Framed (10 page)

“You could try the booze distributors, too. They might remember.”

Ginny made a face. “My cover story would be a little thin with them. I’ve been saying I want to find the artist to get a present for my husband. I think it would be stretching it to keep looking beyond the bar owners.”

“Have you googled the ex-owner?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

“State liquor commission? Local police?”

“You’re stretching again.”

“Not if you tell the truth,” Sue insisted. “That it involves a famous artist and a lost painting.”

“Hmm. The trouble is, I don’t want to get rumors started about this thing. At least not until we know for sure it is his work. So get it cleaned, would you?”

Sue gave her a mock salute. “Aye, sir. But if we get a signature out of it, would you need to have provenance?”

“It wouldn’t be as critical. But you know me. I like to have all my ducks in a row. Besides, I’m curious. Aren’t you?”

Sue grinned. “I’m so curious that I went out to Douglass and spent all morning yesterday looking at microfiches in their archives. Not a fun way to spend a beautiful spring morning.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“Only that Jerry and Abby were wearing indoor clothes when they were found. And they never found Jerry’s car. And one other thing, though I don’t think it’s related: do you know why Mike Bingham left New Hampshire?”

That required some thinking. “Let me see. He served his probation—”

“And he resigned as alderman after his arrest for scaring Elsie.”

“That’s right. I think his insurance business went downhill after that. I mean, would you buy insurance from somebody who waves a gun around at a harmless woman? Anyway, I remember that he told everyone he didn’t want to live around here anymore because it reminded him too much of Abby.”

“He had an insurance agency?”

“Or he worked for one.”

“What was he like?” Sue wondered, delighted at getting so many answers.

“Mike? He was good-looking, I guess. Loud. Insurance salesman type, you know what I mean? Flashy dresser, always had a big diamond ring on his pinky. In fact, I think that’s how Abby got acquainted with us. Mike used to buy her jewelry at Jemmie’s, and then she started coming over herself to pick things out or get them repaired. Then one day she looked in our window and liked the Edward Gordon prints, and from there—” she shrugged to indicate Sue knew the rest of the story. She made a shooing motion. “I’ve got to get some work done. Go find me a Jerry Berger signature underneath all that smoke and grease.”

****

Sue clattered down the stairs with Elsie, but something in Ginny’s words awoke some very strange thoughts in her fertile imagination. Could there possibly be a connection between insurance fraud and improperly assigned vehicle registrations? She’d have to think about that.

Elsie started on the newspaper framing while Sue got the painting out of storage and made preparations for cleaning it. She liked this part of her job, as long as she could have fresh air while she did it. The cleaning solution had a pungent odor. She took the painting, the solution, and a supply of soft clean cloths and cotton swabs into the common area of the basement where she set them on a small table next to the garage door, which she opened wide to let the stink disperse. She made sure the screen was in place to keep the bugs—and frogs—outside. Selecting a cloth, she moistened it with cleaner and began the slow, circular motion that would remove accumulated soil, dust, and grease.

The process was always the same, but the results were unpredictable. Sometimes what seemed to be a soiled painting turned out to be just a dark one, and no amount of cleaning could brighten it. Other times, cleaning offered surprises: the staff still marveled at the three ships revealed in the background of a seaside painting, and the cheerful yellows that had been dull gold flowers in a floral. Sue half-expected something to show up in this painting, given what little they knew of its history. Imagine, an original Jerry Berger hanging in a bar.

The lower left corner produced nothing more than a general lightening, so Sue folded the cloth to a clean spot and worked toward the top in an inch-wide strip. When she reached the top, she moved the cloth over an inch and worked down, always rubbing lightly in small circles. Once she had cleaned the entire surface vertically, she would repeat the process on the horizontal, paying special attention to the nooks and crannies of the paint itself. The repetitious movement gave the task a peaceful, trance-like feeling. Sometimes she got so engrossed in this work that she let the rest of the world drift out of her awareness.

The first vertical pass revealed nothing except that what appeared to be mud at the base of the rocks was, in fact, mud. Sue took extra time to clean it away, using cotton swabs with the same gentle, circular motion.

“How long has that door been open?” screamed a voice in her ear, rising to near-panic pitch.

