Where Truth Lies (12 page)

“W
hy, Bernie, they’re beautiful.” Grace took the bouquet of yellow roses Bernie had just handed her and brought them to her face. “They smell heavenly. And I love roses.”

“Judy thought you would. I wanted to do something to thank you for last night. It’s not much, but—”

“Bernie, stop it. It’s a lovely gesture and I appreciate it very much.” She gave him a quick up-and-down glance. “And look at you, all dressed up. You look great.”

“Thanks.” He smoothed down his jacket. “I call it my Hatfield Gallery suit. Steven helped me pick it. I don’t get much use for it anymore, though.”

The thought that he had worn the suit just for her touched her deeply. Denise was right. Bernie was sincere, sweet and probably trustworthy or Steven would have never entrusted him with the gallery. “How did you get here?”

“Denise didn’t tell you? Chief Baxter—I mean,
Mr.
Baxter said it was okay for me to use his Firebird until I collect my money from the insurance company and can buy myself another car.”

“That was nice of him.” She smiled. “A Firebird, huh? Pretty snazzy car.”

His cheeks colored. “That’s what my sister said.”

She watched him for a moment as a thought began to form in her head. “Bernie, I’m having one of my brilliant ideas here and I want to know what you think.”

“About the gallery?”

“Come with me in the back. I want to put these flowers in water.”

In the back room, she found a vase and filled it with tap water. “How would you like to work here from time to time, like you did for Steven?” she asked, arranging the roses. “I know that you work two jobs already, but perhaps you could help out whenever you have time? Or on Saturdays and Sundays? Denise says that the galleries get crowded on weekends.”

Bernie’s small chest seemed to grow one size larger. “I’d like that.”

“How much was Steven paying you?”

He shook his head. “Oh, no. I couldn’t take any money from you.”

She walked back into the showroom and put the roses on the desk. “I want to pay you, Bernie. I’m afraid that’s a deal breaker.”

He hesitated for a moment, torn between doing what he felt was right and his desire to once again spend time at the gallery. “Fifteen dollars an hour,” he said at last, “but it was probably too much.”

“I don’t think so. Fifteen dollars it is. Plus, of course, a ten percent commission on everything you sell. Does that sound fair?”

“Very. Thank you, Ms. McKenzie.”

“You’re welcome. And now that you’re on the payroll, tell me what you think of the way I rearranged the paintings.”

He looked around him, nodding approvingly. “I like it. You put more easels out.”

“I wanted to make room on the walls for the paintings I found in the back.”

“It looks great. I don’t like galleries that have that bare look you see sometimes. It’s too cold. I like crowded walls, and lots of easels, like you have here.”

She kept watching him as he walked toward the new paintings she had hung. “Are those the ones you took from the back room?” he asked.

“Yes. I don’t know very much about Bucks County artists. What can you tell me about them?”

He talked for nearly fifteen minutes, pointing out the differences in style as well as the similarities in color and texture. He expressed himself in a simple, unaffected way that she found quite charming. She was amazed by how much he had learned in such a short time. Steven had not only acted as his mentor, he had instilled in this simple man a true appreciation for art.

“I don’t see the Arroyo,” he said when they were finished with the tour.

“It’s no longer for sale.” Certain that the news was already making the rounds, she told him about the incident with Victor Lorry. “Matt Baxter is with Mr. Lorry now. Two more FBI agents will be arriving from Philadelphia soon.”

Bernie looked upset. “They don’t think Steven had anything to do with the forgery, do they?”

“No one is speculating until we hear what Mr. Lorry has to say.” Then, before he asked her questions she wasn’t at liberty to answer, she said, “I’ll tell you what. I have to go to Denise’s shop to buy a few gifts for my friends back in Boston. Can you stay and watch the gallery for me? I shouldn’t be long.” She smoothed down his tie, like a big sister would have. “You might as well put your Hatfield Gallery suit to good use, if you’re free.”

The little crease of worry between his eyebrows relaxed. “My shift at the cemetery is over and I don’t have to start my night job until six.”

“In that case, you’re in charge.” She wrote her cell phone number on one of Steven’s business cards and handed it to him. “Call me if you need me.”

Later that night, Grace sat at a window table, looking at the crowd of diners around her. Number 9 was tucked in a charming square in Lambertville, and was one of the area’s most popular restaurants, as well as Matt’s favorite. Small and cozy, it served unpretentious, homey food everyone seemed to enjoy. The smell alone made her mouth water. An attentive waiter had already brought her a basket of crusty French bread to keep her busy while she waited.

With Bernie watching the gallery earlier, she had been able to run her errands and stop at the police station to give her statement to Deputy Montgomery. She was getting good at it. She could anticipate questions and answer them with clarity and assurance. As a result of her involuntary notoriety, she and Deputy Montgomery were now on a first-name basis.

While Rob was printing her statement, Matt had come out of the interrogation room long enough to ask her to meet him at Number 9 restaurant in Lambertville at seven. The cocktails would have to wait until another time.

When she arrived at the gallery, more than two dozen people were waiting to hear the latest news. Bernie had done his best to keep everyone calm, but it was obvious by the panicked look on his face that he wished he was miles away.

The moment Grace stepped into the showroom, the excited crowd surrounded her, demanding to know about “the chase.” While Bernie had retreated into the back room, Grace had politely escorted the unwelcome visitors out the door and flipped the Open sign over.

