Where Truth Lies (11 page)

A
ri Fishburn had provided more entertainment for Grace over the years than any man she knew. Born in Greece and adopted by American parents when he was ten, his passion for art had manifested itself at an early age. During a career that had spanned five decades, he had worked as a lab technician, an archivist, a conservationist and a curator. He had also spent ten years as director of the Lakeside Museum in Chicago before finally retiring. He now worked part-time as a consultant, specializing in western art and American Impressionism.

Experts claimed that he was one of the best authenticators in the country. Many agreed, including the FBI, who called on him occasionally.

He was a tall, slender man, with clear blue eyes and a head of hair almost as white as the trademark suits he wore, summer and winter. As punctual as ever, he arrived in a chauffeur-driven car at noon sharp the following day, looking very dapper in a white Armani suit and a matching fedora.

Grace met him at the curb as he stepped out of the car, dragging the thick black briefcase he called his “lab on wheels” behind him. “Hello, Ari.” At his request, she had stopped calling him professor long ago, while they were still working together in Boston.

“How are you, my dear?” He removed his hat and embraced her warmly. “Still as fetching as ever, I see.”

“And you’re still an incorrigible flatterer.”

“I speak nothing but the truth.”

They walked along the stone walk together, arm in arm. “I still feel guilty about taking you away from your golf game,” she said as they went down the stairs. “Had I known—”

“You should not feel guilty. I would have been very upset if you had called on anyone else. Besides, you saved me from making a complete fool of myself on that course. I’m a terrible golfer, you know. The only reason my friend Ray called is because they were short a player and they needed a quick replacement for their foursome.”

He stopped abruptly. They had just entered the gallery and the Arroyo stood on the easel in the center of the showroom, a stream of sunlight bathing it in a soft, golden glow.

“Here it is, Ari.
Market Day.
The sixth of Eduardo Arroyo’s market series.”

“He was always one of my favorite artists.”

“That’s why I called. I knew you would enjoy seeing an authentic Arroyo—provided, of course, that it
is
authentic.”

“Well, then, let’s get to work, shall we?” He opened his briefcase. Inside was everything he needed to authenticate a painting outside his lab. Occasionally, the forgery was so masterful that it required taking the canvas back to his Boston lab for more extensive tests. Most of the time he was able to authenticate the work with nothing more than his portable X-ray machine and his magnifying glass.

After studying the painting carefully through the glass, he asked Grace to close the blinds. Then, he took the painting down from the easel and laid it flat on the desk where he had set the X-ray instrument.

Grace stood to the side, watching his expression, hoping she’d get an early clue about the verdict.

At last, he turned the machine off and straightened up. “This is very good,” he said, still looking at the painting. “The paint is properly layered. Arroyo’s thumb strokes, here and here,” he pointed at a couple of archways around the village square, “are where they should be, and the shadow and light effect that you see here, falling on the blanket, is as good as any I have seen.”

He turned to face Grace. “Unfortunately, none of that makes it real.”

Although she had suspected as much, her heart gave a quick thump. She was already thinking of the scandal this would cause, the bad press for the gallery, and for Sarah. “You are absolutely sure?” she asked, still hoping.

“Come here.” He waved her over and handed her the magnifying glass. “Look at this. In order to be authentic in depicting unpaved village roads, Arroyo liked to mix desert dirt with his paint. This technique, which very few people are aware of, by the way, gave the road a grainy, almost pebbly quality that is discernible to the naked eye.”

“I see it,” she said, focusing on a section of the road.

“Yes, but the effect you see, although well reproduced, is not due to the mixing of dirt with paint. It was achieved by using a textured brush. The X-ray fluorescence, which, as you know, can determine the purity of paints and other substances, did not reveal any desert dirt.”

She lowered the magnifying glass.

“I’m sorry, Grace. I know that in spite of your suspicions, you were hoping for a different diagnosis.”

She didn’t know what she had feared more—dealing with a forgery or a stolen original. Either one was bad. “I would have found out the truth eventually.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Report the forgery. I’m just not sure how it will affect the future of the Hatfield Gallery.”

