Blue Smoke and Murder sk-4

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “You make my point for me,” Worthington said, smiling without warmth. “Western art has been politically incorrect from its inception. For better and for worse, Western art is an almost exclusively male domain. Dunstan not only knew that, he celebrated it. His homage to male strength is the very core of his iconic status.”

  “Gee, and here I thought art was universal,” Jill said, shaking her head. “Goes to show you what a college education is worth. Guess that’s why I need an adviser.”

  And if that adviser doesn’t stop petting me, I’m going to bite him.

  Only question is where.

  Worthington’s smile warmed and he lied like the salesman he was. “In general, of course, art is universal and not gender specific.”

  “That’s why there are so many famous women artists,” Zach drawled, tracing the inside of Jill’s arm. “Universal as all hell.”

  Worthington ignored him and concentrated on Jill. “The Old Masters of the West, and Dunstan most certainly was one of them, were true products of their age. They believed masculine power was the force that subdued the wilderness and created civilization. That is still a fundamental belief among the collectors of Western art. It is the very touchstone of authenticity in the genre.”

  Jill nodded like a good student. “So you’re saying that you rejected my great-aunt’s painting not on the basis of the artistic technique itself, but on the political subtext.”

  “Exactly,” Worthington said. “All art is created in a historical context. That’s every bit as important an element in judging the authenticity of a work as style and pigment selection, brushstrokes and types of oils.”

  Jill fought to look like a student rather than a well-educated woman who had just been patronized by a salesman.

  Zach slid his fingers from her wrist to her elbow, and from there beneath the silky sleeve of her blouse. Caressing. Distracting.

  Warning.

  She let out a long breath. “I understand your point of view.” Arrogant, condescending, bigoted.

  “I’m sorry,” Worthington said. “I know you must have had some high hopes about the value of the painting. Believe me, I would have loved to say the canvas was a Dunstan.”

  Jill tried to look like she cared. She must have succeeded, because Zach took his maddening fingers off her arm and opened up the auction catalogue.

  “Not only would I have been introducing a new Dunstan to the art world,” Worthington continued, “the painting would have been a stellar addition to the Las Vegas auction. Our showcase lot is comprised of some of the finest Dunstans ever put under the gavel.”

  “Really?” Jill asked, not having to act surprised. She was. “With such well-known names as Remington and Russell in your catalogue, I’m surprised that Dunstan would be the star.”

  “Among Western art cognoscenti, Thomas Dunstan is without peer. Setting the intrinsic value of the art aside,” Worthington said, “Dunstan is a terribly attractive business investment. His worth has been rising sharply in the past few years.”

  Jill’s attentive look encouraged Worthington.

  “Frankly,” he continued, “we expect to set a new sales record for a Dunstan canvas.”

  Zach looked up from the catalogue. “Good luck. You’ve got your Dunstans listed at between four and seven million right now.”

  She made a startled sound.

  “That’s conservative,” Worthington said. “These are large canvases, for Dunstans. Last year, a smaller one brought four million. It was a private sale between a Dunstan family heir and a collector. Once the major collectors start bidding against each other in Las Vegas, the price could easily go to eight figures.”

  “Yeah? Who are the lucky collectors?” Zach asked.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Sure it is. I represent the owner of a dozen canvases that can be attributed to Thomas Dunstan.”

  Worthington’s eyes narrowed. He turned away from Zach and looked at Jill like she had just peed on his socks.

  “I’m not in the business of offering free advice,” Worthington said coldly, “but I can’t let that preposterous statement go without comment.”

  Jill waited.

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  “Your so-called adviser is leading you down a dangerous path,” Worthington said in a clipped voice. “His claim that you have a dozen unprovenanced Dunstans is worthless and actionable. If you persist in this foolishness, you will find yourself arrested for fraud. Any number of well-known art experts will be pleased to work for the prosecuting attorney.”

  “I presume the chorus of naysayers will include you,” Jill said, trying to look disappointed instead of furious.

  “You bet he’ll be there, probably singing lead,” Zach said. “Nothing like the prospect of money to put a man in fine voice.”

  Worthington’s face flushed with anger. “I have no monetary interest in Dunstan canvases. I don’t own any.”

  “If two Dunstans sell at auction for seven million apiece, you’d make ten percent of fourteen million,” Zach said. “If that isn’t a monetary interest, what is?”

  “This conversation is over,” Worthington said through thin lips. “Leave immediately or I’ll call the guard.”

  Zach laughed derisively. “That rent-a-cop? Get real.”

  Jill stroked Zach’s arm and tugged him toward the office door. “Forget it, honey. If Mr. Worthington isn’t interested in newly discovered Dunstans, it’s his loss.”

  Without a word, Zach allowed himself to be led out of the gallery and back to the rental car. He tossed her the car key, got in the passenger side, and slammed the door hard.

  “What’s wrong?” Jill asked as she got in and started the car. “I thought it went well.”

  Zach didn’t answer.

  “Didn’t it?” she persisted. “We came here to scatter enough rumors to bring our buddy ‘Blanchard’ out of hiding. Once he finds out there are more paintings, that he missed them at the ranch and the casino, he’s going to come sniffing around. So why are you angry?”

