Duplicity

by Sara Rosett

  He cut the connection.

  Zoe put her phone away, already walking toward the food stalls as she told Jack what Pieter had said. Zoe kept looking around for Farina but didn’t see her either. “How could we lose them both?”

  “It’s a big area full of people—perfect for losing a tail.”

  The herring stall was closed. A man was lowering the last big panel and locking it into place, covering the service counter. He moved off down the sidewalk, avoiding eye contact with them, which was just fine with Zoe.

  A couple of trestle tables stood to the side of the food stand under an awning. Zoe and Jack went to opposite ends of the middle table and ducked down. A tube was taped to the underside of the table. They shared a grin as Zoe pulled it free. Heart beating fast, she unscrewed the lid and edged the rolled contents out a few inches. “It’s canvas, not paper.”

  “Zoe.” Jack’s voice was low and soft, the tone one would use when they didn’t want to frighten off a scared animal. He was looking beyond her shoulder. Zoe spun around, the tube still firmly gripped in her hands.

  Farina stood holding a bike by the handlebars. All her concentration was fixed on the tube. Farina walked forward, rolling the bike along with her. “Did Pieter leave that?”

  “Apparently.” Zoe tipped the contents fully onto the table, and the roll unfurled.

  The painting on the top was one of Farina’s, the black dot on the white background. Zoe lifted the edge of it, revealing the inverse painting, the one with a white dot on a black background. Zoe blew out a breath and inched that painting aside. Rich tones of purple and a shimmering, luminescent white showed up sharp and clear even in the dimness under the awning with sunset fast approaching.

  Farina muttered something in Dutch, and the bike clattered to the ground. She collapsed onto the bench of the picnic table. She leaned forward, her hands over her face, and let out a shaky gulp.

  The tube began to roll away across the table. Zoe caught it as she asked, “Are you okay, Farina?”

  Farina sat up and ran her fingers under her eyes. “I’m fine. It was just the stress and worry. How did you get him to give them up?”

  “I didn’t. It was something he saw on television—the news story about Vokos. Did you see that?”

  “Yes. But I don’t understand. Why would that cause Pieter to give them up? Vokos’ painting has to be a copy. This is the real one—it has to be. It was in Sebastian Blakely’s estate and has been for decades.”

  “Apparently Vokos has a shady reputation, which Pieter must have known about. Pieter said he didn’t want to be associated with anything to do with Vokos.”

  “Well, I don’t care why Pieter gave them up. I’m just glad he did.” Farina wiped her eyes again and blinked a couple of times. “Well, this is wonderful.”

  Zoe took out her phone and scrolled, looking for the name Harrington had given her. “I’ll call a contact I have in the Amsterdam police and let them know we’ve recovered the paintings.”

  “Now? You’re going to call them now?”

  Zoe zipped through the contact list. “We have to. We don’t want to be on the hook for them.”

  Farina stood and leaned toward the paintings. “Let’s wait. I can take them directly back to London first thing in the morning.”

  Jack deftly slipped the paintings out of her reach and began to roll them up. “You want to transport stolen goods?”

  Farina turned her attention away from Jack to Zoe. “You don’t have to call the police. Just call the Janus Gallery. Tell them you’ve located the paintings, and I’ll bring them in tomorrow.”

  Zoe found the name, dialed, and put the phone to her ear. “Farina, we have to call the police. We need to lay everything out and let them know what happened. This is an international police matter. You can’t just cart stolen art across borders.”

  Farina flexed her hands into fists as Jack fed the paintings back into the tube. “No. There’s got to be a different way.”

  “I’m afraid not.” A voice came through the phone, and Zoe turned away slightly from Farina’s pleading gaze. “May I speak with Superintendent Visser? This is Zoe Andrews. I’m an associate of Harrington Throckmorton.”

  Metal rattled, and when Zoe looked up, Farina was nearly to the street, her coat flapping out around her as she pedaled away.

