“You look exhausted, Betty, no offense. Isn't Mist helping you today?”
Betty shook her head. “Not this afternoon. She took Hollister a thermos of tea – ginger peach with a touch of honey, I think she said – and then was going to Clive's place. They're trying to figure out a plan of action for the café. It's hard to read that girl, but she seemed discouraged.”
“Well, that’s understandable. I'd be plenty discouraged if my business and belongings had just gone up in flames.” Setting the last of the fallen cookware on the kitchen counter, Paige dusted off her hands and offered to help. Betty shook her head.
“No, I need to put all these pots and pans away before I do anything. And then I'm taking a break before cooking. Thanks, anyway.” Betty ran the back of her forearm across her brow.
“I'll go see what Mist's up to,” Paige said. “I need to talk to Clive anyway.”
“About the sapphire article?”
“That and some other things. Maybe I can bring Mist back, and we can both help you,” Paige suggested. “It'll get her mind off the café, and you can rest.”
Leaving Betty to reorganize the kitchen, Paige headed to the gem gallery. She found Mist and Clive in the back office. Clive slouched in his desk chair and gnawed on his pencil’s eraser as he scowled at papers on the top of his desk. Beside him, Mist sat upright in a straight-backed chair, eyes closed and hands folded in her lap. If Paige hadn’t witnessed Mist's shakiness the morning after the fire, she would have supposed nothing in the world could rattle the ethereal girl's spirit.
Clive looked up as Paige entered and waved her over to the desk.
“We were just discussing that stack of ashes that used to be a building.” Clive's tone was gruff.
“As well as future possibilities. There are always future possibilities.” Mist spoke softly, her eyes still closed, which kept her from seeing Clive roll his eyes.
“Some people are just too dang optimistic,” Clive grumbled. A wisp of a smile flitted across Mist’s face as Clive spoke.
“So what brings you in here today? Chasing Yogos again? You know I've got some mighty fine ones in that display case up front.”
Paige laughed. “You were born to be in sales, Clive. I just might buy one of those pretty pieces from you yet – you're just that convincing. But I came up to talk to you about that painting of yours.”
“What painting?” Mist opened her eyes and looked at Paige. Clive answered Mist before Paige could.
“That painting on the front wall. I'm thinking to sell it, help get the café rebuilt.”
Mist looked uncharacteristically concerned. “That's a beautiful piece, Clive. Soft. Realistic. Are you sure you want to part with it?”
“I'm not attached to it sentimentally or anything, so why not put it to good use? Anyway, it might not even be worth anything.” Clive huffed.
“Exactly why I came by to see you, Clive,” Paige said, giving Mist a reassuring glance. “I talked to my friend, Jake, in Jackson, and he suggested we send it to an art appraiser.”
“Friend...” Mist whispered the word like a magic spell. Paige thought back to the surprise dinner with Jake at Moonglow and smiled. Mist wasn't fooled by Paige's casual use of the term “friend.”
“You going on about art appraisers again?” Clive looked dubious.
“Yes,” Paige continued. “But we wouldn’t have to send the painting all the way to New York. Jake knows an appraiser who works in Cody, at that Buffalo Bill Historical Center. I think it's worth sending the painting out there, have it looked at. I'd hate to see a buyer take advantage of you.”
“Seems like a lot of commotion,” Clive said. “Why not just advertise that it was painted by a student of Russell's and get what we can, based on that?”
“What?” Mist sat forward, leaning toward Clive. “Who says it was painted by a student of Charles Russell?”
Clive looked puzzled. “That's how I got it, Mist. It was in the basement of the café when I cleaned it out for you.”
“But why would it be there?”
“Because that's where Russell's student had his studio. I thought you knew that.”
Mist shook her head. “No, I had no idea.”
Clive snorted as he filed another invoice into a folder for unpaid bills. “Well, don't feel too devastated, Mist. That studio workspace belonged to Silas Wheeler, a man of questionable talent and zero respect for his fellow man.”
