“It’s just for the party,” Trey said. “Cheese only. Mom hired a caterer, but she says their cheese selections aren’t up to par.”
Poor Trey, I thought. Just like me, I bet he falls prey to Mel’s whims. “Seems like a waste, hiring someone and then having to do half the work yourself.”
“That’s just Mom, you know. Always the perfectionist.” Trey grabbed a few random wedges of cheese and tossed them in his basket. “Anyway, glad I ran into you. I know things have been rather crazy lately, but I wondered if I might drop by sometime soon to see those paintings. For my tasting room, remember?”
I did remember but found this segue rather odd. Although perhaps seeing me had brought the idea of exhibiting the paintings back to his mind. “Right. You wanted to see if Aunt Lydia might sell or lend some of Uncle Andrew’s works.” Those that aren’t forgeries, I thought, but of course I didn’t say that aloud.
“Yes. Maybe even this afternoon? I have a window of time free. I just need to drop off this stuff at the house, and I could stop by.”
“Um…” The rotting stench of Stilton rose from Trey’s basket, which confirmed my suspicion that he’d grabbed the first cheeses his fingers had landed on. Of course, I’d probably have been tempted to do the same, given Mel’s endless demands. “My aunt is out until late this afternoon, and I really don’t want to let anyone rifle through Uncle Andrew’s paintings without her there. Then this evening I have a date, so she’ll be there alone, and anyway, I doubt she wants anyone dropping by at night. So not today, if you don’t mind.” I was hedging the truth—Hugh would also be at the house in the evening, but I wanted to allow him and my aunt a little more time alone. It didn’t make sense to invite Trey to barge in just when they were getting better acquainted.
“All right,” Trey said. His disappointed tone almost made me change my mind. “Another time, then.” He turned away to peer into the cheese case.
“Have a good day,” I said to his back.
He didn’t respond. I shrugged and spun my cart around, heading for a display of seasonal fruits and vegetables.
As I collected the items on Aunt Lydia’s list, I debated tracking down Trey and apologizing. I should’ve told him he could stop by the house this afternoon, or at least offered an alternate time. Although I had no interest in dating anyone but Richard, there was no reason I couldn’t make more of an effort to befriend Trey. After all, I knew how difficult Mel could be. It couldn’t be easy for Trey, living in his mom’s house and being forced to dance attendance on her. Having dealt with a few of her imperious commands, I could certainly empathize with his desire to get his business up and running as soon as possible, if only to get out from under Mel’s roof.
But when I searched the aisles and didn’t see Trey, I finished my shopping and headed home, determined to rest for a bit before my date. Even if it meant locking my laptop in the closet so I couldn’t delve into any more research about art forgery, the Quinns, or the LeBlanc case.
* * *
The rain had lightened by the time I got home, but I still had to juggle an umbrella as I unloaded the groceries from the car and carried them into the kitchen.
After I put away the food, I ran upstairs and changed out of my damp clothes and into sweat pants and a threadbare but comfy sweatshirt. I also whipped off my bra, as I was inclined to do when I was at home alone. I couldn’t leave the house or receive company in that state, but when no one was around, there was no reason I couldn’t make myself comfortable. Besides, I still planned to lie down for a brief nap …
But as I sat on my bed, my gaze fell upon my laptop. Just one little search, I thought, knowing I was lying to myself. Flopping across my bed, I once again perused the Art Loss Register and other websites that listed lost works of art. After an hour I stumbled across an entry for a painting I’d missed in my previous searches.
Even though it was represented only by a grainy black-and-white photo, something about the composition caught my eye. I looked closer, noting that it was a Van Gogh titled The Lovers: The Poets Garden IV. The accompanying article stated that the work had been missing since the late 1930s, when it was stolen by the Nazis to add to Hitler’s collection of “degenerate art.” It hadn’t been seen since, and most scholars assumed it had been destroyed during the war. As I read on, I learned that the work had been documented in a letter Van Gogh had written to his brother Theo in 1888. The letter described the painting as comprising two figures—a man in a light-blue suit and yellow hat and a woman in a dress with a pink bodice and black skirt—standing in a rather vague landscape with a row of green cypresses and a rosy sky forming the background.
