“Trey.” Mel Riley crossed the loft to stand before her son. “What’s all this now?”
I had to give her credit—despite what had to be a heartbreaking situation, she managed to remain calm. Her voice, although loud, was chiding rather than angry.
“You have no business here.” Trey shuffled his feet and stared down at the pistol in his hands.
“But I do. This all happened because you eavesdropped on some of my conversations, didn’t it?”
Trey lifted his head and stared his mother in the eye. “What if I did? You can’t exactly claim the high moral ground, Mom. Not when you’ve obviously been embroiled in smuggling art and who knows what else over the years.”
“Yes, I’ve made some very bad mistakes.” Mel clutched the amber silk scarf knotted at the neck of her cranberry wool sweater. “But I never meant for you to be involved. I couldn’t climb out once I’d fallen into that pit. That was bad enough, but believe me, son, I never wanted you to tumble in after me.”
Trey snorted and circled around her. “Such pretty words. But I know the truth. You just didn’t want me to take a cut of your profits.”
“That is untrue.” Mel strolled over to the edge of the loft and stared out at the swaying treetops.
“You didn’t understand what you were getting into, did you?” Kurt Kendrick, eyeing Trey’s back, slipped the lighter into his pocket.
“No.” Mel turned to face us. “I was bored, you see. Being a diplomat’s wife seems glamorous from the outside, but it was stifling…” She tucked a loose strand of her honey-colored hair behind her ear. “There were so many rules and regulations. I longed to travel and experience other cultures, but all I ended up doing was hosting tea parties and extravagant dinners. I was forced to say all the right things, smile no matter how I felt, and make small talk with some excruciatingly boring people.”
A surprisingly sympathetic expression flickered over Aunt Lydia’s face as she studied her old nemesis. “You wanted adventure.”
“Yes,” Mel said, after taking a deep breath. “And I thought I found it when I met a very charming man with an English accent who tossed around far too much money.”
Trey’s lips twitched. “So you took a lover on top of everything else?”
Mel shook her head. “No, it was never like that. We mostly talked about art. I thought he was simply an aficionado like me, but after a few meetings he finally confessed that he was in the business of collecting and selling art—some of it with questionable provenance. But the way he described his business”—Mel’s face brightened at this memory—“it sounded so exciting, like a game. He talked about secret meetings and coded messages until I felt like I was living in a Cary Grant movie. It didn’t seem like a crime; it felt like a caper that simply put one over on the stuffy collectors and art experts who’d never take a chance on a work without a perfect pedigree.”
“I take it he worked for the Quinns?” As Kendrick moved closer to Aunt Lydia and me, he pointed at Trey’s back and motioned for me to move toward Richard.
I crept backward as Mel met Kendrick’s icy stare without flinching. “Yes. I knew nothing of their organization, of course. I was simply told to use my diplomatic immunity to smuggle a painting into the U.S.” Her green eyes sparkled at this memory. “I can’t tell you how thrilling it was, standing in customs and knowing that I had a priceless masterpiece rolled up and tucked in amongst my suits and lingerie. Such an incredible rush.”
Trey’s eyes narrowed as he took two steps forward. “Who are you talking about? The Quinns? Who the hell are they?”
“An international art theft and forgery ring,” Kendrick said.
Trey stabbed the air with his gun. “For God’s sake, Mom. You weren’t even doing this on your own? You were, or are, mixed up with criminals?”
“It would’ve been criminal either way,” Mel said. “But yes.”
Trey glared at his mother. “So it was more than one painting?”
“Not at first. My original task was simply to bring the Van Gogh into the country. I really thought that was all I had to do. One and done.”
“But the Quinns had other ideas,” Kendrick said.
I knelt beside Richard as Aunt Lydia shockingly allowed Kendrick to take her arm.
I leaned into Richard, careful not to jostle his injury. “Are you really okay?” I whispered.
“Yeah. Help me stand, would you?” he murmured.
