“So you use infrared light for some of the testing?” Richard asked.
“We call it IR spectroscopic analysis. It’s very useful in determining if the materials are compatible with the assumed age of the work. We can study many things, including pigments, binders, glues, and varnishes, to make sure they correlate with the presumed historic period of the painting.”
Richard, who was standing by a window that looked out over the front lawn, absently ran his fingers across the sill. “Doesn’t that damage the artworks?”
“No, most of the testing is no more harmful than a photograph. When we need more, very minimal sample quantities are used.” Hugh took the last shirt from my hands and laid it on top of the pile of clothes filling the suitcase. “There, I think that’s everything.”
Just as he closed the suitcase and snapped the locks in place, the sound of a revving engine filled the room.
“What the…” Richard turned and stared out the window. “It’s Lydia. She’s taken her car and headed off like a bat out of hell.”
“Oh no!” I couldn’t imagine my aunt driving anywhere in her state of mind. “Where could she possibly be going?”
“Not good to drive when you’re that upset,” Hugh said, his face drawn.
“Come on, Richard, let’s get your car and follow her.” I sprinted for the door with Richard and Hugh on my heels.
We clattered down the stairs to find a white note card perched on the hall side table. Richard reached it first.
“Go ahead, read it,” I said as I grabbed my jacket from the hall coat tree.
Richard glanced up from the unfolded note card. “She’s gone to see Kurt Kendrick.”
“What?” I shoved the wrong hand into the sleeve, whipped the jacket off again, and struggled to find the right armhole with my shaking hand.
“She says he must have been the one to involve Andrew in forgery, if anyone did.” He ran his hand through his hair and waved the card at me and Hugh. “Grab my jacket too, would you? We do need to go after her.”
“I’m coming with you,” Hugh said, slinging his coat over his shoulder. “But what makes this so urgent, Richard?”
“Because she also says she’s going to get some answers out of him, even if it kills her.”
I met Richard’s anxious gaze, my lips trembling. “And it might.”
Chapter Eighteen
Richard drove fast, shifting Hugh from side to side despite his seat belt. I’d insisted Hugh take the front seat while I sat in the back but soon regretted my decision as we bounced over the gravel road that led to Kurt Kendrick’s historic estate.
“What about the gate?” I clutched the back door handle, clinging tightly as Richard’s car rounded the road’s mountain curves.
“Gate?” Hugh, his face ashen, glanced back at me over the console that split the front seats.
“Kendrick has an automatic gate. You have to push a button and ask for entry,” I said, recalling this fact from the one time I’d visited the art dealer’s home.
“We’ll handle that once we get there.” Richard said, thankfully keeping his eyes on the road.
I sank into my seat, wondering how Aunt Lydia would manage to gain entry to the estate when she wasn’t expected. But I slapped the knee of my jeans as I realized she’d have no problem. If she gives her name, Kendrick will immediately open the gate. He’d told me several times that he’d welcome a relationship with her. It was Aunt Lydia who wanted nothing to do with him.
We turned onto a blacktopped road. A short distance ahead, two fieldstone pillars flanked an automatic gate. A sign on one of the stone gateposts identified the estate as “Highview.”
Richard leaned forward and peered through the front window. “That’s odd. The gate doesn’t appear to be completely closed.”
“Let me go check.” I unbuckled my seat belt and hopped out of the car before Richard could protest.
I jogged up to the gate. It was sitting slightly ajar, and I soon saw why—a large rock had been wedged between the gate and the posts. Aunt Lydia, you sly fox, I thought. She, who’d never trusted Kendrick, had been sensible enough to take precautions. She’d used the stone to prevent him from locking her car inside the estate.
“I’m going to hold the gate while you drive through,” I called to Richard, who’d stuck his head out his open side window.
After the car passed through, I allowed the gate to swing back. It hit the rock and stopped, standing slightly ajar again. “Might as well follow Aunt Lydia’s lead and ensure our getaway,” I said as I climbed into the backseat.
“Such a clever woman.” Hugh said this softly, as if speaking to himself, but I nodded.