  “He’ll be sniffing right up your sweet backside.”

  “Isn’t that what St. Kilda expected?”

  “Yeah. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Take us to the airport while I make some calls.”

  “What about the other galleries?”

  “Not going to happen. I’ve had all the fun I can take putting your ass on the firing line.”

  36

  RENO

  SEPTEMBER 15

  1:00 P.M.

  Crawford residence, Caitlin speaking.”

  “Caitlin, this is Ramsey Worthington. Is Tal around?”

  Caitlin closed her eyes for a second, murmured a prayer that nothing had gone wrong with the auction, and said, “Hello, Ramsey. Let me check.” She hit the hold button, then the household intercom button. “Tal? If you can tear yourself away from the game, Ramsey would like to talk to you.”

  “I’m taking a crap. I’ll call him back.”

  She winced at the coarseness that was as much a part of her husband as his bolo tie. And his money.

  Unfortunately, money could be lost. Tal had done a lot of that in his life.

  He always comes back richer than ever, she reminded herself.

  He was younger then.

  That doesn’t matter.

  She took a steadying breath.

  Does it?

  Fear crawled coldly through Caitlin’s stomach. At forty she was too old to find another trophy husband looking for a trophy wife. She let out her breath in a long exhalation. When she was certain her voice would be calm, she picked up Worthington’s call.

  “Is it something I might help you with, Ramsey?”

  There was a pause, then an impatient sound. “I just wanted to tell him that there are two scam artists peddling unsigned and almost certainly fraudulent Dunstans.”

  “What?” Caitlin knew her voice was too sharp, but there was nothing she could do about it, any more
than she could control her suddenly frantic heartbeat.

  Worthington was talking about her worst nightmare come true.

  “A man and a woman,” Worthington said, “I’d guess in their early thirties. I just wondered if they’d come to Tal with their dubious goods.”

  “No. He would have told me.” Wouldn’t he?

  “Well, if anyone comes to Tal peddling previously unknown Dunstans, please ask him to contact me before he buys anything.”

  “He always does.”

  Worthington laughed. “Caitlin, you’re beautiful and the soul of discretion, but we both know how single-minded Tal can be, especially when it comes to Thomas Dunstan’s art.”

  Caitlin forced a light laugh. “You know my husband so well. But seriously, he hasn’t said a word about any Dunstans except those coming up at auction in Las Vegas. We’re so excited, the only reason we aren’t in Las Vegas is the press announcement of the new museum in a few hours.”

  “Just what an auctioneer likes to hear. It’s going to be an exciting time for everyone, especially once word of Tal’s generosity hits the headlines.”

  An agreeable sound was all Caitlin could manage.

  “I have a lot to do before the auction myself,” Worthington said. “But if Tal hears anything, I’m never too busy to talk to him. Right now, I have to speak to Lee Dunstan.”

  Caitlin made polite good-byes, hung up, and stared at her clenched, bloodless hands.

  37

  OVER UTAH

  SEPTEMBER 15

  1:10 P.M.

  Score’s fingers flew over his computer keyboard. He didn’t need Amy’s script to tell him that the Breck woman was on the move again. The locater he’d planted in her satellite phone was showing the kind of positional changes that only being in the air could bring.

  Damn. Where is she getting the money to pay for all this?

  He drummed his fingers impatiently on the side of the keyboard. Where she got her money wasn’t his problem.

  Keeping up with her was.

  His fingers drummed while he waited for someone in the home office to get Breck’s new flight plan.

  When it finally came through, he cursed savagely. Then he put on his earphones and said, “We need to file a new flight plan.”

  “Where to?” The pilot’s voice managed to sound curt and bored at the same time.

  “Taos.”

  The pilot didn’t require a computer to give her client the happy news. “We have to land in Salt Lake to refuel, as per our flight plan.”

  “What about Snowbird?” Where the locater, and therefore Ms. Breck, spent some time.

  “No landing strip.”

  Figures. “Just get me to Taos the fastest way you can.”

  With a brutal motion Score yanked off the headphones and watched the blinking light of the locater slide away from him.

  It would be a distinct pleasure to get his hands on the bitch who was causing him all this trouble.

  38

  CARSON CITY, NEVADA

  SEPTEMBER 15

  5:00 P.M.

  As Tal Crawford stood to one side of the governor of Nevada, he approved of his wife’s unerring sense of style. Standing next to him, Caitlin was somehow relaxed and attentive at the same time, her eyes on the governor, seemingly unaware of the battery of cameras and microphones arrayed around the politician. Her hair was both sleek and casual, suggesting a woman completely at ease with herself. There was a gentle smile on her perfectly made-up mouth. The smile, like everything else about her from her stylish heels to her pastel jacket and matching skirt, was tasteful and camera-ready. Neither too fashionable nor too dated, simply classy.

  Best investment I ever made.

  The thought almost made Tal grin, but he kept his expression bland while he listened to the public theater that was so necessary to politics.