“I suspect it will survive, just as others have. Even famous museums experience their share of forgeries. When I was curator at the O’Keefe Auction House in Seattle, forty percent of all works proposed to me were forgeries. Once, when I was attending an auction, one of the Old Masters featured that day looked as authentic as any Raphael I had ever seen. Yet a week later, when the new owner had it appraised, he found out that it was a fake. Many thought that the scandal would bankrupt us, but it did not. The O’Keefe is as thriving as ever. It’s quite possible that Steven was unaware that he was dealing with a forger, in which case he can’t be held accountable.”

Then explain to me why he had a quarter of a million dollars and a gun hidden inside a kitchen cabinet?

As he started to pack up his equipment, she said, “Please don’t leave yet, Ari. Let me buy you lunch. We’ll catch up.”

“My dear Grace, I’d like nothing better than to have lunch with a beautiful woman, but tonight is my daughter’s thirtieth birthday and I promised I’d be back in time for a family dinner.”

“Rain check, then? When I get back to Boston?” She didn’t hear his answer. Through the window, she saw Matt’s Jeep pull up at the curb. She groaned.

Ari looked up. “What is it?”

“Matt Baxter. He’s the son of the man accused of Steven’s murder. He’s also an FBI agent—a very smart one.”

“Are there any other kind?”

“What I mean is that he was on the art and antiquities fraud unit for a while and knows quite a bit about forgeries.”

“Does he know about the Arroyo?”

“He suspects something.”

“Then perhaps you should tell him the truth. It’s a rather heavy burden to carry all by yourself, don’t you think?” He looked at Matt coming down the path leading to the gallery. “Do you trust him?”

“I haven’t known him very long.”

“When in doubt, trust your instincts,” he said.

Matt walked in and quickly assessed the scene—Ari packing his equipment, and the Arroyo still on the desk. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked.

“No.” Not nearly as nervous as she had expected, Grace made the introductions. “Matt, this is an old friend of mine, Ari Fishburn. Ari, say hello to FBI Special Agent Matt Baxter.”

“How do you do?” Ari said, shaking the offered hand.

“
Professor
Ari Fishburn?” Matt asked. “The same Ari Fishburn who helped the bureau catch Joseph Reid, one of the most skilled forgers of our time?”

Ari looked pleased. “That would be me, young man.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I signed up for one of your classes once. Unfortunately, I was called away on a case and had to cancel.”

“You have an interest in art, Special Agent?”

“I worked with the fraud division for two and a half years.”

“I still consult with your boss every now and then…Carlton Brown?”

“I know him well.”

Ari snapped his case shut. “I’d love to stay and chat, but as I told this beautiful young lady here, I have an important dinner to attend.” He kissed Grace on the cheek, whispering in her ear. “I’m a fairly good judge of character, by the way, and I like this man.” Out loud, he added, “It was a pleasure seeing you again, my dear. Keep in touch.”

“I will. Thanks, Ari.”

She watched him leave before turning around. “So,” she said, “what brings you by?”

“I heard about your little midnight swim and wanted to find out how you were.”

“Fully recovered, thank you.”

“You took a big chance, Grace.”

“That never entered my mind. Besides, Denise was there. She wouldn’t have let anything happen to me.”

“Denise can’t swim.”

“A minor detail.”

“I’m glad that you’ve kept your sense of humor. How’s Bernie?”

“He was scared at first, but he’s fine now. He says that he was pushed.”

“So I’ve heard. I stopped by the police station. They pulled the car out of the river this morning.”

“Did they find green paint on it?”

“Forensics is inspecting the car right now. They shouldn’t have any problem finding traces of paint from another vehicle, provided Bernie is telling the truth.”

“Why should he lie?” she asked defensively.

“Don’t get upset. I’m only repeating what I was told. You can understand why the chief would rather have Bernie roll into the river because of possible inattention than because someone intentionally pushed him in. Josh’s peaceful little town is starting to get bad press and it’s reflecting on him.”

