“Yeah, Richard went to get it.”
“I wonder who that could be,” she murmured, but her question was immediately answered when Hugh appeared, followed by Richard.
“Sorry, Lydia, I forgot my key,” Hugh said. “It’s up in the bedroom. Come to think of it, I suppose I should just leave it there on the dresser, since I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“We can discuss that later,” my aunt said, which spurred Zelda to share a knowing look with Walt. “But what do you have there? Is that my painting?”
Hugh held up the cylindrical black leather case. “I’m afraid not. That is to say, it is the painting you had me examine. But it is no longer yours.”
Aunt Lydia rose to her feet. “What do you mean?”
“The truth is, I cannot return it to you.” Hugh crossed to my aunt and shifted her plate and silverware so he could place the case on the table. “It appears that we were quite mistaken about this painting, and perhaps your husband as well. May I?” He motioned toward the other dinnerware cluttering the area. When Aunt Lydia nodded, he began collecting the plates and utensils on that side of the table.
“Here, let me help with that,” I said, moving to his side. I carried the stacked items to the other side of the table while Richard picked up a few glasses and set them on the sideboard.
“I wanted all of you to see this one more time,” Hugh said as he rolled back a section of the tablecloth.
Aunt Lydia tapped her foot against the hardwood floor. “You’re being very mysterious, Hugh.”
“I just feel that something like this deserves a little ceremony. It’s a great surprise.” Hugh slid a cylinder of canvas from the leather case and unrolled it across the cleared area of the table.
As Hugh’s fingers gently slid over the forged copy of The Lovers: The Poet’s Garden IV, I marveled again at my uncle’s skill. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn that Van Gogh had painted this work.
“Please”—Hugh motioned for everyone to move around to his side of the table—“come and look at this. Because it is the last time you will see it up close.”
I slid closer to Richard as Sunny, Brad, Walt, and Zelda clustered behind Hugh.
Aunt Lydia stood shoulder to shoulder with Hugh as she leaned in to peer at the painting. “I know it’s a forgery, but I’d still like to have it back.”
“But that’s just it,” Hugh said, meeting her determined gaze with excitement dancing in his brown eyes. “This is not a forgery. This is the original.”
“What?” My aunt stepped back, almost tripping over Walt’s toes. He thrust out a hand to steady her as she wobbled slightly. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. The DNA results did not match Andrew, but they did correlate with information on file about Van Gogh. And the UVF analysis and other tests proved the painting authentic without a doubt.”
“Well I’ll be damned.” Kurt Kendrick leaned over the table from the other side and stared at the unrolled canvas. “Andrew, you sly fox.”
“He switched them,” I said, with a swift glance up into Richard’s amazed face. “He decided not to give Mel the original after all.”
“He switched them,” repeated my aunt.
As I glanced over at her, she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders and met Kendrick’s delighted gaze with a smile.
“You see, he was more like the man you thought him to be than a scoundrel, in the end,” the art dealer said. “He must’ve had second thoughts about handing over such a masterpiece to those who only meant to exploit it, and him.”
“Yes, I suppose when it came to actually relinquishing a work like this to thieves, he couldn’t do it,” Aunt Lydia said. “And he was willing to face their wrath if they discovered his subterfuge.”
“Although from what I’ve heard, that might’ve put you in jeopardy too,” Zelda said, her normally bright voice subdued.
“Perhaps. I think he would have talked it over with me, had he lived. There was that other original painting that Mel mentioned. I wonder what became of that?”
“We only have her word that it even existed,” Kendrick said, uncorking the brandy. “And you know what that’s worth. Maybe she simply said that to throw Trey off track. She probably took it back from Andrew before he even had time to paint a copy. I can imagine her reconsidering and deciding to sell it without having to share any profits with anyone else.”
“That’s possible, I suppose.” Aunt Lydia gazed down at the Van Gogh once more before pressing two fingers against the back of Hugh’s hand. “You’d better roll that up and store it away. I assume you plan to hand it over to the authorities?”
