifer Griffith

  At eight, the guests began arriving in diamonds and with fresh flowers on their lapels. Ava had never felt so nervous in her entire life. The culmination of weeks of intense concentration all finally mattered tonight. These patrons’ experience and comments would generate buzz in the press, in the art circles around the Phoenix area, and might even ripple north and westward as far as Las Vegas and Los Angeles. She was a nervous wreck.

  But she refused to let an iota of it show.

  “Whoa, lady. You look like you’d better be my date, or else I’m going to shoot myself here and now.”

  There stood Kellen McMullen, sans the cowboy garb, looking the part of the King of the (art) World in an expensive three-piece suit. First he kissed her warmly on her already burning cheek, and then pulled from behind his back a small bouquet of the freshest flowers.

  “Oh, Kellen! Lilacs. My favorite! How did you know?”

  “I know a lot of things. Believe me.”

  “But they’re a springtime flower, and it’s September.”

  “I told you I’d been everywhere. I picked these for you¸ my lady, in the foothills of the Andes just last night. Carried them onto the jet. Got a few stares, but when I said they were for you, everyone just nodded and said, ‘Ava Young, you lucky dog!’” Kellen pulled her toward a dark hallway near the coat keep, but Mr. Phelps walked through the great glass doors just then and Ava caught his eye.

  “Mr. Phelps! Have you met Kellen McMullen? He’s the reason we’re all able to have this celebration tonight.”

  Mr. Phelps got a little obsequious around Kellen, but he soon got called away, much to Ava’s relief.

  She stayed glued to Kellen’s side, as commanded, but scanned the guests while they began the tour. The first patrons were just emerging from the exit of the exhibit and turning in their headphones, and then turning their attention toward the antipasto and bread tables. The cheeses sometimes were as much as a draw for some art lovers as the art itself. Ava had lined up a local celebrity chef to arrange the edibles, and she now had no regrets about the extra expense. Things seemed to be coming off splendidly.

  Time came for Kellen to get his first view of the show. He hugged Ava tightly around her waist and guided her through the maze of deeply colored walls with the brightly contrasting landscapes in both ornate and simple frames. He paused longest in front of a Jasper Francis Cropsey, Fisherman’s House, Greenwood Lake, that made Ava feel like a child in a fairy tale land called the New World. Cropsey’s rendition of early settled America contained nostalgia, serenity, and grandeur. The pink sky and periwinkle lake calmed her soul to the greatest extent she had felt in weeks, maybe years.

  Kellen stood behind her, hugging her close, and then leaned in and whispered to her ear, “I find it rustic and unrealistic.”

  She turned slightly to try to stare at him in surprise.

  He quickly followed the slight with, “But appealing in the highest degree.”

  It surprised Ava how briefly he paused before Niagara. In a way she was glad—the crashing rendition stirred turmoil inside her she needed little more of today. But she asked him why.

  “Oh, I’ll come back. I’ll see it again. Let’s find the next Bierstadt. I heard Storm in the Rocky Mountains is here, too.” He practically skipped with her as they hustled along to find the benefactor’s favorites of the day. Ava began to find a sense of fun in the show for the first time since the whole ordeal of organizing it began.

  As they rounded a corner, just in front of a Thomas Cole painting of South America which hung beside the stormy Bierstadt, Ava nearly ran into a man studying the volcano’s plume at close range. She caught a fleeting glance of him, and he had a familiar look—black hair, nice skin, an intense gaze when he glanced up at her, pre-collision. However, at that moment Kellen demanded her attention, and they resumed their admiration of Kellen’s chosen object of attention.

  Within another hour, the guests had finished most of their mingling, the meats and vegetables and bread were nearly all consumed, and Kellen began to yawn.

  “Shoot! Those international flights absolutely kick my butt. What can you do?”

  Ava clutched her lilacs in her hand still, and now held them to her heart.

  “Kellen, what can I say? You’ve made this whole evening a fairy tale for me— I mean, for everyone. I cannot tell you how much it means to me! How can I possibly thank you enough?”

