Blue Smoke and Murder sk-4

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Same goes.” She smiled up at him, traced the pulse beating in his neck, and moved back.

  His slow smile was a warning and a promise. He opened the door, stepped through while chimes sang a sweet welcome, and held the door open for Jill.

  “I’ll be right with you,” the woman called out before she picked up her phone.

  “No problem,” Zach said, smiling.

  The woman blinked, startled by the gentle voice and smile coming from a rough-looking man wearing enough stubble to make a movie villain envious. She smiled back at him, then began talking on the phone in a low voice.

  Jill drifted off to look at a wall of Impressionist-style paintings. A few depicted the American West that no longer was. Most of the paintings showed Siberia in a storm, Paris in a spring rain, dancers stretching at the barre in the manner of Degas. Still other paintings offered the rural haystacks that Monet’s many imitators had turned into a cliché.

  She half expected to find a vase of sunflowers in homage to van Gogh.

  Zach glanced at the paintings and then looked away with an attitude that said he’d seen them all before and hadn’t been impressed that time either.

  The woman’s voice murmured in the background. Her low, cultured tones couldn’t be overheard.

  Curious, Jill looked at the cards that named the artists who clearly had been thoroughly schooled in classic Impressionism. Every name was Russian. Every painting was nineteenth or twentieth century.

  The asking prices were all well into six figures.

  No matter what the subject, the Russian painters had flawless technique, rather like the superstars of ice, gymnastics, and ballet that the Soviet Union once had been famous for producing.

  “You’re frowning,” Zach said to Jill. “Something wrong?”

  “Nothing. That’s the problem.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “It is?”

  “The academics of these pictures are perfect. Light. Shadow. Color. Proportion. Brushstrokes. Everything.”

  “Makes you nervous, doesn’t it?” he asked dryly.

  “It makes me remember something you mentioned earlier about Russian Impressionism and”-she looked quickly at the woman, who was still talking-“the mafyia.”

  “Yeah, this kind of stuff has been flooding the market by the container load,” Zach said heading for another wall, this one with scenes of the American West. “It’s one way for the new Russian oligarchs to get cash out of the former Soviet Union.”

  “Amazing.” Jill leaned closer to a painting.

  “The prices?”

  “That, too.”

  Zach’s smile wasn’t comforting. “The big problem is that nobody knows for sure which are historic paintings and which are being cranked out by painting factories in modern Russia.”

  “The Italians of Leonardo’s day did the same sort of thing. One big name. A herd of ‘student’ painters doing the work.” She moved on to the next painting, sunlight over water. “Really awesome technique.”

  “I like yours better.”

  Her head turned toward him so fast that her hair flew out. “My what?”

  “Technique. The one you did of the horse with its rump to the wind really made me feel the bite of the desert winter-and that was just a JPEG I was looking at.”

  She tilted her head slightly. “Are you talking about the painting at Pomona College?”

  “You’re too modest. They have six of your paintings hanging in various rooms. With a few breaks and a good handler, you could have a career in the commercial arts. If the critics fell in love with you, you’d become a ‘fine’ arts painter.”

  Jill shrugged. “Decent painters are as common as horseflies. Check any fine arts department.”

  Zach shook his head. “You’re one hell of an uncommon horsefly.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “Do you have more paintings around?” he asked casually, but his eyes were clear, hard.

  “I used to,” she said, studying-yes-a vase of sunflowers. “I gave them all to friends when I went back to the river.”

  “Landscapes?”

  “Most of them. A few portraits.” Then Jill went very still. “You’re thinking that I painted Modesty’s landscapes.”

  “It occurred to me.”

  It was foolish to feel angry, much less hurt, but Jill did. “Thanks for the vote of no confidence.”

  “If I hadn’t investigated the possibility that you were the painter, I’d be working for some fast-food joint rather than St. Kilda. Never overlook the obvious is the oldest rule in the book.”

