Max left smiling.
“Now, where were we?” Clifford asked.
“I was trying to keep us on track,” Annette said, “But honestly, right now, I really want to eat.”
Clifford laughed. “I knew you’d be hungry.” He walked to the tray and brought a plate back to Annette. “Do you like pheasant?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I’ve never had it. They live in the woods all around my parent’s place in New Hampshire, but we never got hungry enough to actually eat them.”
“That’s a pity,” Clifford said. He stabbed at his plate with a heavy silver fork. “They’re delicious. You’ve been missing out.”
Annette took a bite, surprised at how tender and juicy the meat was. “I see that,” she said. “Although I’m sure Max is much better at cooking them than my Mother would be.”
They ate a few bites, and then Annette’s computer beeped, dominating their attention. “What’s that?” Clifford asked.
“It’s just a Facebook notification,” Annette said. She glanced at the screen. “One of my friends just posted about her new show. She’s a printmaker.”
“She did that on Facebook, not LinkedIn?” Clifford asked.
“LinkedIn’s more of a professional space,” Annette explained. “Facebook is casual. Everyone’s on Facebook.”
“Is Hans on Facebook?”
“Let’s check,” Annette replied. A few keystrokes brought the art dealer’s profile up. “It looks like he hasn’t posted in about a week and a half.”
“Well, if I was hiding from Wilbur Ross, I wouldn’t be posting on Facebook either,” Clifford said. “It would lead his goons right to me.”
“That’s true,” Annette said. “As it is, right now, we can’t tell where he is. We can only tell where he’s been.” She scrolled through the pictures Hans had posted over the previous six weeks. “Our boy spends a lot of time in Belgium.”
“That’s Prague,” Clifford corrected. “I recognize that shopfront.”
“Okay,” Annette said. She continued reading Wilbur’s feed until she came across a picture of an inn. The small building was set in a wooded countryside, where pine trees grew close together against a cerulean sky. “That’s not Prague.”
Clifford shook his head. “No, I don’t know where that is.”
Annette examined the picture closely. “It’s Maine,” she said. “See the sign there? The Millinocket Motel.” She shook her head. “That’s way up there in Maine. Great fishing. You can hunt moose. But there’s no reason for a man like Hans to go there…unless…”
“Unless that’s where his forger lives.” Clifford sprang to his feet and pulled his phone out of his pocket.
“What are you doing?” Annette asked.
“I’m going to call Jerry and tell him I need the plane ready. We’re going to Maine.”
Annette laughed. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this to you, but you can’t get there from here.” She shook her head. “Not in a plane. The closest airport’s got to be seven, eight hours out. If we’re going to that part of Maine, we’re going to need to drive.”
Chapter 13
“Well, this is certainly a new look on you,” Clifford said. He took his time checking Annette out. She was wearing a green checkered flannel shirt open over a white t-shirt, blue jeans and a pair of hiking boots. “Very woodsy.”
“It’s an old look, thank you very much.” Annette looked at Clifford and shook her head. “You’re the one who has to get ready,” she said. “I can’t take you hiking through the woods wearing that.”
Clifford looked down at himself. He was wearing charcoal gray slacks and a pink hued button down shirt. The entire ensemble probably cost more than what Annette made in a month, she thought, but it was hardly practical.
“Do you really think we’re going into the wilderness?” Clifford asked.
“It’s Maine,” Annette laughed. “The wilderness comes to you. Besides,” she added, “did you think we’re just going to walk up to every door in town, knocking and saying, “Hallo! Do you happen to have any world class painters hereabouts doing the odd spot of forgery on the side?” She shook her head. “I think we’re going to need to be a little more subtle than that.”
“We’ll have time to make up our plan on the way,” Clifford said. “My GPS says it’s a nine-hour drive.” He cocked his head. “Are you sure we don’t want to have a driver?”
“I know the way,” Annette replied. “Taking the back roads, we’ll get there in like seven hours. Maybe six and a half.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” Clifford said with a laugh. “I leave you in charge of this endeavor.”
“Good,” Annette said. “First, we’ll get you changed.”
Once Clifford was appropriately attired, they hit the road. The journey took close to eight hours, but neither of them noticed; the entire trip was spent telling each other about their childhoods.
“And that was the end of my chemistry career,” Clifford laughed. “Mother told me she’d spent enough money restoring the school’s laboratory. So I wound up in an art appreciation class instead.”
“That’s where you discovered Dali?” Annette asked.
“Our teacher was terrible. I recognize that now, after the fact, but at the time, I didn’t know,” Clifford said. “We were supposed to learn all about art. The different ages, all the styles, a true overview. Instead, he focused on sharing what he liked personally.”
“And so your taste was formed by his,” Annette said with a shrug. “It happens to all of us, in one way or another.”
“Mother was furious. She wanted me to appreciate the finer things. Dali, Miro, Magritte – she thought it was all garbage.”
“Some people love Monet,” Annette said. “Different strokes for different folks.”
