Wicked Winters: A Collection of Winter Tales

by Lucy Smoke

  The idea filled her with something akin to sadness. Still, she waved. The car waited at the curb and she gingerly lowered herself in, resting her throbbing head against the upholstered seat.

  “Where are we going?” the driver asked

  Reciting her address, she happened to glance toward the diner. Inside, four faces remained framed in the window. She lifted her hand once again, but they didn’t reciprocate her gesture.

  Slowly, the car pulled away from the curb. Perhaps tomorrow would bring another introduction, but she doubted it.

  Putting her hair back in a ponytail hurt too much, so Shira left it long around her shoulders. It didn’t help with the rough-night look she was sporting, but from her reflection, there wasn’t much she could do to improve her appearance. Dark circles framed her eyes, and the white around her irises was more pink than white.

  Even her lips were pale. First, Shira tried makeup, but for some reason, her foundation seemed to enhance the lines and bags, and eventually, she just wiped it off.

  White face, black hair, bags. She’d aged ten years.

  Flipping down the bathroom light, Shira shook her head. Ow. The headache hadn’t abated, even after the extra strength Tylenol. If this was what she had to look forward to all day, she might as well get to it.

  Shira made it to the gallery well before anyone else. She’d brought her spare keys from her apartment, and her emergency credit card so she could buy a card for the subway, but she’s was shit out of luck when it came to identification.

  Glancing up, she eyed the camera in the corner of the entrance. Had it picked up the mugging last night? Would the police be by to confiscate it?

  Confiscate?

  Who was she kidding? Unless she went to the neighborhood station and filed a report, maybe pushed for a cop to take her statement, this would die the death of a thousand similar muggings. It wasn’t worth her time.

  Narrowing her eyes at the camera, she made a note, after all this was done—the provenance backgrounds, the auction—she’d watch the recording and see what she could glean from it. Maybe she’d recognize her attacker, and she could stop them from doing this to anyone else.

  Everything in Shira’s office was just like she’d left it. Which was to say, it was a complete and utter mess. Files were open, photos spread over the surface. The magnifying glass she used to examine the photos to look for gallery stamps or tags, sat on her chair.

  Carefully, she removed her coat and hung it on the back of her door. The muscles in her back and shoulders ached like she’d been weight lifting, and she groaned as she lowered her arms.

  “Rough night?” Carmen’s hand snuck through the open door. She held a white cup with a familiar green logo. “Here.”

  “You’re a goddess,” Shira whispered and took a sip. Carmen had bought her some kind of overly sweetened caffeinated beverage, but the key word was caffeinated. As far as she was concerned, it was perfection. “Thank you.”

  “You look like…” The receptionist trailed off, but Shira knew what she meant.

  “I was mugged last night. Hit my head. This is as good as it gets today.”

  “Oh no.” Carmen clucked. “That happened to me my first year in the city. You didn’t call a ride, did you?”

  Shira took another sip rather than answer, and Carmen rolled her eyes.

  “Well,” she said. “Don’t forget to call your bank and cancel your cards. I see you eyeing your files.”

  Shira grimaced. Cancel cards. Get new phone. All things she didn’t have time for today. “Carmen?” She pasted a smile on her face.

  “Fine.” Carmen made gimme hands for her purse. “ID, too?”

  “Yes, please.” Smiling widely, Shira handed her the bag and everything inside. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

  “I’m not eating lunch anymore,” Carmen grumbled, and left.

  Feeling guilty, she watched Carmen leave. Would this push her out the door? She hoped not. Shira really, really needed Carmen to stay.

  The lengthy international number for the Posse Gallery sat on her desk. She might as well get this out of the way before she took on the rest of the provenance records.

  An hour later, Shira was no closer to having the provenance confirmed for the Hanukkah lamp than she was yesterday.

  Though the person she’d spoken to yesterday warned her they’d changed ownership, Shira had assumed the records for the gallery would have stayed with the gallery.

  She was wrong.

  The handover of ownership was, how had the man put it? “Un peu maladroit—” a little awkward.