Sue started and jostled the bottle of cleaner. She grabbed it before it could fall over and spill its odorous contents on the table and floor. “Dammit, Jemmie! There’s a screen and I’ve been here the whole time. Trust me, no frickin’ frogs got in.”
Where the heck did he come from?

“
I
snuck up on you,” he roared. Then, with a visible effort, he made a placatory motion. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I keep telling myself that frogs have no teeth.” He showed his own teeth in a nervous grin—a man facing up to his fears. “I still have to check. What are you working on?” His voice trembled with forced politeness.

Sue tried to shield the painting from view, but Jemmie stepped close and reached for it. She moved one of the cloths to cover the nude woman and slid the painting away from his reach. “It’s a customer’s piece,” she began, but then she saw Jemmie’s face. He turned a ghastly shade of paste, and then flushed so dark she feared he might burst a blood vessel.

“She’s dead!” He pointed a shaky finger at the model. “He killed her! Oh, God, she’s dead!”

Sue leaped to her feet and yelled for Elsie. “Yes, of course, Jemmie.” She grasped his arm and spoke soothingly. “It was a long time ago. It’s okay, Jemmie, relax.”

“He killed her! Out in the snow!”

Sue frowned. Why was this death so vivid to him? “Who killed her? Do you know?”

Elsie skidded into view, the phone in one hand and a box cutter in the other. Sue gave her a small signal with her hand, trying to let her know she shouldn’t interfere. Jemmie, lost in the past, didn’t seem to hear her question, but he was calming down, taking a visible hold on himself.

He forced an apology out between clenched teeth. Shudders still passed through him. “Sorry. It was that artist, wasn’t it? That’s what the papers said. The artist killed her.”

“Did you know her?” Sue kept her voice soft to calm him.

Jemmie drew a deep breath, as if he was waking from a nightmare. “I knew her. She was a customer. So pretty. I designed a few pieces for her. Wonderful lady. Great taste. Such a shock. Such a shame.”

“It was,” Sue agreed, though she hadn’t known either of the victims. Elsie gestured with the phone as if to call for help, but Sue gave a shake of her head. “Are you okay now, Jemmie?”

He shuddered, but his voice was stronger. “I’m fine, fine. I’m—I’m sorry I scared you, Sue. Um—just close the door?”

She patted his arm. “I’ll be working out here for a while yet, and then I’ll let the fumes air out, but I promise I’ll close the door, Jemmie.”

He straightened his broad shoulders, gave her a nod, and stumbled away. He couldn’t resist a backward glance.

“Whew!” Elsie whistled. “That was too close! Are you okay?”

Sue nodded, thinking hard as she watched his retreating back. “I’m okay, Elsie. I’m glad you were here. He certainly reacted strangely to this painting.”

“We should tell Ginny about it.”

“You better believe it.”

“She’s with a customer right now. I heard the doorbell just before Jemmie came over.”

Sue sighed. “I’d better get back to this before he freaks out again. Let me know when Ginny’s free.”

Elsie returned to the newspaper piece, and Sue picked up her cleaning cloth. Her hand was shaking. She put the cloth down again and took some deep breaths while she thought. Why should Jemmie get so hyper about a painting of a long-dead customer? Why should he insist, “He killed her”? He was a bundle of surprises, no doubt about that. She considered his frog obsession, and the way he yelled at his staff. For a moment there, Sue had felt really threatened. If Elsie hadn’t been present… She shrugged. Jemmie yelled a lot, but he hadn’t ever hurt anyone. So why did she keep thinking about all those sharp things? Maybe she’d better talk to Ginny about that, too.

She sighed again and returned to her work. She began the horizontal cleaning now, working methodically from left to right. The foreground was thick with paint, and she used a lot more cotton swabs to be sure she removed all the grime stuck in the brushstrokes. They came away gray or brown with grease and smoke, and the painting began to brighten up. There were more colors among the leaves and underbrush, and even the rocks began to glow. And sure enough, Jerry’s signature, as clear as could be, showed up in the lower right.

“Elsie! I found the signature!” Her coworker dashed up, with more confidence this time, and examined the cleaned patch.