I shoved aside my computer and sat bolt upright. Green cypress trees and a pink sky? With two central figures? I leapt off the bed and ran to my closet, where I’d recently stashed Uncle Andrew’s seascape and its hidden canvas behind an old suitcase and a pile of mismatched shoes.
Unrolling the canvas across the top of my dresser, I immediately realized I was holding a copy of the painting I’d just seen on my screen—only this was a full-size and full-color reproduction, obviously meant to be taken for the actual Van Gogh.
It fit the pattern of the other forgeries. Like them, it was a work based on a painting that had enough provenance to make its existence and recovery believable, yet so long lost that few living souls would’ve ever seen the original.
It also confirmed my suspicions about those practice signatures. So my uncle had definitely forged more than a Monet. I slid my fingers over the surface of the painting, admiring the attention to detail in the crackling and the obvious age of the canvas. Of course, an operation like the Quinns could probably get their hands on materials from the proper time period, one way or another. Or they would find a way to distress more contemporary materials to approximate the period of the original work. And I had to remember that this painting was older than the forgeries found at the LeBlanc barn, which were undoubtedly Reese’s handiwork. If what Kendrick had said was true, this copy had probably been created almost forty years ago, not long before my uncle died.
I allowed the canvas to roll back into a loose cylinder and left it on my dresser, then shut down my computer. When Hugh and Aunt Lydia returned, I knew I would have to show it to them, no matter how difficult that might be. The painting would have to be added to Hugh’s workload, despite the fact that its existence would undoubtedly thrust another knife into my aunt’s wounded heart.
The doorbell chimed. That was odd. Aunt Lydia could simply use her key, and I’d expected Richard to call when he got home, not just show up at the door.
The bell rang in a constant jangle, as if someone was leaning on the button.
“Okay, okay,” I said, thrusting my bare feet into a pair of loafers and clattering down the stairs. “Hold your horses.”
I crossed to the front door and cracked it open.
Trey Riley looked back at me.
“Oh, forgive me, Trey, but this isn’t a good time. I did look for you again at the store to say you could stop by, but you’d already left. Now I’m not really dressed properly for visitors,” I said, preparing to shut the door again.
“Sorry, but Mom said it was important…” Although the rain had finally stopped, Trey wore a knee-length charcoal-gray raincoat. Styled like a trench coat, it gave him the look of a slightly disreputable detective in an old noir film.
“What is it now?” I asked, not bothering to temper my impatient tone. Mel Riley had no business bothering me with work matters on my day off, even if she was the chair of the Friends. Of course, her son was only the messenger.
Trey lifted his hands. “I apologize. Mom called me while I was still out doing the shopping and asked me to pick up a check from Mrs. Andersen and drop it off with you. Some donation to the library, she said. Apparently you need to handle that?”
“Yeah, I have to sign it for deposit, but couldn’t it wait? I mean, it’s Saturday. It’s not like the banks are open today.”
“Ye
s, I know. But I thought it was best not to argue.”
Trey looked so pitiful, standing on the porch in a coat that was still damp from the earlier rain, that I just sighed and opened the door. Hopefully my baggy sweatshirt offered enough coverage that my braless state wouldn’t be too embarrassing. “Come on in. You can do your duty by handing over the check, and then I’m going to make you some coffee or tea or something. You look like you could use it.”
“Thanks, that would be great. Mom’s had me running around town all day and I’ve gotten soaked, as you can see.”
I stepped aside as Trey walked into the front hall, but I paused long enough to lock the front door behind him. “Just drop the check on the side table and let me take your coat. You can’t be comfortable. Maybe it will dry out better if I hang it on the hall tree and allow it to air out while you have your coffee.”
Trey pulled off the coat and handed it to me, but he didn’t produce the check immediately. Instead he strolled over to the wall that was covered with many of my uncle’s artworks.
