The Lover's Portrait

by Jennifer S. Alderson

  Was Karen’s arrival on the scene a godsend for him, providing him with the last few clues to the artworks’ whereabouts? Or was her claim a fake and they were working together to steal the whole lot from the rightful owners? Whatever the truth may be, if Irises did hold the key to finding a cache of missing masterpieces, Zelda realized grimly, Huub would have found it this morning.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “What are they doing here?” Zelda demanded, as she took a seat at the head of the Amsterdam Museum’s conference table. Bernice Dijkstra and Huub Konijn were seated on her left, Karen O’Neil and her legal counsel on her right.

  “When you called up and said you had new information that affected Karen O’Neil’s claim, I thought it prudent to invite them in to see the evidence,” Bernice replied evenly, glancing at the New Yorker and her lawyer as she spoke.

  As always, a recording device was set up in the middle of the conference table, the Omni-microphone picking up all that was said. No one was here to transcribe the meeting, she noted, but both Bernice and Huub did have their notepads open. Per request, a push trolley containing a small television and DVD-player had also been placed next to the table close to her chair.

  Zelda drew in a deep breath and told herself to relax. When she’d called Bernice this morning and demanded a meeting, she’d wanted to blurt out everything she’d learned right then and there on the telephone. But she held her tongue, knowing the video she and Friedrich shot would be far more convincing than anything she could say. She’d told the project manager she had proof Karen O’Neil was lying about her family history, but not mentioned the New Yorker’s possible connection to the curator. She definitely didn’t know how she was going to broach that subject.

  After taking the DVD out of her bag, Zelda briefly made eye contact with the project manager and curator. Bernice appeared tired and irritated; Huub scowled in her direction, as usual. It was now or never. Karen or not, she had to present her case in full and unmask this imposter. Rita deserved it and Zelda’s pride demanded it.

  Apparently annoyed by her stalling, Bernice snapped, “What exactly have you found out that is so important to warrant this ‘emergency meeting’, as you called it? Huub and I have other, more significant problems to attend to this morning, so be brief.”

  More serious than a false claim and lying claimant? Zelda wanted to ask. She was astounded by Bernice’s attitude, expecting her to be the most receptive. Pushing her confusion aside, she focused on stifling the excitement growing inside of her. Now was the time to be calm and collected, she told herself, not overly dramatic.

  “I have discovered something you need to be aware of before proceeding with Karen O’Neil’s claim.” She tried to choose her words carefully and keep her voice neutral. Gloating was not yet on the order.

  “Yes, yes. We know that, otherwise we would not be here.” Bernice replied impatiently.

  “I have definitive proof that Ms. O’Neil is not the legitimate granddaughter of Arjan van Heemsvliet,” she blurted out. And Huub knew it all along, she wanted to add but didn’t dare. Zelda stared at the rich widow across from her, waiting for her to deny it.

  Karen laughed heartily. “Well, I never! What will she think of next? My lawyer and his team are working to obtain an official copy of my mother’s birth certificate, as we speak. Once it has been located, a notarized copy will be mailed directly to Leo de Boer, who is currently reviewing my claim,” she said, her tone triumphant.

  Bernice’s eyebrows shot up, evidently unaware the museum’s director was still considering recommending her claim be approved, instead of letting the standard process run its course.

  Karen smiled in satisfaction before turning back to Zelda. “What, pray tell, is your evidence to the contrary?”

  “Bernice, you have to tell Leo, I mean the director, that the birth certificate will be fake,” she stated matter-of-factly, ignoring the New Yorker as she spoke. “You can’t assume any documents Ms. O’Neil or her lawyer provides the museum with are genuine.”

  “How dare you!” Karen was on her feet, screaming at Zelda. “Do you even know who I am? I have put up with your impertinent –”

  “Stop!” Bernice held her hands up, shaking her head in disbelief. “Zelda, what are you talking about? These are enormous accusations; I hope you have strong evidence to back them up.”

  She nodded gravely. “I do,” she said, patting the DVD before her.