  “I can think of a few ways.” He raised a suggestive eyebrow.

  She smiled and lowered her lashes. “You know me, though, Kellen. I’m not the kind of girl who makes payments in that kind of way.” She glanced up at him to gauge his reaction, but it didn’t seem to faze him. “We at the Phoenix Metropolitan, as well as the people of this whole area, are truly in your debt. You’re a prince.” And she gave him a kiss on the cheek. Kellen was playing a part too. He had to be. He was Kellen McMullen, billionaire playboy, and she had no intention of actually letting him toy with her heart. Her lips again someday, maybe, but nothing more.

  He bowed and walked away.

  As she turned on her heel, the stranger with the jet black hair approached again, still with the intense gaze in her direction, and then her attention got called away once again to help a VIP who had lost her keys and needed to be reminded that the valet parking attendant kept them. When she returned to the lobby, he was gone.

  At home, after washing her face to keep it clear, she fell exhausted into bed.

  At precisely 5:42 the next morning, Ava’s telephone rang. She had been up for nearly an hour working on her hairstyle and had just pulled a batch of cupcakes from the oven.

  “Young. Sorry about the hour, but this is important.” Odd of Mr. Phelps to apologize to her. “Sometime between the time last night’s show ended and the time I got in this morning, Niagara was removed from the museum.”

  Chapter 6

  “What?” She dropped the stoneware platter she’d prepared to take the cupcakes on, and it fell on her tile floor, breaking in six big chunks. “Taken? By whom?”

  “Stolen. We don’t know who, and we certainly don’t know how. But it’s gone. Vanished.” He sounded haggard. He sounded like he needed her.

  Ava wanted to scream in horror, and she did in fact emit a shriek of terror. Words tumbled from her mouth like her wet hair from a towel. “Oh, Mr. Phelps! Oh! Oh! What happened! We did everything—all that security, the cameras, the guards, all of it. How could this be? Were there any traces? What do you know? Who discovered the theft?”

  “Unfortunately, I did. And I don’t know anything else. We’ve cordoned off the area, and Agent Ford from the FBI is on his way down here right now. Police have been alerted, and I’ve got the security firm looking at tapes of everything that happened last night. Oh, geez, Young. Can you get down here right away?”

  In a flash she donned the dress she had laid out the night before, forgot about the cupcakes, and dashed down to the museum to survey the damage.

  If it weren’t for the small black plaque on the wall and the small spotlights … nothing, no one might ever know one of the world’s greatest art treasures had gone missing.

  Mr. Phelps paced like a cat, frowning, biting his pen’s lid, while security types took notes, phoned offices, and measured emptiness. Ava stood next to him and stared, needing to make a conscious effort to keep her jaw from gaping open in horror and disbelief.

  Niagara. Gone. What would the world think?

  What would the Glastonbury think?

  What would Kellen McMullen think? She’d allowed his favorite painting to be stolen—the reason he footed the bill for the exhibition in the first place!

  Ava excused herself, ran to the bathroom and threw up.

  She stood staring at herself in the mirror and thought, deeply, about what had to happen next. Then she steeled herself and returned, courage quivering.

  “Mr. Phelps. We have a major decision to make. The show is slated to open to the public this morning at ten. There are eleven school grou
ps coming at different times throughout the day. All the advertising says today, ten o’clock. We can either open and let the world know about the theft—because Niagara is a centerpiece of the show. It’s in all the literature, on all the fliers, in all the ads. Or else we can string yellow police tape across the whole museum, treat it like the crime scene it is, and lose both the revenue and the respect of our loyal patrons, endure all the bad press, plus have no one see any of the other masterpieces.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “We’re between a rock and a hard place, Ava.” Mr. Phelps looked like dirt. He hiccupped. She had never seen him so run down—maybe he drank his breakfast. He was in no condition to make a decision of this magnitude.

