The Art Forger (24 page)

I shake my head to clear it. “One of my Repro teachers once said that only the bad forgeries have been discovered because the good ones are hanging on museum walls.”

Aiden chuckles. “Guess you’re in good company.”

Of course, this isn’t my first time. “So does this lessen our exposure?”

Aiden turns toward the main room of the gallery. “Do you want to hang the paintings in a linear loop around the open gallery? Each alone in its own space? Or maybe we should bring in the transportable walls so people can feel visually and emotionally surrounded?”

But, for once, I’m not interested in discussing my show. “Does this make it better or worse for us?”

He sighs. “I’m not going to lie to you. They’re going to be all over Patel. Looking for evidence. Clues to where the other paintings might be. Trying to make a deal for information.” He pauses. “Have you ever been fingerprinted?”

I shake my head no.

“Good.”

“You?”

He, too, shakes his head. “It’s okay, Claire. The odds are in our favor. Chances are we’re going to be fine.”

I don’t say anything, but I’m thinking that denial is a beautiful thing. Until it isn’t.

T
HE PUBLIC IMAGINATION
is captured, and their desire for information on
After the Bath,
the heist, Edgar Degas, and all things Gardner is insatiable. The media is, of course, more than happy to fill the void.

I was just a kid when the robbery occurred, and despite growing up outside Boston and going to school here, I knew few of the details. I, of course, knew that in the middle of the night, two men dressed as police officers handcuffed and bound two inexperienced guards and stole thirteen works, including Rembrandt’s
Storm on the Sea of Galilee,
Vermeer’s
The Concert,
and, of course, Degas’
After the Bath.
That until now, and despite thousands of hours of police work and a $5 million reward, none of the artworks have been found.

In the last few days I’ve learned that one of the guards was stoned, that an experienced guard had called in sick at the last moment, that the thieves drove up in a rusted-out hatchback, spent only about an hour in the museum, and then loaded their loot into the back of the car and drove away.

I’ve also learned that the museum had no insurance, that the guards were really night watchmen, more concerned with protecting the building from fire and leaky pipes than theft. That when one of the thieves told a guard if he didn’t give them any problems he wouldn’t be hurt, the guard replied, “Don’t worry, they don’t pay me enough to get hurt.” That was probably the stoned one.

Suspects include everyone from the Boston mafia to the Irish Republican Army, internationally known art thieves, local thugs, crooked cops, ex-museum employees, and even the Catholic Church. All of them, even those in prison, on the lam, or in their graves, are back, dead center. Unfortunately for Aiden and me, so are a host of new leads. The journalist, cop, or FBI agent who cracks this case is looking at long-term fame and fortune. It’s exhilarating stuff. And it scares the shit out of me.

I sit in front of the oven watching
Doors
bake even though I’m supposed to be painting the midranges of
Old North.
I force myself to stand and walk over to
Old North.
I pick up a brush and my palette, but my eyes stray over to the bed, and I think about taking a nap.

After acknowledging that the authentication puts us in more danger, Aiden returned to reminding me to assume the best until we know the worst. But now my sleeping-to-the-top concerns are superseded by the notion that if we appear romantically entwined we’ll be perceived as entwined in everything else. I make up excuses to avoid being in public together, even to being seen going in and out of each other’s apartments. Explanations are easy because of my impending deadline, but Aiden’s taking notice.

“I understand how busy you are, the pressure you’re under,” he says when he calls that evening to say good night. “I know more than anyone, but you can’t stay cooped up in your studio. It’s not good for you. Or for your career. Think of it as your job: You need to make contacts, get out there and network. The opening’s in just over a month. The press releases are going out tomorrow. You need to start promoting the show, the new work.”

“I thought that was your job.”

“It’s yours, too. There’s a fundraiser at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel this weekend, which will be your perfect entrée. It’s a day after the press release and—”

“I don’t want to start with something that major. All those people who know my history will never—”

“It’s not an official art bash. It’s a Halloween party for the national gay marriage initiative, so it’ll be a good mix. A good place to start.”

“Costumes?”

He laughs. “It would be a shame to cover your beautiful face, but yes, Claire, everyone will be in costume.”

This is a plus.

“This melodrama about us not being seen together is a bunch of crap,” he continues. “And anyway, we’ve got a business reason to be there: dealer and artist.”

“Can’t we wait until after the opening?”

Silence on the other end.

“All right, all right,” I finally say. “I’ll go. Fine.”

“And between now and then, get yourself out and into the air, away from all that paint and turpentine. Not to mention the formaldehyde.”

“Formaldehyde’s a preservative. It’s keeping me young.”

“I doubt that,” he says dryly.

“You used to think I was funny.”

“You used to be.”

F
INDING A DECENT
costume on the day before Halloween is no easy task. Of course, the drugstores are packed with plastic Spidermans, Cinderellas, and Harry Potters, but I’m guessing none of these are appropriate for a $500-a-plate fundraiser. There’s no costume store in walking distance, and after a visit to a couple of vintage clothing shops, I come up empty. So I rush back to CVS for a poufy white wig and a heavily feathered Mardi Gras mask on a stick, then buy a slinky, secondhand dress on my way home.

As I walk up to the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in my sort-of new dress, wig and mask in hand, I wonder why I didn’t get something like the robot or dinosaur. Some assembly was required, but the result would have been a box over my head. If no one recognizes me, no one can snub me. And why didn’t I let Aiden pick me up as he’d offered? It seemed noble to refuse at the time, as he lives only a few blocks from the hotel and I live about twenty, but now the idea of walking in alone is far from appealing. I check the bag to assure myself the mask is inside.

