Framed (6 page)

Chapter Seven

Just after noon, Yaneque Duprey glided in the back door, calling out a cheerful hello to announce her presence. Elsie liked the courier. She was tall and slightly built, graceful yet efficient in her movements. Her coffee-brown skin glowed with confidence, and she wore her hair in elaborate cornrows that trailed off into long, thin braids. Today the braids were caught up into an elegant knot and held in place with a brightly-colored clip at the back of her head.

“Hi, Yaneque,” Elsie greeted her. “Sue is just getting the mats bagged up for you. How are things with you? Business good?”

“Fine, thanks. When I got the second car and hired a helper a couple of years ago, I wasn’t sure I’d have enough work for us both, but we’re busy all the time. I’m starting to think of getting a third car and driver, but we’re not quite there yet.” She smiled, revealing even white teeth with a gap between the incisors. She had confided once that her dentist wanted to put braces on her teeth, to close up the gap. Yaneque had been adamant she wouldn’t do it; an old African tradition held that such a gap was a “god-hole,” a mark of special favor, and some believed those who were blessed with one had special powers. “Like the people who have ‘the Sight’?” Ginny had asked. “Something like that,” Yaneque had replied, without explaining any further.

“Would you have to give up driving, if you had that many cars on the road?” Elsie asked.

“Sometimes I think I should give it up now. The paperwork takes so much time!” Yaneque answered. “I’d hate to, though. I like being out and about.”

“Even in the winter?” Elsie hated winter driving and couldn’t imagine anyone enjoying it. She reddened, embarrassed at referring to that long-ago accident. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to bring that up.”

Yaneque was not offended. “Even in the winter. I like a challenge. Since I don’t remember anything about the accident, it’s never bothered me much.”

“Really?” Sue walked in from the joining room, toting the package of mats. “I knew someone who had meningitis once. She collapsed at a firehouse picnic and forgot most of the next month. But eventually she got back most of those memories. She never remembered collapsing, though, and she never liked going back to the firehouse, even though she had no memory of getting sick there.”

Yaneque shook her head. “Nope, I don’t even have that. I go over Temple Mountain all the time and it doesn’t bother me at all. I just have this feeling there was something I didn’t get done. Which makes sense, in a way, because I do remember that when I left home that day I had two errands to run. Later on, after I got out of the hospital, I figured out one of them, because the client called me to wish me well. He reminded me I canceled his errand that day. But I’ve never figured out what the other one was.”

Yaneque looked over the packaging of the mats to be sure it was secure. Sue had placed the mats between two sheets of corrugated cardboard, taped them together, and wrapped it all in a clear plastic bag, which she sealed with packing tape. One of the advantages of using RunAround, besides the quick delivery time, was the less intense packing that had to be done. Parcels were picked up and delivered with a minimum of handling.

Yaneque gave a sharp nod. “Looks good. I’ll have it out there in a few hours.”

Sue stuck her fingers in her jeans pocket, a sure sign she was getting ready to chat. “I’ve been wondering. Other than that big accident, have you ever had any serious trouble with your business?”

“A few fender-benders and a couple of speeding tickets, that’s all, knock on wood. I make enough to live on.”

Just then the upstairs doorbell rang. Elsie listened a moment to see if it was Jenna leaving or another customer entering, in which case Ginny would need help.

Apparently, Jenna had left, because the stairwell door opened and they recognized the boss’s footsteps on the stairs. Yaneque paused on her way out the door to say hello.

Carrying the alleged Berger painting before her like the Holy Grail, Ginny marched in, a surprisingly sad look on her face. She gave Yaneque a warm greeting and then laid the painting on the worktable.

“What a nice picture!” the delivery woman exclaimed.

They all turned their eyes to it. It sat on the table, mute, as if it waited for something. Ginny glanced at Yaneque, then looked away.

“Are you going to frame it?” Yaneque asked.

“I think so,” Ginny answered. “First, we’ll be cleaning it up a bit. It’s been gathering grease in a bar for ten years.” Again she glanced at Yaneque.

She took the hint. “Well, I’d better be on my way. Have a good day!” And she strode out to the brightly-painted car parked behind the building.

Ginny sighed.

“Did you get the contract all worked out?” Elsie asked.

