The Woman Who Heard Color (2 page)

“Yes, please, that would be wonderful,” she told Mrs. Fletcher, though a cup of hot tea wasn’t exactly what she would have ordered.

Isabella gestured to the sofa and left the room to fetch the tea, allowing Lauren to sit and settle her large bag—which doubled as her briefcase—at her feet, and at the same time do a quick once-over of her surroundings. The room smelled of fresh-cut flowers—there was a crystal vase filled with yellow roses just inside the entry on a table—and something she couldn’t quite make out, a mixture of lemon furniture polish and a familiar but unnamed scent, vaguely medicinal, that she often noticed when visiting older clients. The drapes were partially drawn, the room quiet and poorly lit. Her eyes darted quickly, taking in the marble fireplace and the built-in bookcases filled with hardcover books. A lovely upholstered sofa and chairs with silk and tapestry throw pillows were arranged over a hardwood floor spattered with an array of Oriental rugs, worn just enough to declare they were authentic. Though the furnishings were traditional, the art on the walls—numerous paintings, drawings, and prints, many not clearly visible due to the dim lighting—was all modern. Works by the Expressionists. The Impressionists. Paintings in an abstract style. Quick pen and ink drawings in a loose sketchy hand. Lauren’s heart skipped a beat. Were they possibly originals?

She spotted what looked like a Franz Marc above the mantel, one of his colorful animal paintings. A Gabriele Münter, a bright village scene of Murnau. Maybe an Otto Dix etching, though it was too far away to make out the details. All German artists. All artists who would clearly have been among those labeled degenerate. She was about to get up and step closer when Mrs. Fletcher returned with a tray. There was an old-fashioned, well-schooled graciousness about the woman, even if her mannerisms were rather stiff and formal. Lauren guessed her to be in her late seventies or early eighties, which would be exactly right if she was who Lauren suspected she was.

“This is very kind of you, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said as the woman placed the tray on the table. Cookies were arranged on a small dish, set out beside a teapot, china cups, cloth napkins, tiny spoons, and sugar. The cookies were perfectly round, obviously store bought.

“I seldom bake anymore,” Mrs. Fletcher said, her words touched with the smallest hint of apology. She poured them each a cup of tea, offered sugar, which Lauren declined, and then lifted the plate of cookies. Lauren had eaten a late lunch and wasn’t hungry, but she took one just to be polite and placed it on her napkin.

Then Mrs. Fletcher sat in a wing-backed chair, arranged at a comfortable angle to converse with Lauren, who found the sofa a little too soft for comfort. She adjusted herself, straightening her back, discreetly pushing one of the numerous throw pillows behind her. The woman added the tiniest amount of sugar to her tea, stirred, and then placed the spoon on her saucer.

“These pictures,” Lauren started in casually, as if making small talk to warm up to the questions about her alleged investigation, “they are lovely.”

Isabella nodded.

“Very modern,” Lauren added, “and colorful.” Stated as if she knew nothing of art. “Are they originals?”

“Modern.” The woman laughed out the word. “Many are older than I am. And I’m no spring chicken. Many of these are more than a hundred years old.”

Lauren shook her head in mock disbelief.

“Do you know how much they would be worth if originals?” Mrs. Fletcher replied to Lauren’s second question with one of her own, clearly avoiding a direct answer.

She shrugged as if she had no idea, and then waited a moment, hoping Mrs. Fletcher would go on, perhaps volunteer more about the paintings. Lauren could almost imagine the conversation she’d have with Patrick this evening after her visit.

“Well . . .” Mrs. Fletcher finally said, smoothing her skirt with her hand. The single word was delivered as if she’d just instructed Lauren to get on with it. The woman lifted a cookie from the plate and set it on her saucer.

Lauren reached into her bag and pulled out a pen and a notebook, ready to talk about the purported reason for her being here. On the subway she’d rehearsed possible lines such as,
How long have you lived in the building?
She hoped this would open up a discussion about Mrs. Fletcher’s background. Lauren smiled, but the woman’s expression remained grave.

“I know why you are here,” Isabella Fletcher said without preface.

