The Art Forger

by Barbara Shapiro

  Kristi grabs two pairs of scissors, slides one across the table to me, and says, “Let’s see what Templeton’s magic has done for these puppies.”

  And, indeed, I almost can’t believe that these extraordinary paintings are mine; like a good haircut, framing makes all the difference. For a moment, my troubles vanish, and pure joy overpowers me. I created this. And this. And this. My babies standing proud, bursting with life and beauty, graduating into the world, their future unknown but full of promise.

  I’M ON THE floor in Sandra’s living room with the last of the boxes. I’ve been at it for almost an hour with no luck. Nothing more about Belle or Amelia in Rendell’s journal, nothing else belonging to him. But I’ve found a few photos of Sandra as a girl. She’s one of those rare women who have improved with age.

  Last night, I scoured the Internet for information on Rendell, but aside from what I’d already found, there wasn’t much. Nothing on whether he was married or had any children, nothing on a painting career other than that of a forger who committed suicide. I know the chance of finding anything belonging to him is beyond remote, but remote is all Aiden and I have.

  “Anything?” Sandra calls from the other side of the island, where she’s chopping vegetables for Thanksgiving soup.

  I shake my head. “I figure I need solid information on at least five artists to write the book proposal, and I’ve only got three, maybe four. I was really counting on finding another one here.”

  Sandra’s smile is warm with understanding. “Who are your others?” she asks.

  “Like I said the other day, Whistler, Singer Sargent, and Ralph Curtis. I’ve found some information on Dennis Miller Bunker and your aunt, but not nearly enough. And nothing much on her personal relationships with Smith, Cram, or Martin Mower.”

  “Maybe you can pad the proposal with marketing materials,” Sandra suggests. “If it looks like it’ll sell, the publisher will probably be satisfied with an annotated table of contents and three strong chapters.”

  “Spoken like a woman who’s written a book proposal.”

  “When you get to be my age,” Sandra says, “you’ve done just about everything at least once.”

  I pull the last carton to me. Every item, folder, stack of ribbon-tied letters is from the 1930s and 1940s. In the beginning, I was more curious about each box’s contents, but now I could care less about pressed flowers from the courtship of some unknown girl who’s probably been married to the old fart for fifty-plus years by now. I pull each item out of the box and toss it on the carpet, then feel guilty that Sandra might think I’m not being respectful of her family’s history, and lay them down more carefully. But Sandra’s so engrossed in chopping vegetables, she doesn’t appear to be aware of me.

  And then I see something that looks like a sketchbook. I remind myself that, so far, everything in this box is after Rendell’s time, that there’s no reason to expect something else of his to turn up among Sandra’s memorabilia. But still. I pull the book out, wipe the dust from the cover; a small “VR” is written on the top corner, just like the journal I found before. I press it between my hands, glance up at Sandra, who’s dicing onions with Julia Child–like energy, and open it.

  The first quarter of the book is filled with landscapes, the next dozen or so pages contain sketches for a portrait of an older woman and four younger ones, most likely her daughters. Then there are nudes. The earliest ones are finely drawn, voluptuous and beautiful. But as I turn the pages, the bodies become more sturdy and coarse-looking.

  The book falls open to two compositional sketches facing each other on opposite pages. Sweat scratches at my hairline as a full-body flush races to my face. I blink, sure that desperation, coupled with wishful thinking, is driving my vision. I blink again. It’s still there.

  In the drawing on the right-hand page, Simone and a hefty Françoise are seated on either side of a standing Jacqueline, just as they are in Aiden’s After the Bath and my Bath II. But on the facing page, a delicate Not-Françoise stands next to Jacqueline with a hunched Simone at Jacqueline’s feet, just as they are in Degas’ sketchbook. My mind goes blank, and the room seems to slide away.

