“More like zero minus zero,” my aunt said. “Because Amy’s right. Any so-called Van Gogh we own is a fake. I am sure of that because I saw Andrew working on it.”
I knew this was a lie, but Aunt Lydia spoke so convincingly, Trey’s eyes glazed over. “So now the question is—where is the original?” He pointed the gun at my aunt. “Did your husband sell it?”
Aunt Lydia lifted her chin and stared him down. “Do we look like we’re worth millions? Honestly, I have no idea where the original painting might be. I assume if Andrew ever actually had it, he returned it to your mother. He may have been a forger, but as Amy said, he was no thief.”
As she spoke these words, an idea popped into my head, as fully formed as if someone had just whispered in my ear. “Kurt Kendrick has it.”
I didn’t know why I blurted that out, but I did acknowledge it made sense as a stalling tactic. It wasn’t irrational to suggest that Uncle Andrew had handed over an original Van Gogh to his art dealer friend, and planting that idea in Trey’s head might send him off on a wild-goose chase. A useless quest that would end at Kendrick’s well-protected estate.
I was tossing Kendrick into Trey’s line of fire, but having seen the older man in action, I felt confident that he could handle Mel’s son. And perhaps there would be a way to prevent Trey from reaching the estate. It was certainly worth a chance. Anything was better than Aunt Lydia and I having to deal with an obsessed killer on our own.
To her credit, Aunt Lydia didn’t bat an eyelash as she backed up my lie. “Yes, I remember now. Years ago, my husband mentioned something about giving Kurt a valuable piece of art to sell for him. I guess Andrew followed through on that plan before he died, but I doubt Kurt sold the painting. Or if he did, I never saw any of that money.”
“So apparently Andrew was a thief, despite all your protests to the contrary. He probably planned to split the money with Kendrick and never give my mom a dime.” Trey gripped his pistol with both hands and worked his mouth for a moment. “Well, that’s in the past and can’t be changed. But I can make up for my mother’s misguided trust here and now. So this is what we’re going to do—you two are going to take a little drive with me out to my winery property, and I’m going to call Kurt Kendrick from my car and tell him to bring me the original Van Gogh.”
“Why would he do that?” Aunt Lydia smoothed down the front of her raincoat as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “Kurt has no great love for either Amy or me.”
“Well, maybe not, but I doubt he’d like to be the cause of your deaths. Because I’ll tell him”—Trey aimed the gun at me—“that I’ll kill you both unless I get that painting by five o’clock.”
“He might not still have it. He could’ve sold it,” I said, frantically thinking of a way to alert Kendrick to the actual situation. “And he could be out of the house right now.”
“Well, too bad for you then, isn’t it?” Trey grabbed his raincoat from the hall tree. “We’re heading outside, nice and slow. Just like I was a family friend, escorting you to my car.” He clutched Aunt Lydia’s wrist and pulled her close, the gun hidden under the coat thrown over his arm. “Any yelling or bolting and I pull the trigger, Amy.”
I swallowed and nodded. But as I opened the front door, I surreptitiously flicked the latch so that the door wouldn’t automatically lock behind us. I hoped it would be a signal for Hugh or Richard that all was not well, since, after the events of the past summer, Aunt Lydia and I were diligent about locking exterior doors.
Trey guided my aunt to his cherry-red sports car. “You’re going to drive,” he told me as he thrust Aunt Lydia into the back seat, tossed the coat in after her, and slammed the car door. I complied, adjusting the seat slightly to accommodate my shorter legs as he climbed in the passenger side.
“Just remember—not only am I pointing this gun at you, but if you try anything clever, I can also swing my arm around quite easily to shoot your aunt.” Trey tossed me the keys. “Same goes for you,” he told Aunt Lydia, who’d leaned over as if searching for something on the floor.
Looking for an umbrella or ice scraper she could use as a weapon, no doubt. I glanced back at her in the rearview mirror and shook my head as she straightened and buckled her seat belt.
“I’ve never driven something like this before,” I said, surveying the numerous dials and gadgets on the dashboard with dismay.
