Finding the Forger (9 page)

That wasn’t the real question, though. The real question was, “why did you come to this opening without telling me, especially since it was Sarah who told you about it in the first place?” I was caught in the middle again.

“Uh, Sarah invited us. She said . . .”

Kerrie frowned in a melodramatic sort of way. “That’s right. The interns got to invite two friends.”

Mr. Daniels saw someone he knew and left Kerrie with Doug and me.

“How are things?” Doug asked her good-naturedly.

“Fine, I guess,” she said.

Sarah returned a few seconds later. When she saw Kerrie, she visibly reddened. I felt like kicking her. She should have told Kerrie she’d invited me and Doug.

“What are
you
doing here?” Sarah asked Kerrie.

“My dad brought me. He’s on the board, remember?” Kerrie said. “You didn’t tell me you’d invited Bianca.”

“I didn’t have a chance,” Sarah said. “You’ve been so busy lately.”

“You’re the one galavanting off to colleges.”

“Well, I didn’t galavant this weekend,” Sarah said with an edge in her voice.

“It’s not my fault your Boston trip got canceled.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Sarah retorted. “But your dad did have to help you with your social studies project last week, which meant he had to catch up on work
this
weekend.”

“Are you saying he shouldn’t have?” Kerrie sounded like she was going to challenge Sarah to a duel. This was getting ridiculous. Time to step in and mediate again.

I moved in Kerrie and Sarah’s direction at the same time I raised my hands in a “can’t we all get along” kind of gesture that unfortunately collided with a huge silver tray of sushi being brought to the table by a tuxedoed server behind me.

The sushi tray then collided with Kerrie’s black silk blouse. Sushi on silk—fashion fumble, big-time. Kerrie shrieked and her hands flailed in the air as if she’d been attacked by snakes. Come to think of it, some of that dead fish looked rather snake-like, so I don’t blame her for screaming.

“I’m so sorry,” I immediately said, grabbing gobs of green napkins and rubbing at her blouse. The waiter bent to pick up the tray while snarling “watch what you’re doing” to me. Then Fawn came over and snarled at Sarah, except more politely.

“What’s going on here?” she hissed, pushing her blonde hair behind an ear and looking with disgust at Kerrie.

“Uh, nothing. Just an accident, that’s all, Miss Dexter,” Sarah said.

While Sarah was trying to look helpful and innocent, Hector came over. “Can I help here?” he said, smiling at Sarah. And she smiled back. And blushed. We all felt the electricity in the air—electricity whose plug was promptly pulled by a very nervous Fawn Dexter.

“No! You should be doing your job. Walking the halls or something!” Dexter snapped. “Last thing we need is another . . .” Then she stopped herself and waved her hands in the air, which I interpreted to mean something like “just make this go away.” She promptly made herself go away by walking toward someone coming through the door at that moment who had a haircut similar to mine. It must have been Jean Connelly.

Hector shrugged and pointed his finger at Sarah. “Later,” he said. She smiled, but it was a troubled smile, and I knew whose troubles she was thinking about—his.

Kerrie, meanwhile, was not smiling. In fact, she was crying. Yes, crying. Her tears were dripping onto the sushi, returning those poor dead fish to their natural salt water habitat. “Too late, Kerrie, it won’t revive them,” I wanted to scream. Instead, I added my consoling words to those already being offered by—you guessed it—Doug! He had his arm around her shoulder and was saying, “Ker, it’s okay. Bianca didn’t mean it.”

Bianca didn’t mean it?
Did he think I deliberately sent that sushi missile her way?

Reinforcing this view was Kerrie herself. When her dad stepped over a few seconds later to ask what was the matter, she gulped out, “Bianca spilled a tray on me.” In a heartbeat, I had gone from accidentally bumping into a waiter to purposely directing a
food tray onto her fancy blouse. If I wasn’t careful, Hector soon would be escorting me to the door for carrying a concealed deadly sushi tray.

I at least expected some sympathy from Sarah. But no, she chose this moment to get back in Kerrie’s good graces.

“Come on, Ker, I’ll take you to the office. I might have another blouse back there from when I changed after school this week.”

Both Sarah and Doug escorted the sobbing Kerrie down the hallway while I was left holding a scrunched up gob of green paper napkins. After tossing it in a nearby trash bin, I looked ruefully at Mr. Daniels.

“It was an accident,” I managed to murmur. “I wasn’t even carrying the tray. Honest.”

He gave me a quick artificial smile, put his hands in his pockets, and nodded. “She’ll be fine. She’s just a little sensitive right now.” His gaze drifted to the door and his face brightened when an older man approached us, followed by a younger guy—a guy who looked like a blonde Hugh Grant. Same rakish smile and long face. Same perpetually-tousled hair. Same sparkling eyes.

I swooned. Well, not really. But swooning would certainly have felt better than skulking, which was what I felt like I was doing— skulking around after unintentionally causing my friend embarassment.

“Bertrand! Nice to see you,” Mr. Daniels said, extending his hand to the older man. Then he turned to me. “Bianca Balducci, this is a fellow lawyer, Bertrand Witherspoon.” Then, to Mr. Witherspoon, “Bianca is one of Kerrie and Sarah’s best friends.”

Witherspoon smiled at me and offered his hand. He smelled like nicotine—the musky aroma of a habitual smoker. After our introduction, he pointed to the Hugh Grant fellow. “This is my son,
Neville. He’s in town looking at Hopkins.”

“How do you do?” Neville said, not taking his eyes off me. He spoke with a British accent, which just emphasized the Hugh Grant connection. Now I really did feel like swooning.
Tip for all men
: to impress women, speak with British accent.