“Yes, although they’ve agreed to allow the National Gallery to take charge of it while all the ownership details are ironed out.” Hugh slid the rolled canvas back into the protective leather case.
“So Andrew had it all the time.” Kendrick shook his head. “That was one thing he never told me.”
“Or me.” My aunt leaned into Hugh.
The art expert held the case against his chest as he placed his other arm around her shoulders. “He was probably trying to protect you, Lydia. Hoping to figure out a way to return the original painting without placing you in danger.”
“All this time, it was here in the house.” Aunt Lydia glanced over at me. “Where did you find it again, Amy?”
“In that closet with all his other stored works. He hid it behind one of his own canvases. You wouldn’t have noticed it unless you happened to pick up that one painting,” I said, tightening my lips as I considered the coincidence that had led me to that seascape.
Or perhaps, like some of the occurrences from the past summer, it hadn’t been entirely a coincidence. Those other paintings tumbling over to reveal the one Uncle Andrew had hidden so long ago, as if a hand had pushed them aside … I swallowed before speaking again. “Maybe he planned to return it to a museum, or the Monuments Men, or something later. But then…”
“There was no later.” Richard wrapped his good arm around my waist.
“I would like to think that was his plan,” Aunt Lydia said. “So I shall.”
Kendrick leaned forward and filled nine snifters with brandy. “Everyone, please take a glass.”
When we were all holding the snifters, Kendrick lifted his high. “To Andrew,” he said, his gaze fixed on Aunt Lydia.
“To Andrew!” we all called out in unison, before taking a drink.
Sunny sputtered after downing hers, and Brad had to pat her on the back, but Kendrick just smiled and held out his glass again. “Now I would like to propose something, and I hope Lydia will agree.”
“What? That she turn over all of Andrew’s paintings to you?”
“Not exactly.” Kendrick studied me, his blue eyes very bright. “But I would like to borrow them for a special show. I will have everything framed, at my expense, and have them professionally hung in my home.”
“A special gallery exhibit?” Aunt Lydia leaned her head against Hugh’s shoulder. “I think Andrew would’ve liked that. So yes. I agree.”
“Good. And I shall give an obnoxiously lavish party and invite the glitterati of the art world. Everything will be disgustingly ostentatious, just the way they like it. Of course, all of you will be my special guests. Including you, Dr. Chen, if you are free.”
“I will make a point to clear my calendar for that,” Hugh said.
“So Uncle Andrew will get his due at last.” I leaned back against Richard’s warm chest. “I think it’s about time.”
“Past time,” Kendrick said. “But always better late than never. Now—more brandy, anyone?”
Sunny waved him off with her hand. “No more for me, thanks.”
Brad shook his head. “And I have to drive her home, so I’ll pass.”
“Well”—Aunt Lydia lifted her head and held out her glass—“I don’t have to go anywhere but bed, so hit me up again, Kurt.”
I shot her a sly grin. “As long as you can make it up to your room.”
/> She cast her gaze from Hugh to Richard and then Walt and Brad before settling on Kendrick’s elderly but still vigorous figure. “I believe there are enough strong arms between the lot of you to manage to get me up the stairs and into my bed.”
“Now that,” Kendrick said, arching his bushy eyebrows as he looked over the other men before settling his gaze on my aunt, “sounds like a very intriguing prospect.”
Which just made Sunny and me smile, Brad blush, Richard and Walt grin, and Aunt Lydia and Zelda break into bright peals of laughter.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
In the end, Kurt Kendrick scheduled his party for early December. He claimed it would take that long to properly frame and hang Andrew’s paintings, and he wanted to make sure the most influential art critics, gallery owners, and collectors could attend.
“It is much better timing. At least for me,” Richard said as we took a walk through the woods on the day of the party. “I have the flexibility and strength back in my arm now, so I can properly partner you. Kurt told me he hired a band and had his people clear the room to create a proper dance floor. We can waltz the night away.”