  A voice came on the line. “This is Visser.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, Superintendent, but I have some good news for you about some missing artwork . . .”

  33

  Zoe contemplated the enormous pancake the waiter placed in front of her. “After running away from us last night, I still can’t believe Farina was on the news this morning.”

  Jack leaned back as the waiter set a plate in front of him. “She couldn’t resist the spotlight.”

  After spending most of the previous night answering the police’s questions and coordinating the return of the painting, Zoe and Jack were in a pancake restaurant. They’d ordered pannenkoeken, or Dutch pancakes, which were dinner-plate sized. They’d had their choice of sweet or savory accents. Zoe had opted for strawberries while Jack had gone for basically the fruit salad pancake. Bananas, strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries topped his.

  Zoe spread her paper napkin in her lap. “Well, Farina’s certainly spun her story to wring every drop of publicity out of the situation.” The news story they’d seen that morning as they walked through the hotel lobby had English captions, and they’d stopped to watch it, amazed to see Farina smiling at the camera.

  Jack drizzled syrup over his pancake. “And she told the whole story too. That was surprising.”

  “Yes. I didn’t expect that either.” Farina had held nothing back. Without mentioning names, she’d told how she’d hired someone to steal the three paintings, and of her dismay when the thief hadn’t followed her instructions to give them up the next day. Zoe took the syrup bottle Jack held out. “But I think I understand what she did. Just like Vokos, she wanted to get ahead of the story and set the narrative for the media. She played up her role as an underdog. Her story is that she couldn’t get any traction with the snobby art community, so she had to subvert the establishment. Public sentiment will be on her side, and the police will look bad if they want to charge her with anything. She’s the new Banksy—well, except she’s far from anonymous.”

  “Who?”

  “The graffiti artist whose painting was shredded when it sold at auction, remember that?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “There was a paper shredder built into the frame. When the gavel came down, the shredder was switched on and cut the painting into strips, but it malfunctioned. Only half of the painting was shredded. The media ate it up, of course. I bet that’s what Farina hopes happens to her too.”

  Jack tilted his head at the television mounted in the corner of the room behind Zoe. “Looks like she’s succeeding. They’re running the story again.”

  Zoe twisted around. Farina, looking spectacular with full makeup and a snazzy black jacket, stood in front of the Rijksmuseum, a light breeze teasing her freshly styled white bangs. Captions scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Never meant for it to turn out the way it did . . . horrified when they didn’t turn up . . . sort of a joke that got out of hand . . .

  Zoe turned back around and picked up her fork as Jack said, “Now, Pieter, he’s different. I think he’ll lay low for a long time. He’s probably halfway across Europe now.”

  The police had gone to Pieter’s apartment, but he’d cleared out. He’d used his metro card to get to the train station, but the police hadn’t been able to trace him from that point.

  Zoe forked up a bite of the pancake. “I agree. Pieter wanted zero attention from the media or the police.”

  Jack sipped his coffee. “So now that the paintings are recovered, what do you want to do? We have several days left, and our return flight is open.”

  “Well, Harrington’s paying for wherever we go next. He said he
’d underwrite the rest of our vacation. We should pick somewhere good.”

  “Tahiti,” Jack said instantly.

  “That could be fun, but I do think there might be a teensy issue on the reimbursement for that.”

  “I suppose so. Harrington is generous, but you’re right. Even he might balk at an overwater bungalow.”

  “We could go back to Greece. We only saw a little bit of the city. We didn’t even get to explore the Agora or the Acropolis Museum.”

  Jack nodded. “I could do with another gyro.”

  “And the temple of Poseidon isn’t that far away. It’s supposed to be amazing, not to mention Santorini.”

  “I’m sold.” Jack put down his coffee and took out his phone. “There might be an evening flight we could get on.”

  Zoe concentrated on eating while Jack scrolled, her thoughts clicking away over everything that had happened over the last few days until she realized Jack was speaking.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  Jack slipped his phone into his pocket. “I said there’s a flight at seven.”