  An hour later, as other staff members trickled in, and whispered rumors of the tragedy circulated among them, Agent Ford of the FBI tapped a pen on the table in a most irritating manner. The surface of his coffee rippled in the cup with each tap. Ava stared at it in trembling worry. Ultimately, as curator of the exhibit, the responsibility lay with her.

  Agent Ford slid his fedora from his head and set it down. She took a second look, and there he was—the dark haired man from last night. His eyes had a penetrating warmth as they shot upward and rested on hers. She thought of the face she’d often seen in her dreams. Ford, with his fetching Caesar-cut hair, could be her imaginary art expert’s better-looking brother.

  Ava’s breath caught and she had to grip the back of the chair she was standing behind when he gave her a solemn nod, like the two of them were the only people in the room. A beam of electricity sizzled between them, and then he spoke, low and steady, with true authority that sent heat searing through Ava’s limbs.

  “The Glastonbury has requested I come in on this case.” The words resonated in the air, vibrating in Ava’s ears and her fingertips. She would stick to his side like she’d been Gorilla-Glued to him until they found the Niagara.

  Then she glanced over at Harmony Billows, who came stumbling in, her hair a-frizzle and her blouse not quite tucked in. She gave a broad wink at Agent Ford, who pulled a wan smile at her with just one side of his mouth. Oh, so this was the Agent Ford Harmony had name-dropped about so many times before. Ava soured briefly, until she remembered how wan that half grin had been, and the shooting stars of energy that had blazed between Ford and herself.

  Ava had this one.

  Together they’d find the missing Niagara. Together they’d be unstoppable. Ava Ford. It had a lilting ring to it. She stood up straighter, smoothing the front of her fitted mint green knit dress at her waist, and glad she’d taken time to gloss her lips on the train ride in. She parted her lips slightly and gave Agent Ford her best attention.

  Hello. I am such a dork. And at a time like this! Geez. She dug her fingernails into her hands and forced herself to get back on task.

  “I am going to need full cooperation from every member of the staff. My preference would be to shut down the exhibit until the Bureau has had a full search of the premises, but I can see how that would be highly inconvenient, so I’ll allow the public to still come in. My team has already done a preliminary …”

  The other things he said flowed over Ava like warm syrup over a Belgian waffle, seeping down into every little cubic crevice of her body. He was capably assembling a team. He was capably investigating every lead. He’d need full access to everyone on staff.

  No problem there. She batted her eyes dreamily at him, expressing a sigh.

  A sharp elbow gouged her ribcage.

  “He’s asking for you,” Harmony hissed, almost serpent-like. Ava glanced at her and saw her eyes blaze red with fury. “And paws off. I saw him first.” This came soft enough that no one else could hear it over the tapping of Ford’s pen, thank goodness. Humph. Ava never expected to be challenged to a catfight by Harmony Billows. What was this world coming to?

  “At your service, Mr. Agent Ford,” Ava managed. “I mean, what would you like me to do for you?” She used her trilling voice. Somehow it took no effort this time.

  And it was a good thing because she needed to use her focus on the painting. It was a masterpiece—and had been from day one. Some paintings come to light slowly, gaining popularity over long years or else after the artist’s death. Not Niagara. It was an instant smash, kind of like a viral video of the 1850s. It made Church an overnight success. Of course he’d been painting for years, but it sealed his fame, and he’d be an immortal for this painting forever.

  Niagara was an American icon.

  And it had gone missing—on her watch. Nausea roiled in her again. Unless she and Agent Ford could recover it, she’d never get another job in art again. Even if she set up a roadside stand somewhere in Wyoming, she’d be recognized, and angry art lovers driving by would purposely sideswipe her. She’d be finished. And this museum would be toast.

  They had to find it.

  “Since you’re the curator, I’ll start with you.” He stood and shook some files into a briefcase. “The rest of you, continue your work on the exhibit, but my team will be taking statements so don’t leave the building until those are complete.”

  Ava had to take long strides to keep up with him, which put her off balance a bit in her heels and made her fleetingly wish for her Danskos, but not for long because she saw Ford take a fraction of a second to glance at her legs in the elevator. She might burn the Danskos tonight.

