Evening Stars

by Susan Mallery

  Averil started to make a comment about him, figuring she could go three for three, but something in Nina’s eyes stopped her. It wasn’t that her sister was frightened so much as she looked...unsure.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, not wanting to hear anything horrible. No one could be dying, she decided. Or even sick. Not right now.

  “Nothing’s wrong exactly. It’s more of a situation.”

  Averil relaxed. A situation meant logistics. Something her sister excelled at. “Okay, and it is what?”

  Nina unfolded the papers and spread them out on the counter. Averil stared at them.

  They were color copies of the ugly painting Bonnie and Bertie had bought. Only they were different. Similar colors and subjects, but not the same. There were different faces and poses.

  “This is part of a series?” she asked. “Part of the ‘I’m the weirdest painter of my generation’ collection?”

  “I’ve been looking at the signature.” Nina tapped the last sheet where that part of the painting was enlarged. “Mostly because of what Dylan said.”

  Averil touched the sheet, studying the letters. “We saw this before. Em something.”

  “Emilion Stoicasescu.”

  “Why is that name familiar?” Averil squinted as she tried to place it.

  “He studied with Picasso,” Nina told her. “Dylan figured it out. He said there was something about the painting that looked familiar. He started doing research online, and this is what he came up with.”

  “Okay, so Mom bought a painting from a guy Picasso knew? Big whoop.”

  Nina put down another article. Averil scanned the headline, then read it more slowly as the words sank in.

  Emilion Stoicasescu Original Sells for Ten Million at Auction.

  “Oh, my God.”

  “I know.” Nina wrapped her arms around her midsection. “It’s crazy, right? Mom found this painting and nearly tossed it because it was ugly, but, hey, she liked the frame.”

  “No way. I don’t believe it. It’s a copy or a print or whatever they call an imitation in the art world.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. There are missing paintings. Some not seen in decades.” She nodded toward Nina’s laptop. “Look it up yourself. He wasn’t nearly as prolific as Picasso, and no one is really sure how many of his paintings are out there. But the consensus is there aren’t that many. Which increases the value.”

  Averil typed on the keyboard automatically. Her brain was offering a dozen other explanations to the ugly painting question. There was no way Bonnie had bought some important painting. But even as she struggled to reconcile what was possible with the framed piece currently parked in their living room, she wondered if it was in any way probable.

  If someone was going to stumble on an art find, it would be her mother. Bonnie went out into the world with an open heart. She was like a puppy, assuming everyone would like her and want the best for her. She didn’t worry about details like being on time or paying bills. Those mundane activities were for others—mostly Nina. She was meant to be free to find beautiful things and share them with the world.

  As a result, she rarely suffered. People did take care of her and look out for her. Over the past decade, that job had fallen to Bertie who sheltered her with love and devotion.

  The pictures came up in rows. Various paintings by Emilion Stoicasescu, all strange and unusual. Several were enough like the painting Bonnie had bought to make her wonder if maybe, just maybe, everything was about to change.

  “I know,” Nina said, shaking her head. “It’s amazing and horrifying at the same time.”

  “What if it’s real? Do you have any idea what it’s worth? As much as that one that sold for ten million?”

  “I have no idea. I guess it could be that much. Or it could be nothing. We need a plan.”

  “First, find out if it’s real,” Averil said.

  “Absolutely. But if it’s what we both think it is...” Nina drew in a breath. “That’s where I get overwhelmed.”

  Millions, Averil thought. That would be a life-changer. Bonnie and Bertie would be able to buy the biggest antique store ever. Or travel the world. Or save the spotted owl. She supposed she would leave some to her daughters.

  Averil wondered what would change then. A million or two meant no worrying about the mortgage. Not that Kevin would ever quit his job. He loved it. She would...

  She realized she had no idea what she would do differently. If anything. As for Nina, Averil wasn’t sure her sister had dreams.

  “We need to make a list,” she said, pulling herself back to the moment at hand. “That’s what you always taught me. Break the problem down into manageable pieces. Step one. Is it real? How do we find that out?”

  * * *

  Deanna Phillips lived in a restored Queen Anne home next to Andi’s house and practice. The downstairs was a combination of period-appropriate furniture and pieces that reflected the on-the-go lifestyle of a busy family with five growing daughters.

  Nina perched on the edge of a tufted chair. She’d refused the offer of tea, mostly so she could keep her hands pressing down firmly on her shaking knee. In the past two days she felt as if one part or another of her body was always vibrating. Nerves, she told herself. Or a breakdown.

  She didn’t have time for either. In addition to her regular life, dealing with her mother and worrying about her sister, she might now have the headache of a valuable painting. An undiscovered or missing Emilion Stoicasescu was one definition of a blessing and a curse, she thought. Because Bonnie was involved, nothing about this was going to be easy. She’d decided to go to the closest thing to experts she knew. Boston and Deanna.

  “You look on edge,” Deanna said with a smile. “You’re stressed.”

  “A little,” Nina admitted. “Mom’s back and she can be a handful.”