Clifford laughed. “That’s the sort of bourgeois thinking that would drive Mother batty.” His voice rose an octave as he mimicked his mother’s voice. “Some things are just objectively better than others, darling. It doesn’t matter if you like them or not.” A note of bitterness crept into his recitation. “And if you have the money for artwork, why not choose the best artwork?”
“She didn’t get it.”
“She never tried,” Clifford said. “As far as I know, she never saw any piece of art for its own sake. All of her purchases were based on other people’s opinions and recommendations.” He took a deep breath. “When she passed, Feigenbaum’s helped me sell most of her collection. That’s how I paid for my first major pieces.”
Annette nodded. It wasn’t an unusual story. The taste for art seldom passed from generation to generation unchanged; the works that delighted the parents would bore the child, while the children’s choices tended to horrify their elders.
“You’ve come quite a way since then.”
“What about you?” Clifford asked. “How did you wind up giving your life to art?”
“That decision was made for me,” Annette said. “My parents had a gallery. Nothing grand, not like Feigenbaum’s.” She smiled. “I remember we always had at least one painting of a white tailed deer on offer. That and speckled trout. Duck decoys were big for a while.”
Clifford nodded. “I’ve been in that kind of place. They have their own…charm.”
Annette smiled. “You’re kind. I grew up knowing there had to be more. That there had to be work that was better. That would speak to things beyond what I could see in the woods.” She laughed. “It was New Hampshire, for god’s sake. I knew what was in the woods.”
“Have you found what you were looking for?” Clifford asked. “At college? At Feigenbaum’s?” His voice deepened and he looked at Annette out of the corner of his eye. “At my place?”
“Those are two very different questions,” Annette replied. “College was amazing. It opened my eyes to things I never even imagined. Asian art. African art. And then Feigenbaum’s – that’s been an exceptional experience.” She took a deep breath. “There I have to
say that I’ve found what I’m looking for. I haven’t even begun to see all of it yet, but I know I’m on the right track.”
Clifford nodded.
“But what have I found at your place?” Annette smiled. “This wasn’t something I was looking for. You can’t plan to find yourself all of a sudden falling…” Words failed her, and she kept her attention firmly fixed on the road in front of them.
“There are things you can’t plan for,” Clifford said. “And sometimes the plans you make turn out to be totally worthless anyway. When I told Madison I’d pick the advisor, I was planning on picking the most timid, inexperienced person on Feigenbaum’s staff.” He shrugged. “That way I could keep doing what I wanted to do without anyone cramping my style.”
Annette laughed. “Well, that plan worked out.” She thought of Dieter, Walther and the other appraisers she worked with. “I’m by far the most inexperienced member of the team. And you know I’m shy.”
Clifford laughed. “Yes, you’re very shy.” He shook his head. “Even if you’re inexperienced, you’re incredibly knowledgeable. And you’re confident in your knowledge. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“The best laid plans of mice and men can go astray,” Annette said. “It’s too bad I wound up cramping your style.”
“At ten million a throw, my style could use a little cramping,” Clifford said. “What’s really a shame is that I genuinely liked both paintings. I’ve kept the Magritte, even though it’s a fake.”
Annette nodded. “The painter’s got an incredible talent. But it may be one of those situations where it’s not enough talent to break through. Sometimes people can’t afford to wait to be recognized on their own merits. They have to make a living right now.”
“I wish we could get a look at Hans’ bank account,” Clifford said. “He’s got to be paying some serious money to have work of this caliber created for him.”
“If he’s smart, he’s paying in cash,” Annette said. “He doesn’t want to leave a paper trail.”
“That would be too easy,” Clifford agreed.
Finding The Millinocket Motel was easy, and getting the very bored girl who worked behind the counter to confirm Hans Grüber stayed there on a regular basis was even easier, especially once Clifford put a pair of fifty dollar bills on the counter in front of her.
“Yes, we see him all the time,” she said. Her eyes narrowed as she eyed the money. “If you want, my boyfriend might be willing to show you where he likes to go hiking. For a price, that is.”
Annette narrowed her eyes. “We just gave you a hundred bucks.”
“And we’ll gladly pay a hundred more,” Clifford cut in. “But I want to go right now.”
The girl pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. “Done. He’ll be here in a moment. Look for a green pickup.”
Annette and Clifford had barely left the tiny lobby of the Millinocket Motel when a green pickup pulled up, sputtering and blowing blue smoke.
“Brandi said you needed a guide?” The driver was barely old enough to shave, although he had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “I can take you anywheres you need to go.”
Annette pulled out her phone and showed the guy a picture of Hans. “We want to go anywhere he likes to go.”
“You guys cops?”
“Of course we are,” Annette said. “That’s why we have a police cruiser and we’re wearing uniforms and guns.”
“You could be undercover.” The kid shook his head. “This guy always gets way out there in the woods, where nobody lives but Hank the Hermit.” He dropped his voice. “I’m pretty sure he goes out there for drugs. These guys out in the middle of nowhere, they grow some serious shit, you know?”
Clifford laughed. “Hank the Hermit?”
“His name is Hank, and he’s a hermit,” the kid replied defensively. “He never comes into town, not even for the Fourth of July parade.”
“Take us to him,” Annette said. “Please.”