“Which brings us back to the question of value,” Paige said, jumping right back into the conversation. “Let me help you find out what that painting of yours is worth. If it can help rebuild Moonglow, that's great. If it can't, it can't. At least you'll know you tried.” She watched Clive thinking it over and knew he was leaning her way.
“Alright,” Clive said. Standing, he crossed the room, lifted the painting off the wall and handed it to Paige. “Pack it up and send it off. No harm in finding out, I suppose.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Paige jiggled the doorknob to her room, attempting to unlock it with one hand while reaching for her ringing cell phone with the other. As a result, the key slipped out of her hand and fell to the floor, along with the heavy binder of notes she'd been balancing between her arm and side. The phone was not far behind.
“You OK up there?” Betty's voice called up the staircase.
“I'm fine,” Paige shouted back. “Just clumsy and trying to do too many things at once. Sorry for the disturbance.” She gathered the notes together and picked up the key, ignoring the phone, which had already stopped ringing. She could check voicemail once she got settled inside the room. Now focused on the door alone, it easily opened. She set the binder and notes down on the writing table, put the room key on top of the dresser and retrieved the phone from the hallway floor, cautious to block the door to her room open with one foot while reaching awkwardly for the phone with her upper body. Finally gathering herself together, she closed the door and fell back on the bed.
It had been three days since shipping off the painting. With Jake back in Jackson, working on the ranch, she’d labored over the article, still bland without an interesting angle. Between writing spells, she’d exhausted herself trying to console Mist and help Betty feed the constantly gathering townsfolk.
The soft bedding was so comfortable that she succumbed to the temptation to rest momentarily. One minute. Or two, at most.
Forty-five minutes later, she opened her eyes to find the room had grown dark. With the setting of the sun, the temperature had dropped quickly. She clicked on the bedside light and, with a few hasty steps, reached the radiator and turned it up. Only then did she remember the missed phone call. Checking the cell phone for messages, she found two calls from Jake. Dialing his number, she was surprised to hear him answer it on the first ring.
“I've been trying to reach you.” Paige couldn't decide if Jake sounded annoyed or relieved.
“I fell asleep. I only planned to rest my eyes for a couple minutes, but two turned into forty-five.”
“Well, this will wake you up.” Jake sounded serious, which was enough to rid Paige of her remaining drowsiness.
“What's up?” Paige twisted the metal knob on the radiator to crank it up and moved to the writing table, wishing suddenly that she had a mug of hot cocoa.
“I had a call from Lambert earlier this afternoon.”
“Great,” Paige said. “What's his verdict on the value of the Silas Wheeler painting?”
Jake cleared his throat, a stalling gesture in people that always triggered Paige’s impatience.
“That's the thing,” Jake said. “He seemed puzzled by the painting and said he needed more time to inspect it.”
Paige's attention was now fully focused. “More time? He said it should only take a day to inspect.”
“Right,” Jake agreed. “But apparently there are inconsistencies. At least that's what he said today.”
“What kind of inconsistencies?” Already she was out of her chair and pacing.
“Paige, you're asking the wrong person. If you want information on breeds of horses, I can help you out. But if you want educated evaluations of fine art, you're going to have to stick to Professor Lambert.” Jake laughed, but Paige imagined that it was his turn to be annoyed with her.
“I'm sorry.” Paige apologized, knowing she'd sounded pushy. “You're doing me a favor, having him look at it. I just get eager for answers.” It was true. She had always been impatient, even as a young child. She hadn’t changed. She found waiting for answers as frustrating as ever. She sighed and sat back down.
“Patience,” Jake said. His smooth voice calmed her. He was solid and grounded, and she could always lean on him when she felt shaky. It was a good feeling.
