Shelved Under Murder

by Victoria Gilbert

  “No, I believe I understand that.” Hugh swept one hand through the air over Andrew Talbot’s paintings. “She loved him very much, I think.”

  “Yeah, she did. And still does, I suppose.”

  “Ah, and you have answered my question already.”

  I sat back on my heels and tapped one finger against the frame of a canvas depicting Aunt Lydia’s garden. “She hasn’t ever given anyone else a chance. She says she had a once-in-a-lifetime love, and that’s enough.”

  Hugh nodded. “I understand this. But it isn’t true, you know.”

  “Isn’t it?” I thought about Richard. If something happened to him, I wasn’t sure I could ever love someone else. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I know this feeling. I too, lost a love. Many years ago, when I was young.”

  “I’m sorry. She died?”

  “No.” Hugh leaned back, pressing his palms against the dresser. “Although, like me, she was born in San Francisco, she came from a very different sort of family. Her parents had emigrated from Hong Kong not long before she was born, while my family had been in the U.S. for a couple of generations. She came from a wealthy, well-respected family, while my ancestors came over to work as laborers on the railroad.”

  “So they didn’t approve of you?”

  “Not at all. Despite the fact that we owned a prosperous business, we were still ‘beneath’ her family. At least in their opinion.” Hugh gazed down at one of Andrew’s landscapes thoughtfully. “When they forbade her to ever see me again, I believed my life was over. I was only twenty-two at the time,” he added, looking at me with a wry smile.

  “But you did survive, and thrive, it seems.”

  “Yes, but I turned this thwarted romance into something that it was never meant to be—a fantasy of perfection that prevented me from accepting the possibility of love with anyone else. Which is why I am alone today.”

  “You don’t feel the same now?”

  “No. It’s funny. I eventually realized that I had given my heart to a dream. Something that would never have been, at least not in that form, if I had actually married my love and lived with her all my life. One day I woke up and understood that I had substituted a fantasy for any chance of a real love.”

  I pressed my hand to my heart, feeling a wave of certainty sweep through me. Yes, said the voice in my head. This is the truth. This is what you must make her see, what she must admit. I nodded. It was something that I’d always sensed in my aunt but could never put into words. “You believe Aunt Lydia has done the same thing.”

  “Yes. I see it in her eyes when she talks about your uncle. I know that look, that tone of voice. I have lived it.”

  I stared at him speculatively. “She is very stubborn.”

  Hugh’s wry smile broadened. “I’m sure she is. As am I.”

  “She won’t change her mind easily.”

  “No, I don’t expect she will. But perhaps, someday…”

  I offered him a warm smile. “I think that would be a good day.”

  His cell phone jangled before he could reply. “Sorry, I must get this,” he said, after sliding the phone from his pocket and glancing at the screen. “Work.”

  He left the room, already lost in an animated conversation with the caller.

  I sat in silence for a moment. As I mulled over his words, a dull thump made me glance over at the storage closet. I scooted across the floor and stared at the pile of canvases that had toppled forward to reveal one large canvas leaning against the back wall.

  Pulling the exposed painting from the closet, I saw that it was another landscape—or, actually, a seascape. That was unusual. My uncle rarely painted such scenes. It was also somewhat larger than most of his pieces. I estimated it was at least thirty-six inches wide and thirty inches tall. But even odder was the fact that the stretchers that held the canvas taut were much deeper than usual, as if two bars had been glued or nailed together.

  It was also heavier than most of the canvases I’d handled, and unbalanced, with extra weight tipping down one side. I lifted my right hand from the stretcher bar and slid my fingers onto the back of the canvas. Instead of the taut, flat surface I expected, I encountered a thick roll of material.

  It was another unframed painting, rolled tight in a piece of unpainted canvas and pressed up against the right stretcher bar. It was obviously intended to be hidden from view unless someone picked up this piece.

  I laid the painting on the floor, face down, and gently pried the cylinder of canvas free. Unrolling it with great care, I dropped its wrap in my lap and held the painting up with both hands.