“Always.” I stared out my window. The last time I’d been here, it had been summer and everything had been a sea of emerald and jade. Now the hardwood trees that lined the driveway blazed with autumn color and only the leaves of the azaleas and rhododendrons gleamed green against the leaf-strewn brown mulch.
As we rounded the corner that revealed Kurt Kendrick’s home, the beauty of the historic structure once again amazed me. A three-story central section of variegated fieldstone was set off by two-story wood-framed wings painted pale green. The home’s many windows shone like crystal in the azure glow of twilight, and a coil of smoke rose from one of the ivy-draped stone chimneys.
“What a lovely place,” Hugh said as Richard parked behind Aunt Lydia’s car on the circle of blacktop that ended the driveway. “It’s quite old, I imagine.”
“Yeah, the central portion was built in the late 1700s, or so I’m told.” Richard climbed out of the car. “Hold on, Amy—I’ll get your door.”
The minute he opened it, I leapt out and headed for the house, not giving the lovely cottage garden a second glance. Aunt Lydia was inside, and I didn’t want to leave her alone with Kurt Kendrick too long.
When I reached the roofed porch, I leaned against one of its Grecian-style pillars and stared at the forest-green front door.
“Probably locked,” Richard said as he and Hugh joined me on the porch.
“Doorbell?” Hugh suggested, but I’d already laid my hand on the old-fashioned metal latch and felt it move under my fingers.
“No, strangely, it isn’t locked.” I frowned. When I’d visited before, Kendrick had told me that the door locked automatically, but it seemed this time it hadn’t closed tightly enough to engage the mechanism. I could picture a likely scenario for this—Aunt Lydia had probably barged in, furious, as soon as Kendrick had greeted her. If he was focused on her, it was possible he hadn’t noticed that the door hadn’t closed completely behind them.
“Shouldn’t we ring the bell?” Hugh asked again, as I shoved the door open.
Voices from the back of the house, raised in anger, gave wings to my feet as I ran down the high-ceilinged front hall. The rare and beautiful artifacts in the hall didn’t even distract me as they had on my previous visit.
Richard, with his longer stride, reached the door leading to Kendrick’s living room before me. Holding up his hand, he tilted his head toward the back of the house. “Did you hear that?” he asked quietly.
Hugh also kept his voice low. “Sounded like someone running up the stairs.”
“Yeah, but why?” Richard frowned. “Kurt told me that he doesn’t have help living here—they just come in to clean and cook when needed. So who’s here besides Lydia?”
“Could still be a maid or something. Might be cleaning day,” I said.
“I don’t like it. With the front door left ajar…” Richard glanced at the staircase again. “I think I’ll go take a look. Just to be certain. You two go on into the living room and make sure that Lydia’s okay, and I’ll join you in a minute or two.”
I touched his arm. “But if it’s an intruder, you could be in danger.”
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Don’t worry, I’ll have this. I can dial in 911 in a second if necessary. Anyway, you’re probably right and it’s some worker wandering abou
t. I just want to make sure.” He patted my hand before striding off toward the back stairs.
“Should we go in?” Hugh slid past me and pushed open the door, his eyes widening as he gazed inside. Despite comfortable leather sofas and upholstered chairs anchored by worn Oriental rugs, Kendrick’s amazing collection of paintings and objets d’art lent the space the air of a gallery rather than a living room.
As I followed Hugh into the room, my gaze flitted past the artworks to focus on the two people standing in front of the rustic stone fireplace. They both turned to face us—Kurt Kendrick’s bushy eyebrows rising to meet the thick fall of his white hair while my aunt dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged cotton handkerchief.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Ah Lydia, I see your entourage has arrived.” Kurt Kendrick flicked something from the sleeve of his cashmere sweater in a gesture that also seemed to cast Hugh and me aside. His eyes, the same ice-blue as his sweater, gazed at us with amused disdain.
“What are you doing here?” Aunt Lydia’s own blue eyes—not as pale but no less frosty—surveyed us.