“What? Oh, yes, we did.” Ginny seemed to come out of some inner dialogue. “We’re going to clean it up—can you do that soon, Sue? It doesn’t have to be right away, but sometime in the next week would be good. After that, we’ll see. I think Jenna wants to keep it, and she has every right. But if it really is a Berger, it would be a shame to hang it over her fireplace where no one else can appreciate it.”

“Do you think—always assuming it is what we think it is—it would be very valuable?” Elsie asked.

“Of course, you can never tell,” Ginny temporized, “but there have been some feelers about one of his other originals. I can’t say anything yet, and don’t you even hint about this, but it would be an important sale. I won’t even tell you which one!” she added, recognizing the glint in their eyes. “And this one, being an unknown…”

“I’ll get it cleaned as soon as I can,” Sue promised. “I want to know if there really is a signature under there.”

“What I want to know,” Elsie murmured, “is how it got from Jerry’s studio to a bar on the Cape.”

Sue turned the painting over to look at the mounting and the strainers. “It really should be taken off these moldy strips and remounted. What did Jenna say about that?”

“She won’t do anything until after it’s been cleaned. If it is a Berger, then we’ll talk again.”

Chapter Eight

Ginny Brent decided she would do the next step in her investigation from her home near the seacoast rather than at the gallery. She didn’t want to have a customer walk in while she was on the phone with this chore. So the next day, after she had her stroll on the beach—the warmth of spring still lay in the future, but the sea air was so refreshing—she sat at the desk in her home office with a scotch on the rocks and the name Jenna Rudolph had provided.

One of the problems with identifying a previously unknown painting was its “provenance,” or what the police would call the chain of custody. Even if a recognized authority, in this case Ginny herself, was certain a work belonged to a particular artist, and even if the brushwork and signature withstood the scrutiny of knowledgeable experts, it was still best to know how the work got from the artist’s studio to its present location. Ginny had one end of the thread—the painting of the nude. The other end was Jerry Berger’s studio in Douglass. In between, an unknown tangle of threads would—or would not—connect the ends.

She prepared her story with care. She couldn’t blurt out she’d come across a painting that might be valuable, or she’d have rumors flying and former owners trying to claim it. It seemed obvious Bob Rudolph had bought the painting at a legitimate auction, and therefore, he had the legal rights. Beyond that, things got a little knotty.

The first step was to contact the auction house. Fortunately, Jenna had found the receipt for the purchase, dated two months earlier. Ginny tapped in the telephone number of North Shore Sales and waited.

The phone rang for a long time. No answering machine picked up, and she let it ring. Eight rings, nine, ten.

“No’th Shaw Sales,” said a male voice with a strong Cape Cod accent. “Mitch.”

“Mitch,” she began, making her voice warm and feminine, “I’m trying to track down an item that was sold at your sale about two months ago. How do I go about it?”

“Hey, once it’s sold we got nothin’ more to do with it.” Mitch was cautious and impatient. “It’s gone and outta heah.”

“No, I’m going the other way. I’m trying to find out where it came from and see if I can get another one. There would be a commission for your help.” She sweetened her voice to tempt him.

He paused and she heard a grating noise in the phone. She pictured him scratching an unshaven chin. “Whatcha got?”

“It’s a painting, about sixteen by twenty. It was in a sale of items from a bar that went out of business. Do you remember that?”

“I’d have to look it up, and it’s busy around heah.”

“Is there someone else who would have the time to talk to me?”

More scratching. Evidently, the idea of a commission intrigued Mitch, and he reconsidered his hurry. “Bahs’re always goin’ outta business. What’s it look like?”

Ginny described it. “It’s in the woods, some big rocks, and a nude woman in the rocks, looking over her shoulder. She’s sort of leaning on one of the rocks, pointing toward something or other.”

“Lemme think.” Grunts and hums came through the phone, along with the sound of papers being rustled. “Yeah. I wasn’t heah when it sold. I saw it, though. Was it the chick with the big a—” he corrected himself. “The big rear?”

Ginny choked down her laugh. “That’s it.”