  And politics were damned necessary to wealth.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” Governor Rollins said, “it is my pleasure to announce that one of our own native sons, Mr. Talbert Crawford, will soon donate to the great state of Nevada the most valuable collection of Western landscape paintings ever made available to the public.”

  The group of cultural mavens standing behind the governor clapped enthusiastically.

  Tal tried to look like his new cowboy boots weren’t pinching him. But they were.

  Don’t know how Caitlin puts up with those fancy shoes she wears. I’d be crippled in five steps.

  “Now, I don’t know much about art,” the governor reassured the voters, “but I sure know what I like. And I really like the paintings of Thomas Dunstan, the single most important painter the West ever produced.”

  There was more applause.

  “This day is truly momentous in the cultural history of our state,” the governor continued.

  The people behind the governor nodded and smiled eagerly, like children at Christmas. The excitement they felt was real, not camera-ready.

  “With the donation of this magnificent collection, plus the Dunstans Tal plans to acquire at the upcoming Las Vegas auction, our fine state will possess fifteen of the major works of an artistic genius, clearly the most important man ever to paint our wild and beautiful state. That’s a dozen more than any public museum or private collection now owns!”

  Caitlin listened to the applause and prayed that everything would go as planned in Las Vegas.

  It will.

  It has to.

  But none of her anxiety showed in her body language. A lady in public was always calm, gracious, and modest.

  “With this collection,” the governor said, “our state now has a claim on the cultural leadership of the West. The new state museum we’re building will be a magnet for culturally aware people from all over our great nation.”

  Caitlin joined in the spattering of applause from the people gathered on and around the steps of the capitol.

  Camera lights glared and flashed.

  The governor smiled and turned to Tal. “In the name of the people of the great state of Nevada, I want to thank you for your generosity.”

  Cameras and microphone shifted to Crawford.

  “My pleasure, Governor,” Tal drawled. “God has seen fit to bless me with the means to repay just a small part of what I owe to our great nation. In addition to Governor Rollins, I want to thank Senator Pat Healy. He’s been real helpful in pulling this all together. We’re lucky to have him watching out for our interests in Washington.” Tal smiled like a little boy caught snitching cookies. “Got to admit, if it wasn’t for the efforts of these two great men, I’d never have been persuaded to part with my Dunstans, much less my whole collection of Western art.”

  Caitlin’s smile froze in its gracious curve as she clapped and politicians smiled and camera lights flashed their blinding message of fame. She kept smiling while Tal went on to describe the unflagging public conscience of the governor and the senator, and how important Western art was becoming, the world finally recognizing the greatness that had always been in painters such as Thomas Dunstan.

  There were no surprises in the speech for Caitlin. She had vetted every word, every action, every pause for reaction. Now all she had to do was pray that Tal didn’t screw it up and act like the shit-kicker he was by birth and inclination.

  “When this museum is completed and open to the public, millions of people will be able to enjoy the best of the paintings of Thomas Dunstan,” Tal said. “And right here, right now, I want to challenge other Western art collectors to match my donation with works in their own collections. Competition is part of our great way of life, so come on down to the auction this Sunday in Las Vegas and see if you can go toe-to-toe with me for the only Thomas Dunstans to be offered for sale in decades. I promise you, we’re going to make a name for Nevada and set new records for a great Western painter!”

  The applause was really enthusiastic. Obviously, the cultured elite of Nevada had high hopes for Carson City’s future as a mecca for Western art
.

  Tal grinned and stepped back, letting the governor take over again.

  “Thank you, Tal,” the governor said, then turned to face the barrage of cameras. “It is our responsibility and pleasure to make sure that our cultural heritage here in the West is protected and promoted in the same way our brothers from east of the Hudson River have promoted their regional artists. This day has been long overdue, but it’s our turn, now. The great state of Nevada will be the leader of the new Western culture!”

  The applause was loud and sustained.

  Caitlin’s smile brightened as she stood by Tal and applauded the crowd that was applauding him.

  Almost over.

  Almost.

  She kept smiling and clapping and praying for the auction to be over.

  39

  TAOS

  SEPTEMBER 15

  6:00 P.M.

  A new Dodge Magnum was waiting for them at Taos Regional Airport. Very quickly Zach loaded the six wooden crates aboard. Even though the rental was about the size of a covered pickup truck, there wasn’t much room left over behind the front seats for his duffel and Jill’s backpack. He frowned.

  “I’d feel better if St. Kilda had rented us an armored truck,” he said as he slid into the driver’s seat.

  “Why? My paintings are just frauds,” Jill said bitterly, getting into the passenger side and shutting the door hard. “Every Western art expert is certain of it.”

  “Uh-oh. Someone was brooding while I slept on the plane.”

  “Someone thinks this is all a waste of time and money.”

  “That’s Faroe’s call,” Zach said. “Until we’re sure that Blanchard’s clock has been stopped, we play the game.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” she said.

  “What? More game playing?”

  “Stopping someone’s clock. Sounds final.”

  Zach ignored her as he mixed with the early evening traffic. The daylight was slanting, rich, making everything look brushed with gold.