“Her knowledge is unparalleled, Henry,” Blake added. “Of course, I only know her by reputation, but from what I hear, nothing gets past her.”
I slowly peered at Blake. His eyes were firmly on Henry Huntslee, at least until they faltered to meet mine.
“That is high praise coming from Blake Traverz, Charlotte,” said Mr. Huntslee. “Now then, please, tell our guests just how much this beauty is worth. I wasn’t going to say, mind you, but since you already brought it up… Go ahead, don’t be shy!”
“Easily between fifteen and twenty million dollars—” The crowd erupted with gasps, applause, and a plethora of jealous eyes. “—if this had been authentic,” I said, completing my sentence.
“What?” shouted Mr. Huntslee.
“I’m sorry, but this is an authentic Vireslanz,” said Blair, her tone oozing venom.
“No, no it isn’t, which is what I was about to tell Mr. Krane. The lines are wrong,” I replied.
Blair crossed her arms defensively. “The lines are wrong? I don’t think artists make their lines perfect on every piece.”
“Not perfect, no, but many have very distinctive patterns. Vireslanz was very well known for his real versus surreal dynamic. As such, he would always pattern the lines to reflect each other, with the warped, angry side depicting the clean lines of the perfect side as angular waves almost. Look here,” I said, pointing to the lines on the sad, angry side of the face, running my fingers along each one. “The lines are identical to the joyful side of the face, and they shouldn’t be. They should be jagged, edgy, like an angry sea. Likewise with the flower. See?”
Blair’s face turned bright red.
“The next test would be the maker’s mark,” I added.
“Allow me,” said Blake, stepping forward to lift the sculpture. “There we go.”
Studying the mark and feeling its texture, I said, “And that’s not his mark. It’s an excellent copy, only it’s done in the wrong shade and it’s stamped, not etched. Also, Vireslanz always added a small, easily missed slash through his ‘s’, something that was wrongly categorized as an error. This one doesn’t have the slash. The other tell-tale sign—he always put his mark a little off center and to the left. This one is off center, but to the right. You can put it down, Mr. Traverz, thank you.”
With the crowd stunned to silence, Ivy, clearly entertained, let rip a monstrous, witch-like cackle.
“Maybe he was having an off day. Maybe he decided to change things up. With so few of his sculptures ever found, you can’t easily discount other variables,” offered Blair, not wanting to accept her failure.
“Though not sculptures, enough of his other works have been uncovered to form a precedent. In the sculptures that have been found, all the characteristics and markings remain the same,” I said firmly. “This is an exceptional copy, however, with genuine materials as well. It was clearly created to be the poor man’s Vireslanz.”
“Except we’re not poor,” said Blair through gritted teeth.
Mr. Huntslee exhaled loudly. “And I’m fairly certain we proved as much when purchasing this copy, although at the time I thought we were getting a deal. Blair, I thought you told me our friends were sending the real thing.”
“That’s what I understood the translator to say,” Blair squeaked.
“First mistake,” said Blake. “Always have your own translator conduct the communications, not you.”
“Aside from my disappointment and humiliation,” said Mr. Huntslee, sending a disapproving glare in his daughter’s direction, “I am terribly impressed with you, Charlotte, and, of course, I’ll be sure to have a conversation with my friends in Rome personally and get to the bottom of this error. But if ever you need a job, I’m quite sure I can find you one at the museum.”
“I’m flattered,” I said. “I am sorry to have spoiled your day, Mrs. Huntslee.”
“Don’t be. Better to know,” said June Huntslee somberly, not meeting my eyes.
I quickly rejoined Colt, who was holding a fresh glass of champagne for me.
“Well, congratulations,” said Colt.
“On what?”
“Simultaneously proving your worth and becoming the prime target for one Blair Huntslee,” Colt replied.
I glanced at Blair. Her eyes were shooting poisonous darts through my skull. Worse still, she did so with a scary smile.
So…not exactly the coming out party Blake had in mind.