  “Then you’d better show it to us.”

  Her hands were shaking so badly she had trouble getting the disc into the player. At first, a blur of green filled the television screen and only a soft whirling noise was audible. As the quadrocopter slowly rose into position, the camera began focusing automatically on a brick façade broken up by several large windows. The image stopped before an open window. As the focus fine-tuned itself, a seated man and standing woman became visible inside the room.

  Here it comes, Zelda thought, smiling as she turned the volume up a bit more. Karen’s whiny voice boomed through the speakers. “I just want this claim wrapped up, as soon as possible!”

  The New Yorker’s smug grin disappeared as she watched herself pacing around the television screen. “How did you – wait a second – that’s my hotel room! That idiot with the helicopter, he was working with you? You were filming me?”

  “Invasion of privacy!” her lawyer yelled, his eyes glued to the screen. “How dare you film a private conversation, one taking place inside Ms. O’Neil’s hotel room? Nothing you filmed is admissible in court and this recording –” Konrad leapt out of his chair, strode over to the DVD-player and popped the disc out, “– is your ticket to jail, Zelda Richardson. Bernice, I demand you call the police at once. I want this intern arrested immediately.”

  Zelda couldn’t believe how badly this was going. Why couldn’t the project manager have met with her one-on-one before getting Karen and her lawyer involved? Thanks to that German prick and his legalese, neither Bernice nor Huub had gotten a chance to hear the damn video. All of her work was for nothing.

  Bernice waved Konrad Heider back to his chair. “We don’t need to call the police, they are next door,” she said, shaking her head instead of elaborating. “Zelda, what have you done? What were you thinking, filming them like that?”

  “Bernice, don’t listen to this man. They are hiding something from you, from all of us. You need to see the whole recording; I have another copy here in my backpack….”

  “No, I don’t want to see it. You shouldn’t have made it in the first place.”

  “Bernice, Karen all but admits she’s not Arjan’s real granddaughter!” Zelda whipped around to face the New Yorker. “With lots of money you can buy anything – including fake documents. Right, Karen? Isn’t that what your lawyer told you?”

  “That is Ms. O’Neil to you,” Konrad Heider snarled. “You are taking a private conversation out of context. You have absolutely no right to – ”

  “Why isn’t Gerard going to be a problem for much longer?” Zelda talked over him.

  “This is ridiculous,” he shouted.

  “Then tell us why,” she leaned back, crossing her arms across her chest.

  Karen’s lawyer spit his words out. “Because we expect to locate Karen’s mother’s birth certificate quickly, thereby rendering any potential claim he might submit moot.” He stared defiantly at Zelda before turning to the project manager and curator, “Neither I nor Ms. O’Neil has to explain a private conversation to you or your intern, one she should never have been privy to in the first place. Is this how your museum normally conducts its research, by harassing claimants and spying on them?”

  “Of course not,” Huub replied angrily. “Zelda’s deplorable actions were in no way sanctioned by me, Bernice or anyone else associated with our museums.”

  “Bernice, they are a couple! I caught them kissing on camera! If only you would watch the DVD,” Zelda pleaded.

  The project manager opened her mouth to speak but it was the cur
ator who responded first. “They are consenting adults; there is no law against a client and their legal representative having a personal relationship. Your stunt with the plane seems to have proved nothing, but has gotten you into quite a bit of legal trouble,” Huub smiled as he spoke.

  His haughty attitude was too much for Zelda to take. “And you’ve been kissing Ms. O’Neil’s ass since she walked in the door,” she fired back.

  “Excuse me?” Karen raised her eyebrows and voice in protest, but Zelda ploughed on.

  “You never had a moment’s doubt she was the rightful owner. How did she find out about Rita’s claim on Irises so quickly, anyway? You told Ms. O’Neil about it, didn’t you? You’ve been working together the whole time, haven’t you?”

