Black Otter Bay (18 page)

“I'm sure it was a wise investment,” he said, and with a smirk added, “Especially now that Mr. Oberg has passed away.”

It was hard not to grin at this obviously fortuitous event. But Jackie maintained a straight face, commenting, “It's true that it's probably worth more than everything else in the gallery combined. But just think of all the beautiful work that will go undone with his passing. Phillip Oberg wasn't an old man by any means.”

It became impossible to refrain from smiling when she saw the amusement on the stranger's face. Moments later, the obvious insincerity of her words invoked a quiet laughter, as when friends share an inside joke.

“So, you're confident this is an original?” he asked. “I've seen copies.”

“I have a signed affidavit from the previous owner, and a letter from the artist that accompanied it.”

The man nodded and smiled. Putting away his reading glasses, he turned to her, and in a casual tone asked, “If you don't mind, what were you doing in Chicago?”

The mood in the gallery had lightened considerably. Jackie barely heard the sleigh bells over the door as an older couple entered the shop.

“Actually, I'm from Chicago,” she said. “I went to Northwestern for a couple of years before moving up here.”

“My alma mater,” he said. “Although several years before you, I'm sure.”

Jackie blushed.

“Evanston was a great college setting,” he said. “Right on Lake Michigan. I used to jog Lakeshore Drive.”

“Don't forget the Magnificent Mile,” she added.

“Remember the Drake Hotel?”

Then, in unison, “The Bookbinder's Soup?”

Both were laughing again. Jackie looked over at the couple who'd come in. They stood transfixed before the latest oversized depiction of the sinking of the
Fitzgerald
. It was hard not to roll her eyes when she shared the company of this knowledgeable gentleman.

When she looked at him again, however, the smile was gone, replaced by a cold, hard stare. All sign of their recent friendly chatter was gone. In an instant her fears and anxieties rushed back. He said, “How much do you think the Oberg is worth, Jackie?”

How does he know my name?
she wondered.
We never introduced ourselves, how does he know?
She backpedaled a couple of steps, but he followed her, coming even closer.

“Let me put it to you this way, Jackie. How much are you willing to sacrifice for the Oberg?”

She shook her head.
This must be a misunderstanding,
she thought. Her mouth opened, her lips moved, but she couldn't manage a single word. Then the sleigh bells jingled again as Randall hustled through the door. Spotting them immediately,
he rushed over. Jackie couldn't get her mind around this latest turn of events, standing transfixed under the bullying stare of the well-dressed stranger. Randall edged his way between them and said, “I got here as soon as I could.”

His darting, shifty eyes bounced from the stranger to Jackie, to the couple across the room, and finally back to Jackie again. She'd always found it a little unnerving how his expression could mimic a predator one minute and an abject victim the next, but it was reassuring to see this aggressive, take-charge attitude now.

Rubbing his hands together as if working out a chill, Randall took a deep breath and said, “Why don't you help that couple over there, dear? See if there's something you can show them.” His voice held steady and sounded calm, giving Jackie room to think that perhaps all this could still be okay.

The men withdrew to the small office behind the cash register counter. When the door closed, Jackie found herself wandering in that direction, too, but knew from experience that the thick stone walls kept conversations private. Even loud noises were muffled or distorted to the point of incoherence. When she stopped to think about what she was doing, she found herself once again rearranging items on the counter. She looked at the couple at the far end of the gallery. It seemed they had no idea something was amiss in the next room; they probably hadn't even noticed Randall's entrance. They stood close to each other, deep in conversation in front of the
Fitzgerald
.

Jackie took another moment to compose herself. Randall hadn't acted too upset. Maybe it wasn't as bad as she imagined. She pulled her hair back, held it up off her neck, and then let it fall in a wave over her shoulders. The stranger had been such a gentleman, so well spoken and knowledgeable. Surely he wasn't tied up in all this mess. Besides, she thought, her name was on the gallery door. He could've seen it there and assumed correctly it was her. She stepped around the counter and smoothed out her skirt. Walking toward the couple, she tried
to put the incident aside, but the intensity of the stranger's glare had rattled her nerves right to their core.