  Monsieur Posse had taken all the records the gallery had with him in an attempt to establish himself as an independent art dealer.

  This meant one thing, and Director Lohse was going to be un peu—she forgot the word for angry—en colère—that was it, when she informed him the lamp couldn’t be included in the auction.

  “Shira?” The intercom blasted her name along with a wave of static that had her lifting her shoulders to her ears.

  “Yes, Carmen?”

  “Someone is here to see you.”

  “Someone is here…” Did she have a delivery she’d forgotten about? If Lohse had added more items to the auction, she would quit, she would.

  “Four someones…”

  Oh.

  “I’ll be right there, Carmen!” Shira studied her office.

  She owed Ravi money. Did she have enough for the car last night? Carmen had her purse. How was she supposed sneakily check to see how much money she had?

  Running her fingers through her hair, Shira winced. They’d take pity on her when they saw what a mess she was. For a second, she wished she’d spent more time blending and dabbing than giving up and wiping off her makeup this morning. The Hasmone brothers were ridiculously handsome.

  But she had suffered a head injury. Maybe it had been a trick of the head injury, combined with her exhaustion, and really flattering lighting.

  The four men stood in the gallery, each of them staring at a different piece. They were definitely as good-looking as she remembered them.

  “Hi,” she offered, weakly.

  The men turned, all of them with varying degrees of concern written on their faces. Pascal and Dov both frowned, while Ravi and Yaphet raked her form from head to toe.

  When they didn’t reply, she cleared her throat. “I’m fine,” she said. “As you can see. No lasting damage.”

  “Then why do you look like death warmed over?” Pascal asked. His blue eyes were like ice. His whole demeanor unyielding.

  “Ravi didn’t think you’d be here this early,” Dov said. He glanced once at Pascal, and then over to her. “But I thought you would. I know you were concerned about the amount of work you had to do. Are these the items for sale?” He waved his hands at the paintings and sculptures.

  From the corner of her eye, Shira caught Yaphet and Ravi moving closer to her. Not in a suspicious way, but as if they merely wanted to be near her.

  Can’t be.

  She dismissed the thought. They probably wanted to avoid whatever was brewing between her, Pascal, and Dov.

  “I did,” she started. “I mean, I do. I do have a lot of work. But no. Not all these items are for sale. Not yet anyway.”

  “No?” Yaphet moved closer to the Hanukkah lamp. “I thought everything displayed was for sale.”

  “Some of it.” Shira stepped closer to the pedestal to see the lamp. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Seventeenth century. Imagine the history it has seen. The hands that have held it, lit the candles. It’s unique. It’s a lamp, but see the holes? There are eight for each night of Hanukkah. The larger hole, the one in the center, could be used for a candle, or it could be the base of a lamp placed on top. I’m not really sure. I’m still working on the provenance.”

  Yaphet glanced at her. This close she could see he’d inherited the same green eyes as his brothers. That left Pascal as the odd man out.

  The man in question stepped into sight an
d she tensed, waiting for him to say something cutting. “What’s a provenance?” Pascal asked, surprising her.

  “It’s a record,” she explained, “of each person who owned the piece and how it was acquired.”

  “What happens if you don’t have a provenance?” Pascal asked. Shira could feel his gaze on her.

  Squaring her shoulders, she faced him. “We don’t sell it.”

  “What do you mean?” Yaphet interrupted. He glanced between her and Pascal, confused.

  “If it’s not ours, we don’t sell it.”

  “And just take a loss?” Pascal demanded. “You can’t be serious. How much did this stuff cost? ‘Oh well, not ours.’ So you, what? Find the owners?” The heat and anger of his diatribe had her stepping back, right into Yaphet. He touched her back to steady her.

  “Enough, Pascal,” he said, low. Earlier, Shira thought he may have been the most shy or reserved, but his hard-edged voice was commanding, not passive. When he snaked his hand around her waist, she could feel the muscles of his arm beneath his sweater. Yaphet was strong, but he hid it well.