  “I told you already that my private investigators – ”

  “Are you actually accusing me of helping Ms. O’Neil falsify her claim? Why would I do that?” Huub talked over Karen, staring at Zelda like she was insane. “I met her for the first time one week ago, at the same meeting you were present at, right here in this conference room. I believe Ms. O’Neil because her version of events makes more sense, and has been consistently confirmed by legal documentation, whereas Rita Brouwer’s claim relies heavily on photographs and second-hand information. She was a young girl when her father died, far too young to truly be aware of what was happening around her. I want the painting to be returned to the rightful owner, no matter what I think of them personally. This is about justice, not righting moral wrongs.”

  Bernice shook her head sadly, “Zelda, you really went too far.”

  Somehow the project manager’s deep disappointment hurt more than Huub’s heated accusations. A wave of shame rolled over her. In her rush to try and find out what Karen was hiding, she had crossed a line, of that she was now sure. “Bernice, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spied on Karen O’Neil. But I had to try and find out what was really going on, before it was too late, for Rita’s sake.”

  “Rita Brouwer again,” Huub roared. “Why are you so obsessed with her claim?”

  “Because Irises was, and is, hers. And I can’t believe you, of all people, would give a painting to someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

  “Me, of all people?” he repeated, genuinely puzzled.

  “Because of your family and…” Zelda’s voice trailed off.

  Huub’s face went white. “What happened to my family has made me realize how important it is to give stolen goods back to their legitimate owner, not the first person who claims them,” he said quietly.

  “But Mr. Konijn –”

  He held up his hand to silence her. “No. Listen, really listen, to what I have to say, Zelda. Rita Brouwer’s claim is based on a few photographs, the memories of a young child and second-hand conversations repeated to her years later. The fact is her father sold his collection to a respectable art dealer for a large sum of money. Why he chose to do so, we may never know. As painful as that is for Mrs. Brouwer to come to terms with – and you for some reason – that is what the paperwork submitted by Karen O’Neil is telling us.”

  The curator continued before she could interrupt. “Why did Mrs. Brouwer wait so long to claim the painting; perhaps you should ask yourself that. What if she did know her father had sold it? If that is the case, then she and her sisters must have figured that after all this time Arjan van Heemsvliet’s heirs wouldn’t care about Irises anymore. They probably thought they could waltz off with it and no one would be the wiser. Had you even considered that possibility?” he asked.

  Zelda could only slither down in her chair.

  “This is exactly why I did not want you meddling with these claims. In order to be a professional researcher, you need to gather as much information as possible then take an objective look at all the facts before determining who the rightful owner is. It is quite obvious you bonded with Rita Brouwer immediately and have been relentless in your defense of her claim, in spite of the documents presented to this museum. In my opinion, your subjectivity has only muddled this investigation and caused unnecessary set-backs. You never should have been allowed to do any research for us, even if you are Marianne Smit’s prize pupil.” He shot Bernice an evil look.

  Zelda wished she could disappear under the table, but Huub pressed on. “Unlike you, I refuse to be swayed by my emotions. The official documents provided with these claims will be used to decide who the rightful owner is, and not an illegally obtained video or whatever other evidence you say you have,” he said decisively. “And Leo de Boer agrees with me. Once Ms. O’Neil’s legal team have located her mother’s birth certificate, her claim will be strong enough that Leo sees no need for our researchers to waste their time on it.”

  Bernice’s whole body caved in. Zelda couldn’t believe Huub hadn’t told her he was still pushing the museum’s director to approve Karen’s claim.

  “Tell me Zelda, are your actions really only driven by your emotions? Or perhaps by a misguided loyalty to your employer?” he asked.

  Zelda felt her cheeks flame up. “How did you know,” she whispered.

  The curator chuckled. “She is paying you to search for the rest of her father’s paintings, is she not? She emailed Bernice and me this weekend, asking us to grant you full access to the museum’s archives on her behalf. And you accepted the job, knowing her father had sold his collection to Arjan van Heemsvliet days before he died?”