  “Good for you. As soon as I find a long nail and a hammer, I’ll mount a gold star on your forehead.”

  “You didn’t paint the canvases in Modesty’s trunk,” Zach said, ignoring Jill’s sarcasm.

  “Is that what Pomona College told St. Kilda?”

  “That’s what your paintings told me. You understand being alone, but not lonely.”

  “So did whoever painted what I found in the trunk.”

  “Yes and no,” Zach said. “In those dozen paintings there’s a corrosive kind of anger, a trapped animal’s rage at whatever is keeping it from the freedom all around it. Your paintings don’t have rage. You accept life and the land as it is. You’re alone with the land, not alone on it.”

  “And you’re a professional liar,” she muttered, not wanting to be lured by the belief that Zach understood her paintings.

  And her.

  He ruffled her nerves enough on a physical level, without adding all the complications of intelligence into the mix.

  “Sometimes I’m a liar,” he agreed. “Right now isn’t one of those times.”

  Jill blew out a hissing breath. “I keep thinking about the ruined painting and Ford Hillhouse’s suggestion that it was all a fraud, but he’d pay Modesty a couple thousand to go away. How do you ‘lose’ a painting?”

  “You send it out to three or four other dealers for their opinion, one of them has a foul-up in shipping, and a painting goes missing. It happens. That’s why shipments are insured. Ask anyone in the trade.”

  “But-”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Hillhouse showed the painting to a few Dunstan collectors, just to see if one of them would be willing to roll the provenance dice.”

  “That’s fraud.”

  Zach shook his head. “Not if both seller and buyer are aware that the painting hasn’t been authenticated. Then it’s just business.”

  “Then why did Hillhouse as good as call the painting a fraud?”

  “That was one of the questions I was going to ask him,” Zach said, “but he never took St. Kilda’s calls, the painting is now a pile of scraps, and there’s no point in wasting time nailing his balls to the wall. If anything in that equation changes, I’ll get whatever answers I need from him, whenever I need them.”

  “But if he won’t talk to you, how can you-” Her words stopped when she looked at Zach’s eyes. She swallowed and reminded herself that just because people lived in civilization, they weren’t always civilized.

  “She’s wrapping up her conversation,” Zach said, indicating the woman.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Body language. You ready to play?”

  “I’ll never have a career in fine art,” Jill said muttered. “I can’t paint and hold my nose, which is what I’d have to do to keep from smelling the bullshit that seems to be a big part of the scene.”

  “That’s how you get blue smoke,” Zach said. “You build piles of bullshit and set fire to them. Now lose the inner bitch and look pleasant for the nice saleslady.”

  Jill gritted her teeth. “It’s a little hard to make nice with a stranger who won’t answer e-mails and might have had a part in my great-aunt’s death.”

  “Do it or take a walk. Now.”

  A single look told Jill that Zach wasn’t kidding.

  She forced her mouth into a smile and turned toward the elegant brunette who was approaching them.

 
; 32

  SNOWBIRD

  SEPTEMBER 15

  11:07 A.M.

  Zach watched the woman as she walked up to him. She wore a cashmere sweater that showed discreet cleavage, painfully stylish high heels, and the kind of black wool slacks that cost more than most people made in a week. Her black pearl earrings and elegantly simple gold-and-pearl pin looked real, and really expensive.

  “Hello, I’m Jo. I see you’re admiring our Russian Impressionists. Their technique is-”

  “Well known to dealers and consultants,” Zach cut in, smiling to soften the words. “I’m here with Ms. Jillian Breck in regard to the unsigned Thomas Dunstan painting that you may have seen last month, and the JPEGs of unsigned paintings that were e-mailed to you recently.”

  At Dunstan’s name, the woman’s eyes widened and her hand went to her throat.

  Zach saw the reaction for what it was-an involuntary effort to hide a strong emotional reaction. Fear, most likely.

  Adrenaline slid sweetly into his veins.

  It’s about time someone noticed us.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, his expression and body language concerned.