“It’s a car. Put the keys in the ignition and let’s go.”
Gripping the leather-clad steering wheel with both hands, I pulled onto the road. “I don’t know how to get to your property. You’ll have to direct me.”
“Take Main Street until you’re out of town, then turn left on Chestnut Hill. We’ll be on that road for a while, so that’s all you need to know for now. I’ll tell you where to turn again later.” Trey popped his cell phone into the Bluetooth attachment on his dash. “Call Kurt Kendrick,” he instructed the device.
“You have it programmed?” I asked, shooting him a glance before focusing back on the road.
Trey shrugged. “I scout out possible investors everywhere I go, and he’s a wealthy guy.”
Kendrick picked up on the third ring, announcing his name cheerfully but falling silent as Trey blurted out his demands.
“So you understand—bring the original to my winery. You know where that is?”
“The old Calloway place, right?” Kendrick’s voice was perfectly calm.
“Yes, and no alerting the authorities. I glimpse anyone other than you, and I shoot at least one of these women.”
“I will come alone.”
“See that you do. Now, you’re clear what painting I mean? I hope you still have it, or things could go south very quickly.”
“I have it,” Kendrick said. “The Lovers by Van Gogh.”
He might be a scoundrel, I thought, but he’s quite a clever one. Not knowing all the details, he wasn’t saying much, but he’d obviously guessed that Aunt Lydia or I had concocted this story for a reason.
“Yes. We’re headed that way now, so get moving,” Trey said.
“First”—Kendrick’s polite tone was edged with steel—“have Amy and Lydia speak to me. I want to hear their voices before I do anything.”
Trey grunted but waved the gun at us. “Say your names for the gentleman.”
“Lydia Litton Talbot,” my aunt said, her voice sharp and clear as an icicle.
Unable to maintain that level of calm, I squeaked, “Amy.”
Kendrick cleared his throat before he spoke again. “Very well. I will meet you at the winery.”
“With the painting,” Trey said.
“With the painting,” Kendrick replied, hanging up before Trey could say anything more.
Trey slumped in his high-backed leather seat, the gun in his lap.
If I could take a wrong turn and somehow end up where there were a lot of people, like the row of strip malls right outside of town … But Trey’s hand was on the pistol and I didn’t trust him not to use it. If it had been only me, I might have taken the risk, but I couldn’t take that chance with my aunt as another target.
As I turned onto Chestnut Hill Road, I sneaked glances at Trey.
I marveled that I had ever considered him the least bit handsome. Now, sunk in his seat, his chin doubling as he pressed it to his neck and a tuft of thick hair sticking out from one side of his head, he certainly didn’t look like any sort of prize. Of course, maybe it was just my new awareness of his true personality that had turned him from a charming frat boy into a fiend. Obviously desperate to acquire a painting he thought priceless, Trey had stepped over the line from duplicitous to deadly. His entire focus appeared to be the acquisition of that painting, and I didn’t doubt he’d kill again if it brought him closer to his goal. Which meant his financial situation had to be dire, despite the smoke and mirrors of his various business interests. All of which he’d have to abandon now. Because even if he could’ve laid his hands on the original Van Gogh and sold it for millions
, he’d still have had to disappear.
“So tell me,” Aunt Lydia said, “why you really thought this painting was worth so much, and why you were so sure Andrew ever had the original, if all you heard was your mom talking to some unknown people on the phone.”
Trey lifted the gun, weighing it in his hand. “I don’t need chitchat.”
“Just curious,” my aunt said. I glanced at her in the mirror. Although her voice was perfectly calm, her drawn face betrayed her fear.
“I am capable of putting two and two together.” Trey’s declaration dripped with disdain. “I figured that no one would be hounding my mom for some painting unless it was worth a decent bit of money. And something I saw as a child … Well, never mind about that. When I connected what I overheard to a specific work of art, let’s just say it rang a bell with me.”
“And you assumed from what you heard that your mother smuggled it into the U.S.?”
