Danielle shook her head. “Poor Max.”
Danielle stood at the library door, knocking. She could use her key, but she chose not to. After a few moments, the door opened, and she found herself looking into the disgruntled face of the man she knew as Jim Hill.
He wasn’t an attractive man, with a round face, bulbous nose, and black bushy eyebrows. His olive complexion and dark thinning hair made her think he was Hispanic or Italian, yet considering his surname, she didn’t think it came from his father’s side of the genes. She towered over him by at least three inches, which would make him about five feet two.
“I told you I do not like to be interrupted when I work!” he hissed.
“I’m sorry.” She smiled pleasantly. “But I believe I left my cellphone in here this morning.” Without another word, she pushed her way into the room and walked to where Walt had placed the phone.
“You also left your cat in here,” he told her when she picked her phone up off the bookshelf—a good distance from where it had been when Walt had snapped the picture. “I think it would be a good idea if you kept your cat out of this room while I’m here. I don’t need him knocking over my easels and ruining my work.”
Holding her phone, Danielle smiled at the artist. Behind him, Walt leaned casually against the sofa, puffing on a cigar. He winked at Danielle.
“Certainly. I’ll make sure Max stays out of here.” Danielle smiled sweetly.
Sadie greeted Danielle at the front door when she walked across the street to Ian and Lily’s house ten minutes later. Lily was at school, yet Danielle knew Ian was home, working.
“I emailed you the picture,” Danielle told Ian as she followed him inside, the golden retriever trailing behind them.
“I got it. It was a good shot. Let’s see if I can find anything.”
“I’m not sure how you’re going to use the picture to find this person you believe Hill really is.”
“There are some websites that use facial recognition to find photographs. I just need to upload this one and see if any matches come up.”
“That’s assuming our artist has any pictures of himself posted online.” Danielle followed Ian to the dining room, where he had his laptop set up on the table. He sat down in front of the computer while Danielle took a seat across from him, and Sadie curled up by his feet.
Danielle watched as Ian focused his attention on the computer’s monitor, his fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. “I seriously doubt you’ll find anything aside from the fact our artist’s name probably is Jim Hill.”
A moment later Ian shouted, “Macbeth Bandoni!”
Startled by his outburst, Sadie lifted her head and looked up at Ian.
“Who?” Danielle frowned.
“I knew it! He’s not Jim Hill. He’s Macbeth Bandoni,” Ian told them.
“Who is Macbeth Bandoni?”
Ian looked up at Danielle. “I think we need to go have a talk with the chief.”
Danielle and Ian sat with the police chief in his office, the door closed.
“So who is Macbeth Bandoni?” Chief MacDonald asked.
“A number of years ago I did a story on art fraud. It was about wealthy people who had lost millions by investing in art that turned out to be forgeries,” Ian explained. “Many of the victims would only talk to me off the record if I promised not to use their real names.”
“They were too embarrassed?” the chief asked.
Ian nodded. “Exactly. We’re talking very wealthy people who would rather lose a couple of million than look like fools. One of the forgers involved was an artist named Macbeth Bandoni. An extremely talented painter who specializes in recreating masterpieces. His name has also been linked to a number of missing masterpieces that some believe were smuggled out of Europe after first being hidden under other paintings. They were literally painted over.”
“And you’re saying this is the guy staying with Danielle?” the chief asked.
“I’m certain of it.”
The chief looked from Danielle to Ian. “If this guy is a forger and thief, why isn’t he in jail?”
“He’s been arrested numerous times, but they always dropped the charges for one reason or another,” Ian explained. “And it’s not illegal to reproduce masterpieces, it’s just illegal to pass one off as an original.”
“On one hand,” Danielle began, “I’d commend Clint for finding such a talented artist to reproduce Walt’s portraits—and it wouldn’t really bother me if he was this Macbeth fellow—but the fact that—”
“He’s using an alias,” the chief finished for her.
“Yes. That is troubling. Why would he do that?” Danielle asked.
Leaning back in the chair, Ian let out a sigh and said, “I suppose it’s possible he’s using an alias simply because he’d rather not have to explain his colorful background should anyone find out who he is. But my gut tells me something else. There’s a story here, I know it.”
“Any idea what it might be?” the chief asked.
“It has to be connected to those portraits,” Ian said.
“Walt told me he spent almost an hour inspecting the back sides of the original paintings and the frames. It seemed a strange thing for him to do,” Danielle said.
“I suppose it’s possible Walt’s portraits were painted over something more valuable,” the chief suggested.
“Hmm, that could be a possibility. I wonder if there is a masterpiece hidden under one of Walt’s portraits,” Ian murmured. “I’d like to take a closer look at those paintings again.”
“That’s going to be difficult. At least, during the day. Jim—or Macbeth, or whoever he is—insists on privacy while he paints, and he doesn’t want anyone in there,” Danielle told them.
“I’m assuming Walt’s not honoring his request?” the chief asked with a chuckle.
Danielle smiled. “No. Walt’s in the library when he is. Marie’s usually in there too when she’s not out with Eva.”
“Eva…that’s right…her portrait was painted by the same artist, wasn’t it?” Ian asked Danielle.