We both staggered to our feet while the others focused on Mel. If Richard had been in any condition to back me up, I would’ve suggested an attempt to rush Trey from behind. But I couldn’t take that risk. Not with Richard bleeding and Trey holding that gun. Despite his poor aim, even a random shot might hit one of us.
“They blackmailed you?” my aunt asked Mel.
The elegant diplomat’s wife closed her eyes for a second before replying. “They did indeed. Threatened to expose my actions and perhaps even harm my husband, or Trey”—she cast him a quick glance—“if I didn’t comply with their demands.”
Trey raised his gun and moved closer to his mother. “Which was what? Force some artists to paint fakes? Tell me the truth for a change—were most of these paintings I overheard you discussing forgeries?”
Mel backed away from him, making me catch my breath. She was standing far too close to the edge of the loft. “Yes. That was my role, once I was back in the U.S. I had to entrap talented but unknown artists into painting forgeries based on specifications delivered to me by the Quinns. Sometimes the forgeries were based on descriptions of lost works from letters or other documents. Occasionally I was given a photograph, and even more rarely, an original work, like that Van Gogh. In those cases I was ordered to demand that the artist copy it and then return the actual painting as soon as possible.” She returned Trey’s angry glare with a sad smile. “I wasn’t cutting you out of the profits, Trey. It wasn’t like I could keep the originals for myself, and the amount I was paid for acting as a go-between for the forgeries was negligible.”
Trey ran his free hand through his thick hair, causing it to stand up in tufts. “But the Van Gogh painting was authentic, wasn’t it? At least that’s the impression I got from your conversations. Your masters wanted it back, but you’d given it to Andrew Talbot and couldn’t retrieve it before he died.”
“Yes, that was different. The timing, with the accident…” Mel tightened her lips.
“So that’s why you were so determined to sort through his paintings,” Aunt Lydia said. “Both of you.”
Mel and her son, focused on each other, ignored her.
Trey tapped the barrel of his pistol against his palm. “Explain, Mom—was the Van Gogh those men hounded you about an authentic painting or a copy? Because if I’ve done all this for some damned forgery…”
“There was an original. As I said, it was the first painting I smuggled into the country.”
“And you asked Andrew to paint a copy.” Aunt Lydia, leaning against Kendrick’s strong arm, did not phrase this as a question.
Mel looked down at her clenched hands. “Yes, for some collector who supposedly didn’t care much for provenance. The Quinns had arranged to sell the collector the fake and keep the original for themselves. Maybe they planned to sell the original to someone else at a later date. I don’t know.”
“But wouldn’t that look suspicious?” Richard grimaced as I took over the task of applying pressure to his arm. “I mean, if the first collector heard about another sale of the same work?”
Kendrick stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe. But someone who bought a painting on the black market, knowing it was likely stolen, would not be inclined to complain if another copy showed up later. Even if they did suspect they’d been duped. Clever ruse, that.”
Mel nodded. “That was part of their game. They were clever, and extremely dangerous. It’s why I never told you anything about my involvement, Trey. I knew they were capable of killing anyone who got in their way or took any action that might exp
ose them.”
Trey worked his mouth for a moment, as if struggling to put his thoughts into words. “But why don’t you have the original, if Andrew Talbot was supposed to return it to you as soon as the copy was completed?”
“Things happened. Things I couldn’t control,” Mel said, not meeting her son’s fierce gaze.
“Was it the copy you needed so urgently, then?” Aunt Lydia’s voice was icy.
Mel glanced at my aunt before dropping her gaze again. “Well…”
Trey jumped in before his mother could say anything more. “Okay, so if Andrew Talbot painted a copy that was destroyed in his accident, then where is the original? I assume you don’t have it, Kendrick?” Trey waved his pistol toward the art dealer, who shrugged.
“Sadly, no. I have no idea what happened to it.”
Trey turned on me, gun raised. “What was that painting you mentioned, then?”
Richard moved to shield me from Trey’s aim, but I shoved him back, eliciting a grunt as I pressed against his arm. “A forgery, as I said. I don’t know how or why Uncle Andrew had it. The only thing I can imagine is that he painted two copies, hoping to sell the second one himself. Because I’m pretty sure your mother actually did get the original back, despite what she claims.”
