by Sara Rosett
“Nothing official. I have spoken with the buyer.”
“And everything is on hold now, isn’t it?”
“On the contrary. He has complete confidence that the authorities will recover the painting shortly. He wants us to continue to pursue the provenance research. Perhaps the investigators have shared some information with him that makes him very certain the art will be recovered, but . . .” A breathy sigh came down the line. “I’m afraid I’m not so confident.”
“Who’s the buyer? Can you say?”
“Yes, of course. I just prefer not to put it in documentation that will be sent through the mail. It’s Mr. Best.”
“Hmm . . . I’m not familiar with the name.”
“Hedge fund manager. He keeps a low profile,” Harrington said. “Are you interested in continuing to pursue this for Mr. Best? After all, you are on holiday. It would be perfectly acceptable to put everything on hold until the painting is found.”
“No, I don’t want to do that. I’m so close to locating the reports, and I want to complete the job. I’m in the same city. I might as well try to close that loop.” Zoe had emailed an update to Harrington with her plans for tracking down the missing documentation in Amsterdam. “I think I’m on the right track to find them. Mallory wasn’t in earlier today, but I plan to go by again later tonight. Besides squaring away the provenance, I’m curious on a personal level. I want to read the rest of Olive Belgrave’s reports. Since I’m here, it would be silly not to spend a few moments trying to get in touch with Mallory Tredmont.”
“As long as it’s not interfering too much.”
“No, not at all. If I can meet with the woman tonight, I may be able to wrap everything up in a few hours. Then if Mr. Best is right and the painting is found, the other testing can be done right away.”
12
Later that evening, Jack groaned and rubbed his hand across his stomach. “That was a dinner of a thousand plates.”
Zoe tucked her arm around his elbow as they emerged from the restaurant. “Not quite, but close. The flavors were amazing. I’ve never had a meal quite like that. And your stomach looks exactly the same as it always does. How is that possible?”
Jack had returned from following Mr. Gray Ponytail, who had gone to a hotel near the train station. Although Jack had hung around for a while, the man hadn’t emerged from the hotel, and they hadn’t seen him since then. Jack had seemed preoccupied during dinner, and Zoe had to repeat a question that he’d missed. He’d seemed to give himself a mental shake, and for the rest of the meal, he’d been his usual charming self. But something was on his mind, pulling his attention away from their conversation. Zoe wasn’t sure if it was the fact that a guy was trailing them around Amsterdam or something else, but before she could broach the topic, their food had arrived and the moment passed.
They’d dined at a restaurant that served rijsttafel, a style of dining that the Dutch had adapted from Indonesia. The only thing Zoe could compare it to was tapas, but instead of ordering a small selection of a few different plates, the rijsttafel meal was a seemingly endless array of dishes of various textures and spiciness.
Jack sidestepped around a group taking a selfie. “My favorite was the chicken coconut curry.”
“How can you pick just one? The spicy beef was incredible, and the spring rolls and the fried rice—oh, and the banana fritters—they were all so good. I’ll have to go for a run in the morning, but I regret nothing. Good thing we’re walking back to the hotel. We can work off some of our dinner.”
“Do you still want to stop by Mallory’s houseboat?”
Zoe checked the bank of clouds that was drifting over the city. “Yes, I think we can make it before it rains.” The weather, which had been clear all day, was changing. When they went into the restaurant, a gossamer layer of clouds had covered the sky. Now a breeze with the scent of rain buffeted the pale green leaves of the trees, and a denser layer of clouds, thick and dark gray, was edging across the evening sky.
They left the main road and crossed a few bridges, finally arriving at the Prinsengracht Canal, which was more crowded than it had been during the day. They slowed at the curb before crossing to the side of the street next to the canal, and Jack glanced behind them.
Zoe watched the phalanx of bicycle riders glide by. “Is our favorite gray-haired man behind us?”
“Nope. Still nothing.”