  Pascal glared at the lamp. Reaching as if to touch the glass that protected it, he suddenly stopped, and tightened his hands into fists. Quick as a flash, his gaze whipped around the room, and something cracked in his tough guy facade. Beneath the anger was yearning, as if every piece of artwork in the gallery called to him.

  “We have insurance.” It hurt her to see Pascal upset. Shira wanted to make him less angry, and hoped by answering his question, she could soothe him.

  Pascal, and his brothers, had helped her out of a tight spot. Something about her, however, triggered him.

  And she didn’t like it.

  For some reason, she didn’t want his impression of her tinged with anger and distaste.

  “If we’ve bought artwork that doesn’t have a verifiable provenance, we’d call the police.” Shira kept her gaze on Pascal as she spoke. “It’d go to them, and hopefully they’d be able to find the rightful owners. It’s why these things aren’t for sale yet. Because I can’t verify the provenance.”

  “We need to be going,” Dov said suddenly. Shira nodded, stepping away from Yaphet. Immediately, she missed the heat and strength he’d offered her.

  “Hold on,” she said, and gestured to Carmen for her bag. She dug in the side pocket for her cash, foregoing stealth. “Here.” She held it out. “Thank you for last night.”

  “We don’t want your money,” Pascal said.

  Shira faced Ravi, and held out the cash. “Please. Let me repay you for the car, at least.”

  Ravi stared at her, but not like Pascal had. His gaze was sad again. “Keep it, Shira. It was our good deed. Let us have that.”

  She understood what he wasn’t saying. They’d performed a mitzvah—followed the commandment of helping a stranger in need—and they hadn’t done it to be rewarded. Slowly, she drew the cash back, and put it in her pocket. “All right.”

  Ravi gave her a smile, the dimple flashing for just a second.

  “Thank you all for checking on me. I’m sorry if I put you out,” she said the last bit while glancing between Dov and Pascal, the two brothers she seemed to have pissed off the most.

  “Good luck with your auction,” Yaphet said. He gazed at the lamp as he spoke. “Does this have a provenance?” he asked, suddenly.

  “Not one I’ve authenticated,” she answered. “And if I can’t, it will be given to the police.”

  “It has a provenance,” Director Lohse’s booming voice echoed through the gallery. “All of our art has verifiable provenances.” The man strode toward the group quickly, and he stuck his hand out at Dov. “I’m the owner of this gallery, Bruno Lohse. And you are?”

  “Dov Hasmone.” He shook the director’s hand quickly and then let go. From the corner of her eye, Shira caught Dov wiping his palm on his jeans. “These are my brothers. Yaphet, Pascal, and Ravi.”

  “Coming to the auction?” Lohse asked, gazing from one brother to the other. In the bright lights, Director Lohse appeared sweaty and sallow. He’d been as stressed about the auction as she was, and very likely wasn’t sleeping much either.

  “Perhaps,” Yaphet spoke over Dov, who’d begun to shake his head. “We met your curator last night, and she was explaining how dedicated the gallery is to authenticating each piece here. You interrupted us just as she was explaining why this one wasn’t in the first catalogue we received.”

  As Yaphet spoke, he drew off his glasses and folded them into his pocket. Without them, the angles of his face seemed sharper—harder. He stood tall, taller than the director. For all of Director Lohse’s culture and sophistication, he appeared lacking, sandwiched as he was, between these brothers.

  Shira had been so distracted by her comparison, she missed what Yaphet had said. The catalogue? Had she mentioned the catalogue to them and not realized it?

  “Yes, well. We know how important reputation is to any art dealer,” Lohse said. He cleared his throat. “Good day, gentlemen. We hope to see you Tuesday. Shira, I need to see you in my office when you’re finished here.” With that, he left hurriedly, fancy loafers clicking against the wood floors.

  “He’s awful,” Pascal stated, drily.

  Shira snorted, but… “This is my first job as curator.”

  “So you’re just establishing yourself,” Dov said, as if everything made sense now.