I’ve never been to the Mandarin before, and I’m blown away by the lobby. It’s full of subtle but powerful Asian influences: silk wall coverings over Jerusalem limestone, exquisite furniture of inlaid wood, lacquered bamboo, glass, and mother-of-pearl. And the artwork. Incredible. Two colorful, hand-painted lithographs by Frank Stella frame the entrance, and a Terry Rose triptych hangs over the front desk. On my right is an unusual David Hockney,
Deux,
in which he used muted colors to create Picasso-like figures. To my left, over the fireplace, is David Mann’s
The Given,
a commanding, almost three-dimensional, black-and-red abstraction that brings to mind the Big Bang.

I spend more time than I should admiring the art, then stop in the bathroom to put on my Halloween accessories. As planned, I’m an hour late. Once I’m coiffed and masked, I wend my way through the hotel in search of the ballroom. This place could double as a museum: ten Terry Winters’s shadowgraph images, framed with bamboo-textured mats, rise two-by-two up a tall stairwell; Judith Brust’s
Life Line #3
hangs on the second-floor landing.

I hear the party before I see it and pause to collect myself. My palms are damp, and I’m afraid the hand holding the mask will shake. I remind myself that I’ve done more difficult things before, for instance, telling Karen Sinsheimer that I painted
4D.
Although this probably isn’t a good choice as it wasn’t one of my wiser decisions. Still, I raise the mask and step into the ballroom.

It’s a wild scene. Sexy cops and naughty nurses. Pirates and cavemen and Greek goddesses. Homer Simpson, Harry Potter, Indiana Jones, Tiger Lily, Shrek, and the Joker. Nefertiti and Cleopatra. Of course, given the cause, Cleopatra is a man and Indiana Jones a woman. Other cross-dressers are decked out in full Miss America regalia, and a good percentage of the men are buff, oiled, and underclothed. A lot of the women are, too. I’d bet my show that not a single costume comes from a drugstore.

The cocktail hour appears to be shifting into dinner, and I look around for Aiden. He’s coming as Professor Henry Higgins, and his tux should be easy to find amid all these revealing costumes. But before I can find him, George Kelly, my museum school drawing professor, sidles up to me. He’s dressed in an army uniform that’s at least a couple sizes too small, perhaps his own from many years earlier.

“Claire Roth,” George exclaims. “Don’t you look fabulous. I heard about your show at Markel G, and I couldn’t be happier for you.”

I lower my mask, stunned.

Right behind him is a 1920s-era gangster, aka Sandra Stoneham’s friend Professor Zimmern, director of the Sculpture Department. He takes my hand. “We are so proud of you, Claire. Nothing better than one of our own coming into her own.”

I never took sculpture and knew Zimmern only by sight, and George was one of the first to take a stand against me when the news of
4D
broke. I remind myself that I’m here to network and accept their congratulations with the appropriate self-deprecation.

Professor Henry Higgins comes toward us with his slicked-back hair and high-collared tux; there’s even a faint resemblance to Rex Harrison. Aiden takes my hand, kisses it. “And don’t you look fetching tonight, my dear,” he says in a proper English accent.

I introduce the three professors to each other. George and Zimmern flutter a bit of suck-up, then back off.

“Hope to see you at Claire’s opening,” Aiden calls after them.

George snaps an awkward salute. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“See,” Aiden says, as he leads me to our table. “You’re a natural at promotion.”

“They came up to me, congratulated me.”

“They won’t be the only ones.”

And Aiden’s right. It’s as if this very evening, in this very ballroom, I’ve burst from the cocoon I entered as the abhorred into a world where I’m now the adored. It’s quite disconcerting, and at first I don’t know how to handle it, but halfway through dinner, I’ve become confident and loquacious. The Great Pretender is banished. And no one appears to be aware that Aiden and I are anything other than colleagues. By the time the seven-layer, chocolate-and-white-mousse cake is served, I’m having more fun than I’ve had in years.

Two hands cover my eyes. “Guess who?”

I recognize the voice immediately, jump up from the table, and throw my arms around Rik, who’s dressed as a French artist, beret and all. “I thought you were in Paris for another week,” I cry, and give him a kiss.

“Just got in an hour ago. Rushed right over.” He glances at Aiden. “Didn’t expect to see you here though . . .” The question hangs in the air.

“Did I get the dates wrong?” I ask quickly. “Were you due home today?”

“When all this stuff started breaking at the Gardner,” he explains, “I worked my tight little buns off so I wouldn’t miss any more of the drama than I already had.” He gives me a big kiss on the lips. “
After the Bath,
Bear, can you believe it?”

Aiden stands and sticks his hand out to Rik. “Aiden Markel,” he says. “You must be the famous Rik.”

Rik looks from Aiden to me, and his eyes widen. “Not very famous, I’m afraid.”

“Famous to Claire,” Aiden says. “Pull up a chair and join us.”

When Rik sets his chair down behind us, we both push outward, apart, so he can get closer to the table. “And the Gardner plot thickens,” Rik says.

“What thickens?” I demand at the same time that Aiden asks calmly, “How so?”

Again Rik looks from me to Aiden and then back to me. Others may have been fooled, but he doesn’t miss a thing.

The food I just ate feels like a block of cement in my stomach. “Have you got some inside info?” I wink at him. “Do tell.”

Rik leans in. “It hasn’t been released to the press yet, but according to the grapevine, this guy Patel is going to plead not guilty to the charges and agree to be extradited to Boston for trial.”

I don’t immediately know whether this is good or bad news for us. It takes all my effort not to look at Aiden.

“Is that bizarre?” Aiden asks, his voice as unruffled as if he were discussing the quality of the seven-layer cake. “Isn’t that the way it usually goes?”

“That’s not the bizarre part,” Rik says.

I try to look casual, interested, but not overly so.