“I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m sorry. This whole thing has me on edge and until it’s resolved, I’m going to remain on edge.”

“I have just the remedy for that.”

She smiled, feeling some of the tension drain away. “I bet you do.”

He pretended to be offended. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, young lady, but what I had in mind was a drink at Left Bank Libations in Lambertville. My friend Glenn makes the best metropolitan in town, guaranteed to relax those knots in the back of your neck after the first sip.”

Yes, what exactly
had
she been thinking? “How do you know I have knots in the back of my neck?”

“I’d like to dazzle you with my psychic powers, but the truth is much more simple. You keep rubbing that area. Now, how does that drink sound?”

She brought her hand down. “Better and better.”

“Afterward we could have a relaxing dinner.”

“Any more relaxing and I’ll fold like a rag doll.”

“Does six o’clock sound good?”

He was persistent. She liked that in a man, and she liked it a little more coming from
this
man. “Yes.” She picked up the painting, but instead of putting it back on the easel, she took it to the back room and closed the door.

“Was your Arroyo a bad boy?” Matt asked in a teasing tone.

“I’m not ready to show it just yet.”

“Why not?”

She gave him a long look. “I think you know.”

“Is it a forgery? Is that why Professor Fishburn was here?”

“I’ve been suspecting something ever since that argument with Victor Lorry yesterday. Ari confirmed those suspicions. The Arroyo is as phony as a three-dollar bill.”

“Tough way to start a new business.”

“What do you mean?”

He made a broad gesture. “All this is yours now, isn’t it?”

She didn’t want to lie to him anymore. “Only if I accept it. Which, for your information, I have no intention of doing.”

He studied her for a long second, as though he was making a complete reassessment of her. “You’re turning down the gallery?”

“That’s right.”

“In that case, what are you doing here, open for business and selling art work?”

“Because Steven had already anticipated that I would turn down the inheritance and asked that before I made my final decision, I spend one week here.”

“For what purpose?”

“He hoped I’d change my mind.”

“And you haven’t?”

“No, Matt, I haven’t. I happen to love my job. And in case you haven’t noticed, this town doesn’t seem to agree with me. I’ve had nothing but mishaps since I’ve arrived.”

“Do you realize what you’re turning down?”

“I do.” A sigh escaped her lips. “Which reminds me, I need to report a felony.” She rearranged a stack of art catalogs on the desk. “I hate to think what this will do to Sarah. She always knew that her son was no saint, but a trafficker of forged art? How will she explain that to her bridge group?”

“Is it possible that Steven was unaware of the forgery?” Matt asked, echoing the professor’s words.

“I was inclined to think that, too, until…” She bit her lips. Did she want to tell him
every
thing?

Matt’s eyes narrowed. “Until what?”

She took a deep breath. “I found a quarter of a million dollars and a gun hidden in Steven’s kitchen cabinet.”

Matt let out a long whistle. “I take it he didn’t make that kind of money selling landscapes, original or otherwise.”

“No.”

“So this money that you found must have come from a different source.”

Grace nodded.

“I’m guessing blackmail, unless you tell me that Steven was above that sort of thing.”

“All I can tell you is that he loved money and all that it could provide. He never had to worry about it until his mother cut off all financial support. Even after they made up, she was far less generous than she used to be.”

“When did she cut the purse strings?”

“A long time ago, when Steven decided to pursue a career in art instead of becoming a politician, like all the men in his family. Steven hated doing without the luxuries he was accustomed to, so it’s not inconceivable that he would turn to fraud for extra cash.”

“And it’s equally possible that Lorry, who would go to any lengths to get his forgery back, is the man who assaulted you the other night.”

“One more reason to report the professor’s findings,” she said, picking up the gallery’s phone.

Matt touched her arm. “Before you make that call, would you do me one favor?”

“
Another
favor?” She allowed herself to relax a little. Ari was right. Matt was a very likable person. “I’m going to have to start a list.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”