  “Wrong?” Waverly-Benet’s voice was too high. She cleared her throat and lowered both her voice and her hand. “No. I just wish I’d never seen that particular canvas. I suspect it cost me a considerable commission, and tested the goodwill of people who are very important in the Western art market.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Zach said gently. “Professional jealousies are an unfortunate fact of life in the art business.”

  “So is fraud,” she said in a flat voice.

  Jill moved sharply.

  Zach’s casual stroke down her arm kept her quiet.

  “I sent that painting to the definitive Dunstan expert,” Waverly-Benet said, her body tight. “He sent me back the nastiest letter I have ever received. He called me ‘obviously incompetent’ for even considering that the painting might be a genuine Dunstan.”

  Zach whistled. “That’s harsh, even in a business noted for its prima donnas. I saw that painting. It was a superior canvas, one that no one should be insulted for appreciating.”

  Ms. Waverly-Benet relaxed, warmed by Zach’s understanding. “I thought so. Later I found out that the expert advised a prominent Western art collector not to place one of his canvases in my gallery for resale because I was an idiot.”

  Zach shook his head. “That sounds much more like a personal opinion than a professional one. In fact, it sounds legally actionable. I’m sorry you had to suffer it.”

  Jill tried not to stare at the gentle, reasonable, supportive, sympathetic alien who had taken over Zach’s body.

  “Unfortunately, this expert’s opinion is the only one that really counts,” Waverly-Benet said bitterly. “It came from Olympus, so to speak.”

  “Are we talking about Lee Dunstan, the artist’s son?” Zach asked.

  “Yes, unfortunately.”

  “It’s a shame the son isn’t an artist,” Zach said, “either by training or inclination.”

  Waverly-Benet sighed. “I agree. But Lee Dunstan controls the Dunstan droit moral, and that’s that.”

  Jill frowned. “I know that it’s common, especially in Europe, for a dead artist’s family to retain the moral right to designate that artist’s works as authentic. Without the family’s stamp of approval, a work can be deemed a fake or, worse, a fraud.”

  Waverly-Benet flinched.

  “Picasso’s heirs have made a great living from droit moral,” Zach said. “But it’s much more rare in American art.”

  “Not lately,” Waverly-Benet said, her body tight again. “The more famous the artist, the more likely you are to encounter some moral authority with the power of life and death over questioned pieces. If not a family member, then an academic or a curator or a critic who has made a lifetime study of an artist and produced that artist’s catalogue raisonné.”

  “Ah, yes,” Jill said. “Gathering piles and setting fire to them.”

  Zach fought a smile.

  Waverly-Benet didn’t have a smile to fight. Underneath the sleek exterior, she was angry and afraid. She pinned Jill with a dark glance and said, “If you’re still trying to sell the painting I sent back to Hillhouse, you should be aware that you’ll be courting serious legal problems.”

  “Modesty Breck sent the canvas out for appraisal, nothing more,” Jill said. “The word ‘sale’ was never suggested.”

  “That so-called Dunstan was appraised and found wanting,” Waverly-Benet said. “If that’s what you came to me about, you’re wasting my time and possibly harming my reputation.”

  “But you thought enough of the painting to-” Jill began.

  “Obviously I was wrong,” Waverly-Benet cut in. “I’ve had enough trouble over that canvas. I don’t want anything more to do with it. Unless you have something else to talk about, please leave.”

  Jill started to say something.

  Zach’s hand settled over her forearm. And squeezed.

  “Sorry to bother you,” he said to Waverly-Benet. “We won’t take any more of your time.”

  Jill allowed herself to be herded outside and into the SUV.

  As soon as Zach started the engine, she said, “That was one scared woman.”

  “She’s sitting on millions of dollars in inventory, her ski-resort rent would support a small third world country, and her reputation within art circles just took a hell of a hit. Damn straight she’s scared.”

