Authors: Tom Dolby
The Trust (18 page)
I
t took Patch fifteen minutes on the phone before he could cajole Genie into joining them in Southampton. She had come back late that morning from her vacation in the Catskills, and it was everything he could do to convince her that traveling two hours out to the beach would be a worthwhile pursuit. He promised her that a town car would meet her outside the apartment in twenty minutes. She fussed and complained, but ultimately, Patch told her she didn’t have a choice.
With those words, she joined them.
The next few hours passed strangely, as Horatio began to prepare an elaborate lunch for the three of them. Nick insisted that he not go to any trouble, but they were hungry after their trip and the anguish of trying to figure out what was going on.
The three of them roamed around the house, but there wasn’t a single personal artifact, not even a single clue, that led them to know its story.
“I don’t think anyone actually lives here,” Phoebe said, as they poked around one of the bedrooms.
“Why do you say that?” Nick asked.
“I just looked at one of the bathrooms. There are no toiletries, no personal items. Even a guesthouse would have certain amenities.”
“Maybe the Bradford Trust keeps it as an investment, and the Society uses it for meetings,” Patch said.
Nick nodded. “I think you’re probably right.”
“What I want to know,” Phoebe said, “is where does the money come from to pay for all this?”
“Maybe we just saw it all downstairs,” Nick said. “Maybe they sell off the artwork, bit by bit.”
“It’s possible,” Patch said. “But I think it’s a bit more aboveground. If they started with a certain amount of capital and they invested it wisely, they would have hundreds of millions of dollars by now. I mean, the older members pay dues, right? Like, ten thousand a year or something?”
“I think so,” Nick said.
“Think about it—that’s more than enough to pay for it all. Let’s say they have two hundred dues-paying members—that would be two million dollars a year. Invest that, year after year, and you’ve got more than enough to finance all this.”
Horatio rang a bell downstairs in the kitchen, which meant they were being summoned for lunch. The smells of cooking had already started wafting up to the second floor. Once they had started their meal, Patch had to admit that Horatio’s cooking was even better than that of Gertie, Nick’s family’s cook in the city. Horatio had prepared them a lunch of tomato fennel soup, grilled cheese sandwiches with truffle oil, a winter salad of apples and pecans, and a steaming pot of tea to go along with fresh lemon-glazed scones for dessert.
The three of them ate cautiously in the breakfast area on the sunporch.
“Hey,” Phoebe said as she picked at her food. “How do you know he’s not going to poison us or something?”
“I don’t think we need to worry,” Nick said. “I’m pretty sure that isn’t what this is about. His allegiance was to my grandfather.”
“I wouldn’t say for sure,” Phoebe said. She made a motion to indicate that they couldn’t trust him.
“Look, you guys, I’m hungry, okay?” Patch said. “Can we just relax a little bit?”
“If he’s eating it, then it’s probably okay,” Nick said. Patch had, after all, been through more than he and Phoebe had—and had come out relatively intact on the other end.
As they were finishing lunch, they heard a car pull into the driveway. Genie arrived at the front door, bundled up as if she were headed on an arctic excursion. Patch desperately wanted to talk to her about the situation with Parker Bell and what he had learned yesterday, but he restrained himself.
“It’s Southampton, Genie, not Alaska,” Nick said, teasing her, as he gave her a hug around her puffy form.
“I’m an old lady, Nicholas! When you’re my age, you’ll understand what it feels like to be cold!”
Phoebe helped her remove several of her layers, and the four of them sat down in the library, which was down a long corridor in the east wing of the house. A set of picture windows looked out on the English parterre, though most of it was frozen over.
After Horatio served another round of drinks—this time, it was hot chocolate—he gave them some privacy.
“I’m not really sure where to begin,” Nick said.
“Oh, Nicholas, you always think that whatever you have to tell me is going to surprise me in some way. It’s a rather darling quality of yours. Come out with it. There’s not much that can shock this old broad.”
Phoebe laughed, and Patch blushed.
“Okay . . .” Nick said, glancing at the closed oak pocket doors to the library.
“Just spit it out, Nick,” Genie said.
“Fine. We have just found what might possibly be the world’s greatest undiscovered collection of stolen art. Right here. In the basement. And we think my grandfather may be responsible for it.”
Genie’s face twisted for a moment, as if she were considering the consequences. For a moment, Patch thought she might be truly upset.
Then she started laughing.
Nick and Phoebe looked at each other in confusion.
“What’s so funny?” Nick asked.
“People never change. Oh my goodness, how people never change!”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me tell you a story,” Genie said. “Nick, your grandfather, among his many qualities, had a rather peculiar one. He liked to steal. Not little things or money, but art. The more rare, the more spectacular, the better. It wasn’t economic; he didn’t want to sell the objects. When he was at Yale, he became obsessed with French ormolu, you know, gilt Asian porcelains and so forth? He stole a music box for me, but I told him I couldn’t accept it. It must have been worth ten thousand dollars.”
