The Artful Goddaughter (3 page)

“Hold the painting under the light, Nico. I want to check something.”

Nico did as told. I trained my loupe on a certain spot.

“Shit. It's not there.” I said a few more bad words as I straightened.

“What's not there, Gina?” Nico carefully placed the painting face up on the counter.

“Seb always put a little sign on his copies. A secret mark. He showed me years ago.”

Nico caught my excitement. “Let me guess. You can't find it? It isn't there?”

I shook my head, gulping down bile. “This painting is the real thing.”

FOUR

“S
o…that means the one in the art gallery…”

“Is a fake. Crap.”

We stood in silence for a moment.

“How much would it be worth, Gina?”

I sighed. “Not sure. Less than a Chagall, but probably still a lot. Why don't you look it up while I take another look, to be sure?”

Nico whipped out his smartphone.

Click click click click
.

“Okay. Checking Wikipedia…no, here's a Google link that looks good. It says the last Kugel sold for over a million.”

A million. Great-Uncle Seb had left me a hot painting that might be worth over a million? “I think my heart is going to stop,” I said.

“Thing is, you have to keep it hidden, don't you? Or sell it on the black market?”

Visions of prison cells danced in my head.

“Of course, if you really don't want the problem, you could always burn it.”

“Oh God, I couldn't do that,” I said. “It's a real Kugel! Burning it would be a sin against humanity. I'd go to hell.”

Like I wasn't already going there. I tried not to think about that.

Nico shrugged. “Then I really don't see that you have any choice. You just hide the thing away.”

I had to agree. But I couldn't stop wondering, How did the fake get there in the first place?

“So what do you think happened, Nico? You think the one in the art gallery was painted by Seb? And somebody made a switch way back?”

He frowned. “Probably somebody donated the Kugel to the gallery. And maybe they had Seb paint a fake before the presentation. To replace it in their home. Maybe he made two copies.”

“And then the fake ended up in the gallery instead of the real one. How he managed that, I don't know.”

“'Cept he was really good, right? Maybe he couldn't part with the real. Or maybe he just wanted to see if he could fool the experts.”

I threw myself down in a client chair and groaned. “That sounds more like it. Most of his work was for private clients. He'd get a kick out of seeing his work in the gallery.”

My cell started chiming “Shut Up and Drive.” It was Sammy.

“There's been a new development. I've been talking to Paulo about the will.”

My cousin Paulo is now a hotshot lawyer.

“Seb left you some money too. Real stuff, in the bank,” he said.

“He did?” I was touched. Money was nice. Even better than a painting. I could actually use money. I wouldn't even have to hide it.

“Thing is, there's a catch.”

I stiffened. There was always a catch in this family. WHY did there always have to be a catch?

Sammy continued. “It's about the painting. Odd as it may seem, the old guy was developing a conscience. You wouldn't think it to look at him.”

Now I was on my feet. “Oh no. Not the painting. Not—”

“Paulo says there's a line on the brown paper on the back of the picture. Slit it. Look for an envelope or something. That should explain it.”

The phone went dead.

“CRAP,” I hollered. I reached for the painting and turned it over.

“What was that all about?” Nico asked.

I waved my right hand at him. “Hand me your knife.”

I knew he would have one. All the men in our family carry folding knives. Some are bigger than others.

He opened it and handed it to me. I carefully slit the brown paper backing along the line. Then I handed the knife back to him.

“What are you doing?” Nico said, flicking the knife closed.

My two fingers just barely fit in the slit without ripping it. They grasped a single piece of paper.

“Seb left me a message.” I carefully pulled out my fingers with the paper sandwiched between them.

My hand trembled. With a sick feeling, I flipped over the paper. The note was addressed to me. I read it out loud.

Dear Gina,

If you're reading this, I've already gone to
that big social club in the sky.

I've left you my estate, with a condition. I need you to do something for me.

Put this painting back where it belongs. It's been bugging me. I promised Father
O'Shaughnessy I would make it right.