  He led her to a conference room near Mr. Phelps’s office and motioned for her to take a chair. She crossed her legs carefully and set her hands in her lap.

  “Oh, Agent Ford, I’m so glad you’re on this case. The Glastonbury was right to request you.” Her mouth was a little dry.

  He was arranging things, pulling files from his briefcase, and she studied him. He had the thickest eyelashes she’d ever seen on a man, or at least on a man so masculine. Masculine, yeah. Ford looked like he might have five-o’clock shadow before nine a.m. A little place inside her melted. Then he sat down beside her.

  “Enough, Miss Young.” He frowned at her, eyes narrowing.

  Ava sat back, stung.

  “I don’t know what your game is, but Mr. Phelps and almost the whole staff have seemed to buy into it.”

  “Game?” she stammered.

  “This big ruse about one minute looking like you’re in WitSec, and the next looking like you’re in a Marilyn Monroe lookalike contest.”

  He thought she looked like Marilyn Monroe? Ava gulped. He was incredibly attractive when in grilling mode. Mrs. Agent Ford. Ooh, she didn’t even know his first name.

  “You’ve proven your ability to make a complete image erasure. Fine. Now, what have you done with the painting?”

  “Excuse me?” Ava surged to her feet. “I have no idea what you mean, sir.” Her hand balled into a fist, and she forgot all her feminine wiles for the moment. “If you are referring to my newly blonde hair, I will have you know that the Clairol Corporation is one of the strongest companies in the United States. Women dye their hair every single day. It doesn’t make them art thieves.” Maybe he wasn’t the steel trap mind she initially believed him to be. “And what business is it of yours, anyway?”

  From a file in his case, he slid a black and white photograph of the Old Ava, complete with the acne, the mousy hair, and the severe look on her face.

  “This is why it’s my business, Miss Young.”

  Ava collapsed into her chair. She placed a hand over her eyes, and another over her cheek. It was a few seconds later when trembles rippled from her stomach up into her throat and the laugh broke out onto her face.

  “Oh, that is a terrible photo! Where did you get such a thing?”

  “Your college yearbook. The college where you studied art history, and during the time when you took a course in art crime. We’ve been watching your online activity, Miss Young. You frequent the websites of noted art crime specialists.”

  She lowered her eyes. It wasn’t something she should lie about. Her parents out in good old Laveen had taught her
the truth was always her best answer.

  “Because, to be truthful, I have a thing for art crime specialists, Agent Ford.” In particular the imaginary one she’d had a few dreams about. It took all her power not to roll her eyes at how shallow and like a total schoolgirl she sounded.

  Maybe she could express it, though, in a way that made it seem less so. Probably not. She’d have to try so she stood up and began pacing the room while she explained. “I’d give my left leg to work solving art crime day in and day out alongside any one of those astoundingly brilliant minds. I read Howard, Charney, Phillips, Benetton. Brilliant, like a thousand suns. You can see how such a mind would be the most attractive thing to a woman, can’t you, Agent Ford? Why I couldn’t help myself?” She looked him up and down. “Yes, Benetton. He’s almost the best looking art theft investigator in the world.”

  The whole idiotic diatribe seemed to shake Agent Ford a little. He took a second to gather his thoughts. “And your, er, change of appearance?” Agent Ford’s eye was on the swirl of her skirt and then he looked up into her eyes. They lingered there a long time, narrowed, and when she shrugged just one shoulder and gave him a soft smile, his eyes softened. He sat back.

  “Fine. I believe you.”

  And that was that. Probably because he couldn’t believe anyone as shallow as she sounded could concoct a plan for a heist of this magnitude. They then had a long conversation in which Ava poured out her heart to him about how bereft she was at the lost of Niagara. She didn’t stint on details about other staffers’ interest in the art, nor the reaction of various patrons, including Kellen McMullen’s, though she felt a little disloyal in doing so.

  “McMullen.” Ford chewed the tip of his pen.