“You got money?”
Clifford handed over a hundred-dollar bill.
“I’ve only got room in the cab for one of you,” the kid announced. “The other one of you will have to ride in the back.”
“We’ll follow you in our car,” Annette said.
The kid looked at the car dubiously. “Are you sure? The road’s not really a road up that way.”
“It’s all right,” Annette said. “It’s a rental.”
“Don’t plan on getting your security deposit back, that’s all I’m saying.” He put his truck in gear. “So let’s get going if we’re going to go.”
“This kid’s pulling a fast one on us,” Clifford said, as the green truck pulled off of the paved road and began ascending a gravel trail cut through the woods. “There’s no way anybody actually lives back here.”
“Sure they do,” Annette said. She deftly twisted the wheel to keep Clifford’s car from getting caught up in a muddy rut. “It’s private, quiet and cheap. What more could you want?”
“Utilities,” Clifford quipped. “Civilization. Little things like that.”
Annette laughed. “Places like this have their own sort of charm. You’ve just got to be able to see them.”
“I hope we live that long,” Clifford said, blanching as the car’s wheels slipped on some loose shale.
“We’ll be fine,” Annette replied. She looked over at her boss, nervous in the passenger seat. “You’ve just got to trust me.”
“You keep saying that,” Clifford countered.
“It keeps being true.” Up ahead, the green pickup pulled off of the road and stopped. “Anyway, I think we’re almost there.” She parked behind the pickup.
“Hank the Hermit lives up there,” the kid said. “For another hundred bucks, I’ll wait around and show you the way back out when you’re done talking with him.”
Annette laughed. “We’ve got it, thanks.”
“Did you bring Hans up and down like this?”
The kid raised an eyebrow. Clifford handed him a twenty. “Yeah, most times I did,” he said. “He’d come up with a bunch of groceries from the Shop and Stop, and leave with a big black bag. He never let me touch it, but they didn’t look too heavy.” He shrugged again. “Probably drugs.”
“Probably,” Annette agreed.
“You’re sure you’re going to be able to find your way out?”
“We’ve got it,” Annette replied.
“What’s the address up here?” Clifford asked. “In case we need to call for help?”
The kid held out his hand again.
“Really, man?” Annette said.
“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
Clifford put a twenty in his hand. “That’s the last one.”
“There aren’t no addresses up here. This isn’t even a real road. It’s just the way to Hank the Hermit’s place.” The kid threw his truck into gear and drove off, laughing as he went.
“That’s America’s future, right there,” Clifford said.
Annette shrugged. “That’s more money than he’s probably had in a month.” She turned and peered into the woods. “Let’s go see if we can find Hank the Hermit.”
“There’s no road,” Clifford complained.
“Yeah, but there’s a trail,” she replied. “Follow me.”
“This is a trail?” Clifford said. “It’s like a goat track.”
“Goats don’t need such wide, easy paths,” Annette replied. “You just need to get out in the wilderness more.”
They climbed for a few minutes. Clifford’s complaints gradually tapered off, stopping entirely when they came upon a small cabin built entirely of silvered barn boards.
“That place looks like it’s falling down,” Clifford said. “Nobody can possibly live in there.”
“Sure they can,” Annette said. She moved carefully around the side of the building, positioning herself so she could peer through the window. “And look,” she said, pointing, “we’ve found our forger.”
Chapter 14
Clifford rushed past Annette, up onto the porch. He banged on the front door. “Open up! Let me in!”
Annette joined him, hissing “What do you think you’re doing?” just as the door opened.
The man standing there was very petite. He was shorter than Annette, and wore a button down denim shirt that was at least two sizes too large for him. It was covered with streaks of red and green paint; behind him on an easel was a partially worked canvas very reminiscent of Georgia O’Keefe’s flower paintings.
“That painting’s very different than the last one you did,” Annette said quickly, gently pushing Clifford to the side.
The man beamed. “That last one was good, though. My cousin sold it to a man in the city for one hundred dollars!”
Clifford and Annette looked at each other. Hank spoke with the careful enunciation and unbridled enthusiasm of the developmentally delayed.
“Your cousin is Hans?” Annette asked.
“Hans Grüber is my Mother’s best friend’s son,” Hank said proudly. “We have known each other for our entire lives.”
“Can I see that painting?” Clifford asked.
Hank looked uncertain. “Hans says to never let anyone in the house.”
“Hans isn’t here now,” Annette said. “He doesn’t need to know.”
“All right.” Hank agreed, pushing the door open. “I like having visitors.”
Hank’s cabin was full of paintings. They hung on every wall and were stacked on the table and chairs. Clifford walked around wide-eyed. There were pieces in every conceivable style, capturing natural scenes, wholly abstract, and portraiture.
“You painted all of these?” he asked.
Hank nodded. “I love painting.” He looked sad. “For a long time, I haven’t been very good, but I’m starting to get better. Did I tell you my cousin sold one of my paintings for one hundred dollars? I never made that much money before.”
“I think your paintings are very good,” Clifford said. He turned to Annette. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Romance: The Campus Player: A College Romance Page 36
