The Art Forger (42 page)

I pull out an ear plug. “What?”

“Curators got all the crap out, and we brought in some new equipment. Smaller and about ten times as powerful. It’s cutting right through.” He slices his hand from side to side. “Like butter.”

I only catch a few of the words, but I get the gist. This could be it.

He leans in close and yells in my ear. “We might reach the chamber today.”

“Today?” I lean against a dusty pole for support. Within Aiden’s window.

“We’ll bring in lunch, dinner if we need to,” he yells. “You want turkey or roast beef?”

Seven hours later, a gaping hole in the concrete frames a set of double doors. It’s well after six, and the jackhammers and workmen are gone. Lyons and I stand in the sub-basement, watching a janitor clear the last of the debris from the bottom of the doors. Alana, who has refused to look at or speak to me all day, a woman with a video camera, and two other FBI agents watch, too. The silence is deafening.

It’s been a long afternoon, and I’m sweating in the cool room, longing for this torture to end. As I’m sure everyone else is. We’re all exhausted, but no one considers leaving.

The janitor hits the lock holding the doors together with a hammer. It doesn’t budge. He grabs a chisel and hacks at the rust immobilizing the lock. For a moment, I’m thrown back to the afternoon Aiden and I used chisels and hammers to open his box. Pandora’s box.

The janitor is at it for a long time. Alana paces in the small space and asks if he wants more help, better tools. He says he’s got what he needs, that it’s a one-man job. She paces some more, then asks again. Same answer.

Finally, between the chiseling and hammering, the lock breaks open. Lyons and the other agents climb through the hole; between the three of them, they manage to pull the doors apart.

There’s silence as they stand before the open doorway, their shoulders and heads blocking our view.

“What?” Alana cries. “Is it there?”

I try to speak, but nothing comes out.

The men exchange a glance, then separate and move to the edges of the room.

Now it’s our turn to stand in silence. Aside from some rocks and piles of dust, the chamber is empty.

Forty-nine

Last night, as we left the museum, Lyons informed me that I was now an official person of interest in the Gardner heist, claiming I attempted to divert his attention away from my guilt with a “scam” about a hidden painting. Mike confirmed this when he called to tell me that Agent Lyons “requests my presence” at his office at four o’clock this afternoon. He also reminded me of the probable cause hearing at eight Monday morning. As if I could forget.

I blew it. Failed to save Aiden. Got myself in worse trouble. And disappointed a lot of people who wanted the best for me. Not to mention the distress I brought to all the art lovers devastated by the loss, once again, of Degas’
After the Bath.
It’s early, but I head out to the jail. I need to tell Aiden the bad news myself. It’s the least I can do.

Aiden doesn’t bother to hide his pleasure at seeing me, doesn’t tell me to leave. He anxiously studies my face.

My eyes meet his, and I know that what we’re about to lose is greater than either of us thought. “I’m, I’m so sorry,” I manage to whisper.

He closes his eyes. “You couldn’t find any connection to the forger? No leads to the original painting?”

I can only shake my head, afraid that if I speak, I’ll burst into tears. He doesn’t need that from me now.

“I wasn’t going to give it back,” he says, before I can tell him the details of my fiasco.

It’s a total non sequitur. “Give what back?”

“Remember I told you about collectors? How they grow obsessive? How the desire to possess overtakes all reason?”

I flash back to Sandra Stoneham saying something similar, and for a moment, I think he’s referring to her. But that doesn’t make any sense either. Then I realize he’s talking about himself. “
Bath
?”

“When the sellers came to me to broker the painting, I, of course, assumed it was the original. As I’m sure they did. And it was just like I told you that first day, I said no, but then started thinking about her, started pining for her, then craving her. I wanted her for my own more than anything I’d ever wanted in my life. Degas’
After the Bath.
In my own collection. The pinnacle.”

“The pinnacle,” I repeat, trying to get a grip on what he’s saying.

“At first, I couldn’t figure out how to make it happen.” He looks down at his right hand, plays with the adhesive tape. “These aren’t the kind of men you want to mess with.”

I struggle to understand what he’s telling me. “And, and that’s when you decided to come to me?” I shake my head as if denying my own words. “You mean like, like Ely Sakhai? The double forgery?”

“I saw the article about Reproductions.com in the
Globe.
The one with your picture and the stuff about you being a Degas expert.”

“You never liked my windows.” My voice is dull with shock. After Mike’s call this morning, I assumed things couldn’t get any worse.

“No, no, that’s not true. I just came that day to check it out. To see if it might be possible. Then when I saw the Degas you’d painted for Repro and your incredible windows, I realized I might just be able to pull it off.”

“You never considered returning it to the Gardner.”

He refuses to meet my eye. “I was pretty sure if I told you the truth, you wouldn’t go along.”

“You got that right.”

“When we started seeing each other, and the work you were producing was so astonishing, I wanted to tell you the truth. But we were getting along so well, having so much fun.” He clears his throat. “I was afraid of losing you, of you refusing to do the show.”

“What about when I realized you weren’t returning the painting to the Gardner? What were you going to do then? Shoot me?”

“Of course not,” he exclaims, a hurt look on his face.

Then I understand, see it in all its brilliant ghastliness. “You were going to blackmail me . . . You figured I’d be in too deep to be able to tell anyone . . . Aiden,” my voice breaks, “how could you have even thought of such a thing? After, after all we’ve been to—”

“I never thought we’d fall in love,” he says, desperation coating his voice. “That was never part of the plan. But when we did, I thought, I hoped, I guess, that you’d forgive me. That maybe we could enjoy her together.”

It’s as if a corkscrew is twisting in my gut, spewing fury and pain outward to every part of me. I stare at him hopelessly.