“Well, hell, yeah. We all liked that one, kinda surprised it didn’t disappeah before it got to the block, y’know what I mean?” He chuckled, coughing as if he realized it might not be a good idea to reveal so much, and continued. “Anyway, says heah it went for a good price. I can’t give ya the name of the buyah, y’know.”

She hastened to agree. “Of course not. I’m looking for the name of the artist, or if you don’t have that, the name of the bar owner.”

His suspicion returned. “What good would that do ya?”

“Maybe he knows the name of the artist. See, a friend bought the painting. My husband likes it so much I thought I’d try to get another one by the same guy. For a birthday present.” She touched her fingers to her nose and stretched her arm out. She’d outdo Pinocchio yet. Nosy gal, indeed!

More papers rustled. “Well, that’s a little sticky, too. What I can do for ya is, I can give him
your
number, and he can call
you
if he wants. That do ya?”

Ginny hesitated. The last thing she wanted was to have some retired barkeeper calling her. But that was a prejudice; she would think of him as a reasonable businessman, and she knew how to speak that language. She gave Mitch her number, and added, “Please tell him my husband’s birthday is coming up next month, so I’d appreciate it if he could get back to me before then. Better yet, can I send you a note for him, Mitch? That way you’ll have it all written down for him.”

“Yuh, that’ll do. You send it to me, and I’ll take care of it for ya.” He repeated his address twice, without quite saying he expected a tip in the note.

Ginny thanked him and was glad to hang up. Dealing with people like that made her feel dirty. Not that there was anything wrong with offering a “consideration.” Mitch had taken time out of his busy day, and otherwise had no incentive to help her. A favor was a favor, after all. She debated for a while before she decided on how much cash to send—a little now, and a little more when and if the barkeeper called.

Her chair squeaked as she leaned back and took a pull on the scotch. She welcomed the shock of it going down her throat, a counterirritant to her regrets. Seeing Abby Bingham in that painting, knowing Jerry had painted her in the nude, felt like a rasp drawn across her skin. It wasn’t love, never love, that bound Ginny to the artist. Lust, maybe, on both sides. For her, Jerry had been a reawakening of longings she’d thought herself long past. She could tell herself it was his art, his dedication to his work that drew her to him. She could, sometimes, convince herself she was the teacher who came along when Jerry, the student, was ready. She guided him, molded him, showed him how to be a better artist; she taught him how to market himself as well as his art. That was the proper role for an older woman like her, and she played it well. But somehow, when she thought of Jerry Berger, it wasn’t the way his sales improved under her tutelage or the expanding power of his vision that she remembered.

She closed her eyes, but she couldn’t block out the memories. Behind her eyelids, it was Jerry’s vivid blue eyes she remembered, and the way they blazed with the force of the creative vision she helped him bring to life. It was those magical afternoons in his studio, redolent of oil paint and turpentine, when he would dip a supple brush in a thin wash of color and run it down her arm or feather it across the fine hairs on the back of her neck. “Are you going to paint me?” she’d asked, and he hadn’t said a word, merely replacing the brush with his lips.

There was something incredibly alluring in the utter security of knowing they would hear anyone approach on the gravel road long before they could be observed, and something ritualistic about the careful way Jerry would cover his canvas and shut off the phone before he took her hand and led her upstairs.

A slow tear trickled down her cheek.
Dammit, it’s over. It was over when he moved to that big-time printer, before he ever met Abby. And dammit, he met Abby in my shop! And me, stupid generous me, I urged her to work with him.

How could I have been so dumb?

The anger drained away, replaced by a cold, dragging misery. Here she was, a woman whose marriage hadn’t survived her affair, crying over a man ten years dead. Abby was dead, too. Seeing her portrait made Ginny remember how much she’d liked the younger woman. Maybe she even realized Abby was much better for Jerry than she could ever have been. A bitter thought.

Her glass had gotten empty somehow. It was too much work to go refill it. She put her head down on the desk and wept.

Chapter Nine

“My turn,” Sue said to Elsie when the doorbell rang a few days later. She was glad to take a break from her current task of preparing Sunny’s frame. “I swear I don’t need the gym with all this running up and down the steps!”

She trotted up and paused at the top to catch her breath. When she opened the door, the Costas, two of her very favorite customers, were waiting for her. “Hello!” she called out with a broad smile. “Walt and Linda, how are you?”