“Yes. Like I told Amy, my guess is she got it off some less-than-reputable dealer in Europe, who got it from the Nazi who absconded with it while fleeing Germany after the war.” Trey tapped the gun barrel against his palm. “It wouldn’t have been difficult for her to smuggle artworks out of Europe, given Dad’s diplomatic status.”
“Well, I never,” my aunt said, although she didn’t sound that surprised. “And she mixed you up in this business? Her own son?”
Trey snorted. “She never told me a thing about it. I had to find out for myself. ‘Her own son.’” He gave my aunt’s words a sarcastic spin. “Like that mattered. She never intended for me to know anything about her little smuggling operation. It was only my accidental eavesdropping that clued me in. Mom didn’t want to share the profits, I expect.”
“You mean there were more paintings?” I asked, my knuckles blanching from my grip on the steering wheel.
“A few more, anyway. I’m not really sure how many.” Trey’s voice hardened. “In that phone call, Mom also mentioned some stuff stored at the LeBlanc farm. So I thought maybe she kept additional smuggled originals there, somewhere. I just had to figure out where. But when I went to look, I never got the chance to search…”
I bit my lip to stifle an exclamation. His thoughtless words confirmed my earlier theory that he was Rachel’s killer, as well as the mysterious figure Caden had spied fleeing the area. Trey had undoubtedly confronted Rachel LeBlanc as he had me today, demanding to be shown the hidden collection of paintings. She hadn’t complied—not because she had been defiant but because, despite throwing Reese out of the house over one forged painting, she’d known nothing about that hidden closet or the other fake works. So, thwarted and furious, Trey had grabbed Rachel’s own palette knife and stabbed her.
I took a deep breath, swallowing back this accusation. To confront Trey now might simply ratchet his anger up another notch. I cast him a glance, noticing the bulging vein at his temple. He was obviously consumed with fury, although strangely, I didn’t feel that it was directed at either my aunt or me.
His following words confirmed my suspicion. “Mom might talk me up to outsiders, but she never paid me much attention,” he said. “Too busy with her friends and her parties and all that nonsense. I could sit in the same room with her and she’d never know I was there. So I overhear things. Like when those two FBI types stopped by the house not long ago. Mom talked to them in the music room, completely forgetting that I was working in the library, which has a connecting door.”
“FBI types?” The hair rose on my arms as I recalled the man who’d tailed Mel at the festival. “You mean men in dark suits and white shirts and ties?”
“Yes. I figured maybe it had to do with a clearance review for someone she knew in the diplomatic corps, but no—they were questioning her about paintings. Just like in that phone call.”
That wasn’t the FBI, I thought. Those were men sent by the Quinns.
“One in particular,” Trey continued. “It sounded like the same painting Mom was being hounded about over the phone. Turns out it was a long-lost Van Gogh, which the men fortunately described in detail.” Trey glanced back at my aunt. “So a few days later, when Mom was talking about donations for the festival and seemed overly eager to look through Andrew Talbot’s paintings, I casually asked her how she knew your husband. She said they were just acquaintances but he’d done her a couple of favors in the past. Then it dawned on me—she’d given him the Van Gogh to hold until she could find a buyer. I figured she offered him a cut of the sales or something. Probably the same arrangement she later set up with the LeBlancs.”
“I don’t think…” Aunt Lydia snapped her mouth shut when I shot her a sharp glance in the mirror.
But Trey was on a roll now. He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “As to your other question, Lydia—it really wasn’t difficult to deduce that even though Mom might have used the LeBlanc barn to store some stuff, she’d given Andrew Talbot the Van Gogh. Because my research on the clues I assembled from all those overheard conversations jogged a memory. Something from my childhood, long before Mom would’ve had any dealings with the LeBlancs. Once I realized what specific lost painting was being referenced, I knew it had to have been given to your husband to hold. It was the only thing that fit the timing. You see, I saw that canvas once.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, scanning the back road for any sign of houses. Because if we could get away, we had to know where to run.