“Claire, please don’t look like—”

“So you were lying to me the whole time?”

His eyes flash with a slyness I’ve never seen before. “Seems like the same could be said for you.”

I
STUMBLE OUT
of the jail, trying to grasp the implications of Aiden’s admission. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe his crazed motivation. And I can’t believe I never questioned his original story. This is a man willing to lose a finger rather than sell a painting in his collection. I knew this about him and still never guessed.

I’m a dupe, and he’s a madman. We both deserve whatever we get. Perhaps we even deserve each other. But that’s never going to happen. Never, never, never. I’m so furious, both at him and at myself, I can’t even cry. It was all a lie. His lies. My lies. Our hubris and ambition. The insanity of the artist as equal to the insanity of the collector.

Once a piece of art crawls into your heart, you’ll never let it go,
Sandra Stoneham said. She couldn’t be more right. It’s as if she were speaking with Aiden in mind. I lean up against the prison façade and close my eyes against a powerful wave of grief.

Then my eyes spring open. Sandra didn’t have Aiden in mind. She was talking about herself.

I
TAKE THE
T out to Brookline. When I ring Sandra’s bell, she answers in her bathrobe, her hair uncombed and looking a lot thinner than usual. Clearly not expecting guests. “Claire,” she cries, as she bustles me into her apartment. “What are you doing here so early? Is everything all right?”

I glance at Amelia’s portrait across the entryway, and force myself not to look at the double doors leading into the parlor, although I register that, as usual, they are closed with the key in the lock. “I came to apologize,” I say. “I screwed up, lied to you, had to give something of yours away.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m not writing a book on Belle, and the FBI has that sketchbook I borrowed the other day. I don’t know if you’ll ever get it back.”

Sandra twists the belt of her bathrobe into a tighter knot. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I’m probably going to be arrested this afternoon.”

She studies me, but I don’t see any of the anger I expect, just curiosity and sympathy. “Well,” she finally says, “come on in, and I’ll make us some hot tea. Maybe I can help.” She heads toward the kitchen.

Part of me wants to follow her, to bury myself in her warmth and grandmotherly ways, to believe what I don’t think I can believe anymore. I step up to the double doors. Reach for the key holding them together.

“What are you doing?” Sandra screams, racing back down the hallway to me. “Get away from there. Stop!”

But of course, I don’t. I turn the key and push the doors apart.

My first image is of corals, blues, and greens leaping from a painting over the fireplace. I step in and raise my eyes to the canvas. In the same way I knew in my gut that Aiden’s
Bath
wasn’t real the first moment I saw her, I know that this one is. And, of course, I recognize it.

For, there she hangs, Degas’
After the Bath,
her light and life forever casting Rendell’s forgery in shadow. And while Simone and Jacqueline are identical to Rendell’s women, Françoise is not. She’s seated as she was in Degas’ compositional sketches, rendering the painting asymmetrical. But even more significant, not only is she Not-Françoise: She is Belle. And she is nude.

Behind me, Sandra begins to cry quietly. I look around the grand room. It’s completely empty but for this single painting and a lone armchair sitting in front of it.

Epilogue

SIX MONTHS LATER

It’s just as I imagined: laughter and bright swirls of color, champagne and the giddy scent of expensive perfume. Not to mention lots of air kisses. For here I stand, in Markel G, at the opening of my first one-woman show. I say first because I’ve been asked to do two more. One at the Royal Academy of Arts in London and the other at a Tokyo gallery whose name I can’t pronounce. From pariah to darling in less than a year. A heady accomplishment, but one that gives me pause.

The place is packed and five of the paintings have red dots next to them. The reviews are fabulous, the buyers lining up, the curators fawning, and suddenly it looks as if I might really be on my way. Someone to be feted and petted and asked for favors. I’d let it all go to my head if I didn’t know where it came from. The media is always commenting on how unpretentious and down-to-earth I am. I suppose that’s one way to put it.

As I walk through the crush, I see faces I know, faces I don’t, and faces I recognize who now recognize me. I’m pulled from every direction, photographed until I can’t see anything beyond the reflected light in my eyes.

Professor Zimmern kisses me on both cheeks. “Which is more fantastic, this show or how it all came down? Sandra Stoneham, of all people. I’ve known her for years. Who would have thought?” Then he grins. “But I guess you did.”

Zimmern, of course, is referring to the return of Degas’
After the Bath,
which now hangs, brilliant and proud, in the Short Gallery, summoning people from around the world and increasing the Gardner’s traffic threefold. The museum had planned a gala installation, not reinstallation, for Belle’s birthday on April 4, but the painting wasn’t hung until June.

And it wasn’t because of Sandra Stoneham. That morning in the parlor, she explained to me that
After the Bath
was the only item she had of her Aunt Belle’s, that she knew it was wrong to keep it, but that her mother and grandmother had ordered her to. “And I wanted it for myself,” she admitted. “I sit in here all the time, taking her in, loving the fact that she’s mine and nobody else’s.”

“Your mother and grandmother?” I asked.

“Grandmother Amelia had promised Aunt Belle she would bring the painting up from the basement and hang it in the Short Gallery after she died, but when the museum’s director was so nasty and withholding, Grandmother decided to keep it instead. Our secret family legacy, which she passed to my mother, who passed it to me with the stipulation it must never go to the Gardner.”

“To punish the museum or to hide Belle’s nudity?”

“A bit of both,” Sandra said, with a wistful smile. “But I suppose that’s all over now.”

Sandra gave up the painting willingly, said she was actually relieved, and the Gardner didn’t press charges. It was clear from Belle’s will that
After the Bath
belonged to the museum, but neither the board of directors nor the FBI had the stomach to indict an eighty-two-year-old woman who claimed to be the last living descendent of Isabella Stewart Gardner.