You'll know what to do. You're the one with
the brains.

When the painting is back, tell Paulo and
Sammy. Then the money is yours.

I'm betting on you.

Love you, sweetheart. Take care of Nico
and Tiffany.

Seb

The paper fell from my hand and drifted to the floor.

“Cool,” was all Nico said. “His last practical joke.”

I stared at the pretty blue walls of the shop. I tried to focus on the stunning Murano glass sculptures on the shelves behind the counter.

Nothing worked to calm me down. So I picked up the phone and called Paulo. He answered on first ring.

I didn't bother with pleasantries. “How much is Seb's estate worth?” I said.

Paulo sighed. “Figured it would be you. Close to two mil, including the property.”

Sweat gathered on my forehead.

“That son of a bitch,” I muttered.

“You said it,” Paulo said. He sounded amused. “Usually, you have to count your fingers after shaking hands with our relatives. But with Seb, you had to watch your back. Gotta run. See you and the Lone Rearranger at the visitation.”

The phone went dead.

I glanced over at Nico, aka the Lone Rearranger. He was looking expectant.

“Hold on a sec,” I muttered.

Something was bothering me. This wasn't the whole story, I was sure. Seb was trickier than that. I punched Sammy's number again.

“What happens if I don't do the job?”

“The whole wad goes to someone else. That is, if they manage to get the job done.”

“WHO?”

He told me.

Very bad words came out of my mouth. More very bad words.

“Why? Why would he do that to me?”

“Seb had great faith in your brains, sugar. And he really wanted to put things right. He may have thought you would be a little reluctant to take on another job. So he provided an incentive.”

I swore again. “One he knew would work, the son of a bitch.”

“Hey. Watch the language, Gina. Ol' Seb is dead now, poor stiff.”

“Yeah, and if he wasn't dead now, he soon would be. I'd be up for murder, not just theft.”

“So you'll do it?” Sammy said.

My mind was whirling like a tornado. Was I going to let Carmine and Joey and Bertoni scoop my inheritance? Those losers? Joey and Bertoni had made my life hell in what Pete likes to call
The Great Shoe
Fiasco
. Carmine had damn near ruined my reputation last month in the Lone Rearranger burglaries.

I would eat bugs before letting them get a single penny.

“I'll do it,” I mumbled and hung up.

I'd break into the art gallery and do the deed or die trying. I'd break into freaking Fort Knox if it meant stopping Carmine from getting a cent of that boodle.

When I told Nico, he cluck-clucked. Then he tried to belay my doubts.

“Do you really think the cops care about stolen art? I read something about that once. Or maybe I saw it on television. Cops don't want to spend their time retrieving trinkets for rich guys who can afford to buy anything they want. They'd much rather track down murderers and rapists. I think it's quite noble of them, really.”

“Of course you do,” I said. “I'll remind you of that when they throw us in the slammer.”

Nico chortled. “You're so funny, Gina.”

More to the point, I was seriously nuts.

FIVE

T
he next morning, I had a lot of paperwork to do. I needed to get real work done before I could start to think about this latest development. At least, that's what I tried to tell myself. So I stayed at home in my condo while Tiff managed the store.

Aunt Miriam was the first to call. “The visitation for family is Friday night. Public visitation is Saturday. You don't have to go to that. We're holding back the funeral until Monday, so all the out-of-towners can fly in for it.”

I swallowed. “The Sicilian connection?” We only saw them at funerals.

“Make sure you wear black.” She hung up to continue the phone chain.

Around noon, my cell rang again. I answered without looking at the number.

“It's Pete.” He didn't sound happy.

“Hi. Do you want to meet me for—?”

“Stop talking, Gina. Just listen.” His voice was cold. “I'm at the police station. You're my one call.”

Crap
. “What the—?”

“Get your lawyer cousin over here. I'm going to need him.”

Breathe, Gina! Breathe
.