Trey expelled a huff of air. “I was only five or six at the time, but I could never forget that painting. It earned me the worst beating of my life. One day I walked in on Mom examining a canvas she’d unrolled on her bed. She went ballistic, gave me a thorough spanking, and threatened me with worse if I ever mentioned that painting to anyone.” Trey leaned in and waved his free hand under my nose. “Left here.”
I turned the car onto the rough gravel road. “But you can’t know she gave it to my uncle after that.”
“No, not absolutely for sure, but it disappeared from our house. I know that for certain because I searched diligently for it over the years and never found it. So when I heard her mention that the piece in question was in an artist’s personal collection and put that clue together with the fact that she told me that your uncle had done her some favors”—he shrugged—“I figured out that your uncle’s house was the only option. Of course, I wanted to search for any original paintings stored at the LeBlanc barn as well, but I once I couldn’t go back there … I mean, once the authorities cordoned off the area, I figured I’d just cut my losses and focus on the Van Gogh.”
“But…” I said before I stopped myself. Trey obviously didn’t know anything about the connection between Reese, or my uncle, and an international forgery ring. He seemed to think his mother was mixed up in smuggling and selling artworks acquired through questionable dealers, but he hadn’t yet indicated that he knew she was involved in any forgeries.
Which she was, I realized, as Trey barked at me to turn right onto a narrow lane. Driving past a heavily wooded area, we emerged into the bright sunlight of an autumn afternoon. On either side of the lane, gnarled grapevines covered row after row of rough trellises. I kept my eyes on the road, trying to skirt around the worst of the ruts, as I silently worked through the implications of my latest theory.
Mel Riley, town leader, wealthy patron of the arts, and widow of a diplomat, had to be the “go-between” Kurt Kendrick had mentioned—the connection between the Quinns’ operation and local artists like Reese LeBlanc. Mel hadn’t bought the Van Gogh off some disreputable dealer, as Trey thought. She’d probably been commissioned by the Quinns to smuggle it, and a few other paintings over the years, out of Europe. Her diplomatic status would have made her quite a desirable courier for any criminal organization.
And somehow she’d entangled my uncle in the scheme. I gnawed at my lower lip. The timing fit. But Trey was once again mistaken—Mel hadn’t given my uncle the Van Gogh to hold it for her. No, she’d simply expected him to create the copy I’d found. I’d have b
et the original would’ve been returned to Mel right after Uncle Andrew had examined it and taken a few reference photos. Surely Mel would’ve been required to return it to the Quinns as soon as possible. Why they were now ramping up the surveillance on Mel was puzzling, but perhaps it was connected to the forgeries discovered at the LeBlanc barn. Perhaps they suspected her of colluding with the authorities. After all, she could probably expose more about their operations than just Reese LeBlanc’s forgeries.
Rounding a corner, we reentered a mountain forest, where deep-green pines reached for the sky, battling the bare-leafed hardwoods for light and air. I drove the car into a small circle of gravel in the middle of a clearing. Before us rose a rough-timbered, three-story structure that I recognized as an old sawmill.
Trey’s future tasting room. I squinted and peered at the building. Apparently Trey’s funds had run dry before he could do more than shore up some of the sagging timbers and replace a few broken windows on the badly weathered wooden structure.
“Park the car and hand me the keys,” Trey commanded.
“I suppose you want us to get out?” I asked as I unbuckled my seat belt.
“Yes. And don’t even think about running. You saw that there’s nothing around here for miles. You’d wouldn’t even reach the vines before I’d track you down.”
I sighed and climbed out of the car. He was right. We couldn’t possibly make a run for it, especially not with Aunt Lydia’s bum leg. Walking didn’t bother her too much anymore, but there was no way she could outrun Trey. “So where are we going?”
“Up there.” Trey pointed at the open third-floor loft above one section of the old mill. “Always heard higher ground was an advantage,” he added as he grabbed my aunt’s arm and pulled her from the car.
“And once we’re up there?” I followed Trey and my aunt, acutely aware that his gun was once again pressed against her slender body.
“We wait. And you hope, or pray if that’s your thing. Because if Kurt Kendrick doesn’t show up soon with that painting, you two are never leaving these woods alive.”
Shelved Under Murder Page 22
