Where Truth Lies (7 page)
T
he man turned around, but instead of scurrying away as he had the previous night, he just stood there and gave her a long, appraising look.
“That’s a pretty good stance you have,” he said, not sounding the least bit concerned. “Ever thought of trying out for the majors?”
A comedian. And a bad one at that. “Move under that streetlight where I can see you.” She gave the shovel a shake. “And put your hands up in the air.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Cool as a cucumber, the stranger did as he was told. Grace estimated that he was between thirty-five and forty, with dark hair, eyes that watched her with undisguised amusement and a little lopsided smile that, at any other time, would have made her want to smile back. Not this time.
“Maybe you should put your weapon down before it misfires—”
“And maybe you should stop cracking jokes and take this situation a little more seriously.”
“Sorry.”
“Are you aware that breaking and entering is a crime?” Resting the shovel on her shoulders and holding it with one hand, she used the other to take her cell phone out of her bag. She hoped she hadn’t lost all credibility with the New Hope police department.
“I wasn’t breaking and entering.”
“You did last night. I have the bump to prove it.”
“I’m sorry about the bump, and the concussion, but the man who inflicted those injuries wasn’t me.”
Her finger above the nine key, she stopped. “How do you know about the concussion?”
“My father told me.” When she frowned, he added, “I’m Matt Baxter.”
The phone almost dropped out of her hand. Matt Baxter. The FBI agent.
“Is it safe for me to put my hands down?” he asked.
She let the shovel fall into the flower bed. “Yes. And you shouldn’t be sneaking around like that. It gives people the wrong idea.”
“I’m sorry if I frightened you. Can we start over?” He gave her a disarming grin. “Hi, I’m Matt Baxter.”
This time she did smile, and shook his hand. “Grace McKenzie.”
“I know. You’re the new owner of the Hatfield Gallery.”
“And you’re here to investigate Steven’s murder.”
“I would have told you that, if you had given me the chance.”
“What were you looking for?”
He leaned against the lamppost. “Any kind of evidence Steven’s killer may have left behind.”
“The police already did that. They found nothing.”
“With all due respect to our police department, the authorities are not always as thorough as someone who has a vested interest in breaking the case. Like me.”
“Does that mean that you found something?”
“Not out here.” Another charming smile. Denise hadn’t mentioned that smile when she had described him. “I was hoping you’d let me take a look inside.”
Charming
and
direct. A good combination. “Inside the gallery?”
“Is that a problem?”
She didn’t answer the question. “Sarah Hatfield had the entire place scrubbed clean.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“But you still want to take a look?”
“If you don’t mind.”
How could she mind? She would have done the same thing for her own father. And he seemed quite nice actually, not overbearing as she had expected him to be, but instead rather…humble. He was also very handsome—not that she was a pushover for good looks, but she wasn’t made of stone. She noticed those things, in spite of what Angie thought.
Without a word, she walked around the building and went to unlock the front door, moving aside to let him in. She got a whiff of his aftershave as he walked past her, a woodsy scent spiced with a hint of nutmeg. Nice.
He was a younger version of his father, whose photographs she had seen at the Baxters’ house, only better looking. His eyes were a deep blue, almost navy, and the light stubble of beard made him look rugged and sexy. He wore black cords, and a black leather bomber jacket over a cream shirt that was open at the neck.
“I understand that the man who broke in ransacked the back room,” he said.
“He didn’t exactly ransack it. He knocked a few paintings down. Everything else was undisturbed.”
“So it’s safe to say that he was looking for a particular painting?”
“That’s my guess. I haven’t had time to do a complete inventory yet, but as soon as I do, I should know which painting, if any, is missing.”
He pointed at the doorway behind the desk. “Is that the back room?”
“Yes.”
“May I?”
“Sure.” She went ahead of him and flipped the light switch.
He stood in the doorway, taking in the room’s contents in one swift glance before approaching the paintings, now neatly stacked against the wall. He studied each one for a few seconds. “Steven seemed to specialize in landscapes by local artists.”
“Mostly.”
“Did the police take all his files? Contracts, phone records, bills?”
“They took some, returned others.”
“His laptop?”
“Still at the police station. His cell phone, too.”
Her own phone rang. She selected a key from her key chain and held it out to him.
“What’s that?”
“The key to that file cabinet in the bottom of the desk.” She checked the caller ID. It was Angie. “I have to take this,” she said.
She moved to the far side of the showroom. “Hi, Ange.”