Mel expelled a loud breath of air before meeting my gaze. “You’re right about one thing. The painting Amy found was the copy.”
Trey wheeled around to face his mother. “This makes no sense. Why would this Quinn group be harassing you if they got their original painting back? I can’t imagine they’d have much interest in Andrew Talbot’s other paintings. And if Talbot returned the original to you, what happened to it?”
“It was destroyed,” Mel said, casting an apologetic glance at my aunt. “Burnt to ashes in a fiery car crash.”
“No.” Trey’s voice echoed as hollow as the ocean within a shell. “No, no.”
Mel clenched and unclenched her hands. “I’m afraid so. The collector the Quinns hoped to swindle turned out to be more perceptive than they expected. After looking into his background, they were hesitant to sell him the forgery. They thought he might uncover their scam. Once they realized he had the ability to expose their entire criminal organization, the Quinns couldn’t take that chance. So late one night they ordered me to collect the actual painting from the artist creating the forgery. They’d decided to sell that particular collector the original.”
Aunt Lydia lifted her chin and leveled Mel with a frosty glare. “And you demanded that Andrew bring it to you. In an ice storm.”
“Yes, and for that I am eternally sorry.”
Trey blinked rapidly. “But no. No, that can’t be. That means the original Van Gogh was burnt to cinders over thirty-seven years ago?”
Mel lifted her hands as if offering up an apology. “It was.”
“But those people calling and visiting you…”
“Wanted the copy,” Mel said, facing down Trey with a lift of her chin. “The first collector died, and enough time has passed that they felt they could pass it off as the original. Especially since someone new approached them, willing to pay any price for a Van Gogh. Someone who wasn’t too picky about provenance. One of the older men who’d been involved in the first deal remembered Andrew’s copy and decided they could finally make up their previous loss. They knew Andrew’s work was good enough to pass this new collector’s scrutiny.” Mel shrugged. “The copy was worth as much to the Quinns as the original at that point.”
“Is that why you were so determined to search through Andrew Talbot’s paintings? I know you wanted to sort through Lydia’s collection almost as badly as I did.” Trey’s grip on the pistol tightened until his knuckles blanched.
Mel bit her perfectly tinted lower lip. “Yes, but also because that wasn’t the only original I smuggled out of Europe on that first trip. It was just the only one the Quinns knew about. I found another valuable piece in the shop where the Quinns had arranged for me to pick up the Van Gogh. I bought the second painting with my own money—it was more than the Quinns were willing to pay that dealer, so he kept his mouth shut. I never told my contact about that little transaction, so the Quinns never knew. I thought I’d just keep it for myself, but then it seemed wiser to have Andrew create a copy of that one too and sell both of them. Andrew didn’t know this. He thought both forgeries would be turned over to the Quinns, along with the originals. I allowed him to think that, not planning to cut him in on the extra profit from the painting the Quinns didn’t know about.”
Mel blinked as a particularly strong swear flew from my aunt’s lips. “But Andrew hadn’t had time to paint that copy yet,” she continued, her voice trembling slightly, “and after he died the original was lost to me. I thought perhaps he’d hidden it among his own paintings, but I never had the chance to look for it without arousing too much suspicion.” She sent my aunt an abashed glance. “I had to wait until I was back in the country for good, when I could establish myself in the community and find some reason to ask you to see Andrew’s paintings. It’s why I fought so hard to become the chair of the Friends. I knew demanding fine art for the festival might provide an acceptable reason for me to search through your husband’s works.” She lifted her hands. “I’m truly sorry, but it was another masterpiece. I felt it was worth a little subterfuge.”
“More conniving? More secrets?” Spittle flew from Trey’s lips as he aimed the pistol at his mother’s heart. “You still couldn’t share, even if it meant saving me from financial ruin, could you? You knew there was another valuable work of art hidden at Lydia’s home, but you weren’t having any success even setting foot in the house. I was the one with the perfect scheme to gain access to Talbot’s paintings. I was getting close to Amy…”
I snorted at this, but Trey continued as if he hadn’t heard me. Which he probably hadn’t. He was too focused on his mother.