“Yeah, you know it was. So?” Danielle frowned.
“Who was the artist?” the chief asked.
Danielle shook her head. “I don’t know. The signature is illegible; I can’t make out the name. Walt might have told me, but I don’t remember.”
“If we knew something about this artist, then we might be able to figure out if he was ever associated with any art theft. That might explain why someone like Macbeth is using an alias and inspecting the backs of your portraits,” Ian said. “Can you ask Walt about the artist?”
“Sure. But I imagine he’s going to be in the library all day, watching this Macbeth guy. I can’t really go in there and get him. And I haven’t seen Marie, so I can’t get her to go in and ask Walt,” Danielle said.
“Until you talk to Walt, perhaps you might want to head down to the museum and get a closer look at Eva’s portrait. Maybe they know something about the original artist,” the chief suggested.
Nine
Ian went to the museum alone while Danielle returned to Marlow House. She intended to ask Walt about the artist who had painted his portraits. But first, she would have to wait for him to come out of the library.
When Ian arrived at the museum, he found Millie Samson on docent duty. The older woman greeted Ian and asked if there was any special reason for his visit.
“I’m thinking of doing a follow-up story on Eva Thorndike,” he lied. “I wanted to have another look at her portrait.”
“I just love that painting,” Millie told him as she followed Ian into the main section of the museum and to Eva’s display.
Now standing before the portrait, he looked up at it. “It’s not as large as the Marlow portraits.”
“No. We’d never get it up on that display if it were. But you know, it was painted by the same artist.”
“What’s the history on the portrait?” Ian asked. He already knew some of it, but he wa
nted to hear what Millie had to say.
“It was painted a few months before she died. I assume she was sick at the time, so I imagine the artist took liberties with the painting so she’d look healthy,” Millie suggested.
“It might explain why she looks so much like the Gibson Girl in that painting,” Ian mused.
“After Eva died and her parents sold their vacation home here, they donated the portrait to the local theater, where it was prominently displayed for years. The theater eventually closed down, and the portrait was given to the city. By that time, I don’t think there was anyone left from the Thorndike family who was interested in taking the painting back. As you know, Eva was an only child.”
“And then it was given to the museum?” Ian asked.
“After it sat boxed up in storage for years. It was one of the first items the city turned over to the museum after we opened.”
“So what do you know about the artist?” Ian stepped closer to the painting and inspected the artist’s signature. It was no more than an illegible scribble.
Millie shrugged. “According to Ben Smith—at least the story his father told him—the artist was a young man who worked with the local theater group, painting settings and doing odd jobs. He wasn’t from Frederickport. He needed money, and Eva got her parents to hire him to paint her portrait. I imagine they were pleasantly surprised at how well it turned out.”
“Indeed. Any chance you know the artist’s name?”
“No. And I know Ben doesn’t either. When we were setting up the display, we wanted to include something about the artist, but we couldn’t find anything on who he was. Not even a first name. I do know he left the area after he finished Eva’s portrait.”
“He obviously came back to paint the Marlow portraits,” Ian said.
“Yes, but I don’t really know the story on that. Neither does anyone in the Historical Society. We discussed it at a board meeting once, when trying to find out something about the artist. If the newspaper ever wrote an article on it, it was in one of the newspapers lost in the fire. Unfortunately, everyone is gone now. There’s no one left to ask.”
Joanne walked into the parlor and found Clint Marlow opening one of the drawers of the parlor desk.
“Can I help you find something?” she asked curtly.
Clint shut the drawer and glanced up at the middle-aged woman. The way she clutched the wooden handle of the duster might make a person wonder if she was preparing to smack someone.
“I was just looking at this furniture. Was it here when Danielle inherited the house?”
“Yes. Most of it was.” Joanne began running the duster over the furniture.
Folding his arms across his chest, Clint leisurely circled the room, studying the décor and woodwork. “I have to say, I’m a little surprised Danielle decided to stay. If it were me, I would have sold this relic. I certainly wouldn’t turn it into a bed and breakfast and let strangers into my home. Not if I had the money she has. In fact, I would have torn it down and had something new built. I bet that would bring in a good profit.”
Joanne stopped dusting and turned to Clint. “Then I’m glad Danielle inherited Marlow House and not you!”
Clint studied Joanne a moment. “Are you always so free with your opinions with the guests? I don’t imagine Danielle would appreciate it. It could get you fired.”
Narrowing her eyes, Joanne glared at Clint. “Go ahead and tell Danielle what I said. I don’t care.”
“I think I will.”
Before Joanne could respond, Danielle walked into the parlor.
“Hello, Clint.” Danielle then turned to Joanne and asked, “Have you seen Max? He ran out the pet door earlier today, and I haven’t seen him since.”
“I saw him going up the attic stairs about half an hour ago,” Joanne told her.
“Joanne, I would like to speak to your employer alone. Would you please leave us?” Clint said curtly.
Flashing Clint a look of disgust, Joanne stormed from the parlor.
“Is there a problem?” Danielle asked.
“I just thought you should be aware of your housekeeper’s poor attitude.”
Danielle frowned. “Joanne?”
