Identity Crisis (12 page)

“He was a great painter. You can actually feel the sunshine against the woman’s skin.”

She nodded, impressed by his assessment. Most people merely saw a painting, but never really felt it. “And the warm breeze catching her dress, sweeping the long grass against it. You can smell the grass and the fresh country air. The painting has the aura of an original. The feeling that the artist had truly been there, experiencing his surroundings.”

She had a sick sense of pride. This wasn’t a crappy copy like most of the fakes she’d seen over the years. It was an incredible forgery. Her dad had been quite talented. Hard to believe he could have given up painting. If one of the artists she repped quit painting, it would be like cutting off one of their arms or ears. It was a part of who they were. You couldn’t just kill your muse.

She rubbed her temples, her head ready to explode.

Ethan’s phone rang out at his waist. He glanced down at the number. “I have to take this,” he said, stepping away. By his tone, it was likely Gwen, the woman he’d spoken to in the car yesterday. A tinge of jealousy shot through her, which was crazy when he’d said she wasn’t a girlfriend. Even if she was, Olivia and Ethan had shared a kiss, not a bed.

“Welcome,” a woman said.

Olivia turned to find a tall, slender woman. A loose bun held back her snow white hair and a long, red rayon dress and red lipstick washed out her pale complexion even more. A pleasant, congenial smile didn’t include her green eyes, which conveyed a deep sadness. She had the timeless elegance and poise of a 1940s movie actress. “I’m Isabelle Newman. Everyone calls me Bella.”

Isabelle Newman. Olivia’s maternal grandmother.

Olivia tried to maintain a blank expression when her emotions were battling inside her. She couldn’t believe her grandma was standing here in front of her, yet she wanted to demand why she’d opened this museum. Had she been that bitter toward Olivia’s dad?

“I’m Oriana and this is Ethan.” She gestured toward Ethan as he finished his call and joined them. “This is Bella Newman.”

His eyes didn’t betray a hint of recognition, even though he undoubtedly recalled her grandma’s name.

“Oriana, what a lovely name. Like the Italian opera singer Oriana Bianchi. I was named after Chagall’s wife.” Bella placed a hand to her chest and swirled the other in the air in a dramatic gesture.

Olivia’s eyes widened. “Really?”

A whisper of a smile curled the corners of Bella’s mouth. “No, not really. I’m just funning ya, dear. Seems appropriate since I work in a gallery.” A reminiscent sparkle lit Bella’s eyes. “I did meet him once. Chagall. A very interesting man.”

“You met Chagall?” Olivia said with a hint of doubt, unsure if Bella was funning her again.

“Yes, I truly did.”

Olivia only knew a few people who had ever met the artist, who’d died when she was only ten. “What was he like?”

“Believe me, it’s nothing to brag about. I was twenty-two, and I babbled like an idiot, couldn’t even tell you what I said. He was very gracious. It was the early fifties and I was traveling through Europe with a friend, finding myself. We went to a showing of his in Paris, held in a tiny Montmartre gallery. Wish I’d bought a lithograph. They were going for mere francs at the time. He signed a postcard for me. Nice man.”

“Met Bob Dylan once at a bar in Oakland,” Ethan said.

“For the times they are a changing,” Bella said, quoting one of Dylan’s song titles. She shook her head faintly. “Boy, are they ever.” A faraway look on her face, she appeared to stroll down memory lane to happier times. Olivia hoped her smile had once included her eyes, wishing she could remember that it had. Bella blinked back to the present. “Where are you two from?”

“Chicago,” Ethan said.

“Then you might be familiar with Andrew Donovan and his role in bringing down crime boss Vinnie Carlucci. Although that was likely before your time.” She gestured toward framed newspaper clippings on the wall, along with an article explaining why forgeries were detrimental to the art world and history. “You know it’s rumored that Chagall’s wife sold hundreds of forged letters of authenticity after his death.”

As if Chagall’s wife being no better than Olivia’s dad justified his crime and this museum’s existence.

“Are you familiar with Impressionist art?” Bella asked.

“I own a gallery.” Olivia pressed her lips firmly together. Damnit. So much for her owning an eclectic boutique. She avoided Ethan’s gaze, knowing it would scold her for giving away part of her cover.