Mr. Daniels started jabbering at Mr. Witherspoon about local politics, and it wasn’t long before they drifted off, leaving me with the dashing Master Witherspoon (“Master” is what they call young men in Britain). Unlike Doug, who sported the traditional Dressy Clothes for a Guy—nice slacks, white shirt, and tie—Neville wore a sexily casual blue blazer, white shirt, and no tie. After his father departed the group, Neville grinned sheepishly, rolled his eyes, and ran his hand through his hair.

“Well, Miss Balducci, why don’t you tell me about yourself? Do you work here?”

I laughed. Actually, my guffaw sounded more like seals barking, so I quickly stopped.

“No, no. I’m just a friend of someone who works here. Well, she doesn’t really work here. She’s doing an internship here, which I guess is like an apprenticeship. She’s trying to get into college and it looks good on your resumé to do internships. But I’m not trying to get into college. I mean, not yet. I mean, I’m just a sophomore at St. John’s.” After that stunning demonstration of conversational skill, I paused and cleared my throat. “Where do you go to school, Neville?”

“Actually, nowhere at the present time. I graduated last spring, and I’m taking something of a hiatus after some school plans went pear-shaped on me, you see. Mummy wanted me to go to Oxford, but I wanted to travel a bit, so here I am.”

Mummy
?
Hiatus
?
Oxford
?
Pear-shaped
? Oh, baby, could he make
the sweet talk.

He looked hungrily at the table of hors d’oeuvres. “I say, you Americans really know how to put on a party.” He grabbed a crab puff and swallowed it in one ravenous gulp.

From around the corner, a bell rang and Fawn Dexter’s high nasal voice could be heard urging people to join her in the lobby for a tour of the new exhibit.

Neville looked at me and smiled. “Would you do me the honor of escorting me, Miss Balducci?” He held out his arm as if I were a royal princess. What could I do? I didn’t want to start a war or something! I placed my hand on his elbow.

“This should be fun,” he said, winking at me. “We can hang back and I’ll give you the real story on all these art works. My mother’s an artist in London. There’s a marvelous scandal brewing here, did you know?”

“I’ve only heard rumors,” I said as he led me toward the back of the growing herd of people.

“It’s quite the story. Some of their art works have been stolen. And replaced by brilliant fakes. It’s quite rich.” He laughed heartily just as Fawn Dexter started us all up a broad staircase.

Doug and Kerrie and Sarah were nowhere in sight. But at that point, I didn’t much care. I’d hook up with them later—after Neville gave me a tour and filled me in on this “quite rich” scoop.

F
AWN DEXTER DRONED on about the humor and “whimsy” in the Japanese prints, Neville told me about the museum’s scandal. I already knew most of it, but somehow it sounded fresh when told in a British accent. I kept saying “really?” and “wow” to each revelation, then had to remind myself I already knew that juicy bit of info. He told me about the “stolen” art, the fakes, the alarm, and how it was all “hush-hush” because the museum didn’t want a scandal that would rock the confidence of patrons and contributors in the middle of a fundraising drive. He even mentioned how “some Mexican guard” was a prime suspect for the mess. The only new information I got out of Neville was who was at the other end of Fawn Dexter’s flirty-voiced conversations. Turned out that Fawn and Bertrand—Neville’s father—were an item.

“My sister Connie’s on the case,” I whispered to him. “She’s a private investigator. I help her sometimes.”

This elicited a broad grin from the dashing Master Witherspoon that had me headed into swoon territory once again.

He was a talented mimic and he sprinkled his story with occasional lampoons of Miss Dexter as we observed the various prints from well behind the crowd.

“Doesn’t this white space just speak to you?” He pointed to the background on one of the prints. “It’s
decadent
yet spare,
shrill
yet muted,
hopeless
yet imbued with sunny optimism,” he said, imitating the quick highs and lows of Miss Dexter’s voice.

“Stop it, Neville. You’re wicked!” I laughed.
Wicked?
Since when did I use the word “wicked” in conversation? Being around a Brit must have done that to me.

By this time, people were throwing us occasional looks that said our witty conversation was disturbing them, so I turned to a more serious topic.

“Who do you think is doing it and why?” I asked. “The phony art, I mean. Are they selling the originals?” And a more troubling thought occurred to me—what was Hector’s role in all this? I saw him a few times as we made our way through the museum. And though Sarah liked him, I wondered if he wasn’t taking advantage of her good nature, of her sympathy for the underdog. To me, Hector looked kind of shifty, with small squinty eyes and big, gangster-like shoulders.

“Selling them is hard to do, but not impossible. You could make a pretty penny if you knew the right markets. No, my guess is it’s some frustrated artist effecting his own form of twisted revenge on an institution that has ignored his talents.” He suddenly pointed to Hector, who stood with hands clasped in front of him in the corner of the room. “Did you know he’s secretly an artist? Does wonderful watercolors that a couple centuries ago would have made him the toast of the town. Not so today. It’s enough to drive a man to desperate measures.”

“How do you know that?” I asked. A long shiver curled from my heels to the tip of my now-perfect hair. Even Neville suspected Hector! I glanced at Hector again and studied him. Darn it, he
could be getting Sarah into trouble. It wasn’t fair. Sarah was too sweet. She needed to be protected.

“My father told me,” Neville said, “and he heard it from Fawn.”

The crowd started to move forward and Neville extended his arm once again.

“Would you do me the honor, Mademoiselle?” he asked.

Remembering my Honors French, I said, “Mais oui, Monsieur,” which is about all I could say without sounding like I had a mouth full of marbles. It must have been enough, though, because he took and patted my hand and looped it over his arm, bending his head toward me as if we shared a secret.