  “That’ll be perfect.”

  “You’re preoccupied.”

  Zoe put down her fork. “I think I know what happened in nineteen twenty-three.”

  Jack speared a blueberry. “We already know what happened in the twenties. Carter painted a copy of Woman in a White Fur, took it to Greece, and sold it to Vokos’ grandmother.”

  “Yes, but I think I know what happened with the provenance documents.” She inched forward on her chair. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since we left the police last night. Did I tell you that the original bill of sale for Woman in a White Fur was missing from the Blakely estate’s paperwork? We had to get a copy from the artist’s estate.”

  “No, I don’t remember you mentioning that.”

  “The information Harrington was given was that it had been destroyed in a fire in London during World War I. But what if the bill of sale was stolen?”

  The waiter refilled their coffee cups. Once he moved away, Zoe moved the salt and pepper shakers to the center of the table. She lifted the salt. “Let’s say this is the original painting.” She put it to one side. “It stays in Hawthorne Hall.” She picked up the pepper. “Let’s say this is the copy. What if Carter took the copy of Woman in a White Fur along with the original bill of sale?” Zoe put her napkin beside the pepper. “If he had the paperwork”—she set the pepper on the napkin and dragged them to the opposite side of the table—“to prove it was an original de Lempicka painting, it would be so much easier to sell it.”

  Zoe sat back and crossed her arms. “In the early twenties it would have been much easier for Carter to sell his copy as an original than it would be today. Communication wasn’t like it is now—for people or for the police forces. It seems Blakely was content to enjoy his painting and not make it known that a copy had been made, which isn’t uncommon when someone’s been swindled. They don’t want the world to know about it. Later, the Blakely family must have assumed that the documentation had been lost—destroyed in the firebombing during World War I in London.”

  Jack said, “Clever—on Carter’s part.”

  “And no one ever did an inventory of the paperwork. Olive’s inventory focused on the physical paintings. She didn’t check any of the provenance records. Nobody looked for the original documentation until now.”

  Zoe picked up her fork and swirled a bite of pancake through the strawberry-flavored syrup. “I don’t think there’s any way to prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt. But if the paperwork that Vokos showed me checks out as being from the early 20th century, then . . .”

  The waiter removed Jack’s empty plate. “That’s probably what happened.”

  “I do like it when all the questions are answered—all the wrinkles ironed out.” Zoe sipped her coffee. “Poor Olive. She figured out the painting had been copied and that Carter had taken it, but she never knew what became of it after that.”

  “Sometimes it takes years to find a good solution to a problem. Speaking of that . . .” Jack reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers stapled together. “Take a look at that.”

  Zoe retrieved her napkins and wiped her fingers before reaching for the papers. “Is this what you were doing in the business center this morning?” Jack had received an early phone call. He’d showered, kissed her while she was still groggy, told her he’d be downstairs, and gone out the door humming an upbeat tune.

  “Yep.”

  There was something—a hint of excitement—in Jack’s tone that made Zoe give him a long look before she flipped back the blank cover page. She read the title aloud. “Partnership proposal?” She skimmed down the page, then nearly dropped the paper on her syrupy plate. “You want to go into partnership with me?”

  “You’ve been talking about taking on a partner, haven’t you? You’re swamped with business. You need someone.”

  “I do. But what about your business?”

  “That meeting I had last week in London took an interesting turn. One of the executives from Fulsen offered to buy me out.”

  “But you’ve worked so hard. You’re finally established, and the business is going great.”

  Jack fiddled with a spoon from an unused place setting. “Maybe a little too great.” He put down the spoon and held Zoe’s gaze. “That’s what I’ve been thinking about lately. We’re both run off our feet. We don’t have time to spend with each other. We had issues with my work pulling us apart last time. I don’t want that to happen again.”