“Sorry it took me so long to get back to you. My computer crashed and I had to go to the museum to retrieve the information you needed.”
“Any luck?”
“The Arroyo exhibition you mentioned was held at the Griff in the spring of 2000. The painting in question,
Market Day,
was one of the forty-two paintings exhibited. It was owned at the time by a Ronald Sutherland, who loaned it to us along with two other Arroyos. Sutherland passed away about a year ago, so it’s possible that the painting was sold, either privately or at auction. I’ve been trying to contact his widow to find out more information for you, but Mrs. Sutherland is in Japan and won’t be back until after Thanksgiving.”
“Do you have any idea how much the painting is worth now?”
“At the time of the exhibition, it was listed at eighty-five thousand dollars. I checked with a friend in California, who specializes in western art. He told me that because
Market Day
is the last of a series, you could not buy it today for less than a hundred thousand dollars.
“Considering Arroyo’s popularity,” Angie continued. “I can’t imagine why anyone would sell it for less. Unless, of course, Steven or the dealer, or both, were interested in a quick sale.”
Grace saw Matt open a folder. “Thanks, Ange. You’re a doll.”
“Hey, hey, not so fast, girlfriend. How’s New Hope?”
Matt took his gaze off the file in time to meet Grace’s gaze. They smiled at each other. “Full of surprises,” she replied.
“Do tell.”
“Later. Good night, Angie. I owe you a dinner.”
“Just as long as you’re not planning on cooking it.”
“Smart-ass.”
She hung up and walked back to the desk. “Found anything yet?”
“Nothing of interest.” His eyes swept over an invoice. “How do you like running the Hatfield Gallery?”
“I haven’t had time to form an opinion. I’m not even open for business yet.”
“But you’ve been here before? When Steven was alive.”
She walked across the room and sat on the edge of the desk. “No.”
He closed a folder and opened another. “Tell me about the Griff. How long have you been there?”
“Four years.”
“And before that?”
“I spent three years with the Poltiss Foundation, where I worked as an archivist. And before that I worked at the Beacon Hill Gallery.”
He looked up, smiling. “Is that where you met Steven?”
“No. I met Steven in Philadelphia. We were both attending an auction. He was going to art school at the time, and after meeting me and spending a few weekends in Boston, he decided to transfer there.”
“Where you became engaged.”
She was impressed by how easily he could talk and work at the same time, especially as the work demanded focus. Grace suddenly realized that the friendly, seemingly harmless chitchat revolved entirely around her. Was he being polite or was it something more than that? Duplicating his innocent smile, she asked, “Why are you so interested?”
He shrugged. “The way you handled that intruder last night has made you somewhat of a celebrity, so naturally, I was curious.”
“Hmm, I don’t think so. You’re asking very specific questions.” She leaned over the desk. “Are you suspecting
me
of having killed Steven, Agent Baxter?”
“Not exactly.”
Well, he certainly didn’t mince his words. “What does that mean?”
“It means that I work backwards, eliminating people as I go until I’m left with the obvious. Don’t be offended. Put yourself in my place. Here you are, the dead man’s former fiancée and the unexpected heir to a valuable business. I don’t need to tell you that people have killed for less.”
“And I don’t need to tell you that federal agents aren’t always right.”
“That’s true. We make mistakes, like everyone else. I’d like to apologize for mine.”
She was much less offended than he seemed to think. The truth was, she had rather enjoyed this little banter. “Does that mean that I’ve been eliminated as a suspect?”
“Until you give me a reason to reinstate you.”
“In that case, apologies accepted.”
“Thank you. Will you let me make it up to you?”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Please, I insist. How about lunch tomorrow?”
He was a little too charming, a little too smooth, a little too quick on his feet, but he pulled it off very effectively. She said yes.
“T
hank you, Mrs. Vernon,” Grace said, walking her very first customer to the door. “Enjoy the painting.”
“Oh, I will.” The white-haired woman cast one last glance at the Arroyo Grace had placed on an easel, with the new price—one hundred thousand dollars—beside it. “And as I said, my husband is going to want to take a look at that painting. Eduardo Arroyo is one of his favorite artists, you know.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting Mr. Vernon. Do you need help with this?” Grace pointed at the package under the woman’s arm. “It’s raining pretty hard.”
“I’m fine. You’ve done an excellent job of wrapping it.”