  It was approximately the same size as its parent canvas, and painted in a fashion that once again mimicked the Impressionists. I squinted and sucked in a deep breath. In fact, it looked very much like a Van Gogh. There were two figures—a man in pale blue with a yellow hat, and a woman in a black skirt and a pink bodice—in a landscape of sand and thistles. Behind them, green cypress trees stood in a row against a rosy pink sky.

  As I glanced down at the unpainted piece of canvas overwrap draped across my lap, searching for any type of label, my breath caught in my throat. There were markings, but they were simply repeated versions of a name, as if someone had used the material to practice a signature.

  Vincent Van Gogh’s signature.

  Footsteps in the hall compelled me to roll up the loose canvas in its wrap and shove it behind the other painting. Driven by an unshakable feeling that I should protect this secret, I jumped up and thrust the seascape and its hidden cargo at the back of the closet, burying it behind other paintings as Hugh walked into the room.

  “I’ll get out of your way now,” I said, brushing some canvas threads from my jeans. “You’d probably appreciate a little quiet time before bed.”

  “Thank you,” Hugh said, examining me in a way that made me wonder if my expression had betrayed my shock over my latest discovery.

  I forced a smile and scooted past him to slip into the hall.

  Reaching my bedroom, I sank down onto my bed with only one thought racing around my brain, frantic as a squirrel stuck in a cage.

  When I closed my eyes, I saw the images painted inside my eyelids—the sketch that looked like a Monet, that hidden completed canvas that resembled a Van Gogh, and the signature practiced with such diligence, as if the painter were attempting to mimic another’s hand.

  It wasn’t possible, and yet, how could I escape the evidence? Or the little voice that whispered the truth in my ear.

  My uncle, Andrew Talbot, had not only been a talented, if unrecognized, artist. It was quite likely he’d been a forger too.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I got another late start the next day, having spent far too much time the night before researching Trey Riley’s business interests as well as information on the history and practice of forgery. From my survey of Trey’s background—at least what was available online—I decided he was one of those people who started and abandoned businesses like some people changed socks. Not that he hadn’t made money—it appeared that he had. But he had lost a great deal too, if his trail of less-than-successful ventures was any indication. There was also the very expensive divorce. I’d halted my research on Trey with the sense that he might not be in any position to buy more property, even if he would like to. Which meant I probably shouldn’t worry too much about his interest in my aunt’s house.

  The forgery research was less reassuring. I was astounded by how much of it had actually occurred throughout history and how it continued to impact the art world. Even with modern methods of detection and attribution, it seemed that the market was flooded with works of questionable provenance. There were apparently large networks of thieves and forgers who had infiltrated the highest levels of the art world, duping even the most educated appraisers.

  And Kurt Kendrick is mixed up with some of those criminals, I bet, I thought, although his name appeared nowhere in my cursory research, which was instead peppered wi
th mentions of individual forgers who had either been exposed or had eventually outed themselves, such as Elmyr de Hory, Han van Meegeren, and Ken Perenyi. The most notorious forgery ring still in operation was apparently run by the Quinns—a family operation that had expanded into an international crime cabal. According to my research, despite being a high-value Interpol target, the Quinns’ organization had yet to be cracked by the authorities.

  Pondering this new information, I braved the crowds that filled the sidewalks as I walked to the library the next morning. The festival didn’t officially open until nine o’clock, but many visitors arrived early to snag parking spaces on the side streets. Although the sheriff’s department had set up temporary lots outside of town and several businesses had offered their vans as shuttles, it seemed people preferred to park on streets outside the cordoned-off downtown blocks.

  I slid past a group of older women and men who were chatting about scooping up some of the antiques and crafts offered by the festival’s vendors.

  “You absolutely must get here on the first day, and early, to find the best items,” one of them said, ignoring my apology as I bumped her elbow.