  AS IF WAKING from a dream, I hear the sizzle of onions hitting hot oil, inhale the sharp, sweet odor, but can’t quite find my bearings. I look at the open sketchbook on my lap, dumbfounded, muddled, not sure what to do next. Thunk-thunk goes Sandra’s knife. More sizzle. Celery perhaps. I slowly put the scattered items back in the box but hold onto the sketchbook. Although the two drawings appear to confirm my theory that there was an original After the Bath and that Virgil Rendell painted the forgery that Aiden brought to me, I can’t be certain until I compare them with Degas’ compositional sketches.

  My brain struggles for a way to take Rendell’s book with me. Clearly, Sandra would never know if I dropped it into my backpack, and the idea has some appeal. But despite my adventures on the wild side and my omissions to Aiden, I can’t do it. I stand and say in a tremulous voice, “Just as you thought, nothing in here.”

  “Oh, Claire.” Sandra keeps chopping, but she looks at me sadly. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. That’s the way it goes with historical research. Maybe this whole book proposal thing isn’t the greatest idea.”

  She perks up. “If the Markel G show is a success, the last thing you’ll be thinking about is writing a book.” Then she frowns. “Such a shame. Such a handsome young man. Will any of this affect your show?”

  “Everything’s moving forward as planned. He’s got some very talented assistants who are doing a remarkable job. Believe it or not, since all this happened, traffic at the gallery has doubled, maybe tripled. Sales, too.” I try to sound upbeat, but I don’t fool Sandra.

  Her eyes fill with sympathy. “Take it from an old woman, if this doesn’t work out, something else will. Life is like that.”

  I hold up Rendell’s book. “There are some interesting sketches in here,” I say. “No name or anything, but they’re quite nice.”

  She throws some fresh oregano in the soup, tastes it, throws in some more.

  “Would you mind if I took it with me? Just for a day or two. I’d like to study the drawings more closely.”

  She squints at the sketchbook. “I don’t know …”

  “I’ll take good care of it, I promise,” I plead, hoping her compassion will translate into consent.

  She hesitates, then shrugs. “Sure. I guess. Maybe it’ll take the edge off your disappointment.”

  “Great. Thanks.” I put the book in my backpack and leave before she can change her mind.

  As I ride the T to Copley Square, I don’t open my backpack, just hold it tightly to my chest. I want to wait until I get to the studio, until I have Degas’ compositional sketches in front of me. The sketches of Not-Françoise. Of her altered position in the painting’s arrangement, of her altered body. I stare out the trolley window at the snarled traffic on Huntington Avenue and try not to think about what I may, or may not, have here. Whether it might help Aiden.

  When I get home, I scramble through my book piles for Edgar Degas: Sketches and Drawings, 1875–1900 and quickly locate the drawings I want. Then I open to Rendell’s two sketches. I place the books side-by-side on the floor and raise my eyes to the ceiling. I don’t know how I’ll bear it if I’ve only invented the similarities.

  I lower my gaze to Degas’ compositional sketches. They are almost identical to the left-hand page of Rendell’s book: Jacqueline, Simone, and Not-Françoise. Not-Françoise, who is small, refined, and tiny waisted. Not-Françoise who is standing rather than sitting, shifting the composition from Bath’s symmetry to Degas’ preferred asymmetrical balance.

  I look again. And again. There appears to be no doubt.

  I’m holding my own personal Rosetta Stone. Aiden’s, too. I hope.

  Forty

  I told you not to come back here,” Aiden says, but he can’t suppress a slim smile.

  I dare to look at his hands and see
he still has ten fingers, although the one is still splinted. “How long do you have?”

  He follows my eyes, and his smile disappears. “A week, maybe two,” he says, his voice flat and toneless. “That’s why you have to leave.”

  A week. “There’s something I have to tell you.” I’m sitting in a different bathroom-stall-sized room. I know because there’s a 22A instead of a 35A on the door; other than that, the overheated stuffiness, the broken clock, and the claustrophobic closeness of the walls are exactly the same.

  “It’s good, possibly great,” I say. “I’ve found proof that the painting you brought to my studio was a forgery.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” he says. “I know where it came from. It was authenticated.”

  “So was Bath II.”