Lauren gazed down at her notebook, avoiding eye contact, wondering if the woman could possibly know why she was really here. “Oh?” she said, as she pushed back a strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear. She looked up.

“I’d prefer you not take notes,” Mrs. Fletcher said. She eyed Lauren’s bag. “You don’t have a recording device?”

Lauren shook her head and slipped the notebook and pen back in her bag.

“It’s about the Kandinsky,” Isabella said.

Lauren sat silently, so surprised at the woman’s words that she was at a loss for her own. “The Kandinsky?” she finally asked, her eyes involuntarily moving along the wall again.

“No, no,” Isabella Fletcher said with a little chuckle. “It’s not here. It’s much too large for the room.” Then, before Lauren could reply, she added, “The art detective. You’re the art detective.”

Lauren felt a prickly sweep of tension brush over her at this announcement, and that was exactly how the words had come out of Mrs. Fletcher. An announcement. Neither spoke, but they exchanged a quick glance. The older woman was aware that she had just taken the upper hand—Lauren could see it in the purse of her lips—and was allowing the young woman as much time as necessary to digest this.

The art detective?
There was only one place where that information could have come from, Lauren realized. A small article had appeared in her university alumni magazine a couple of years ago, describing how she helped locate pieces lost in the war, particularly paintings looted from Jewish families. Her searches included delving into private collections, even into inventories of reputable museums. Sometimes the museums would hire her to investigate an acquisition of questionable provenance.

Lauren had never called herself the art detective, but this was the heading on the article.

After completing her doctorate, working as a museum intern, and teaching a university night class one semester, she’d taken a position as Assistant Curator of Modern Paintings at the Cleveland Museum of Art. Her duties included cataloguing the collection and studying new acquisitions. In researching the history of a painting, she’d come to understand that you could learn as much from the back of a work of art as from the painting itself. She discovered seals, numerical markings, custom stamps, inscriptions, and inventory stamps. She learned that the Nazis were particularly adept at keeping detailed records.

Her pregnancy—unplanned but welcomed by both her and her husband—was followed by a job offer in New York City for Patrick, and Lauren decided she would go into business for herself, using these skills to locate lost art. She could set her own hours and arrange her work to allow more time with the baby. After Adam arrived, she often felt overwhelmed by it all, but she had persisted, balancing work with motherhood. Adam was now three, a bright, happy child, and she’d been successful in her work, recovering numerous pieces of lost art. Court action was pending on others.

“As an investigator,” Isabella Fletcher finally said, “one might think you would do a more thorough background check. It seems we both attended the same university.” A smugness laced around her words in a polite, well-bred tone. She picked up the cookie, took a small nibble, then placed it back on her saucer. Wiping her thin lips on the napkin, she left a small spot of pink lipstick on the white linen.

Lauren could feel a pulse directly behind her left eye and wondered if the woman could see this nervous twitch. “Wassily Kandinsky, the Russian,” she said, needing to find some words to fill the conversational void.

“Yes, he was Russian, but he studied in Munich. He did some of his most important work in Germany. If one is to look upon the artist’s body of work, Germany should be given credit for his early training and inspiration.”

She wondered why Mrs. Fletcher told her she knew Lauren was here about the Kandinsky. Lauren knew nothing about a Kandinsky. Could it possibly be one of the state-owned pieces confiscated by Hitler? There were large gaps in the inventories from Berlin, blank spaces regarding the pieces taken to Lucerne. Or did Mrs. Fletcher think she was here to recover looted art? This was the topic of the university article; the story was about Lauren’s efforts to return stolen art taken from the Jews during World War II.

“Your family is from Munich?” she asked, guessing now that Mrs. Fletcher had invited her to present a defense for ownership of a painting Lauren hadn’t even been aware of.

“My father was born there,” Mrs. Fletcher told her. “That’s where my parents met.”

“And your mother?” Lauren asked. “Where was she born?”

“In Bavaria. My mother’s family was engaged in dairy farming in a region known as the Allgäu.”

It was really her mother whom Lauren was interested in learning more about. Would Isabella Fletcher possibly reveal information about her mother, unaware that this was exactly what Lauren was looking for?
Tread carefully,
she warned herself.