Despite his relaxed appearance, Zoe had noticed the alert way Jack had scanned the street when they left the hotel for dinner. No one else would pick up on his heightened awareness, but Zoe knew he was being extra watchful. A cold gust of wind whipped her hair across her face. “I may have been wrong about the rain.” She tucked her hair behind her ear.
“Well, now that we’re on this canal, we’ll walk right by the houseboat. Might as well check.”
Restaurants were pulling café tables under awnings as they paced along the street. The clouds hadn’t covered the sinking sun yet, but it was low in the sky. One side of the canal was already in shadow, but there was enough light for Zoe to make out the figure of a woman walking across the gangplank of the brown and white houseboat.
“Oh, I think that might be her.” Zoe hurried ahead and called out, “Mallory!”
The woman turned, removing a backpack as she dug into her pants pocket.
She was at least a decade older than Zoe had expected, but the deep-set eyes were the same as the photo Zoe had found online, even if there were dark circles under them.
Zoe moved up the gangplank, her hand extended. “Hi, I’m Zoe Andrews. You’re Mallory, right?” The photograph Zoe had seen online must have been airbrushed and touched up, smoothing the blotchiness of her skin and removing the dark circles under her eyes. And instead of the shiny chestnut waves, a lopsided clip held back her stiff, crinkly hair.
Mallory fumbled with the keys, dropping them, and muttered a curse as they hit the boat’s low railing with a jangle.
Zoe lunged forward and caught them before they disappeared down the gap between the boat and the edge of the canal. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Zoe held out the keys. “I’ve been reading your blog and wanted to catch you before you went inside.”
Mallory took the keys and relaxed her arms, letting the backpack sag toward the deck. “You’ve read my blog?” Her accent was British. “How? The site is, like, down.”
Small drops of rain began to patter around them, spotting their shoulders and beading on the boat deck. “I found the archives online. You can find everything online now.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good—I guess. The site should be back up soon. There was, like, a little hiccup with the hosting site, but that should be taken care of any day now.” Mallory’s gaze shifted to Jack as he joined Zoe on the gangplank.
“This is my husband, Jack. We’re vacationing here in Amsterdam, and I wanted to look you up.”
“Because of my blog?” Her accented tones took on an incredulous note.
“Well, partly because of your blog, and partly because I’m interested in Sebastian Blakely. I gather you’re something of an expert on him.”
“That’s true.”
“I’m doing some research on Blakely.” Mallory’s expression closed down, and Zoe hurried on, “I think you might be exactly the right person to answer my questions.”
“I might.”
The raindrops were falling faster, needling into the canal and Zoe’s scalp. Mallory glanced up at the sky. “You’d better come in. We’ll, like, get drenched if we stay out here.”
She led the way to the deck at the front of the boat, unlocked the hatch on the cabin, and pushed it back, revealing a ladder, which she clambered down quickly, the rain creating a leopard-spotted pattern on the back of her dark T-shirt.
Zoe followed her down, and Jack came after her as Mallory switched on lights, illuminating a single open room with white walls and pale wood flooring. Mallory pointed to a handle on the underside of the hatch. “Just pull there,” she instructe
d Jack. “It, like, sticks sometimes. Give it a good shove if you need to.”
A futon and small television filled one side of the room. The other end of the space had a minuscule kitchen with a two-burner gas stove, mini-refrigerator, and tiny sink heaped with crusty dishes. A wooden table that looked as if it had been made from an old door was positioned near the kitchen. There was an open laptop on the desk, its cord snaking over piles of papers, boxes, books, and a tangle of clothing. A scaled-down version of a pot-bellied stove sat at the midpoint of the room. A closed door beyond the kitchen was probably the bathroom.
In a recessed area behind the ladder, Zoe could see the corner of a bed. The comforter had been flung back, revealing rumpled sheets. The windows on the other side of the bed looked out of the front of the boat and gave a view of the canal. Raindrops pockmarked the glittering reflections of lights from the buildings and other boats.
Jack joined Zoe at the base of the ladder, tucking his hands into his pockets, probably so he wouldn’t be tempted to start cleaning up. The golden hardwood floors and clean white walls would have made the small area feel spacious, but discarded clothes, stacks of books, wrinkled magazines, and used plates and mugs filled every flat surface.