“We read your note and decided it would better if you had some backup.” Hugh’s gaze was fixed on my aunt. “In fact, I think you should join us over here, Lydia.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied, wadding the handkerchief between her fingers. “Kurt was just about to confirm my suspicions about his criminal influence over Andrew, so if you don’t mind…”
“I was not about to do anything of the sort,” Kendrick said.
“You just admitted that you were the one who introduced him to drugs, as I always suspected.”
Watching Aunt Lydia clench and unclench her hands, I crossed over to stand beside her. She cast me a tight-lipped smile before staring back at Kurt Kendrick.
“Yes, to my eternal regret. Of course I had no idea that Andrew would be so susceptible to addiction. For me it was always just harmless fun, but Andrew…” He wiped his brow, as if erasing painful memories.
“He suffered greatly from your mistake. While it seems you went merrily on your way, without that regret you claim now.”
Kendrick examined my aunt with narrowed eyes. “Still making excuses for him, Lydia? Even now? Yes, I did introduce him to a few substances, but let’s be honest—what happened after that was his mistake as well as mine. Anyway, it was always his choice to partake. Whatever you may think of me, I didn’t hold my best friend down and force-feed him drugs.”
Aunt Lydia poked her finger at Kendrick. “You persuaded him. For some ungodly reason, he admired you. He looked up to you and wanted to follow your lead. You must’ve known that.”
“Yes, I knew.” Pain flickered in Kendrick’s brilliant eyes. “I suppose it was because I was a couple of years older, and more experienced in … well, everything. But this is all ancient history. It has no bearing on his foray into forgery. That was not my doing. Something else drove him to it.”
I tapped my foot against the marble hearth. “So explain, Mr. Kendrick. If you know why my uncle got involved in art forgery, you should tell us the truth. Right here and now.”
Kendrick cast me a quick, pitying glance. “You won’t like the answer, Amy.”
“I want to know anyway.”
“Very well.” Kendrick’s gaze slid over to the man standing a few feet away. “But are you sure you want me to speak about such things in front of this other gentleman?”
“It’s fine with me,” Aunt Lydia said. “Although we’ve only met recently, I consider Hugh a friend.”
So she’d forgiven him for informing her about Andrew’s forgeries. I toyed with a button on my jacket. Of course she had—Aunt Lydia was a sensible woman. Once she thought it through, she wouldn’t blame the art expert for merely conveying the truth.
Hugh brightened at my aunt’s words. But his smile faded as he stepped forward and thrust out his hand. “I should introduce myself properly. Dr. Hugh Chen, consultant for the state of Virginia.”
Kendrick strolled closer to the art expert but did not grasp his hand. “I know who you are, Dr. Chen.”
“Then you know that I specialize in art authentication. I’m called in for cases of forgery and similar illegal activities.” Hugh dropped his hand to his side, his dark eyes hard as stones. “And, Mr. Kendrick, I know a great deal about you as well.”
“Do you now?” Kendrick’s height made him loom over the shorter man, but his expression remained amused rather than angry. “Well then, you know that I do not deal in forgeries. I love art too much to promote fakes.”
“So you say.” Aunt Lydia sniffed and crossed her arms over her chest. “And perhaps it is true now. But I still believe you dragged Andrew down into the muck. He would never have gotten entangled with a forgery scheme otherwise.”
Kendrick lifted his hands in a “What can you do?” gesture before he walked back toward my aunt. “My dear, you’ve stated that opinion several times.”
“Yet you have not denied it.” Aunt Lydia’s expression would’ve wilted a less confident man. As I glanced over at Hugh, I noticed the unadulterated admiration lighting up his face.
“No, because I have not wished to cause you additional pain.” Kendrick examined my defiant aunt as if she were some rare artifact he couldn’t quite identify. “I did know about Andrew’s experiments with forgery, but I was not the reason he got involved in that nasty business. On the contrary, I warned him against it. Quite vehemently.”
Aunt Lydia flinched but didn’t lower her gaze. “If that’s the truth, then explain why he’d do such a thing.”