“How did he do it?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think he did it himself—I think he had some kind of network of thieves. There was something about it all that excited him; he said he got a thrill from having contraband artwork and antiques in his possession.” Genie shook her head sadly. “Really, it was very strange. After the first time, I told him that he had to stop, and he said he had. Only later, after our engagement was broken off, did I learn that he had continued.”
“How did you learn this?”
“One hears these things. It was all chitchat at the time, just a high-level form of kleptomania. The rare eccentricities of a wealthy man.”
Palmer—Patch’s grandfather—was a high-level
klepto-maniac
?
“It’s bizarre,” Genie continued. “Every time I read about a major art theft, I thought of Palmer. The Gardner Museum in Boston? That one kept me up for several nights.”
“One of the greatest unsolved museum heists of our time,” Phoebe said.
Nick looked dumbfounded. “And you really think my grandfather was behind all this? I just don’t understand it.”
“Your grandfather had an obsession. He had to win, he had to be the best. Unfortunately, he was also a bit of a skinflint.”
“What do you mean?” Nick asked.
“Nick, your family has stayed wealthy for the reason that many people are wealthy: they spend their money wisely. Your grandfather never liked to spend more than he had to. And sometimes that meant that he couldn’t have everything he wanted. Are you familiar with the famous George Stubbs painting of the zebra in the woods?”
“I think I know it,” Phoebe said. “It’s a beautiful painting. It’s like the zebra is totally out of context—you expect it to be in Africa or something and it’s in this very European-looking forest.”
“It is now at the Yale Center for British Art. Palmer was obsessed with it, a few years after your father was born. Said he felt like the zebra—a striped creature in a forest, a creature that didn’t belong.”
“How do you know all this?”
“A girlfriend of mine still traveled in those circles. Palmer was quite indiscreet when it came to his obsessions. Of course, that was always his philosophy, it seems—he kept his petty activities on the surface in order to mask his darker impulses. Talking about an art obsession was fine, but speaking of the Society was not.”
“So what happened?” Nick asked.
“The painting was auctioned at Harrods in London, and a number of buyers were interested. Paul Mellon ultimately got the painting for twenty-two thousand pounds. Somewhere north of two hundred thousand dollars on today’s market.”
“Genie, how do you know all this?” Nick asked.
She looked at him over her glasses. “Nick, if you read all day like I do, you learn a lot.”
The conversation made Patch uncomfortable. It was as if Genie was still obsessed with Palmer. Patch had hoped that his death would have put those feelings to rest.
“Apparently, he tried to reform over the years, but I never believed that he did,” Genie continued. “He would have a relapse every few years; it was as if he couldn’t help himself. I would hear stories from your father, who, as you know, was friends with Patch’s father—”
Patch interrupted her. “Wait a second, Genie—I think we’d better clear something up.”
Nick and Phoebe were silent.
“What’s that?” Genie asked innocently.
“I know about Parker. I know that he’s my real father. Or rather, my biological father.”
Genie paused before speaking slowly. “I’m so sorry, dear, that you had to find out from someone else. I would have preferred to tell you myself. I never knew when the right time was; I thought perhaps when you turned eighteen.” Her voice choked up. “I should have told you earlier. I should have trusted that you could handle the truth. How did they tell you about this?”
Patch looked uncomfortably at Nick and then at Phoebe. It was such a strange thing to speak about aloud.
“I am a beneficiary in Palmer’s will.”
Genie looked genuinely surprised. “What, did he give you a painting or something? I hope not a stolen one!” She laughed awkwardly.
“No, not exactly.”
“Well, Patch, what did he give you?”
Patch took a deep breath, and then offered a strained smile. “He gave me thirty million dollars.”
P
atch!” Genie said. “You can’t accept that. No, I won’t allow it. It isn’t right.”
Nick felt ashamed about the situation. He took a sip of his hot cocoa to find that it was tepid and a nasty film had formed on the surface.
“Genie, I have to make these decisions for myself,” Patch said. “I understand that you have feelings about Nick’s family, but don’t you think they owe it to you—don’t you think Palmer owes you after everything he put you through?”
“Patch, you don’t know the half of it. But you can’t buy people off for heartache. Not even with that kind of money.” She shook her head and drew her cardigan closer. “No, it’s not right.”
Nick thought maybe they should take a different tack. “Genie, it’s not like Patch is going to get a check tomorrow. I won’t either. The assets will be kept in trusts until we are twenty-five. My father—our father—is the trustee.”