  I shook my head. Although there were many talented craftspeople and artists who sold items at the festival, I couldn’t imagine battling the crowds to buy anything. It was bad enough that I had to supervise the library sales table all day. I had no desire to actually brave the festival crowds beyond the library lawn.

  Shouldering the heavy tote bag that held my lunch as well as bottled water and snacks for the volunteers, I zigzagged around the groups of people clogging the sidewalk. I was anxious to reach the library before eight thirty, which was a challenge due to my late start.

  I patted the pocket of my wool jacket, making sure I had my library keys handy. Sunny and the volunteers had probably already set up the library table, but I owned the only key to the lockbox that held the change money and the device needed to accept credit and debit card payments.

  At least the weather was cooperative, making it the perfect day for a fall festival—not too cold but just crisp enough to provide the proper autumn atmosphere. I glanced up at the white clouds sailing through the clear sky.

  Before I could lower my gaze, I stumbled into someone and squashed down the back of his black leather shoe with the toe of my sneaker. “Oh, so sorry,” I said, as he shoved his heel back into his shoe and turned around.

  I shrank back. The man had short, dark hair, broad shoulders, and a neck as thick as a tree trunk. Although of average height, his bulging arm muscles pressed against the fabric of his crisp white shirt as if they might split its seams at any moment.

  “No problem,” the man said, but I could tell this was a lie. Reflective sunglasses hid his eyes, but the set of his heavy jaw and the thin line of his mouth betrayed his annoyance.

  “It’s crowded,” I replied with what I hoped was an apologetic smile.

  The man just grunted and turned aside.

  Strange, I thought as he strode away. He doesn’t really fit in with this crowd. The button-down, long-sleeved shirt tucked into black pants screamed midmanagement worker at an office, not someone visiting an outdoor festival. And that tension in his jaw and his sharp movements betrayed him as a man on a mission, not a sightseer.

  Curious, I kept my eyes on the man’s broad back as we both headed for the center of town. Yes, he definitely looked like someone on assignment, not a tourist. Then it occurred to me that, duh, he was probably one of the plainclothes detectives brought in on the LeBlanc murder, or even an FBI agent involved in the forgery investigation. I exhaled a held breath. No reason to feel nervous, Amy. He must be a detective or something, that’s all.

  I elbowed my way past a cluster of moms and dads pushing strollers, earning a few dirty looks. “Sorry, I’m working the festival and I’m late,” I called over my shoulder. Which, judging by the language one of the men hurled back at me, didn’t mollify them.

  By the time I reached the barricades that closed off the festival area, I’d lost sight of the white-shirted man, but—to my dismay—caught a glimpse of Mel Riley. She stood at the edge of the cordoned-off area, talking with one of Brad’s deputies.

  Great. If she made it to the library before me, I’d never hear the end of it.

  Swinging down a side street that would provide me access to the narrow road beside the library, I turned my walk into a jog. If I could get to the parking lot and slip in the back door, I could emerge from the library, cashbox in hand, and neither Mel nor any of the other volunteers would know how long I’d been in the building. That could conveniently cover my tardiness.

  Yes, it was duplicitous, but … I quickened my pace to reach the crossroad that ended at the library parking lot. Catching a flash of white out of the corner of my eye, I turned my head and spied the strange man I’d bumped into—crouched amid the glossy-leaved branches of a holly bush.

  I slipped past him and ducked behind the trunk of a pin oak tree as quietly as I could. Fortunately, his attention was focused on a section of the main street framed by the sharp-edged holly leaves. He was obviously tailing someone. Following his line of sight, I noticed his quarry and bit my lower lip to stifle a gasp. The man was surveilling Mel Riley.

  She’d turned from the deputy to chat with Mayor Bob Blackstone. Despite my concern over the man hidden in the shrub in front of me, I felt a tinge of amusement over her outfit. Her caramel-colored wool slacks and forest-green sweater were topped by a plaid jacket that captured all the hues of autumn leaves. A matching plaid tam-o’-shanter, perched precariously on her upswept blonde do, completed her ensemble.