  Boston laughed. “You know I adore your mom.”

  “Everyone does. Bonnie’s the life of the party.”

  Deanna’s gaze sharpened. “Always a challenge for her daughters. How can we help?”

  Nina and Averil had discussed the best way to explain the problem without actually going into detail. “We think Bonnie might have picked up an original painting on her trip. I was wondering if either of you knew a reputable art expert in the Seattle area who could tell us.”

  “Your area of expertise, not mine,” Deanna told Boston.

  Boston motioned to the beautifully decorated living room. “You’re the antique queen. You have contacts.”

  Nina wanted to smack them both. Yes, they were good friends. Love to all—she needed an answer to her question.

  But instead of saying that, she forced herself to smile and breathe.

  “We’re talking a painting,” Deanna said. “Who comes to mind?”

  Boston leaned back against the sofa and nibbled at her brownie. “Do you have a century?” she asked.

  “Twentieth,” Nina told her. Based on her limited research, if the painting was an Emilion, it seemed as if it would have been done in the 1930s or 1940s.

  “Twentieth century art.” Boston thought for a second, then nodded. “Ambrose Priestly. He’s the best. Pricey, but worth it. I have his card in my studio. He travels, but he’s based in Seattle. I’m sure he would be happy to make the trip here, as long as you pay for his time.”

  “Thank you,” Nina said.

  Boston made no move to get up, which meant they were going to visit before she got what she’d come for. Something she would usually enjoy. Just not today.

  * * *

  Ambrose Priestly looked like a cross between a butler from a Jane Austen novel and a British host of PBS. He was tall, thin and dressed in a three-piece suit. Custom made, Nina thought as she escorted the man into their house, based on what he’d charged to make the trip to the island.

  Nina told herself that peace of mind and knowledge were worth the cleaning-out of her savings account. The sooner she knew what they were dealing with, the better. And if it turn
ed out the painting was a fake or an imitation or worthless, everything would go back to what it had been before that much quicker. She would be out five grand, but, hey, it was only money, right?

  “I haven’t been to the island before,” Ambrose told her as he stepped into the living room of their house. “It’s charming.”

  “We like it. There are a lot of tourists in the summer, but as they pay the bills for much of the island’s population, we make do.”

  Averil had taken Bertie and Bonnie to lunch. They’d left a half hour ago and wouldn’t be back until after one. That gave Nina what she hoped was enough time with Ambrose and his expertise.

  He crossed to a small display case and studied the tiny figurines inside. Nina was sure she saw him flinch.

  “You know those aren’t valuable,” he murmured, turning toward her.

  “Yes, but my mother likes them.”

  “I see.”

  His dark gaze swept over the lumpy sofa and ancient carpet. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but if she had to guess, he was hoping the check cleared and wishing he’d asked for cash.

  “The painting is over here,” she said, pointing to the easel and painting Averil had brought from the store.

  Ambrose walked toward the painting. She’d positioned it by the window, so it got a lot of light, but away from the doorway. He had to circle around to see it.

  “My mother travels the country looking for antiques,” she explained. “Not that many of them are valuable. She has unusual tastes. We have a small store here and sell to the tourists. Every now and then she finds a real treasure. This painting is probably nothing, but it seemed prudent to check it out and—”

  She was aware of the art appraiser going completely still. She doubted the man was even breathing. His brown eyes were focused on the canvas. As she watched, his pupils dilated, and his fingers fluttered slightly.

  “My dear girl, do you have any idea what you have here?” he asked.

  “No. That’s why I wanted you to see it.”

  He gave her a faint smile. “I meant that rhetorically.”

  “Oh.”

  He picked up the painting. “I need more light.”

  “Sure. The kitchen is through here.”

  She led the way and turned on the overhead light. Ambrose held the frame steady and studied the piece.

  “It’s stunning. Look at the mastery, the brilliance. There’s complexity in every stroke.”

  Nina looked down at the face made of boxes and the claw hands. Maybe she should have taken an art appreciation class in college or something.

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “Is it...”

  “Genuine? I’m sure of it. There are tests that would have to be done, of course. You’ll want an official appraisal. An Emilion Stoicasescu here on Blackberry Island. I never would have guessed.”

  Ambrose took the painting back to the easel and set it in place. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “All right, let’s get to the paperwork.”

  “Right,” she said, pulling the check from her back pocket.

  “Yes, my fee. Of course, but there are some forms to be filled out, and I have some information for you.”

  They went back to the kitchen and sat at the large table. Ambrose pulled several papers out of his briefcase.

  “Research will have to be done,” he told her. “As I mentioned before, tests to confirm it’s genuine. Does your mother have a receipt for the purchase?”

  “I think so. It was in one of those storage unit auctions.”

  He winced. “I will not think about that treasure in a storage locker.” He picked up a pen. “Document the purchase. Make copies of everything. Now to the painting. You’ll need to keep it somewhere secure with temperature and humidity control. There are several places in Seattle. I assume you have a safe here you can use until we secure a proper home for it?”