*****
When I showed up for training, I fully expected Blake to give me his weary brow and oddly sexy grimace. I couldn’t imagine he’d be pleased with how my little coming out party turned into me becoming a bull’s-eye for Blair. Instead, he greeted me with a glowing grin.
“Well, that could not have gone any better if I had orchestrated it myself,” he said.
“Wait. You’re happy with how it all went down?”
“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be? Everyone now knows you, you established your credibility in a matter of minutes, and Mr. Huntslee is so impressed that he’ll be spreading your name through society faster than a wildfire. Yeah, I’d say it was pretty ideal.”
“Except I’m a target for Blair. There’s no greater threat than a rich, jealous woman. Hell, she’s probably going to send private investigators to tail me—”
“Aw, well, yeah, of course she will. She’s done that to me. That’s why we have Greg. He’s great at thwarting, as is Ivy, in her own inimitable way.”
“Yeah, I don’t want to know,” I grimaced. “Greg and Ivy aside, Blair will try and dig up a whole lot of nothing on Charlotte Canteberry.”
“Actually, I think they’ll dig up closer to everything…everything she’ll need to hate Charlotte even more. You have a background, a history, family, curriculum vitae, degrees, addresses, both here in New York City and in Maine. Charlotte is real.”
“Except, if she has me followed, she’ll eventually find out I live above a bakery in Brooklyn.”
Blake slyly smiled. “Her people will never get close enough, Maggie. That I promise you.”
“How do you know so much?”
“I just do.”
“Guess Charlotte’s really here to play.”
“Damn right she is.” After a brief pause, Blake’s smile straightened into a tightened jaw. He crossed his muscular arms and cracked his neck. “Based on what I saw, it seems Charlotte already has some eager playmates.”
“You mean Colt Krane.” I worked very hard not to smile teasingly.
“He stayed pretty close.”
“We hit it off pretty well.”
“I noticed.”
“Colt and I didn’t exchange numbers or make a date, if that’s what you’re aiming at.”
A sudden look of relief softened his expression. “Look, I don’t want to tell you what to do with your personal life, but it gets dangerous when you get involved with someone while acting as someone else.”
Well, well, well. Was Blake trying to discourage me from dating anyone at all? Could he be a little jealous? “Wow. Can we say hypocrite? You’re Blake Traverz, the man who moonlights as the Manx, and you’ve been in many relationships, including Blair. Ivy leads a double life. Why can’t I, as Charlotte?”
He tightened his jaw. “Didn’t say you couldn’t. I’m just suggesting you give yourself a little time to adjust to this way of life, learn to balance before becoming involved with anyone.”
“Thought that’s what the balance beam training was all about,” I said, putting my hands on my hips.
“Smartass.”
“Always.”
“Look, it was just something for you to consider. I certainly didn’t…it wasn’t…I didn’t mean to—”
“Fumble over your words?” I teased.
“I’m confident I have no idea what you mean.” I laughed and shook my head. “Now, are you ready to get busy?”
God, yes. “Sure. What do you have in store for me tonight?”
“Oh, let’s just say you’r
e going to be on your back…a lot.”
“I have no qualms about being on my back…if you can get me there,” I said, cracking my knuckles.
Blake, one corner of his mouth turning up, said in a low voice, “Oh, I’ll get you there, Miss Harred. One way or another.”
Chapter Eight
In less than two week’s time, I had attended so many charity functions, lady luncheons, gallery exhibits, political fundraisers, and cocktail parties that I was certain I’d sprained my cheek muscles from all the smiling. Charlotte Canteberry was now fully integrated into New York City’s upper crust. With the leaves falling and Halloween merely weeks away, I needed a damn vacation from the superficial, preferably in the form of a break in finding my parents’ killer. Since that hadn’t happened, I figured my next best option involved liquor…and a plan.
Hauling bags of beer and whiskey into the hub, I wandered to my desk, plopped down next to Greg, and groaned. “Well, I know why they call it ‘high society.’”
“Why’s that?”