  He reached across the table. Zoe slid her hand into his. “You’d give up your job for me?”

  “It’s not quite the noble self-sacrificing move you make it sound like. The work’s not quite what I thought it would be.” He stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. “I love the security aspect of it, but”—Jack wrinkled his nose—“chasing down clients and finding new client leads wears me out. If I’m honest, I really dislike that part, and I have to do it to keep the business going.” Jack squeezed her hand. “Your business, however, is different. People are coming to you. You’re overwhelmed. You need someone to help you. And Fulsen wants to keep me on as a paid part-time consultant for a year to ease the transition and troubleshoot any issues. While I’m doing that, you can be training me in art recovery.”

  “Now that sounds like a very interesting proposal. I like it.”

  “Good. You can think it over—”

  “Jack, when have you ever known me to think anything over? I like the idea. Let’s do it.”

  “Okay, then.” Jack unlinked their hands and extended his. “Should we shake on it?”

  “I have a better idea.” Zoe leaned across the table and kissed him on the mouth. “Partners in love and work. Sounds ideal.”

  Epilogue

  Art and Culture News

  Decades old forgery uncovered in Athens

  * * *

  Retired Greek businessman and art connoisseur Darias Vokos was astounded to discover a painting, Woman in a White Fur, owned by his family for decades was actually a forgery, not the original oil painting by the famous Art Deco artist Tamara de Lempicka. “I was shocked to learn it was a copy. Shocked!” Vokos said. “We had no idea.”

  * * *

  Vokos’ painting had hung in his grandparents’ home, which he inherited, since the nineteen twenties. The original painting of Woman in a White Fur, which was in London, hadn’t been on display “for decades” according to the owner, Rosalind Kingwood, because of concerns over theft.

  * * *

  “It was too valuable to leave it hanging on the wall in Hawthorne House. We had to put it in secure storage.”

  The de Lempicka painting was first seen in public only recently when Kingwood decided to sell it, and it went on display at Janus Gallery in London.

  * * *

  In a strange twist, the painting was stolen from the London gallery along with Farina Vee’s Titled and Untitled in a now-
famous publicity ploy. The three paintings were later recovered in Amsterdam.

  * * *

  Both paintings of Woman in a White Fur were examined by experts. “After extensive testing, the painting owned by Rosalind Kingwood was determined to be an original de Lempicka, while Vokos’ painting was determined to be a copy,” said Daniel Janus, owner of the London gallery that handled the sale of the original painting. “Mr. Vokos owned a very good copy, but it is a copy nonetheless,” said Janus.

  * * *

  Vokos was saddened to learn that his grandmother had been defrauded when she bought the painting, but he’s purchased the original Woman in a White Fur and plans to hang it and the forgery side-by-side in his new gallery, which will open to the public next year.

  The Story Behind the Story

  Thank you for joining me for Zoe’s final adventure. Yes, I’m sad to say that this is the final planned On the Run novel. You’ll notice I said “planned.” Life has a way of taking interesting turns, so I never say never, especially when it comes to books and writing. There might be another Zoe book in the future, but for now, Zoe and Jack are in a good place, and I’m setting the series aside.

  The idea for Duplicity had been percolating for a while, but it didn’t fully come together until a writer friend and I talked about crossover books. I thought about how much fun it would be for one of Zoe’s investigations to revolve around one of Olive’s cases. I enjoyed interweaving the storylines of two favorite characters, but juggling two timelines was a challenge!

  For a refresher on art theft investigation, I again dipped into Robert K. Wittman’s book Priceless: How I Went Undercover to Rescue the World’s Stolen Treasures. On the flip side, I read Anthony M. Amore’s book The Art of the Con: The Most Notorious Fakes, Frauds, and Forgeries in the Art World to get the inside story on how con artists work in the art world. While the story of Carter’s con is completely fictional, Amore’s book documents many recent cases of fakes and forgeries that fooled art collectors, brokers, galleries, and auction houses.