Genie shook her head. “It doesn’t sit well with me. I’m sorry, boys. I’ll support you, you know that, but I can’t stay silent.”
“I understand,” Patch said. “It’s been a bit of a shock to all of us. It’s not every day that you learn both that you have a different biological father and that you’re the beneficiary of a trust.”
“And that your best friend is actually your brother,” Nick said.
There was an awkward silence before Patch finally spoke.
“Right,” he said. “Can we just not talk about that right now?”
Nick wondered if Patch was upset about the outcome. He seemed so stoic about it—it was strange news, of course, but if Patch had to discover that he had a brother, wasn’t it easier for it to be his best friend?
Maybe Nick had to start acting like a brother before Patch could treat him as one.
Genie looked frustrated as she put down her hot cocoa on the coffee table. “All right, let’s get on with this,” she said. “Where’s this hoard of artwork you’ve been telling me about?”
Nick led Genie, Patch, and Phoebe down to the basement, urging them all to watch their step as they walked through the dank, mildew-smelling passageway. When they reached the metal door, Nick used the key again and the door opened. He flicked the light switch, and everything was just as it was. He did notice one new detail, however: at the far end of the room was a large metal sliding door, the kind you would see on a loading dock. Nick imagined that it led to the outside, as these artworks couldn’t be delivered to this room through the main house.
Genie walked around the antiseptic space, examining the labels on the sixteen pieces that Nick had counted. She shook her head, clucking as she read each one.
“He certainly got around,” she said, shaking her head. “Imagine that. Sixty-something years of doing this. I’d say he relapsed every five to ten years. Probably did multiple hauls. These two are from the same museum,” she said, pointing at two crates. “I remember reading about it in the newspaper.” She turned toward Nick and the others. “So, here’s the question: What are you going to do about all this?”
Patch rested his hand on a crate that contained a Vermeer. “I feel like it’s really up to Nick.”
There was a sound behind them as the door opened. Horatio stood there.
“I was asked to deliver a message to you,” he said. “Your grandfather gave a simple instruction. He said: ‘You must do whatever you think is right.’”
“Typical cryptic answer,” Nick muttered in frustration.
“Well, maybe it is, Nick, but actually he seems to suggest that it is in your hands,” Genie said.
Horatio excused himself and went back upstairs.
“Can I weigh in here?” Phoebe asked.
“Sure,” Nick said, nodding.
“This is just me, speaking as an artist, and as someone whose works have been stolen before. The emotional trauma that you endure when this happens—it’s beyond belief.”
“Most of these artists were already dead when the works were stolen,” Patch said. “I know that doesn’t change anything, but—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Phoebe said. “Collectors donated the pieces to these museums. People worked hard so that they could buy the pieces and then show them to the public. Or maybe they even still owned them outright, and they were on loan. Maybe they were family heirlooms. The point is, they don’t belong in this basement, where no one can see them except for a select group of wealthy Society members. If Palmer even let anyone see them.” Phoebe took a deep breath. “I feel like the only honest thing to do is to tell the world about what your grandfather has done.”
Nick looked at her. How could she be so nonchalant about this? It wasn’t her family they were talking about. Maybe she couldn’t understand. Her family wasn’t well known. No one had any expectations for them.
“Phoebe, you have no idea what this is like,” Nick said. “I don’t want people knowing this about my grandfather. I know it isn’t right, but it’s just—well, honestly, it’s embarrassing. It was one thing to return that necklace anonymously, but to return all of these major paintings, and for the world to know about it? It would tarnish our entire family name if word got out that Palmer Bell was an art thief. I’m not proud of many of the things my family has done, but that doesn’t mean that I want everyone to know about them. In fact, I’d appreciate it if we kept all this between us until I decide what to do.”
“Nick, aren’t you perpetuating the cycle?” Phoebe said. “Aren’t you just making it okay for other people to do the same thing that your grandfather did? I mean, whoever actually took the artwork for him—I’m sure they’re still alive. Do you really want them doing this for more rich people? More people who get off on owning stolen art?”
“No, of course I don’t,” Nick said. “But my question is, why would Palmer lead us to all this?”
“I think he wanted the art returned after his death. He didn’t have any use for it anymore,” Phoebe said. “There’s no other reason he would have told you about it.”
“Maybe he was looking for redemption of some sort,” Genie mused. “Of course, it’s just like Palmer not to do it himself. Never wanted to get his hands dirty.”
“Okay, but now that my grandfather’s gone, how is it supposed to get us out of the Society? Like Horatio’s going to wave his magic wand and somehow get us out? I feel like we don’t have any hope of getting out, at least not this time around.”
“There’s only one person who can get us out now,” Patch said.
“Who’s that?” Nick asked, turning to him.
“Our father.”