“What's the charge?” I said.

“Passing counterfeit money.”

Crap, crap, crap
. I started to hyperventilate.

I phoned Paulo. He answered in one ring.

Paulo would get him off, I had no qualms about that. The money looked old. He could have got it anywhere.

While I was waiting, I phoned Sammy on the burner phone.

“I'm off the grid,” I said in almost a hiss. “Pete got busted passing the phonies.”

“Heard about it,” Sammy said. “Don't sweat it, Gina. We're moving it out of The Hammer.”

I was storming. “Pete thinks I've gone straight!” Could this be more screwed up?

Silence. “Sweetheart, he ain't that dumb.”

I hung up the phone. No, that's a lie. I threw it across the room.

Paulo got him out in less than an hour. They both arrived at my condo, looking grim. On Paulo, that's an unusual expression because he prides himself on looking drop-dead gorgeous. On Pete, it was more usual. At least, where my family was concerned.

“Why the hell did you get involved in this, Gina? You know better,” Paulo said.

“I didn't do anything!” Paulo is my much older cousin. I always seem to revert to fourteen years old when he's around.

“Passing counterfeit fives.” Paulo waved a hand through the air. “That's kid's play. Not worth it.”

My mouth went dry.

Paulo shook his head. Not a hair fell out of place. “At least they were lousy copies. Even the cops could see that. When they tried to say it was family business, I pointed out we would never make anything so lousy. It was a matter of pride.”

He made for the fridge and took out a bottle of water. “They bought it, of course.”

Phew
. I turned to Pete. “You picked those up where?”

Not that I didn't already know.

Pete hadn't said a word up until now. He just pointed to the counter.

“Crap,” I said. “You weren't supposed to use those.”

“I was out of cash,” he said dryly. “I took two. Exactly two. For coffee.”

“So I'm guessing here. Sammy?” Paulo leaned back against the counter and took a swig from the bottle. “The Canton connection?”

I nodded.

“Shit. I told him not to go offshore.
Everyone's doin' it
, he said.
Gotta get with the
times
. I told him it was sloppy not to oversee your own operations.” Paulo took another swig. “So how did they end up here?”

I decided to tell the truth. Paulo is a lawyer, after all. He has ways of getting you to fess up. “Mario stole my credit card number again, so Sammy threw me a wad as recompense.”

“Mario stole your credit card?” Pete was puzzled.

“The number. It was a mistake,” I grumbled.

“Shit. He's got to stop messing up like that,” Paulo said. “Stole mine last month. He's becoming a liability.”

“Mario's into identity theft?” Pete's voice again, more strident this time.

Pete and I looked at each other. He stood tall and broadshouldered and very pissed. His fair hair was somewhat disheveled. His face was hard. Damn. One look at that man always did something to my insides.

“I'm outta here.” Paulo capped the water bottle and pointed to the door. “We never had this conversation.”

We never do.

The door slammed shut.

Pete stared at me. I winced. His hazel eyes were usually warm and soft when they looked at me. Not at the moment.

“Burn it! I was going to burn it all,” I explained, throwing my arms around.

He marched past me into the dining area and went directly to the liquor cabinet. This is usually a bad sign. He never marches past me without grabbing me for a hug.

He grabbed a bottle of single malt, opened it and chugged it straight from the bottle. Another bad sign.

I spent the next ten minutes explaining.

In the end, he was laughing. That's what I love about Pete (along with a thousand other things). He has a great sense of humor. All right, twisted. You have to be twisted to stay sane in this family.

“Let me get this straight. They're laundering money with counterfeit bills from China. But first, they launder the bills to make them look old. Did Sammy get them washed in a Chinese laundry?”

Okay, so that's what he was snickering about.

“Nuts, I know! Importing counterfeit bills from offshore. What is this country coming to? It's a disgrace, I tell you. A national disgrace.” I had the nerve to smile.

He cocked his head. “So what do we do with this monopoly money now?”