Mallory cleared a pile of laundry from a futon. “Let me just move this. There you go. Have a seat.” She carried the pile of clothes around the ladder and dumped it on the bed. “Sorry about the mess. I’ve been working double shifts at the restaurant, so there isn’t much time to tidy up.”
Zoe settled onto the futon but shifted as something poked into her hip. “This is so cozy. It must be quite a unique experience living in a houseboat.”
“It’s all right. It belongs to my boyfriend’s father, so at least the rent is good, you know.” She smiled briefly as she pulled a chair over from the table. “The crowds can be, like, a little overwhelming, especially on weekends. So what do you want to know about Blakely?”
Zoe shifted around and pulled a remote control from between the cushions of the futon. “You’re working on a book about him, right?”
Mallory tossed the remote on a small table on top of a tilting pile of magazines on the floor. “I was, but I had to take a break.” Her face seemed to take on an extra glow, making her look more like the younger version of her image online. “Since I got a book contract, that has to be my focus now.”
“Oh, that’s exciting. Is it for a different book about Blakely?”
“No, it’s about sorting out your life, finding your stride, you know. Living your best life.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Yes. It’s all about, like—you know—getting organized, making good choices, and—um—changing from the inside out, all that—”
Zoe was sure Mallory had been about to say “all that crap” or something along those lines but stopped herself.
“It could be a whole series,” Mallory continued. “Mind-body harmony and finding balance and—um—other things.”
“How exciting.”
“It is. It’s, like, such a big step for my personal brand. Moving into self-improvement is the perfect opportunity. I want to help people live, like, their best life, you know?”
Zoe didn’t have to turn her head to know Jack’s gaze was skipping around the mess that coated the cabin of the houseboat, and he was biting back a comment about a self-help guru who couldn’t find time to fold laundry or do the dishes. But Jack had excellent self-control. He’d never say anything to derail the conversation between her and Mallory, so she willed herself to ignore the vibes of disbelief coming off Jack. She focused on Mallory. “Will you go back to the book about Blakely?”
“I doubt it, especially since the publisher is talking about more self-improvement books. Blakely’s great and all, but kind of dated. Who’s interested in a dead photographer, you know? Self-help is a much bigger market. It’s the way to go. So much more earning potential.” She glanced around the tight quarters. “Then Rolf and I can get a bigger place.”
A scraping sound came from overhead, and the metal hatch slid back. A pair of scuffed men’s shoes appeared, then long legs encased in jeans.
Mallory said, “Oh, this is Rolf,” as a lanky man descended the ladder, shifting it closed in a practiced motion. His light brown hair was tousled, and he had a few days’ worth of stubble. “Rolf, this is—um—”
“I’m Zoe, and this is Jack.”
Jack was in the process of rising from the futon, but the guy barely paused. He greeted Mallory, lifted his chin toward Jack, then said, “Hey.” He continued on to the bedroom behind the ladder. He shut the door, leaving behind a whiff of marijuana.
Mallory didn’t seem to find anything rude about his behavior. She turned to Zoe. “So what did you want to know again? Something about Blakely?”
“I’m doing research, trying to fill a gap in a painting’s history. It’s for Woman in a White Fur. Do you know it?”
“Know it? I’ve seen it many, many times. Did you hear about it being stolen?”
“Yes, but that’s not why we’re here. I’m strictly interested in the history of the painting.”
Mallory’s brow wrinkled. “Okay. That’s kind of weird, but whatever. What do you want to know?”
“I’m looking for a set of reports and an inventory of paintings that were done by a woman named Olive Belgrave.”
Mallory squinted at one of the portholes that lined the cabin. “Belgrave . . . sounds familiar.”
“It was in nineteen twenty-three.”
Her face cleared. “Oh. Right. I remember now.” She glanced out of the corner of her eye at the stacks of papers and books tilting at precarious angles on the table. “She went down to Hawthorne House. Why do you want it, again?” Mallory’s gaze focused on Zoe, really concentrating on her for the first time during the conversation.