Bella smiled. “Well then, you can certainly appreciate the quality of Andrew Donovan’s work. You may not recognize many of the paintings, since they’re lesser known. We’ve sold off most of the famous ones over the years to raise money for local benefits. We’re too leery to sell the ones that could potentially slip under the radar and be passed off as originals.”

Gee, they had some ethics. Who were
they
?

“It’s rather strange to dedicate a museum to a forger, isn’t it?” Ethan asked.

“Suppose it seems that way. But before it opened, few people around here could tell the difference between a Renoir and a Rembrandt. Besides raising money for benefits, it helped bolster tourism when the area was in a slump. That first year, lines went all the way down the stairs to the parking lot.” Bella swept an exaggerated hand toward the door.

Olivia had been studying Bella’s mannerisms, facial features, and the way she spoke, desperately searching for something to evoke a memory. But nothing did. She wanted to scream in frustration.

“I used to teach art history at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Continued teaching even after we moved here right before my daughter started high school. Retired years ago now. The museum keeps me busy. I’d be lost without it.”

As an art history professor, Bella should have realized the severity of Olivia’s dad’s crime. Olivia glanced around at the walls full of paintings. This was insane.

Bella followed her gaze. “These paintings are quite good, but I prefer his originals. Local landscapes and family portraits. He did some phenomenal paintings of the Henderson’s sunflower field.”

“Are they on display?” She tried not to sound too eager about seeing some guy’s family portraits as she peered anxiously over at the doorway to a connecting room. “I’d love to see them.”

“They’re at my house. Stop by sometime. I’d be happy to show you.” Bella strolled over to her desk with a graceful lilt. She took a business card from a drawer and jotted down her home address and directions. “I’m home most evenings.”

“What time do you get off tonight?” Olivia didn’t care if she sounded pushy. She wanted to see the paintings.

“Around six.”

“We’ll see you this evening then, if that’s okay?”

Anticipation fluttered in her stomach. She only had one family photo, from when she was a baby. Who knew what her dad’s paintings might reveal about their former life in Five Lakes.

• • •

When they walked out of the museum, Ethan’s phone rang and he answered it, stepping away from the SUV while Olivia hopped in.

“Finally got the results on the syringe,” Mike said. “Found traces of high concentration morphine rather than that MS drug. Doctor said a syringe full could easily have killed the guy.”

Shit. This bomber was an even bigger whack job than he’d feared, willing to do whatever it took to get what he wanted. They just had to figure out what he wanted.

“The camera outside the pawn shop hasn’t been working in months of course, so nothing there. Didn’t turn up anything at Doyle’s place. Nothing out of the ordinary with his finances. Had a hefty retirement fund, but not like it was millions.”

“Did you check out Roy’s phone records?”

“Yeah, nothing to Doyle that I can tell. But several calls were placed to disposable cells, which isn’t unusual for protected witnesses to have. Doubt if Doyle would still have felt the need for one unless he was up to something now and didn’t want his calls traced. Still trying to track down a few of the numbers. Also talked to my buddy with the Feds and a few Picasso forgeries just surfaced in L.A. this week at a crack house. Same drug ring recruiting those middle school kids in the Bay Area. The paintings were being used as collateral in a drug deal. Thought the things were real.”

“The Latin Lords weren’t involved, were they?” Javier’s cousin was that gang’s leader, so Ethan figured he was likely hiding out with them.

“Don’t think so.”

“Thought it might be my lucky day and Javier got his ass busted so I wouldn’t have to haul mine down to L.A. looking for him when I get back in town.”

“Sorry. No such luck. I clued my buddy in on the situation with the bomber and your late witness.”

“What the hell?” Ethan muttered through gritted teeth, glancing over at Olivia in the SUV watching him. If she found out he was investigating her father after he’d assured her his only concern right now was protecting her, she’d go ballistic. But if he’d told her he was checking out her father, he was afraid she’d cover up any incriminating evidence she came across to protect him. He couldn’t take that chance. “Why’d you do that? I told you to be discreet.”

“Christ, Ethan, you know I can’t hold back information like this.”