It was her nose for a sale that finally snapped her out of it. Like a marketing machine, she made note of the couple's name-brand clothing, their pale skin, and soft hands. They wore high-tech, expensive outdoor wear, even though she guessed their most strenuous activity probably had to do with walking a pure-bred lapdog down the driveway. They were in their mid-sixties, she supposed, as the woman turned to meet her approach, clutching an expensive leather-grained purse under her arm.

“This is just the most amazing painting,” the woman said, holding fingers with painted nails to her throat.

“Yes,” Jackie replied, trying to drum up some enthusiasm.

“But it's all wrong,” the husband said. “It shows the
Fitzgerald
breaking in two, but it wouldn't have broken up before going down.”

Jackie looked at him in disbelief.
You've got to be kidding me.

“There's no way you can know that,” his wife countered. “I mean, were you there? What makes you an expert on shipwrecks?”

“So you're saying this artist was there?” her husband argued. “Does he know something the experts haven't figured out yet about how the
Fitzgerald
went down?”

Back and forth they went until Jackie wasn't listening anymore. Her eyes fixed on a small tag on the arm of the man's shirt. She'd seen one like it before. It explained that the material had been treated with an insect repellant, a high-tech fad for people with too much money. She stepped closer and cleared her throat. “You know,” she said, “I think I have something over here that might be of even more interest to you.”

The husband stood a little to one side, aloof, giving Jackie the impression that he was accustomed to being in charge. He was the boss, made the important decisions, and she would guess that he also controlled the purse strings. She threw him
her best smile, and when he made eye contact with her, she demurely looked away. Leading the wife by the arm to the Oberg, she had no doubt he'd follow close behind.

Speaking intimately, as if privately to the woman, but loud enough for the trailing husband to hear, she said, “I believe this extraordinary piece is much more commensurate with your station.” The wife looked a little confused, but Jackie saw the husband immediately step closer to make his appraisal.

“All I see is water,” the woman said.

“Ah, but just look at that water,” Jackie responded. “Look at the movement, the color. There's more going on in that painting than you think.”

She suspected that the husband kept quiet out of ignorance as he stepped closer. They studied the painting in silence for several moments before she became aware of the background drone of voices coming from the office. She couldn't make out any of the words, but easily detected their short, staccato-like phrases uttered in anger.
Randall must be holding his own,
she thought.

“Is that supposed to be the sky?” the wife asked, pointing to the top of the painting.

“That doesn't matter,” Jackie said, adding just a hint of impatience. She leaned toward the husband, explaining in a confidential tone, “See the lighting in the waves over here? Notice how much brighter it is than on the other side? It's nothing but chaos over there, and now here comes the light, perhaps even salvation, if you will.”

The husband stood with arms folded, listening intently, watching Jackie's slender fingers pointing from side to side. When she looked at him, he nodded, as if all she had said was obvious.

“But there isn't a ship or a lighthouse or anything to look at,” the woman whined. “Not even a seagull.”

Her husband said, “Didn't you hear her? None of that matters. The story is all here in the water.”

Jackie stepped back. This might be easier than she'd thought.

To her husband, the wife said, “In case you haven't noticed, Mr. Art Critic, there isn't a price tag on this thing. I bet that splash of water is going to cost you a fortune.”

The office door suddenly opened, causing Jackie to jump. She turned to look. Randall held the door as the tall stranger stepped back into the gallery, buttoning his sport coat before pulling the dark glasses out of his pocket and settling them over his eyes. Jackie's breath caught in her throat when he walked straight up to her.

“It was so nice talking to you, Jackie,” he said. “Randall found the artist's paperwork you told me about.” He waved a manila envelope in front of her before folding it into his coat pocket. “I believe this arrangement will work well for everyone involved.” And with that, he stepped between the elderly couple and reached up to lift the Oberg off the wall.