I shivered as the December wind bit through my sweatshirt. I knew I should’ve worn a jacket, but when Richard had asked me to accompany him on a walk, I’d simply grabbed the first thing off the hall tree and thrown it on. “You can sashay around all you want. But you’ll need a better partner. Maybe Aunt Lydia or Sunny can do justice to your moves, but I’m certainly not in your league.”
“Nonsense. It’s just social dancing. You follow my lead and you’ll be fine.”
I sniffed and shoved my windblown hair behind my ears. “Right. More like I’d break your foot and then you’d be out of commission again just when your arm has healed.”
Richard narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to dance one waltz with you, come hell or high water.”
I brushed at the shoulder of my sweatshirt, sweeping away a dried leaf that had finally lost its tenuous grip on an overhead branch. “Get out your waders then, because the water is going to rise quite high.”
Richard laughed. “After a hell mouth yawns?”
“For sure.” I shoved my hands into my pockets and kicked at a pile of dead leaves littering the path. “But seriously, I don’t feel comfortable dancing with you. Not in public. I’m just so intimidated. You must know that.”
Richard slipped his hand through my crooked elbow and pulled me closer to his side. “I know, but I don’t quite understand. Everyone knows that dancing isn’t your profession. They aren’t going to judge you so harshly.”
“Ha! You need to live in Taylorsford a bit longer before you can say that.”
Richard took hold of my other arm as he turned to face me. “Now listen, sweetheart—I know the whole point of this party is to celebrate Andrew Talbot and perhaps get some of his paintings into the hands of collectors and dealers. I support that wholeheartedly, especially if it benefits Lydia and maybe even Kurt. But there’s only one thing I want from this evening, and that’s at least one dance with you.”
I stared up into his handsome face, noting the brilliance of his clear gray eyes. He had that stubborn look that told me he wouldn’t give up without a fight.
Like it matters a bit more than you think, Amy. Maybe it does. You always think of him as so self-assured, but remember what Adele Tourneau said …
“All right, maybe one.” I stood on tiptoe to kiss his lips. “But only later in the evening, when everyone is a little plastered. They might not notice my clumsiness then.”
He leaned in, causing me to drop back on my heels. “Foolish girl, they’ll only see how beautiful you are.” He tightened his arms around me and whispered in my ear, “Especially if you wear that red dress you had on in New York. Promise me you will.”
“That’s the plan,” I said, before his lips slid to my mouth and we stopped talking for quite some time.
* * *
I couldn’t restrain a gasp as we stepped into the front hall of Kurt Kendrick’s beautiful home. In keeping with the house’s historic status, he’d limited the decorations on the outside to simple wreaths in the windows and a garland around the front door, but he’d obviously thrown away such scruples inside.
“It’s like walking into a snow globe,” Richard said as we handed our coats to a young woman dressed in a classic black-and-white maid’s outfit.
My gaze darted around the hall, taking in the transformation. The fresh garlands that hung from the wide white moldings were festooned with red berries and pinecones and dripping with tiny white lights. More greenery and crystals draped each archway, and every hall doorway was flanked by small pine trees in silver-and-white containers. Tiny white lights twinkled amid the shaped branches of the pines.
We slipped past a couple of tuxedo-clad waiters bearing trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne as we walked toward the end of the hall. Although a quick peek into the other rooms showed that the entire main floor had been given over to the party, I knew from Aunt Lydia that Kendrick had staged the display of Uncle Andrew’s paintings in the living room.
“Must be where they’ve set up the dancing too,” Richard said, as jazzy strains from some musical ensemble wafted through the open door.
I gasped again when we walked into the living room. The furniture and Oriental rugs had been removed to display a wide expanse of buffed hardwood floor. Clustered in groupings near the edges of the room, white linen-draped pedestal tables and emerald velvet chairs and sofas offered vantage points to admire the paintings that lined the walls.
Studying my uncle’s paintings, I had to admit that the new museum-quality frames displayed them to their best advantage. Many of the guests appeared to agree as they paused in front of each work and chatted enthusiastically.