“It’s provenance research for the painting.”
“But the painting is, like, missing.”
“I know. I’m only tying up a loose end regarding the provenance. Since I’m here and you live here, I thought you might be able to help me out since you’ve done some research on it.”
“Well, I do know a bit about Olive Belgrave.”
“Have you read her reports?”
“Yes.” She tilted her head, and her face took on a coy expression. “In fact, I have them.”
“Wonderful,” Zoe said. “If you’d let me have a look, that would be terrific—”
“You can see them—for a fee.”
Zoe lowered her chin. So it was going to be like that, was it? Okay, she could play the game. “How much?”
Mallory’s eyes narrowed as she studied Zoe for a moment. “I’ll let you see them for five thousand.”
Zoe blinked, but before she could form a complete sentence, Mallory added, “Just see them—no photos or anything. And that’s euros, by the way.”
Zoe stood up. “No. That’s not going to happen.”
Mallory rocked back in her chair. “But they’re an important piece of the history related to a painting that’s worth millions. I saw the news reports, so don’t try to con me and say they’re not worth that much. Five thousand euros is cheap compared to the price of the painting.”
“But the painting is missing, as you pointed out. The buyer doesn’t want to spend thousands of euros researching a painting that might never be recovered.” Zoe handed her card to Mallory. “I’m at the Premier Hotel for a few more days. Call me if you change your mind.” Jack had stood when Zoe did. He’d already climbed the ladder and opened the hatch.
“Wait.” Mallory hopped up. “I suppose I could go down to three thousand.”
Zoe, her foot on the first rung of the ladder, shook her head. “I can’t do that.”
Jack slid the hatch open, and rain sprinkled down on Zoe’s head.
Mallory came over and gripped the edge of the ladder. “Okay, a thousand.”
“Where are they?” Zoe asked, her gaze skimming over the cabin. A thousand dollars to Mr. Be
st was probably equivalent to the change Zoe tossed in her car’s cup holder after a run through a drive-through.
Mallory casually flicked her hand toward the desk. “Around here.” A trace of disbelief must have crossed Zoe’s face because Mallory added, “It may look a tad disorganized, but I know exactly where they are.”
Zoe looked up at Jack, sighed, and infused as much reluctance in her tone as possible. “I don’t want to do this, but . . .” She sighed. “Okay. Two thousand.”
Mallory’s eyebrows shot up. “Gre—”
“But for that price, I’m buying them, not just looking at them.”
Zoe held her gaze, and Mallory lifted a shoulder after a second. “Okay. Like, fine. I don’t want them anyway.”
A pulse of satisfaction beat in the center of Zoe’s chest, warming her despite the cold breeze sweeping over her and the rain pelting her head. She kept her tone neutral. “I don’t have that kind of money on me, of course.”
“Can you get it by tomorrow?”
“Yes.” I hope so.
“Good. Right. Okay, then. Come back tomorrow afternoon. That’ll give me time to, like, get everything ready for you.”
“Three o’clock?” Zoe asked.
“Sure.”
“See you then.” Zoe began to climb.
“Oh.” Mallory bounced up on her toes. “Cash. It’s got to be in bank notes. No wire transfers or anything.”
“Of course.”
13
Once they were clear of the houseboat, Jack said, “You negotiated like a pro back there.”
Rain streamed down, soaking into Zoe’s shoulders as they splashed along the street. “I just hope my expense account can handle it—and that Mr. Best actually does want the provenance wrapped up—and that the painting is recovered. That’s a lot of variables.”
Zoe halted and gripped Jack’s upper arm. “What day is today? Tomorrow isn’t the weekend, is it?”
Jack checked his watch. “It’s Wednesday.”
Zoe sagged with relief. “Thank goodness. The banks will be open tomorrow. With all our travel, I’d forgotten what day of the week it was. Of course, I’ll have to figure out how to get that much cash. I can’t withdraw such a big amount from a business account at an ATM.”