“These are Andrew Talbot’s paintings?”
“Some of them,” I said.
The damp raincoat thrown over my arm made me wrinkle my nose. It gave off an odd smell, especially when I lifted it to hang it on the hall tree. Of course, the rain might have raised some odors from the waterproof fabric, but this didn’t smell like mildew or old sweat. No, it was a more distinctive odor—pungent and oily.
I froze with my hands still clutching the coat. Sliding my fingers into one of the pockets, I encountered a spot of slick goo. As I pulled my hand back and shook my fingers, a distinctive scent wafted through the air.
I recognized that smell. I had encountered it recently, at the scene of a grisly murder.
Linseed oil.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I blinked rapidly as a rush of thoughts flooded my mind.
It had rained the day Rachel LeBlanc had been murdered, which meant it wouldn’t be surprising if her killer had worn a raincoat. Especially if the coat was dark and could cover someone’s regular clothes. My fingers slid up to the collar, encountering the buttons that held the rolled-up hood. Yes, a murderer could have chosen to wear this coat to help disguise his appearance as well as to protect him from the rain.
Lifting one section of the coat, I confirmed what I had suspected—the scent of linseed oil was strongest around one of the pockets. That was probably where Trey had stashed the cloth he’d used to wipe down the palette knife.
The murder weapon. I allowed the coat fabric to slip from my hand and turned to stare at Trey Riley.
He’d killed Rachel LeBlanc. I didn’t know why, but I knew for certain that he was her murderer. And now he was in my house.
“He was very talented,” Trey observed. “I’m surprised he’s not better known.”
I stared at him, relieved that he was distracted by his study of the paintings. In fact, he was using his hands to measure them, as if he was searching for a canvas of a particular shape or size.
I took a couple of steps to the side, hoping I could unlock the door before Trey noticed my actions. But my foot banged into the metal plate on the bottom of the door with a loud thump.
Trey wheeled around to face me. “Move away from the door.” He slid a dark object from the pocket of his jacket.
A pistol. Remembering the last time I’d stood in this hall with a gun pointed at me, I swallowed a shriek and forced a calm tone. “What’s this all about, Trey?”
“You look like you want to slip out that door, and I’m not having that.” Trey waved the pistol at me. “I want to search through the rest of Andrew Talbot’s paintings. All of them. Now.”
“I don’t understand. What do you want with my uncle’s paintings?” My cell phone jangled in my pocket.
“What’s that noise?” Trey’s gaze darted wildly from me to the staircase and back. “Anyone else here?”
“No,” I said, pulling out the phone. “Just my cell. No need to point that gun at me. I’m turning it off now, see?”
“Throw that over here,” Trey commanded, grabbing up my phone from the floor when I complied. “Now show me where your aunt stores those other paintings.”
“Okay, but it might help if you told me more specifics, like if you have a particular work in mind…”
“I do, and it’s something that actually belongs to me, if you must know. Or at least to Mom. But she shouldn’t complain if I claim it as part of my inheritance. It’s not like she’s willing to give me much else.” His chuckle sounded manic rather than amused.
“You can’t be serious. None of my uncle’s paintings belong to you or your mother.”
“This isn’t his work,” Trey said, moving closer. “It’s something my mom gave him to hold. For safekeeping. Only he died and she couldn’t retrieve it without raising too much suspicion.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” I felt it best to feign ignorance, even though I had a suspicion he was after one of my uncle’s forgeries.
“A Van Gogh,” he said, wiping a trail of spittle from the side of his mouth. “Stolen by the Nazis and supposedly lost forever. But it wasn’t. Some officer must’ve carried it with him when he escaped Germany after the war. Anyway, it probably ended up in the hands of some fly-by-night dealer who didn’t know its true worth, or didn’t have the means to sell it without incriminating himself in its theft. I figure Mom bought it for a song and smuggled it out of Europe after one of my parents’ diplomatic postings.” He moved close enough that I could smell the acrid scent of his sweat. “She was afraid to store it at home so she gave it to your uncle to hold for her until she could arrange a discrete sale. It seems, from some other information I’ve uncovered, that this particular piece has been hidden among his things ever since. But now it must be returned to its rightful owner.”