  “Shira!” Lohse called. Apparently, he couldn’t wait until the Hasmones left.

  “I’m sorry.” She started down the hallway. “I need to go. Thank you again.”

  “Wait.” Pascal stepped forward, but didn’t speak. Shira shifted from one foot to the other, waiting while her stomach churned.

  “Shira!” Lohse yelled again.

  “I’m sorry!” With a wave, she jogged down the hallway and into Director Lohse’s office.

  “Sit down,” he said before she’d come through the door.

  As she lowered herself into the worn leather Mission-style chair, she imagined how the conversation would go. She was fired, most likely, but what came next? Would the director ruin her reputation? Was this not only the end of her job, but her career?

  “Do you make it a practice to tell potential clients that our artwork is not for sale? Or does not have a provenance?” His voice was deceptively soft.

  “No. I was explaining provenance to them, and that the lamp hadn’t been authenticated yet.”

  “Do you think I would acquire something without an authenticated provenance?” he asked, steepling his fingers and leaning forward, elbows on his desk.

  Director Lohse, on his best days, was an intimidating man. But today, he seemed to be seething. She preferred his louder aggression to this one which seemed to be bubbling beneath the surface. A quick peek over her shoulder assured her the door was open. At least Carmen would hear her if she screamed.

  Where had that thought come from?

  Director Lohse may fire her, but he wouldn’t hurt her.

  His narrowed dark eyes flashed, and suddenly her fear didn’t seem so crazy. “I’m waiting for an answer, Shira.”

  “Not purposefully, no,” she answered, choosing her words carefully. “I am doing my best to verify all the information in the provenances you’ve provided, but there are some problems.”

  “I don’t want an explanation.” He stood, leaned his hands on the desk and loomed forward. Thank goodness, she had the desk as a buffer. “I want your assurance you will not say such a thing to a client again.”

  Now the words stuck in Shira’s throat. This wasn’t a promise she could make. Director Lohse had a good reputation, but, as of yet, she was unknown. It would take years for her to gain the clout and trust of the art world.

  He waited for her. As much as she wanted to speak, she couldn’t. Slowly, like a predator stalking its prey, he strolled around the desk until he could rest on the edge directly in front of her. So long, buffer. “Well?”

  “I—” Her voice trembled and she h
ad to start again. “I am committed to upholding the guidelines for curators. I will always do what is legal and right.”

  His smile, when it came, was so tight Shira worried his perfectly white teeth would crack from pressure. “You have work to do, Shira. I do not want to repeat this conversation. Consider this your first and final warning.”

  She wasn’t fired? The relief she should have felt, however, was absent. Was this the way it worked in auction houses and galleries? Had she been wholly unprepared for the pressure and drama that came with curating art collections?

  This should have been her dream job. She should have been happy.

  But she wasn’t.

  In all her life, she’d never had such a pit in her stomach. Nor had she experienced anything like the sense of dread that dogged her footsteps since those crates of art had arrived.

  4

  The Fourth Day

  “Do you need anything?”

  Shira glanced up through the curtain of her hair, blowing the black strands out of her face. “Help.”

  Carmen giggled and dragged a round stool next to her desk, the legs scraping against the concrete floor. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need sustenance, and coffee. Has the Posse Gallery called back?” A cup of coffee sat near her elbow, without thinking she lifted it to her lips and grimaced.

  “I’ll get you coffee!” Carmen leaned forward and swiped the cup from her hands. She muttered as she left, “Pathetic.”

  Shira smiled at Carmen’s retreating form before she turned her attention back to the provenance in front of her. Nearby, she’d placed the painting in question. It was a post-Impressionist work, allegedly a Gaugin, but for the life of her, she couldn’t find the stamp photographed in the provenance. The photo was grainy, and blurred. She read the provenance again. Sergei Ivanovich Shchukin. Pushkin Gallery.

  It was possible the stamp came off the work. Sighing, Shira left her office in search of another lamp. Perhaps she would find evidence of it with more light. There had to be something—glue, peeled paper—anything.