“Because those people must be high all the freaking time just to survive it. It’s just such a black hole of ‘mine’s bigger than yours’, fake smiles, and underhanded comments. And then there’s the plastic surgery. You have no idea how freaky it is to talk to someone who can’t show expression. It’s like they’re robots, only way less cool. The whole thing is really exhausting.”
“Sounds like Maggie needs a drink,” said Greg with a wink.
“Maggie definitely does.” I popped open a beer and took a swig. “Want some?”
Greg eyed the whiskey. “I-I shouldn’t.”
Grabbing the whiskey bottle, I leaned forward and held it in front of Greg. “Who’s gonna know?”
“Blake and Ivy could, if they review the tapes of hub activity from tonight.”
“Aww, and you mean to tell me you can’t stop them?” I asked, waving the bottle a bit.
Greg smirked, typed something into the computer for a few minutes, and hit a button before turning to me and snatching the bottle from my hand. “Done. Even made sure the footage of you coming in with the liquor is gone.”
“No trace of anything, then?”
“None. I can edit and clean things up later on. They’ll never know.” He opened the bottle and downed way too much all at once. Coughing and perhaps even gagging, he sputtered, “So…this is living.”
“Whoa, there, cowboy. This isn’t a contest. You don’t want to puke your internal organs up—I’ve been there…it’s not fun. Pace yourself.”
“Whatever you say.” He took a smaller, albeit decent size gulp.
“How long have you been working for Blake?”
“Since I was sixteen, so about twelve years now,” said Greg.
“So, you must’ve known Chester Traverz, Blake’s father…the original Manx.”
“Never met him, funnily enough. I only ever dealt with Blake. I don’t know what was going on with Chester Traverz, but something was off there, especially in those latter years, before his death. I could tell just through Blake’s words and actions.”
“Off in what way?”
Before answering, Greg hiccupped. The alcohol was working.
“Not sure I can define it. Blake was taking on far more of the Manx operations than usual, even saving our asses a couple of times when his father dropped the ball. I asked Blake about it once. He said his dad was preoccupied with personal matters.”
“Did Blake ever say what those personal matters were?”
“Nope, but he may not have known. They were close for the most part, but even Blake didn’t know about his father’s illness.”
“It must have been a difficult time for Blake and his mom,” I said.
“For Blake, yeah. No one ever saw Mrs. Traverz, and Blake doesn’t talk about her, but I hear she didn’t handle things too well. Hey, did Blake tell you how I got this job?”
He was slurring his words. Almost time…
“No, he didn’t.”
“I actually got it by hacking into Traverz Enterprises.”
“You’re kidding.”
Greg shook his head, laughing. “Nope. The dad of a friend of mine was one of Traverz’s biggest competitors. A few days before some huge merger, the dad had me hack into Traverz’s database to get the details. Paid me ten grand to do it. I was fourteen.”
“Fourteen. Jesus, that’s young.”
Shrugging, Greg said, “It’s pretty average for computer nerds. I guess Traverz watched me for a while after that. When the hacker they had on staff died, Blake brought me in. And the rest—”
“Is history,” I supplied.
“Pretty much.”
“You never wanted to go to college?” I asked.
“No point in college, not for a career hacker.”
“How’d your family feel about you skipping college?”
Greg smiled at the bottle of whiskey and then dropped his head. “They didn’t care. I wasn’t the all-star football player, like my brother. My dad rode my brother’s cleats all the way to the best conference in college football. To him, I was invisible, worthless. And my mom, well, she was too busy with my beauty queen sister to notice me. She didn’t even remember my birthday.”
“Oh, Greg, I’m so sorry.” As he continued, I opened another beer and carefully slipped half of a sleeping pill inside.
“The day before I left for New York, my dad told me I wouldn’t last two months. Mom said she’d make sure to wake up and tell me goodbye…she didn’t. Nobody did, not even my siblings. I guess you could say the people who work for the Manx are lonely, lost souls, just trying to piece together some semblance of a family.”
