The Art Whisperer (An Alix London Mystery) (19 page)

“Oh, I don’t think there’s that much of a hurry. I can just—”

But she had already snatched it from his hand and was on her way to the door, waving the article over her head. “A rolling stone gathers no moths.”

D
eet-deet-da-dah-dah.

Alix had just gotten to the museum when her ring tone sounded, and once again, it made her jump. The thing was, her cell phone was rarely working because she almost never remembered to turn it on. Or more honestly, because she almost always remembered
not
to turn it on. Since the majority of her calls involved technical things, she knew it made sense to be able to check on whatever the subject was before attempting to wax wise on it. So she preferred to let the device save them up for her and then to return the calls in a bunch once a day. Or so.

But yesterday she’d neglected to turn it off after calling Chris to make sure she was up and ready to go to the airport, and so it had remained on.

Deet-deet-da-dah-dah.
The high-priority signal. She was opening the phone when Geoff’s voice came on. “Alix, I’ve e-mailed you—”

“Hi, Geoff, I’m here.”

“Ah, good. I e-mailed you some material a few minutes ago—”

“Oh, I haven’t checked my e-mail yet this morning.”

“I’m shocked. This is one you
will
want to check, however. It pertains to the authenticity—or the lack thereof—of the Pollock.”

“I thought I asked you not to—”

“Well, and so you did, but I didn’t see what harm it could do for me to exercise my initiative a little, and I think you’ll be pleased that I did.”

Indeed she was. Once Geoff explained what he’d learned from Sophie Chiu, Alix knew at once they were on to something, and once she read the article and looked at the photos, she was convinced. The handwriting deductions didn’t quite make it to the level of
proo
f
;
outside of chemical or physical forensic evidence, art authentication at base was always a question of human judgment—and therefore always arguable. (In the world of art evaluation, it was a given that what
can
be argued,
will
be argued.) And even physical or chemical evidence didn’t speak for itself. It had to be interpreted. Human judgment again.

According to Clark, there
had
been a forensic analysis in which the painting’s authenticity had been firmly established, but she’d never seen it for herself, so she didn’t know how trustworthy it was. It was past time, she thought, to bring this all to Mrs. B’s attention—not something she looked forward to—but first, she wanted to look at the painting for herself one more time. She printed the article to take with her and circled around to the next level (to get from anywhere to anywhere in the Brethwaite, you had no choice but to travel in a circular arc), where the picture was displayed, wondering for the hundredth time what it was that she had seen in it that had made her suspicious in the first place. Or had her connoisseur’s eye now evolved to the point where she could intuit falsity in a
signature
? No, impossible. The propensity for a talent might be innate, but to amount to anything it needed to be honed by experience and training, and when it came to signatures she had none of either. She barely registered them. Until she’d seen the photos Geoff sent, she’d had no idea what Pollock’s signature looked like. If you had asked her yesterday whether
Untitled 1952
was unsigned as well as untitled (or was
Untitled
a title, technically?), she couldn’t have said—

She stopped so abruptly she came close to toppling over her own feet. In front of the painting, a man stood quietly with his back to her. Tall, erect, square-shouldered, unmistakably handsome even when seen from behind.

Ted.

If anything, a year without sight or sound of him had intensified the effect he had on her, and coming on him so suddenly, so unexpectedly, had almost knocked her legs from under her. The feelings that now roiled in her head were muddled and contradictory. She was thrilled to see him, yes. But she was humiliated too, and angry—did he think she was some fluttery, fainting Victorian heroine who needed a big, brave hero to come and rescue her from danger? Damn him.

She was annoyed with Jamie too, for telling him about what had been happening. Why didn’t anyone pay attention to what she asked of them—especially what she asked them
not
to do? First her father and the Pollock (she thought unreasonably), and now Jamie. Anger notwithstanding, she yearned to run to Ted, felt physically pulled toward him, and yet she knew that, had he not already seen her, she would have turned and run the other way. She wanted him there and she wanted him not there.

“Ted—what are you
doing
here?” It wasn’t something she consciously decided to say. It just popped out, so charged with anger, surprise, excitement, and God knew what else that he jumped, then spun to face her.

“Alix! I was just . . . I’m here about this picture . . . to talk to Ms. Brethwaite . . . it’s a case I’m working on . . . it’s got nothing to do with you . . . well, except tangentially, of course . . .”

She couldn’t believe it; the cool-as-a-cucumber Ted Ellesworth, Mr. Unflappable, was
flustered—
every bit as much as she was. But why should
he
be flustered? Was it that he was simply embarrassed to see her face-to-face after so baldly going out of his way to avoid her all this time? Had he hoped to get in and out of Palm Springs without running into her?

In any case, he recovered his wits before she did. “I think I’d better start one more time,” he said with an apologetic smile. “Hello, Alix, it’s nice to see you again. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Ted. It’s nice to see you too.”

Did he feel as stupid as she did? They sounded like a couple of characters in a dusty old novel of manners. Now what?