“Yes – a virtue that has evaded me most of my life.” She took a deep breath and looked out the window, a little more composed now. Two young boys roughhoused on the back property. A few late-clinging, crumpled leaves fell to the ground as a gust of wind whipped through. It was a peaceful scene outside, yet her curiosity would not rest.
Again, she began to pace. This could be bad news for Clive. If the painting wasn’t valuable, he’d have to find another way to cover the insurance deductible on the café. Even if he waited until spring to rebuild, his business was too slow for him to save the necessary funds in time.
“When will we know more?” Paige gave the radiator a kick, holding one hand over it to check for heat. She was relieved to feel it warming up.
“Lambert said a few more days. He's having another Silas Wheeler painting sent down from Great Falls so he can compare the two side by side,” Jake said. “If you’re up for a long drive, I can meet you in Cody to go over the results with Lambert at his office when he’s done with the analysis.”
“I don’t mind a long drive,” Paige said. “I’d like to meet him and hear his explanation.” Besides, she added to herself, it was a chance to see Jake again.
“How did another painting of Wheeler’s turn up in Great Falls?” Paige asked.
“A woman from Helena donated it to the museum there, thinking it was a Charles Russell original. The curator realized it was by Silas Wheeler and had it set aside in basement storage.”
“I guess I'll just have to be patient and wait a few more days for him to finish analyzing the paintings,” Paige sighed.
She could hear Jake's muffled laugh on the other end of the phone.
“Yes, I know it's a challenge, but I'll do my best!”
After ending the call with Jake, Paige tried to focus on the sapphire mining article, but found her mind wandering back to the painting. She tried to picture it as it had appeared on the gallery wall, before she sent it to Cody for appraisal. It was a peaceful landscape scene, yet filled with the magnificent movement of horses. She could visualize the bright touches of blue dispersed throughout the skyline, as well as patches of red, orange and yellow around the covered wagon and campfire in the valley below. Despite her lack of art knowledge, the painting had spoken to her. Yet everything she heard about Silas Wheeler was laced with disrespect. Did he have more talent than people realized? Did his arrogance cause art critics to be particularly harsh with him?
Paige went downstairs to find Betty hard at work in the hotel kitchen. Two large pots sat on the stove; biscuit mix dusted the counter, and bowls of vegetables filled the center table. Paige picked up a handful of carrots and started in with a peeler she found.
“You can't feed the whole town by yourself, you know.”
“You're supposed to be a guest here.” Betty’s words were sterner than her appearance. She looked like spring in her yellow floral-print dress that served as a backdrop for a bright green apron with a wild pattern of overlapping roosters and vegetables. When Paige looked at Betty’s clothes, she imagined kitchen curtains might have flown off a window and draped themselves around Betty's neck and waist.
“But I want to help,” Paige said.
It was true, she realized as she spoke, not only because she couldn't focus on writing the newspaper article, but because the townsfolk of Timberton were beginning to feel like friends. What was it about these small, western towns that she liked? Was it that they felt so much more personal than the big city? She continued to feel increasingly drawn to this way of life.
“I’m going down to Cody in a couple of days,” Paige said. “But I’ll keep my room. I may just make it a day trip.”
“Cody, you say, as in Wyoming?” Betty smiled. “That’s quite a day trip. Maybe you’re meeting up with a friend?”
Paige laughed. “I know what you’re getting at, Betty. Yes, I’m meeting Jake. But that’s not the reason for the trip. I want to hear firsthand what his art expert friend has to say about Clive’s painting.”
“Well, I hope for Clive’s sake the guy has good news,” Betty said. “Heck of a shame having the café burn down – for Clive, for Mist and for the whole town.”
“Speaking of Mist, is she around?” Paige asked. She watched Betty rinse her hands under the faucet before drying them on her apron.
“She went over to the park to check on Hollister,” Betty replied, waving her arm vaguely in the direction of the front hallway. “Wants him to know she'll bring him food later.”
“Will he understand?” Paige scooped up a pile of carrot skins and threw them in the trash, bending down to pick up a few strays that missed the wastebasket.