“Doubt that’s you,” I said, refusing to drop my gaze, despite the fire flashing in his eyes. If I could keep him talking long enough, maybe someone would show up. Richard or Hugh or someone.
“It’s mine by right, and I will have it.” He poked me with the barrel of the gun. “Now move.”
“No need,” I said. “I’ve looked through all of Uncle Andrew’s paintings, and the only thing resembling a Van Gogh is a forgery.”
Trey’s lips twitched. “That can’t be.”
“It was a shock to us too, but Hugh Chen confirmed it.” This lie tripped off my tongue so quickly I almost felt like someone else was speaking the words.
I straightened, feeling a surge of bravery, as if I had an army at my back, or at least one other person at my side. Dive for his feet, an inner voice whispered. It’s obvious he has little experience in handling guns. You can probably knock him off guard.
But before I could take this action, a key turned in the front door lock.
“Hello,” my aunt called out as she pushed the door open. “I’m back early. One of the investigators called Hugh into the lab, so we skipped the movie and he just dropped me off here … Oh.” She stood motionless as she faced Trey and the gun.
“Say nothing, close the door, and lock it behind you,” Trey commanded.
Casting me a concerned glance, my aunt did as she was told.
Trey motioned toward me with the pistol. “Now get over there beside Amy.”
Aunt Lydia strolled toward me as casually as if she had guns pointed at her every day of the week. I swallowed a hysterical bubble of laughter. Considering our recent experience at Kendrick’s home, she almost had.
“Okay, so now both of you lead me to that canvas,” Trey said. “You might claim it’s a fake, but I know what I overheard from my mom, and I’m not convinced you’re telling the truth.”
“I can show it to you, but it isn’t going to solve your money wows.” I offered my aunt an apologetic glance before continuing. “Because it isn’t a real Van Gogh. It is most certainly a forgery. It was even wrapped in a piece of canvas Uncle Andrew used to practice faking Van Gogh’s signature.
Sorry, Aunt Lydia, but it seems he painted more than one.”
Trey narrowed his eyes. “Why would your uncle keep it, then?”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to. My guess is that he planned to pass it along to his contact in whatever illegal scheme he was embroiled in. It’s just that he died before he could do so. I guess we have to admit that he was a forger”—I glanced at my aunt, whose haughty gaze was fixed on Trey—“but I don’t think he was a thief. If your mother gave him a painting to hide for her, maybe he did paint a copy, but I’m pretty sure he would’ve returned the original to her whenever she asked for it.”
“She doesn’t have it.” Trey’s hand holding the pistol was steady, but his other hand trembled like a leaf caught in an autumn wind. “If she did, she’d have sold it by now.”
“So Mel just confessed all this to you?” Aunt Lydia asked. “That she’d given Andrew the painting to hold, I mean?”
“No. She isn’t aware that I know anything. I had to find out on my own. Fortunately, you know how loud she is. It’s not hard to overhear her.” Trey’s grin resembled a wild animal baring its teeth. “Anyway, not long ago I caught her talking to someone on the phone about a painting. It seemed like the person on the other end was pressing her to turn it over to them. Based on some of Mom’s responses, I figured out the piece had been assumed lost, and the caller had just found out that the painting still existed. Anyway, Mom kept repeating that it had gone missing long ago, but I could tell by the raised voice blasting out of the phone that whoever she was talking to wasn’t buying her story. Finally Mom said something about it being impossible and spilled the information about it still being in some artist’s personal collection. I missed the rest of the conversation because Mom walked into another room, but I do recall she seemed terrified. So I was sure she was talking about an original painting, not some fake.” Trey tightened his grip on the pistol. “An original I later discovered must have been hidden among Andrew Talbot’s collection. A painting worth millions.”
Shelved Under Murder Page 21