  “Ah, sure.”

  They had an old vault at the store, but it hadn’t been used in years. Nina wasn’t sure where the key was. Averil might know.

  “Do you have a preliminary value?” she asked tentatively.

  Ambrose tapped his pen against the table. “It’s hard to say. The more important works have gone for quite high sums. Given the subject matter and age, the size.” He pressed his lips together. “I’m going to be guessing.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “I’m not guaranteeing this is a certain amount.”

  Nina nodded and told herself hitting the nice art appraiser wouldn’t help her situation. “I understand.”

  “I would say ten million.”

  The room shifted ever so slightly. “Dollars?”

  “Yes. You’ll need to insure it for at least that amount.”

  Nina nearly choked. Insure it? For ten million? How much would that be? Her car insurance was about four hundred a year. She could replace her car for maybe ten thousand dollars. She wasn’t sure how the numbers compared, but she knew for a fact there was no way to afford whatever the sum might be.

  Wasn’t worrying about the store, the roof, her mother and her own job, not to mention her sad little life, enough? Now she had the painting. A ten-million dollar Emilion Stoicasescu original that was currently sitting in her mother’s living room.

  She felt something heavy pressing down on her shoulders and knew it was the knowledge that she would never escape. Never be able to walk away. Not that she had a destination, but she hadn’t intended to live her life on this island. Not the way she was.

  “My fee sheet,” Ambrose said, passing over a paper. “Assuming you want my help as you wind your way through the process of selling the painting. You are selling?”

  “I have to talk to my mother,” Nina told him. “With Bonnie, one can never know.”

  “Won’t it be a family decision?”

  “It’s her painting. Hers and Bertie’s.” She looked at the list of his services. Ambrose would handle everything from authenticating it to working with the auction house. There were costs for each item and most of them were in the five figure range. And that didn’t include pennies.

  Ambrose touched the paper with his pen. “If you sign with me, I’ll be paid when the painting is sold. Obviously if I’m acting as your agent, the authentication and appraisal will be done independently.” He pulled out another sheet of paper and signed it with a flourish, then handed it to her.

  “My confidentiality agreement. Everything is standard. I won’t tell anyone about your find.”

  Confidentiality? “You mean we should keep this quiet.”

  “Absolutely. You don’t want a bunch of thieves and opportunists sniffing around. Not only will they make your life miserable, but you’ll risk losing the painting. Best to keep everything quiet until all the decisions are made.” He handed her his card. “That is my cell-phone number. Call me at any time.”

  His expression softened. “You’ve made a wonderful find, my dear. But owning something that special is never easy. Nor is the selling process. I will be happy to help you in any way I can. You’ll want your ducks in a row before you make any moves.”

  She nodded and they stood.

  “Thank you for everything,” she said as she walked him to the door.

  “Give yourself a few days to absorb it all,” he suggested. “Then call me. You and your family are about to be a part of history.”

  “Yay us,” she murmured.

  When he was gone, she closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

  His suggestion was a good one. She should get her ducks in a row. If only they were talking about ducks, she thought, this would be a whole lot easier.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?” Averil asked, stretched out on her bed, her cell phone to her ear. “An Emilion Stoicasescu. Stuff like that doesn’t happen to our family. I wish you were here to see it. The camera picture I sent you doesn’t do it justice. The painting is so strange. How can something like that be famous? I guess I don’t understand art.”
r />   She paused and waited for a response. There was only silence.

  “Kevin? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  He didn’t sound excited or happy. Or even interested.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Don’t you think this is at least kind of cool?”

  “I don’t care about the painting, Averil. Why can’t you see that? It doesn’t matter. There are more important things to talk about.”

  She sat up and tightened her grip on the phone. “What do mean?”

  “Us. Our relationship. How long are you staying up there? Why did you go in the first place? Are you spending any time thinking about us or our lives together? Are you so caught up in your family and the damn painting that you’ve forgotten you’re married and that you left me?”

  Her breath caught. “I didn’t leave you,” she told him. “How could you say that? We agreed I needed time away to think.”

  “No, we didn’t. You said you needed the time and were leaving. I didn’t stop you.”

  “That’s not what happened,” she said, even as she knew he was telling the truth.

  “Do you miss me at all?” he asked, his voice quiet.

  “Of course. All the time.”

  “It’s hard to tell if that’s true or not. You never talk about coming home. I don’t even know what you’re waiting for. Is progress being made?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, feeling her eyes start to burn. Without wanting to, she heard her mother’s voice. The gentle, but insistent whine that she “didn’t want to have to decide. I can’t make up my mind.”

  It was genetic, she thought sadly. Not that Kevin would think much of that excuse.

  “Things are complicated,” she began, then stopped. What was complicated? The decision as to whether or not she wanted to be with her husband? “I love you, Kevin. I want us to be happy.”

  “I believe that. What I don’t know is if you think that happiness is going to come from being together. I keep thinking I’m going to lose you, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it from happening. Am I supposed to show up and fight for you or give you space? What do you want from me? How can I make things better?”