“Working together, you and I might have quickly retrieved both the copy, which would’ve gotten your dangerous partners off your back, and the other original. Then we could’ve sold that one and shared millions. But no, you had to go and screw everything up, just so you could keep all the profits for yourself. You selfish cow!” Trey lunged at Mel.
She was far too close to the edge. I shouted “Careful!” just as Kendrick leapt forward.
But our words and actions were too late. Catching the heel of her suede boot on a loose plank, Mel tripped and stumbled backward.
Her high-pitched wail mingled with our shouts and screams as she tumbled from the loft.
Chapter Twenty-Five
While the rest of us ran to the edge of the loft, Trey dashed down the stairs. I assumed he was rushing to aid his mom, but when he didn’t immediately appear beside her crumpled form, I realized he’d chosen to flee.
I patted my pocket, feeling the lump of the keys. That was one more error on Trey’s part. He couldn’t take his car to make his escape, which meant he’d probably dashed into the woods on foot.
“Amy or Lydia, call 911!” Kendrick yelled as he sprinted for the stairs.
“I’ll do it,” Aunt Lydia said. “Amy, you help Richard down those steps.”
We made our descent slowly, Richard gripping the handrail with his good hand as I hovered close to his injured side.
“You probably shouldn’t be moving so much,” I said. “It’ll make the bleeding worse.”
“Not staying up there, and I can still walk,” he replied, gritting his teeth after each footfall.
When we reached the ground and stepped outside, we paused at a small patch of grass in front of the sawmill. Mel’s prone body was a few feet away. She’d obviously hit the lower roof and rolled onto the grass instead of the gravel, which was a blessing, although I could tell that she’d suffered severe injuries. She lay on her back, with both arms bent at unnatural angles and blood pooling under one leg.
Kendrick had stripped off his jacket and used it to elevate her legs slightly. “She’s likely in shock,” he said. “I ch
ecked her airways but don’t want to move her again before the ambulance arrives. I’m worried about her spine.”
Aunt Lydia stepped out of the sawmill and crossed to stand beside Kendrick. “Help’s on its way.” As she looked down at Mel, she sucked in a sharp breath. “Anything I can do?”
Kurt Kendrick rose to his feet. “Stay with her while I go after that worthless son of hers,” he said, brushing the dust from his wool slacks.
“You should wait for the authorities. He still has the gun.” Richard lifted his injured arm, then groaned and leaned against me so heavily my knees almost buckled.
“Here, sit on the grass,” I told him, dismayed by the blood seeping under the makeshift compress. I helped him sink to the ground and sat down beside him.
Kendrick shook his shaggy head of white hair. “Trey will be long gone before they get here, and they need to focus on Mel and Richard.” He met my concerned gaze with a sardonic smile. “I can handle myself. I don’t intend to let that bastard escape.”
“Just be careful,” Richard said, as I slid my right arm around his waist.
Aunt Lydia, who’d knelt down by Mel’s head, looked up at Kendrick. “Yes, take care, Kurt.”
His eyebrows disappeared up under the fall of his rumpled hair before he gave her a smile and headed for the woods at a brisk jog.
After he disappeared into the trees, I glanced at Aunt Lydia, but she was focused on Mel and I couldn’t catch her eye. My aunt worried about Kendrick’s safety? Will wonders never cease? I thought, as I flipped over the wadded sweatshirt and pressed a slightly drier section against Richard’s wound. “How’re you holding up?” I asked after a soft moan escaped his tightened lips.
“Fine,” he said, although the beads of sweat on his upper lip and brow told another story. He allowed his body to sink against mine. “Sorry. I’m going to get blood all over your clothes.”
I caressed his uninjured side with my fingers. “Don’t be silly. I don’t give a rat’s rear about that. I’m just worried about you.”
“Your turn.” He shot me a wry smile. “To sit by my bedside and fret, like I had to do for you a couple of times last summer, remember?”
Shelved Under Murder Page 24