I laid my hand on her tensed shoulder. “Perhaps now is not the time…”
She shrugged off my hand and stepped forward until she was almost toe-to-toe with the tall, white-haired art dealer. “Speak. Although I expect you to lie, I do want to hear your version of the story. Just remember I know that every bad thing that happened to Andrew came from his involvement with you.”
“You are mistaken.” Kendrick held out his hands, as if in supplication. “I may have been a bad influence in other areas, but trust me, the forgery scheme was all Andrew’s idea.”
“Nonsense. Andrew was devoted to his craft. He was a true artist. He wouldn’t even work for that interior design firm that wanted ‘sofa-sized paintings.’ He spurned such a crass use of his talent. So I can’t imagine anything that would make him fake another artist’s work.” Aunt Lydia flicked her hand, as if she could brush Kendrick away like an annoying insect. “If you’re going to accuse my husband of such a thing, you’d damn well better tell me why.”
In that moment, Kurt Kendrick’s face changed. Gone was the sardonic mask of the amused courtier. In its place was pain, pure and simple. I swallowed hard and clasped my hands together as he began to speak.
“Lydia, there’s one thing you should know—Andrew loved you. Whatever he did, he did for you.”
My aunt’s firm stance did not falter, but her lips trembled.
“You know he made very little off his paintings, despite his talent. He couldn’t sell but a few of them.” Kendrick sighed. “I tried to help him. I even took some of them into my gallery. Because, yes, he and I were in contact after I left Taylorsford. Not right away, but later, after your marriage. Which is something I don’t believe he told you.”
Aunt Lydia tightened her lips and said nothing.
“I couldn’t sell his paintings either. No matter how hard I tried. So I suggested that he consider some other line of work. Keeping the painting as an avocation, of course. I thought he could still paint and sell a few pieces here and there without living under the weight of so much expectation. And, despite what you may think, he wanted to follow my advice.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No, that’s the truth.” Kendrick’s voice fell into a gentle cadence that made me clench my fingers tighter. “Andrew was actually willing to work for that design firm, my dear. He didn’t turn them down because he thought such a job would be beneath him
. He refused their offer because of you.”
My hand shot out to grip my aunt’s elbow as she wobbled slightly. “I can’t believe that,” I said. “Aunt Lydia’s always told me…”
“That Andrew only wanted to be known as a professional artist? That he spurned any other use of his talent?” Kendrick tilted his head, studying me with what I was shocked to read as compassion. “Yes, I’m sure she has. But you see, that wasn’t exactly true. It wasn’t Andrew who was determined to limit his talent to fine art. It was Lydia who was obsessed with that notion.”
My aunt cried out. I threw my arm around her shoulders as Hugh crossed the room and flanked her other side.
Kurt Kendrick didn’t bat an eyelash at this activity. “Is the cavalry preparing to attack, or shall I continue?”
“Go on,” my aunt said between gritted teeth. “It’s time you told me what you really think.”
Kendrick turned away, pressing both of his hands against the carved wood of the fireplace mantle. “Actually, it’s what I know. That Andrew truly loved you, Lydia. More than art. More than honor. He wanted to please you in all ways, and he knew how important his status as an artist was to you.” Kendrick stared into the soot-blackened interior of the fireplace. “In fact, he confessed to being afraid that it was what you loved most about him.”
“He’d never have told you that,” my aunt said, pulling away from me.
Kendrick glanced up at her. “Not in so many words, perhaps, but I knew what he meant. He guessed it from the start. Why else would you choose him? You were a beautiful and vibrant girl from a well-respected family. You could’ve had your pick of any single man in town. But they weren’t what you wanted, were they, Lydia? You wanted different and slightly dangerous, and that’s what Andrew could offer. He wasn’t some boring banker or farmer or insurance agent. He was a free spirit, a dreamer, and an artist. Just a bit wild, but you liked that too, I think.” Kendrick shot another quick glance at my aunt’s stony face.
Shelved Under Murder Page 17