  “Still, she has no right to-”

  “You should be scared, too,” Zach continued relentlessly. “It’s not your livelihood being threatened, it’s your life.”

  33

  SNOWBIRD

  SEPTEMBER 15

  11:18 A.M.

  This time I’m the hard case and you’re the sympathetic one,” Zach said as they walked up to the next gallery.

  “Does that mean the sweet thing actually gets to speak?”

  He gave her a sideways look. “Was I stepping on your lines back there?”

  “What lines?”

  “That’s why I did most of the talking,” he said blandly. “You don’t know your lines.”

  “Really? I thought you’d been taken over by an astonishingly polite alien.”

  “Get ready for the rude alien.”

  “Nothing alien about that,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Aliens have excellent hearing.”

  She shut up and stared at the door buzzer, the locked door, and the very visible guard. “Looks like a bank.”

  “Fine art is portable and pricey, a combination that crooks can’t resist. Worthington is getting ready for the Las Vegas auction. Some really high-end canvas wealth is stashed in this gallery, waiting to be escorted to Vegas.”

  “But the auction is only four days away. Why is it here?”

  “The hotel probably didn’t want the insurance risk of storing the paintings until the auction. Or the individual insurers balked. I keep telling you, art is a business.”

  As Zach hit the buzzer by the door, he noticed that there was a bright new sign painted on the glass.

  RAMSEY WORTHINGTON, FINE ARTS

  Specialist in Western Works

  “He’s really making his move up,” Zach said.

  “What?”

  “Worthington.” Zach pointed to the sign. “He’s not emphasizing Western art in his new sign.”

  “Hard to be the next Sotheby’s wearing shit-kickers and a bolo tie,” Jill said dryly.

  Smiling, Zach hit the buzzer again.

  “No one’s hurrying out to greet us because you don’t look like you fit in this place,” Jill said quietly.

  “That’s the whole point.”

  “I don’t look like I fit, either.”

  “Sure you do,” he said. “West of the Rockies, a lot of very wealthy people prefer casual chic.”

  She gave him a sidelong look. “I’ve never had my go-to-town jeans referred to
as chic.”

  “It’s the whole package, not just the clothes.” Zach looked at her and hoped his tongue wasn’t hanging out. The blouse she wore wasn’t cut low or tight, but the material clung to her breasts like a shadow. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

  It had been driving him nuts.

  “You have a lot of confidence, physical and mental,” he said, forcing himself to look at the gallery rather than what was beneath the silky blouse. “Subconsciously, people-especially smart salespeople-associate your kind of assurance with wealth. You set styles, you don’t follow them. You have enough money to be a maverick, remember?”

  “Then what am I doing hanging out with a rough-looking dude like you?”

  “The usual.”

  “Which is?” she asked.

  “Down-and-dirty sex.”

  Jill was still choking on Zach’s answer when a young woman unlocked the door and smiled at them. The employee was a bright, cheerful blonde just past college age. She looked more like a marketing major than an art student. Her name tag said Christa Moore.

  The front door guard didn’t smile. He watched Zach.

  Zach approved the guard’s instincts.

  “Welcome,” Ms. Moore said warmly. “How may I assist you?”

  “You can’t, unless you’re Ramsey Worthington in drag,” Zach said.

  Even though Jill was expecting it, she was surprised at the edge in his voice.

  Ms. Moore looked over her shoulder reflexively. A door marked private stood between a striking portrait of an Apache woman and a buffalo sculpture sniffing the breeze. The buffalo was motionless, yet explosively alive.

  “Did you have an appointment with anyone in particular or-” she began.

  “Ramsey Worthington,” Zach cut in impatiently.

  The woman blinked and automatically backed up a step or two. Jill moved into the opening, with Zach right on her heels.

  The young woman made a humming sound of distress. “Oh, dear. Mr. Worthington didn’t tell anyone that he had an appointment.”

  Zach shrugged and began glancing around at the gallery in the manner of someone who wasn’t impressed by her problems or her workplace.