  She tried to turn her face to stone for fear she’d otherwise burst into tears. This couldn’t be happening! Huub was doing his best to turn her into the bad guy.

  “Who’s lying to whom, Zelda?” he pushed.

  His smug expression made her blood boil. She wouldn’t go down without a fight; she couldn’t just let him win. “Until the claim is settled, it’s unclear who owns Philip Verbeet’s collection,” she rebutted.

  “You refuse to be objective,” Huub glared again at Bernice, as if to say ‘I told you so’. “What were you doing in the restoration department yesterday, anyway? Jasper de Vries said you were very interested in the tests he’d run on Irises. Were you there on Rita Brouwer’s behalf?”

  Zelda’s brow creased. What did her visit to the restoration department have to do with anything? “I was curious if Jasper, I mean Mr. De Vries, had ever examined the painting.”

  “Pardon, what tests are you talking about? No one told us you were running tests on Irises. We should have been informed immediately so we could have been present.” Karen’s lawyer, content to let the curator denigrate Zelda for the last few minutes, pushed his way back into the conversation.

  Huub ignored the man, keeping his eyes locked on Zelda’s. “And where were you last night?”

  “Home, alone.”

  “Convenient.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Someone attempted to break into the restoration department last night. Two guards are in critical condition. That is why there are police in the building across the street. Who is this friend of yours, the man who filmed Ms. O’Neil in her hotel room? Did Rita Brouwer hire you two to steal Irises? Is that what she is really paying you to do? She must know by now her claim doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “What? No, Friedrich wouldn’t hurt a fly! Rita would never pay someone to steal her painting, I’m sure of it. None of us had anything to do with any break-in.”

  “Was anything stolen?” the lawyer asked anxiously.

  “No, the thieves set off the silent alarm as soon as they entered the building. If a patrol car hadn’t been parked a block away, I don’t know what would have happened. They fled when they heard the police sirens approaching, but shot two guards while escaping. They tried to force open the door to the restoration department’s workshops with crowbars and a welding torch,” Huub explained calmly, watching Zelda’s reaction like a hawk. “Because of the summer vacation, Irises is the only painting being stored there at the moment.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  “Damn it Pietro, answer your fucking phone!” Zelda yelled into her own mobile
, tears streaming down her face. An approaching group of Asian tourists eyed her warily as they stepped off the sidewalk and out into the bicycle path, giving her a wide berth.

  Zelda had never felt like such a failure in her whole life. Her dreams of studying in Amsterdam and ever working for a museum were as good as over. And her supposed boyfriend wasn’t answering his phone even though he knew today was a big day for her. She hung her head over the bridge’s railing, gazing down into the brown-green water of the Prinsengracht, briefly wondering if she shouldn’t just leap over the side and end it all. Moments later, a party boat passed under her feet, one of the many vessels attracted to Amsterdam’s picturesque waterways on this warm August afternoon. A bunch of twenty-something’s wearing orange boas and white fedoras cheered as their boat cruised back into the sunlight. If she jumped, she’d probably only end up breaking her leg on a boat’s deck or contract some weird disease from the junk-filled canals, but surely nothing fatal. What was the point in that?

  She plodded on, meandering aimlessly along the narrow streets and bridges connecting the inner city, wondering how today could have gone so very wrong. Her intentions were good and noble. She knew she should call her mentor Marianne and explain her actions before Huub did. But she’d been so emotionally wrung out by his dressing down that she began to wonder if he wasn’t right. Maybe she should be banned from ever working in a Dutch museum. She was incapable of working in a team, had needlessly insulted a rich and influential claimant, and made wild accusations about a senior member of staff without having any real evidence of his wrongdoing.

  She stared at her phone, trying to remember what her mentor’s office hours were and wondering if it wouldn’t be better to email her. Though it hardly mattered now what she did. Huub had surely spoken with her already and explained why Zelda should be refused entry into the Museum Studies program. And even if he didn’t go through with his threat to call her straight away, Bernice would eventually tell Marianne everything that had happened; they were good friends after all.