“Going to grab some drinks,” Richard said, heading for one of the waiters.
I nodded and moved toward the closest landscape as if pulled to it by an invisible string. Studying it intently, I spoke silently to my long dead uncle. They finally see it. They recognize your genius now. At last. Immediately after this thought faded, I felt the back of my neck tingle and the hairs rise on my arms. Glancing to my right, I caught a flash of movement, as if a tall man wearing a loose white coat—or a painter’s smock, Amy—had just walked into the crowd.
But that was just my fancy—the strange affinity I felt for artists when standing before their works. The half-glimpsed figure was simply someone from the crowd, moving away. Of course it was. I didn’t believe in ghosts. My fingers automatically flew up to my gold hair comb but I pulled them back and hugged my arms to my chest. No, I didn’t.
Breathing rapidly, I searched the perimeter of the room for Aunt Lydia, certain she’d be stationed in front of the paintings all evening. But I was wrong. When I finally caught sight of her, she was moving elegantly across the floor in the arms of a slender dark-haired man.
“Lydia and Hugh seem to be getting into the spirit of things,” Richard said as he approached me with two crystal flutes bubbling with golden liquid. “It really is some party. And this room has been converted into quite a gallery,” he added as he handed me a glass.
I took a sip of champagne before replying. “When Kurt said ostentatious, I guess he meant it.” Glancing over at Richard appreciatively, I smoothed the bodice of my crimson silk dress with my free hand. “Good thing you wore your tux, but now I feel a bit underdressed. Maybe I should’ve worn a full-length gown or something.”
Richard leaned in and kissed my shoulder. “I disagree. I prefer this. A longer dress would mean I couldn’t appreciate those lovely legs of yours. Now drink up and let’s imitate Lydia and Hugh and dance.” He pointed at the small musical ensemble set up before the one wall that included windows. “I bet I could get them to play a waltz. We’ve practiced that once or twice.”
“I told you, later,” I said, chugging down the rest of my champagne. “No one’s drunk enough yet for that, least of all me.”
“There you ar
e!” Sunny’s merry voice rang out behind us.
Richard and I turned around to face her and shared a raised-eyebrow glance after we took in her slinky turquoise satin gown. Her only ornament was a blue-and-white cameo fastened to a silver velvet choker, and she’d allowed her golden hair to fall loosely about her shoulders.
“Wow, you look spectacular,” I said, as Richard made approving noises.
“Not so bad yourself. I like the hair ornament. Doesn’t she look lovely, Brad?”
I touched the Art Nouveau gold-plated comb I’d used to sweep back a section of my dark hair. It had once belonged to my great-grandmother Rose. Although I’d inherited her looks and coloring and her jewelry flattered me, I’d only recently felt inclined to wear any of it.
Brad tugged at the lapel of his navy-blue suit. “Very nice,” he said, shuffling his feet.
Poor thing, he looked as if he’d like to be anywhere else. “So I heard that Trey’s trial’s been set for next month and he was denied bail,” I said, hoping shoptalk might ease some of Brad’s obvious anxiety.
Brad straightened as his official mask slid into place. “Yes. And although Mel’s still recovering, she’s technically out on bail. But then, her charges weren’t so severe.”
Sunny sighed. “I guess we’ll all be called to testify. Not something I’m looking forward to.”
“Me either,” I replied, grabbing another glass of champagne before the waiter could move away. Richard shot me a questioning look, but I just took a drink and then waved my glass at him. “Told you I had to be a bit tipsy before I’d attempt that waltz.”
He grinned. “Okay. Just warn me if I’ll need to carry you out.”
“Have you seen Walt and Zelda?” I asked Sunny after scanning the crowd.
Sunny brushed her hair behind her bare shoulders. “They were in the dining room the last time I spied them. I think Zelda was trying to wheedle the recipe for the chocolate tarts from one of the caterers.”
“Sounds about right,” Richard said. “But what about the Quinn organization, Brad? Any more news on that?”
Shelved Under Murder Page 27