“They still make wonderful cheese in the area,” Isabella said. “My aunt and uncle continued the business here in the States. Koebler Creamery?”

“Oh, yes.” Lauren flashed her a quick smile. “They make wonderful ice cream.” It was through the Koebler family that she had actually tracked down Isabella’s mother, Hanna Schmid, a woman gone now for over sixty years, a woman who Lauren believed had attempted to hide her true identity the entire time she lived in America.

“The Kandinsky has been in the family for many years,” Isabella said.

“Acquired in Germany?” Lauren asked.

Isabella blinked once, twice, and then glanced at a photo on the end table next to her. “Andrew and I never had children.” A handsome man, most likely in his mid-fifties at the time the picture was taken. Andrew Fletcher, Lauren assumed.

The old woman’s eyes took on a moist, glassy film. “There’s no one left in my generation on my side of the family. My brother, my sister—half sister actually—all long gone. Years and years ago. All my cousins, those in Germany, those in America. All deceased. Andrew’s sister is still with us, though not doing particularly well.” Her voice had taken on a softer tone. “The younger Fletcher nephews and nieces—I don’t know these young people coming up now. They’ve never even set eyes on the Kandinsky. Never even been here for a visit,” she added with an indifferent shake of her head. “The business will be passed down to Fletcher family members. But the painting . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Absentmindedly, Lauren fingered the edge of a silk pillow, soft and soothing like the satin trim on a baby’s blanket. She could feel her nerves on edge. Excitement over a possible discovery mixed with equal shares of anxiety and confusion. She was startled that Isabella Fletcher was sharing this information with her.

Mrs. Fletcher said, “I trust that your intentions are honorable, though I assure you the Kandinsky was acquired legally.” Lauren detected a slight quiver in her voice. She offered a nod of reassurance, encouraging the woman to go on.

“I understand perfectly well that art was stolen during the war. We continue to hear such stories.” Mrs. Fletcher’s voice was even now, though the woman patted her chest with a nervous flutter and ran her fingertips over her pearls. “Valuable art that disappeared during the war, assumed destroyed by bombs or looted by the Nazis, turns up and suddenly families come out of the woodwork to claim paintings that the present owners believed were legitimately acquired. Why, the other day I saw an article about a Van Gogh purchased by a famous movie actress, and it seems it had been gained illegally—I assure you this is not the case here. Our Kandinsky was legitimately purchased by my family. There are no claims to be made, which is quite obviously why you are here.”

After a moment, Lauren asked cautiously, “Your family purchased the Kandinsky in Munich?”

Isabella nodded.

Again Lauren studied the many pictures on the wall. “May I see it?” she ventured.

Isabella Fletcher laughed, a chuckle really, which transformed into a somewhat unladylike snort. Again, she wiped her mouth with the linen napkin. “No, I don’t think I’m quite ready for that.” She cleared her throat before continuing. “I’m not getting any younger, though I am still in excellent health. But soon, I must decide what will become of the painting. I could sell it, divide the sizable proceeds among family members. But as far as the world is concerned, this painting no longer exists.” She gazed at Lauren, fully expecting another question.

Lauren was attempting to remain calm, receptive, not overly eager. She had so many questions, but didn’t want to say the wrong thing, something that might turn off this flow of information. She picked up her cookie and took a bite, then took a sip of tea. Such delicate china. Hoping Mrs. Fletcher would go on, she remained silent.

“I should clear all this up before I’m gone,” the older woman said, “or, heaven forbid,” she added, with a dismissive wave, “before I lose my memory and senses. No one knows the story behind the Kandinsky. It would be difficult to sell the painting if the provenance was misunderstood.” Abruptly she rose and went to the window, pulling the drapes open farther to let in more light. For a moment she gazed down as if studying something on the street.

“I have never shared the entire story,” Mrs. Fletcher said, sitting again. “Perhaps it is time.”

Lauren was struck by this, wondering if Isabella really intended to share something she had shared with no one else. Why would she trust a stranger who’d entered her home under false pretenses?