“Who knows?” Betty sighed. “Every now and then there's a hint of focus in his eyes. But, for the most part, he just pokes that stick around in the dirt, picks up pebbles and stares into space.”
Paige drummed her fingers on the tabletop. Her impatience was getting to her again. There were so many questions in this town and so few answers. She turned back to the stack of peeled carrots, sized them up and began to chop them into stew-sized chunks.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Professor Lambert motioned for Paige and Jake to come closer. On a projected screen, two images of Clive’s painting rested side by side. The photo to the right bore the most resemblance to the original painting. The one on the left differed. It was the same image, but with additional markings not visible in the photo on the right.
Paige moved closer, bending forward to compare the two images.
“I'm not sure what I'm looking at here. I apologize, but my art knowledge is weak and my understanding of scientific methods even weaker.”
Professor Lambert adjusted the images and pointed first to the one on the right.
“This is a photograph of your painting, taken with a normal camera. It shows the scene just as you see it with the naked eye – colors, shapes, markings. It is merely a representation of the painting as it presents itself.”
He stepped back, allowing Paige to study the photo. She took in the image, shifting her attention back and forth between the photos and the actual painting, which sat on an easel to the right.
“I don't see anything unusual,” Paige said. “Is there supposed to be some discrepancy, and I'm just missing it?”
“Not at all.” Again, Professor Lambert adjusted both photos and pointed to the one on the right. “Let me explain.” He turned to face Paige and Jake, clearly pleased to have an audience. For a moment, Paige flashed back to science classes, prepared not to understand anything she was about to hear.
“The human eye is only capable of seeing certain wavelengths. The photo on your right displays what the original painting shows, nothing more. The paint is opaque. You can't see through it.”
Paige nodded politely. “I see.” Jake shot her a sideways look and grinned. She shrugged her shoulders when they made eye contact. She didn't really see at all and knew Jake was onto her.
Lambert continued, indicating the photo on the left.
“This is the same painting, except this image was taken using infrared reflectography. It allows us to see through the layers of paint that are opaque to the human eye. This technology records longer wavelengths. It lets us view what is below the painted surfa
ce.”
“Which is?” Paige was trying to follow, but wasn't sure where the professor was headed with all this. The photos looked almost the same to her, though the one on the left seemed a bit blurred or bumpy.
“Do you see these lines?” Lambert indicated the rounded exterior of the covered wagon, several markings within the flames of a campfire and a curved line under the painting's signature. Looking closely, Paige saw what he was pointing out.
“Yes, they look like outlines. Very faint, like sketches.”
“Exactly. These are what we call underdrawings. They're outlines an artist uses, often sketched in black on a clean, white canvas. Carbon absorbs light and reflects it. Though we can't see the markings through the upper paint layers ourselves, the infrared camera picks them up. Through the photo created by the reflectography process, we can see how an artist sets up outlines for a scene.”
Paige rubbed her forehead. The professor's speech was leading somewhere, but she had no idea where.
“How does this help us know the value of the painting? It's still the same piece of artwork regardless of whatever outlines the artist used.”
Lambert nodded, not bothering to hide a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. “That's why we're lucky to have these tools now. We've only had infrared technology since the late 1960s. Before then, we could scrape the surface of a painting or inspect it from a variety of aspects. But we couldn't see through the layers to expose the underdrawings. And they tell us a lot.”
“Such as?”
“I'm glad you asked!” Lambert looked pleased at the progress the session was making. Indicating a painting on a different easel, he continued. “I had this sent down from Great Falls, to compare it with the painting from your friend's gallery. It's similar, isn't it?”
Paige nodded. “It's not the same scene, but it has the same feeling. Same colors, background, sky, that sort of thing.” Paige leaned in closer. “Are you saying this was also painted by Silas Wheeler?”
Paige MacKenzie Mysteries Box Set Page 30