Well, he should have withheld it from Mike. Having been with the Feds’ Art Crime Division, it shouldn’t have surprised Ethan that his partner would pursue the matter more fervently than Ethan would have.

“Don’t let your feelings for this woman cloud your judgment,” Mike said.

“Her name’s Olivia, and even if I had feelings for her, I wouldn’t allow them to affect my judgment. She would cut off her left arm before she’d allow a forgery to circulate. She’s dedicated to protecting the integrity of art and artists the same as I’m dedicated to protecting witnesses.” Except if it came down to protecting her father’s memory and her reputation. That might just trump her ethical obligation. “We don’t have any proof these forgeries are tied to her father, and certainly not to her gallery. Her father was too cautious to have put her career or her life in jeopardy. And if you don’t keep this quiet,
you
could put her life in danger.”

He hoped these forgeries in L.A. didn’t turn out to have any connection to this case. Not only for Olivia’s sake but WITSEC’s, since they’d put a criminal back on the street with a clean slate. He didn’t want to see her career or what little respect she still had for her father destroyed. He sure didn’t want to be the one responsible for doing so.

“My buddy promised to be discreet,” Mike said.

Yeah, so had Mike. Ethan disconnected and got into the SUV. “Got the results back on the syringe.”

Apprehension narrowed her brow. “Wasn’t good, was it?”

He shook his head. “Morphine.”

“Morphine?”

“Even if he’d been taking it to control pain, it was way more and a higher concentration than he’d have needed. And if he’d been attempting suicide, he’d never have called nine-one-one.”

Her gaze sharpened. “If he’d planned to commit suicide, he’d have told me about our past and gone back to see his parents first. He’d have nothing to lose at that point.” She stared out the window, a lost look on her face. “I can’t believe his killer knew him better than I did. I didn’t even know he was injecting medicine for MS.” She glanced over at him, appearing to regret having admitted she didn’t know her father as well as she’d thought. Regretting confiding in him.

“You knew your father. The important things anyway. That he loved you. That he’d have put his life on the line for you and done anything to keep you safe. The things he kept from you were to protect you.”

She nodded faintly, looking surprised that he was sticking up for her father. “If he continued his life of forgery, that was a mighty big secret.”

Her comment wasn’t a statement in her father’s defense. This was the first sliver of doubt she’d shown concerning her father’s innocence. Finding out he’d been a forger had apparently whittled away some of her confidence.

Ethan hated seeing her so cynical. “Keep your faith in your father. Having faith in people is something I suck at. It’s a hazard of the job. Expecting the worst of people is easier than constantly being disappointed in them. Even if your father had continued his life of crime, he wouldn’t have done it through your gallery and at your expense. From what I’ve learned about him, you were the most important thing to him.” Since when had he become such a Pollyanna?

She gave him a faint, appreciative smile. “Thanks.”

Her eyes held a glimmer of renewed faith. He wasn’t sure if it was directed at him, or her father.

He hoped both.

Ethan parked the SUV in the inn’s lot, and Olivia hopped out. She marched to the back where the paintings were stashed.

“Open it up,” she demanded, glaring at the hatchback.

Ethan shook his head. “Not a good idea.”

“Fine. I’ll just crawl back there.”

She bolted over to the side door. She grabbed the door handle, and Ethan placed his hand over hers. His mere touch made her heart rate kick into overdrive. He heightened all her senses, except her common sense. She couldn’t think rationally around him.

He leaned in, mere inches from her face, lowering his voice. “You don’t want to confront them with the paintings.”

“I want to know how Kate and Roger allowed this to happen. Was it purely for the money? Why hadn’t they taken his crime seriously? It’d been serious enough to send their son and granddaughter into hiding.”

“This would be a pretty crappy way to introduce yourself to your grandparents. Not to mention you can’t confess your identity. Not yet. This isn’t just for your safety, but theirs. We don’t want the wrong people to find out you’re back.”

She let out a frustrated sigh, relaxing her grip on the door handle. A squeal pierced the air, and Ethan jerked his hand away from hers. Her gaze darted over to the lake where two little girls were splashing around in the water; a blond woman in a pink bikini lounged on a beach chair watching them.

Olivia headed toward the inn.

“Why are you going inside?” Ethan asked.