“Well, I’m not the expert, but that sure looks like his signature. I’m getting Ginny, whether she’s with a customer or not.”

In short order, Ginny clattered down the stairs behind Elsie, breathless in her excitement. Sue rotated the painting to reveal the signature. Ginny leaned over it and studied it for a long moment. Her finger reached out and traced the air above the letters.

“Ginny?” Elsie murmured. “What do you think?”

She raised her head and tore her eyes from the painting. “I think,” she said in a strained voice. She cleared her throat and began again. “I think we have it. I’m sure now. Jerry Berger painted this picture.” She straightened and seemed for a moment to look inward, and then she shook herself. “That’s great. I was pretty sure before, but this clinches it. Wow! This is wonderful. Good work, Sue. It looks so much better. Is there much more to do?”

“I just want to finish the horizontal pass. There was a lot of muck here in the bottom, so I need to make sure I got it all out. And…” she hesitated.

“Yes?” Ginny prompted.

Sue told her about Jemmie and his reaction. Elsie commented that he’d seemed very subdued when he left. Ginny shook her head.

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about him. Finish up, Sue, and let me know when you’re done. I’ll want to call Jenna in then.”

As Ginny headed upstairs and Elsie went back to her project, Sue bent to the job again. As she moved higher on the image, she uncovered a series of reddish dots and strokes, incongruous against the grayish granite rocks. There was even a puddle of red underneath an alder bush emerging from the murk on the right side of the painting. Could Jerry have meant to add in some additional color in those places? How odd that he hadn’t finished them. Or maybe, she considered, he’d been about to change something, but she couldn’t imagine what it could be.

At last she reached the top of the painting and sat back to look at it from a distance. No hidden squirrels popped out from the trees, nor any herons stalking fish in the distant pond. Only that line of red. It led from Abby’s outstretched right hand, down the rocks, across the ground, and under the alders. Sue’s scalp prickled. What could it mean? She lowered her head until her nose almost touched the paint. She peered at the drops below the hand and caught her breath.

“Elsie? Would you bring the magnifying glass out here, please?”

“What is it?” Her colleague peered over her shoulder. “Did you find something else?”

Sue pointed to the red dots and strokes in the middle of the picture. “Yeah, but it’s weird. I want to look at these red bits.” She chose a spot and put the glass above it, straining her eyes to see better. She muttered something under her breath, poked with a tentative swab, then looked under the bushes. She handed the glass to Elsie. “What do you see?”

Elsie wiped the glass with a finger and looked. She moved it away and looked at the unmagnified bit, wiped the glass more thoroughly with a corner of cloth, and looked again. “I think the red stuff was added later,” she said in a low voice. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re right. It looks like it might be watercolor paste.” The face she lifted to Elsie was pale. “I think Jerry was trying to tell the world something. I think it’s supposed to be blood.”

“Should we take it off?”

Sue chewed her lip. Her impulse was to forge ahead and clean off the red substance, but she thought better of it. “I want a witness to this. Let’s leave it on for now, and get Ginny down here. And maybe Tom DiAndreo.”

“You think it means something?”

“At the very least I want him to witness the condition of the painting before we go any further. And we should get some photos, too.”

Chapter Fourteen

Less than an hour later, Ginny looked at the cleaned painting again and agreed the red stuff had been added after the picture was completed. She didn’t think much of it, however, and it was only after thinking about Jemmie’s reaction that she consented to call in Tom DiAndreo. She didn’t believe it was urgent, though, so when Tom suggested an appointment a week later she didn’t argue. She agreed to take some photos before, during, and after cleaning off the red stuff. Sue already had done photos before and during the cleaning, as a matter of course. It was often stunning to see the differences between a soiled piece of art and the cleaned one. Customers liked to keep a copy of the “before” picture for themselves.

After admiring the cleaning job Sue had done, Elsie kept thinking she had seen the painting before. That was impossible, of course. Ginny’s research proved it had hung in a bar on Cape Cod for years. Elsie seldom went to the Cape and wouldn’t have gone to a bar if she did. And even if she’d gone to a bar, she wouldn’t have paid much attention to a nude since she didn’t care for them.