Grace waited until her customer had secured the painting in the back of her station wagon before shutting the door. Her first client. She was proud of herself, not only because the gallery’s bank account would be a few thousand dollars richer, but because the Arroyo was already generating the interest it deserved.
She was sliding Mrs. Vernon’s check into the cash box when the gallery’s phone rang. She walked over to the desk to answer it. “Hatfield Gallery.”
She didn’t recognize the soft, almost timid voice of her caller, but recognized the name.
“This is Bernie Buckman,” the man said. “Denise Baxter told me I scared you last night. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“That’s very nice of you to say that, Bernie. It’s a shame that you didn’t come in last night. I would have loved to meet you. In fact, I have something here that belongs to you.”
“You do?” He sounded surprised.
“It’s a tackle box and a great selection of lures that Steven bought for you.”
He let a couple of seconds pass before asking, “Are you sure?”
“Very sure. Denise Baxter told me that Steven had planned to give it to you for your birthday. I’ll be glad to drop it off to you, if you’d like. You work at the cemetery, right?”
“You don’t have to come all the way here. I can stop by the gallery.”
“What about today? I close at six. Is that all right?”
“I clean offices at night and I don’t finish until about nine.”
“That’s not a problem. I’ll take the tackle box home with me and you can stop at the cottage. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then I’ll be expecting you tonight, after nine.”
“I’ll be there. Thank you, Miss McKenzie.”
“You’re welcome, Bernie.”
As soon as she hung up, the phone rang again.
“This is Victor Lorry,” the caller said rather bluntly.
Grace let out a sigh of relief. “Mr. Lorry. I’m so glad you called. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but Steven Hatfield passed away and—”
“I
am
aware of it.” Barely pausing, he added, “Did you sell the painting? Is that why you called?”
A man who didn’t waste words. She could appreciate that—to a certain extent. “Actually, I wanted to discuss the Arroyo with you.”
“What is there to discuss?”
“For one thing, it’s grossly underpriced.”
“How do you know? Are you an expert?”
His rudeness was beginning to grate on her nerves. “I’m a museum curator, Mr. Lorry, and while I’m not an expert in western art, I know people who are. That’s how I found out that
Market Day
is worth considerably more than what Steven Hatfield thought. I’ve already repriced it at one hundred thousand dollars.”
“You had no right to do that!” he barked.
Grace was taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, you had no right to do that. Steven already had a prospective buyer, for the agreed-to price. His name and phone number are in my files. All you have to do is contact the man and make the deal.”
“I’ve already called Mr. Lombardi. When I explained the situation to him, he said that he needed to think about it a little while longer.”
“Don’t hold your breath. He’s not going to buy it, not at that price.” He made an impatient sound with his tongue. “Look, I’ll stop by today and take the painting back.”
Grace was trying hard to remain calm and businesslike. “You can’t take it back, Mr. Lorry. Not yet anyway. The contract specifies that
Market Day
is on consignment until—”
“The contract was between Mr. Hatfield and me.”
“No. The contract is between you and the Hatfield Gallery. As the new owner, I—”
She never had a chance to finish her sentence. He had hung up.
Perplexed, she stared at the receiver for a few seconds before lowering it back into its cradle. In all the years she had worked with collectors and dealers, she had never come across one as rude as Victor Lorry. What was his problem? Why was he getting all worked up at the thought of making more money?
Grace’s stomach tightened as she recalled Angie’s comment.
“Unless of course, Steven or the dealer, or both, were interested in a quick sale.”
She could think of two reasons why a dealer would want to sell a painting quickly. The art work was either stolen or forged.
Trying not to jump to conclusions, she sat down and opened her laptop. The museum Web site had a code-restricted page that enabled authorized personnel to access a list of stolen art work. After entering the password, Grace scrolled down the list. The names of stolen art, their value and the date they were stolen slowly unrolled in front of her eyes.
Market Day
was not listed.
Troubled, she logged off and went to stand in front of the painting, considering the second possibility. Even under close scrutiny, she couldn’t tell if
Market Day
was the real thing or not. But although western art was not her specialty, she knew certain things about Eduardo Arroyo. He had been a meticulous artist, paying extraordinary attention to details until the people in his paintings looked so real, they could have walked off the canvas.
She saw that quality now. She saw it in the finely crafted Aztec jewelry spread out on the colorful blankets, in the merchants’ faces as they sat in the shade of the arcades and in the sun-baked roughness of the unpaved village square.
Conflicted and uncertain, she let her fingertips trail over the painting. How could such exquisite work be the product of a forger?