  His jaw tightens. “It’s impossible.”

  “Degas’ compositional sketches for After the Bath don’t match the painting you brought me.”

  “So what? How many of your finished paintings match your initial drawings? Artists change their minds. Art’s changed by the process of making it. You know that.”

  I choose my words carefully. “I have sketches by a known forger. One set that match Degas’ compositional drawings and another that match the finished painting.”

  “What forger?”

  “Virgil Rendell.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He knew Isabella Gardner. Was apparently on the outside of her circle. It appears they had a falling—”

  “Claire, don’t lose it on me here.”

  “I’m thinking Rendell either stole the original painting or blackmailed Belle or pulled some kind of sleazy revenge act, which forced her into hanging his forgery as her Degas. If that’s the case, then his family most likely has it. So if I can find it, it’ll prove your painting was a copy, and the one they caught Patel with was a copy of a copy. Just like he claims.”

  “The painting I brought you was not a copy of anything.” Aiden grips the edge of the shelf; his knuckles are white. “It hung in the Gardner for almost a hundred years.”

  I keep my voice measured. “If I can find the real one, it’ll prove your Bath was a forgery.”

  “Which it isn’t.”

  I continue as if he hasn’t spoken. “And if that’s true, then the charges are moot. If the painting they got from Patel is a confirmed forgery and they assume the thieves stole a real Degas, then there’s no transportation or sale of stolen goods. There’s no fraud. No connection to the heist. And your lawyer—”

  He takes a deep breath, and I see he’s trying to calm himself. “Even if all of this were true, which it’s not, if the painting was the one stolen in the robbery, none of this changes anything.”

  “Aiden, you’re not listening to me. It doesn’t have to be true. It just has to be a legal possibility. An argument your lawyer can use to get you out on bail. At least for a little while.”

  We both look at his right hand, which he places on his lap. “Why are you so sure it’s not a Degas? That there’s another painting?” he asks.

  I see that he’s finally listening. “I knew pretty much from the beginning that it was a forgery.”

  “You knew and didn’t tell me? Why would you keep such a thing to—”

  “We’ve got to focus on finding the painting. I’ll explain everything later. Please just believe me. And now that I have the sketches—”

  “This is crazy. Insane. We don’t know the damn painting exists. Or if there ever was one. And even if it does exist, we’ve got no idea where it is.”

  Despite Aiden’s catalog of difficulties, I notice his shift to the plural. He’s warming to the idea. “I’ve got some leads,” I say. “About Rendell. His life, his family. His relationship with Belle and her niece.”

  “This isn’t worth the effort.”

  “What have we got to lose?” I stand and press my palm to the glass. “Lots to gain.”

  He matches all five fingers of his right hand to mine. Desperation meets desperation.

  AFTER I LEAVE the jail, I grab a cab and call Rik to see if he can meet me for a drink when he gets out of work.

  “Can’t,” he says. “I’m up to my ears in reinstallation. Maybe I can make it to Jake’s around nine. Or ten.”

  “How about I bring over some coffee? I have a quick work question to ask you. I’ll only stay a few minutes.”

  “Double cappuccino grande with skim milk. Two sugars.”

  I have the cab drop me at a Starbucks around the corner from the Gardner, pick up Rik’s coffee, and walk to the museum. When I arrive, trucks are parked everywhere: caterers, construction companies, electricians, plumbers—even closet designers. Workers, some punching high-tech handhelds and others carrying bales of wire or planks of wood or stacks of nested chairs, are walking into, out of, and around the building. I text Rik, and he comes down to get me.

  He motions me into the entryway and leans against the tall ticket counter. “This is nuts. They had no business trying to do all this so soon,” he grumbles. “This big a spectacle needs years, not months, to put together.”

  I offer him the coffee. “But you love it.”

  “Can’t deny that.” Rik stirs sugar into his coffee and takes a long sip. “I’m flat out here. What kind of work question you got for me?”

  “Ever hear of a forger named Virgil Rendell?”