They had moved closer while speaking and now stood looking awkwardly at one another. Alix was afraid that he was going to offer to shake hands, but he did better than that, although not that much better. He placed one hand on each shoulder and gave her an almost-hug; bodies almost touching, cheeks almost touching, but nothing
really
touching, the kind of hug two reserved and proper friends might share on unexpectedly running into each other. But, oh, my, it felt wonderful. For an instant her cheek brushed the rough fabric of his tweedy sport coat, and she smelled newly mown hay. And there was just a hint of the cedary aftershave she had forgotten all about but now remembered with a bittersweet pang.

“Alix,” he said, releasing her (after a moment longer than necessary, or was that wishful thinking?), “I’m due for an appointment with Mrs. Brethwaite right now, but I hope we can get together and catch up later on.”

I hope so too!
“I should have some free time this afternoon,” she said offhandedly. “Perhaps—no, wait, you’re going to talk to her about this painting? The Pollock?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“You think it’s a fake?”

“I think it might be.”

“I think it
is
. And I was just on my way to talk to her about it myself.”

“Really?” He turned to study the painting again. “What makes you think so?”

“Admittedly, only a gut feeling to start with—”

“Never mind ‘only.’ I know about your gut feelings.”

“—but then just this morning my fa—that is, I found this study of Pollock’s signature—” She thought it best not to insert Geoff into the conversation. Ted still had a few reservations about him. (Understandable, she thought; she had a few herself.) “—that compares his—”

“Wait, hold it, why don’t you come with me? This fits exactly into what I need to talk to her about.”

“Good idea. She’s not going to like hearing this. I could use some protection. She can be a pretty scary old lady.”

He leaned close, tapped his jacket, and whispered confidentially, “No fear. I’m packing.”

“I’m sorry, Agent Ellesworth, she’ll be delayed a bit, perhaps another fifteen minutes,” said Mrs. B’s secretary, Richard. “She asked me to apologize on her behalf. If you’d care to have a seat—”

“Why don’t we wait in my office instead?” Alix suggested to Ted. “You can give us a call when she’s ready, Richard.”

Richard looked dubiously at her. “I’m sorry, Ms. London. The director was quite clear. Her appointment is with Agent Ellesworth. If you would like to schedule—”

“Alix will be attending too,” Ted said. “At my request.”

The corners of Richard’s mouth turned very slightly down. “Of course. As you wish. However, Ms. London, your ‘office,’ as you refer to it, will be in use. The security staff will be conferencing there. It
is
the conference room, you know.”

“Do you know, I believe you may have mentioned that before, but thank you for reminding me. We’ll be out in the central courtyard, then.”

“Let me explain what I’m doing here,” Ted said as they sat down opposite each other at one of the picnic tables. “You’re familiar with Lord & Keen?”

“I know who they are, of course. Major New York dealer. They specialize in American Modern, if I’m not mistaken. I think I read they’re in some kind of trouble, didn’t I?”

“They are, indeed. Several suits have been filed against them, and unless I’m wildly wrong they’re going to be in a lot more trouble before very long. They will be if I have anything to do with it.”

The prominent ninety-year-old dealership had been the subject of an investigation for several months, he explained. Evidence was mounting that they had knowingly passed off as many as two dozen forgeries of works by artists like Rothko, O’Keeffe, DeKooning—

“And Pollock,” Alix said.

“And Pollock. This particular one, in fact, was bought from them.”

“And so you’re here to check it out, see if it’s the real thing or not?”

“Alix, if what I wanted was an opinion on a painting’s authenticity, there’s somebody else I’d be far more likely to rely on, especially considering that she happened to be right here in the vicinity.”

“Thank you, I’m flattered, but why exactly
are
you here then? Not that I’m not happy to see you, because I am. Or was that a double negative?”

Something about his attitude or his bearing had cheered her up and loosened her tongue. He was . . . friendly, maybe more than friendly. Was it possible that things between them could still be repaired? Had he perhaps forgotten about her performance at that wretched lunch or at least come around to putting it into perspective, seeing it as a sort of temporary, post-traumatic reaction to her nearly getting killed in Albania? That was certainly how she’d come to look at the way she’d behaved, and the way she planned to put it to him if/when the time was ever ripe. She realized she was suddenly feeling absurdly happy.

“I’m glad to see you too, believe me,” Ted said, “but if you want to know why I’m here, maybe you should stop asking questions and just listen and let me talk for a couple of minutes?”

She propped her chin on her clasped fingers, elbows on the wooden table. “Talk away. I’m all ears.”

Apparently, all of the fakes had been done by one man: a twenty-nine-year-old Taiwanese immigrant, believe it or not, who had been here illegally for four years, lived in a no-deposit, $75-a-week boarding-house (who knew such things still existed?) near the Newark docks, and spoke little English. This frightened man had cooperated when first interviewed, but all he could tell them was that he’d been paid a thousand dollars cash plus expenses for each painting, by a person whose name he didn’t know. He claimed he had no idea where the paintings went and Ted had believed him. He had disappeared after the first interview, and there had never been a second. Unfortunately, a full list of his fakes hadn’t yet been compiled.