Oh, God. I certainly didn’t expect the guilt to chill my body until later, like when I had to face my disgusting self in the bathroom mirror. Instead, guilt practically strangled me from the inside. But I couldn’t stop, not now…and yet I couldn’t betray him, not after everything he’d been through in his life. We were so similar in the heartbreak we felt—how could I add to that?
“Hey, you know, um, we should probably get some work done, just so we can say we did something,” I suggested, starting to set the spiked beer under my desk.
Greg swiped the beer from my hand and downed most of it before I knew what had happened. So, he did the dirty work for me. Great. I had no choice now. Even though my guilt consumed me, I knew I had to move forward with the next step.
“I found this necklace, thought to be from Russian royalty. I thought someone from the Shade file might be interested.” I handed him the print out of the necklace.
Trying to focus his eyes, Greg said, “Yeah, that’s probably from…from…where was I going with this?”
“You were just going to log into the Shade file.” I was complete scum.
“Right. Because then I can see if there’s anybody who might want this,” he said, crumpling the paper in his hands. “Oops.” His head was bobbing, his eyes closing.
Come on, come on. Just get into that file, Greg, please! I knew getting Greg drunk was the key to gaining access to the Shade file. Spiking his drink with a sleeping pill, however, was the only way I’d have the opportunity to surf the Shade file without him knowing. And, yes, I felt absolutely terrible, despite trying to back out.
After a few more heart-pounding moments, wondering whether he was going to pass out before signing in, I saw the Shade file pop open on his screen.
Greg started to face me, but he could barely turn his head. “There. In. I’ll just…” He slumped over, eyes closed.
“I’m so sorry, Greg. One day, I will make it up to you. I promise.”
Quite unexpectedly, he grabbed my wrist and gazed up at me with bleary eyes. “Thank you, Maggie.”
“For what?” My heart was in my throat.
“For making me feel…like I belonged somewhere.” A few minutes later, his hand dropped and he was out cold.
“I’m a terrible, rotten, no-good person, and I’m going to hell.”
&nbs
p; Yet even a one-way ticket to hell couldn’t stop me from rolling my chair into his, nudging it aside, and diving into the Shade file. Greg wouldn’t be out for too long and training with Blake would be fast upon me. Damn. Must get moving.
On the first page alone, I recognized a few of the uncovered names.
“Wow. Ooh, I would never have guessed he’d be involved in a scheme like this! Isn’t winning every award under the sun enough for him? Ugh, focus, Maggie. You have a few hours to do the impossible and find the man responsible for your parents’ deaths.” Yeah, like that would be easy. I had to be on the brink of insanity to think this was going to work.
Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and allowed my mind to drift back to that night so many years ago—something I rarely allowed myself to revisit. I didn’t have to work hard to find the killer’s image in my memory; he forever carved his face into the core of my mind: he was a balding, beefy man hovering over my father’s lifeless body, laughing. On the side of his neck was a menacing tattoo of a talon, like that of a large bird or dinosaur; it terrified me as a child. Opening my eyes once more, I typed ‘talon tattoo’ into the search bar; it was the only defining characteristic I could recall. Surprisingly, about ten pages full of faces popped up.
For the next couple of hours, I scrolled through the many faces, my eyes desperately soaking in each one. Every now and then, my heart fluttered, thinking I had found the bastard. I hadn’t, of course. Time was running out, Greg was groaning, and I was nearing my wit’s end. For a second, I considered search terms like ‘beefy bastard’ or ‘ugly murdering asshole’—not likely to return the face I was looking for, but just typing them would make me feel better.
Second to last page—hope faded fast…guilt over drugging Greg for absolutely nothing mounted even faster, and then…I saw him, smiling at me from the computer screen. Only, it wasn’t the face I expected to find.
“Daddy?” I whispered, touching the screen. My stomach churned harder than an angry sea. My father...in the Manx’s Shade file? No, no! Hesitantly, I clicked on his picture.
Name: Fredrick Joseph McKennla –DECEASED—
Watercolor Hearts (Watercolor Love Book 1) Page 11