  A horde of electricians pounds through the narrow entryway, and we press ourselves to a wall to let them through.

  “Name sounds kind of familiar,” Rik says. “Who is he?”

  “Was. Late-nineteenth-century painter. He was in love with Belle’s niece, Amelia. Did an amazing portrait of her that I saw at Sandra Stoneham’s. Anyway, seems like he had some kind of a big falling out with Belle. I think over her forcing Amelia to marry someone else.”

  “And you’re telling me this because …?”

  “His painting style is very similar to Degas, and I was thinking that they must have worked together at some time.” I have to stop as two huge speakers are wheeled in. “I was hoping you might be able to get me some information on him.”

  “You’re working on your book now? Don’t you have enough on your plate?”

  “I’m not painting anything. I’m antsy about the show and need some distraction. And with everything that’s going on with Aiden and all …”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Not well.”

  “Sorry, Bear.” Rik touches my cheek. “When this is all over, we’ll be able to spend some time.”

  “I just need something else to think about.”

  “Excuse me, sir, miss,” a man in a power suit with a power voice says. “We need to secure this area. Do you have identification?” Rik flips his ID card, but when I start to burrow in my backpack, the man stops me. “Sorry, miss, only museum employees and cleared contractors allowed in the building.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Rik says, as he follows me outside, “but I don’t have time to help you with this now. Maybe after the reinstallation. This place is crazy. And so am I.” He squints at me. “I think maybe you’re a little crazy, too.”

  We have to step off the sidewalk to allow four burly men with matching headsets jutting from their ears to pass by.

  “These security guys are the worst,” Rik grumbles. “They’re crawling all over the building and getting in everyone’s way. Checking out every closet and cabinet. Worried about the riff-raff who are coming to the reinstallation. Like you and me. I heard they found places to wire no one even knew existed.” He gives me a quick kiss and strides into the museum.

  Disappointed, although I suppose not surprised, I watch him disappear. Even though it’s dark and the temperature is hovering in the midforties, I walk past the trolley stop and set out across the bustling Northeastern campus, where students are bailing out for Thanksgiving break in droves.

  I hesitate in front of the Ruggles T station, which is on the campus, and think about taking the Orange Line. It’ll be fast
er, warmer, easier, but I need the energy burn. I pass by the station entrance and climb the stairs to the parking garage, which doubles as a walkway to Columbus Avenue. I dodge the screeching cars, so intent on vacation escape, and cross over to the South End.

  A week. Maybe two, Aiden said. I walk down Mass Ave, alongside the belching busses and deafening trucks, searching for options. If Rendell’s a dead end, at least for the moment, maybe I should look at it from Belle’s side. If my theory about the blackmail is true, then maybe part of the deal was that Belle was forced to hide the original.

  Checking out every closet and cabinet, Rik had said. Heard they found places to wire no one even knew existed. And Sandra Stoneham had complained that everything Belle ever owned was in the museum.

  WHEN I GET home, I call Rik. “I know, I know, you’re busy and I shouldn’t be bothering you, but I really need this one thing. I’ll owe your forever. Whatever you want. For the rest of your life.”

  Rik’s sigh is long and theatrical. “What is it?”

  “You know how my undergraduate degree is in art and architecture?”

  “Claire. Please.”

  “Anyway, the bottom line is that I’m thinking of doing a new series on the architecture of museums.”

  “Paintings of museums? Doesn’t sound like you.”

  “I’m not talking about the usual aspects of museums, but how their little-known spaces and corners portray them. The details the architect inserted that most people never notice that set the structure apart, give it its unique meaning and personality.” It’s not a half bad idea. “You know, the whole seen and unseen, but with a new subject. Buildings instead of people, but not just any buildings, buildings where people come to see.”

  “What about the Degas book?”

  “Oh, that, too. I’d do both.”

  “Claire, I’m getting a little worried about you.”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine. Really. But I was wondering if you have access to the original—or obviously, copies of the original—blueprints for the museum. Because what museum is more architecturally interesting than the Gardner? What museum has more personality?”