“But you can't,” Jackie muttered.

Randall appeared behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She squirmed enough to feel his grip tighten, and realized he wasn't there to support her so much as to restrain her.

The husband said, “But we were looking at that painting, too.”

When the stranger irreverently cradled the framed piece under his long arm like a stack of schoolbooks, Jackie opened her mouth to protest further. He paused for a moment to look at her, and even though his expression was hidden behind the dark glasses, his brazen behavior stunned her into silence. He turned his attention to the elderly couple, nodding in the direction of the far wall. “There's an interesting painting of the
Edmund Fitzgerald
over there,” he said. “I think you'll like it.”

The wife piped up, “That's what I thought, too!” Then she turned to lead the way back across the gallery, leaving Jackie behind to watch the Oberg walk out the door.

Randall Bengston

“H
ow could you!” Jackie shouted, shoving papers aside on the desk so she could lean over to yell at Randall. “Do you know how much that painting is worth?”

In anticipation of her tirade, Randall had seated himself out of reach behind the desk. “The question is, my dear, do
you
know how much that painting is worth?”

“Argh!” she exclaimed, sweeping a small shelving unit to the floor. Through clenched teeth she said, “It's worth a damn sight more than what I owe the casino.”

“It's not worth anything if it's just hanging on our wall.”

Jackie had followed Randall into the office after the stranger walked out with the painting, leaving the elderly couple to ponder the sinking of the
Edmund Fitzgerald
on their own. She leaned over the desk now on white-knuckled fists. Frustration buzzed over her nerves like a spark along a fuse. Attempting to control her anger, she lowered her voice to say, “I was about to sell that painting to the couple out there.”

“Sure you were. And the last time I dragged you away from the card table, you were about to sell my Miata for less than trade-in value.”

Jackie swung a fist at him, missing by a good two feet as Randall leaned back in his chair. His self-righteous grin infuriated her. Sweeping a hand across the desk, she flung another pile of paperwork to the floor. Jabbing a finger at him, in a quivering voice she said, “The card tables and that painting are two different things. Meanwhile, your idiot friend out there is hauling an original Oberg around town under his arm.”

“At least he knows what it's worth.”

Jackie took a deep breath to draw in her anger. Just what did he mean by that? While Randall began reorganizing the trashed desktop, she studied the man who'd helped restart her life outside of Black Otter Bay. He hadn't shaved this morning, and it occurred to her that when she'd seen the stranger pull up in front of the gallery, it was Randall he'd been talking to on the cell phone. Despite everything he'd done for her, and the obvious fact that he adored her, Jackie knew better than to completely trust anything Randall said. He didn't generally lie outright, but sometimes he said things in such a way as to leave them open to interpretation.

She said, “What do you mean? You said he knows what the painting is worth. How would he know?”

Randall got up to retrieve the desktop shelf from the floor. “That ‘idiot' you speak of has an MBA from Northwestern, but his undergraduate degree was in art history.” After replacing the tray of shelves he looked at her and said, “He did his homework, Jackie. He knows what the Oberg will bring at auction.”

“But it has to be more than I owe.”

Randall nodded and shrugged. “The point is, my dear, we don't have what you owe, and now they're tired of waiting. The Oberg will buy us some time.”

“Well, who is he?”

Randall sifted through a stack of receipts, not really looking at them as he eyed Jackie. She knew that look, and knew the next thing out of his mouth could mean almost anything.

“He's the oldest son of an associate of mine in Chicago.”

“What's he doing here?”

Randall acted surprised. “Collecting on a debt, obviously.”

“You said he majored in art history. He sounds more like a gangster to me.”

“He's no crook. In fact, he'll soon be running their family business. The college degrees just mean he's no dummy.” Now Randall's expression turned dour and serious. “He's no one to mess with, Jackie.”