  She looked like an advertisement from a fall-themed fashion catalog and, somehow, more fragile than I’d ever seen her. Perhaps because I knew she was being watched.

  I pressed the heel of my hand against my temple. Get it together, Amy. You don’t know the man’s focused on Mel. Perhaps he has his eyes on the mayor, who’s been mixed up in some questionable business in the past.

  But even after Bob strolled off, the man kept his eyes on Mel. That was odd. I couldn’t imagine why a detective would be stalking Mel Riley, unless …

  Perhaps this stranger was a private eye, not an FBI investigator. He could be one of those PIs who collected evidence for suspicious spouses contemplating divorce. I supposed it was possible that Mel, a widow, had jumped into a relationship with a married man.

  Yeah, that had to be it. Mel might be almost seventy, but she was still attractive, and quite the social butterfly. It wasn’t impossible to imagine her embroiled in some romantic affair.

  I slipped out from behind the tree and jogged to the road that intersected the lane beside the library. Glancing over my shoulder to ensure that the man wasn’t following me, I turned the corner and once again ran into someone.

  “Well, Amy, fancy meeting you here. Sneaking in the back way, are you?” Kurt Kendrick grabbed my upper arms and steadied me as I stumbled over his feet.

  I looked up into his lined but still handsome face. “I should ask what you’re doing here.”

  “Taking the scenic route,” he said, releasing his hold and stepping back. He flashed a smile before staring at something over my shoulder.

  Following his gaze, I realized that he was peering through the shrubs—and at the man who’d been watching Mel.

  “You know him?” I asked, brushing bits of bark from my navy sweater.

  “Who?” Kendrick fixed his brilliant blue gaze on me.

  “That man tailing Mel Riley. At least that’s what I figured he was doing.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Amy. What man?” He motioned toward the holly with one of his large, knobby-knuckled hands.

  There was no one hiding in the shrub now. “Guess he heard us and beat it before he could be caught.”

  “Couldn’t say, as I didn’t see anyone.” Kendrick casually brushed a lock of white hair away from his forehead. “You’re headed for the library, I assume? I’m happy to accompany you.”<
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  “No, that isn’t necessary.”

  Humor lit up Kurt Kendrick’s craggy face. “If you truly think someone was lurking in the bushes…”

  “Oh, very well. But I did see someone,” I called out as I jogged toward the parking lot behind the library.

  Kendrick easily kept pace with me without breaking out of a walk. “I’m not accusing you of seeing things, my dear. I just didn’t notice anyone. Changing the subject—I have a favor to ask.”

  I shot him a suspicious glance as we crossed the parking lot. “What’s that?”

  “I heard you are planning to sell a couple of Andrew’s paintings.”

  “Yeah, Aunt Lydia gave them to the library sale after we couldn’t get the LeBlanc donations.” I paused at the back door to the library and fumbled through my tote bag. “Hold on, have to find my keys.”

  “I’d like to see them. Before they go on sale, I mean.”

  “Because?” I opened the door and stood with my hand on the knob, blocking Kendrick’s entry into the building.

  “Because I might like to buy them before they’re offered up to the public.” Kendrick spread out his hands. “Call me sentimental, but Andrew Talbot was my best friend and I actually don’t own a single one of his paintings. I’d like to remedy that.”

  I studied the tall figure before me. Call him sentimental? Never. Of course, as always, it was impossible to discern whether he was lying by reading his expression. “I’m not sure that’s what Aunt Lydia would want.”

  “I would pay top dollar. And”—Kendrick’s wolfish grin was disarming but also slightly threatening—“why would she need to know? She’s aware the paintings will be sold this weekend, probably to a stranger. And if the library makes good money off of them, so much the better, right?”

  “Hmm…” I twisted my lips before blowing out a little puff of air. “All right, come in. The paintings are inside. We weren’t going to put them on the sale table until later in the day, after we’d sold some other, less interesting, stuff.”