“Yes. She was quite rude to me. I don’t think that’s good business practice. I thought you should be aware of it. If it were me, I’d let her go and find someone more suited for working with the public. Having someone like that around is going to ruin your business.”
“There you are, Max,” Danielle said when she found him napping in the attic. The cat lifted his head sleepily and looked at her, his black tail swishing from side to side. He yawned. Leaning over, Danielle scooped up the cat and then sat down on the sofa bed, situating Max on her lap. He began to purr.
“Did mean ol’ Walt throw you in the trash can?” Danielle stroked his back. Max closed his eyes and settled down comfortably on Danielle. “You’re such a good kitty.”
“I don’t like that man,” Joanne said from the open doorway.
Danielle glanced up at Joanne and smiled. “So what happened down there?”
“What did he say happened?” Joanne walked into the attic, no longer carrying the duster.
“Just that you were rude and I should fire you. I’m sorry, Joanne, the guy is kind of a jerk. I bet if you were rude, he asked for it.”
Joanne took a seat on a folding chair facing Danielle. She recounted her conversation with Clint.
Danielle shook her head. “What a tattletale he is. That’s why he thought I should fire you? Gosh, I’m going to be glad when these two weeks are over.”
“I just wanted to tell you myself what happened.” Joanne stood up.
Danielle smiled at Joanne. “Considering how he treated Lily, I can’t think of anything you could say to him that would upset me.”
Not long after Joanne left Danielle and Max in the attic, Walt showed up.
“He’s taking a break,” Walt announced when he appeared. “I am happy to report he hasn’t gotten paint on anything—aside from his canvas.”
Max looked up at Walt and made a gurgling growling sound.
Startled by the strange noise, Danielle glanced down at the cat on her lap. “Max is not happy with you.”
“No. I understand that.” Walt looked at the cat; their eyes met. “I’m sorry, Max. But when that flash went off, I knew I had to do something fast to distract him.”
Max stopped growling. He continued to look at Walt.
“I understand, Max. Yes…yes…okay…I promise.”
“What did you promise him?” Danielle asked.
Max closed his eyes and settled back down to sleep.
Waving his hand for a lit cigar, Walt smiled down at Danielle. “He doesn’t appreciate it when I…well, pick him up when he doesn’t expect it. I need to stop doing that.”
“Yes, you do.”
Walt shrugged and took a puff off his cigar.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
Walt arched his brow. “You are?”
“Yes. It turns out Ian was right. Our artist is not Jim Hill.”
Walt frowned. “Who is he?” Walt took a seat on the sofa next to Danielle and Max.
Danielle glanced at the open doorway. It closed, with a little spiritual help from Walt. “Where is our artist? Is he in his room?”
Walt shook his head. “No. He left with Clint and Stephanie. I don’t know where they went.”
“Well, good.” Turning to Walt, Danielle told him about her morning with Ian. When she was finished, she asked, “So what do you know about the artist who painted your portraits?”
Walt shrugged. “Nothing, really. I didn’t get that friendly with him. I don’t even remember his name. He had a French accent, I remember that—only because Angela found it very charming.”
“He’s the same artist that painted Eva’s portrait.”
“I remember when Eva had her portrait done. I ran into the artist once when I went over there, but I don’t think we exchanged two
words at the time. From what I remember, he moved from the area before Eva passed away, and he didn’t come back to Frederickport until about a week before Angela commissioned him to do our portraits.”
“How did Angela happen to hire him?”
“She was at the theater with friends, and he was there. Someone introduced them and mentioned he was the artist who’d painted Eva’s portrait. I suspect Angela hired him because she was always a little jealous of Eva.”
“Poor Eva was dead.”
“True. But it was common knowledge back then that Eva had been my first love.”
“Oh, Walt, you’re talking about me,” Eva gushed when she appeared the next moment—Marie by her side and a flurry of glitter hailing their entrance.
“Eva, hello,” Danielle greeted her cheerfully. She looked at Marie and asked, “What have you two been up to?” From Danielle’s lap, Max looked up at the new arrivals. He yawned lazily and then put his head back down, closing his eyes.
“We’ve been out and about. I told Eva about Walt’s cousin, and she’s dying to see him,” Marie explained.
“I would be dying to see him if I weren’t already dead.” Eva smiled over at Walt and asked, “So why were you talking about me?”
“I’ve been asking Walt about the artist who painted your portrait,” Danielle answered for Walt.
“Johnny?” Eva asked.
“His name was Johnny?” Danielle asked.
Eva considered the question a moment and then smiled. “Actually, his name was Jacque. He was French. For some reason everyone called him Johnny.” Eva shrugged. “As I recall, I think it was because Johnny sounded more American. He wanted to fit in.”
“Do you remember his last name?” Danielle asked.
Eva shook her head. “No. Why do you ask?”
“It’s kind of a long story. By any chance, when Johnny painted your portraits, did he happen to paint over a used canvas?”
“Used canvas?” Walt frowned.
“Yes. Sometimes artists reuse canvases. Maybe it already had a coat of paint on it when he started painting?”
The Ghost and the Doppelganger Page 6