She was on her second slice of bread when Matt walked into the restaurant, carrying two bottles of wine. “I wasn’t sure what you felt like, so I brought both,” he said, setting the bottles on the table. “One red, one white.”

She tried to read his face for a sign of what may have transpired at the police station, but as always, his features remained inscrutable.

The efficient waiter was already uncorking the white wine. “Well,” she said after he had filled their glasses and left them to study the menu, “don’t keep me in suspense. What did Lorry have to say? I know you were hoping he’d turn out to be Steven’s murderer.”

“That was wishful thinking on my part.” Matt picked up his glass but didn’t drink from it. “Unfortunately, his alibi couldn’t be more airtight. He really was out of the country that week and didn’t get back until October third. When he heard about Steven’s murder, he decided to play it safe and take the painting back.”

“By breaking in?”

“Exactly. Our self-proclaimed art dealer is nothing more than a two-bit crook who was once arrested for misdemeanor and later for breaking and entering. He served his time, changed his identity and embarked on a whole new career, not as a forger, but as the middleman. Lorry has been running his illegal operation for years. He is careful not to do business with large galleries, or auction houses that might have an expert on the premises. Instead he does his homework and finds dealers like Steven, who are knowledgeable enough to run a gallery, but not so knowledgeable that they would spot a good fake with the naked eye.”

Grace couldn’t help feeling relieved. “So Steven didn’t know he was dealing with forgeries?”

“He didn’t have a clue. Lorry is also an expert in forging documents. He provided Steven with the provenance papers and Steven never looked any further.”

“Who’s the forger?”

“He has several, all of whom are about to be arrested. The one who specializes in western art is a talented artist Lorry met in New Mexico a few years ago. His name is Eric Rossmann. At the time they met, Eric was earning a fairly decent living painting reproductions of artists he admired. Eduardo Arroyo was one of them. Lorry saw the man’s potential and talked him into moving to Pennsylvania, a move that benefited both of them.”

“He was never caught?”

“Like I said, Lorry knows how to pick his marks. You were the curveball he wasn’t expecting. Once he heard that you, a respected museum curator with access to art experts, was taking over, he couldn’t afford to leave the painting with you.”

Matt took a sip of his wine. “He hadn’t expected to find such a feisty, combative opponent.” He smiled. “He still winces when he sits down.”

“I have very little sympathy for him.” Grace toyed with her bread. “There’s just one little problem that remains unsolved.”

“What’s that?”

“According to Steven’s records, he and Lorry have been doing business for a little over two years. Steven sold several paintings for Lorry so far, all by different artists.”

“Right.”

“All the sales were properly recorded, and the commissions Steven made don’t amount to the quarter of a million dollars I found in the cottage. Far from it.”

“I asked Lorry about the cash. He categorically denies being blackmailed. Whomever Steven was blackmailing is still out there. If my guess is right and he is the murderer, he must be feeling pretty twitchy by now.”

“He’s not the only one. I have a kitchen cupboard full of money that no one wants—” A sudden thought occurred to her. “Unless Sarah can use it to repay those disgruntled, defrauded clients.”

Matt shook his head. “Afraid not. If the money came from blackmail, which is a crime, the entire amount must be handed over to the police, who will return it to the person who was being blackmailed. It can’t go into the blackmailer’s estate because it wasn’t his to begin with. Did you mention the money to Deputy Montgomery?”

She nodded. “He said that the presence of cash in someone’s home doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s illegal money. He can’t confiscate it until he knows where it came from. Neither can he take the gun. It was properly registered in Steven’s name.”

“You might want to put the money in a safe-deposit box,” Matt suggested. “You’ll sleep better. And if it turns out that it is legitimate money after all, you can turn it over to Sarah.”

“But until then, she has to use her own money to reimburse Steven’s clients.”

“Not unless she wants to.” He lowered his menu. “Contrary to what a lot of people believe, an inheritance is a gift, free and clear of all claims and obligations. Collectors can file a claim against the estate, provided there are other assets, such as properties, bank accounts, stocks and bonds, etc. The person who ultimately inherits the gallery may choose to repay the injured parties, but he or she has no legal obligation to do so. The gesture would be purely voluntary, perhaps to protect the gallery’s good name.”

“So it would be up to Sarah to decide how she wants to handle the situation?”

“Entirely.”

One phase of the mystery had come to a close, but its conclusion had done nothing to advance the search for Steven’s killer. She looked at Matt, who had put his life on hold to help his father, and tried to imagine his frustration. “I wish it had turned out differently,” she said. “For your sake, and your father’s.”

“Thank you, Grace, but I’m not ready to give up just yet, especially now.”

“Something came up?”

“You could say that. Dark-green paint was found on Bernie’s car. Almost every dent on the driver’s side has a sample of it.”

“Then someone did try to kill him!” she whispered.

“Seems like it.”

“But why?”

“You want my theory?”

She smiled. “Another one?”

Instead of addressing her quip, he reached across the table and took her hands. “You’re not going to like it.”

She glanced at his strong hands, gently holding hers. “I guessed that much. Tell me anyway.”

“The decision to kill Bernie may have been made when you invited him to come to the cottage. Someone, maybe Steven’s killer, found out about the impending visit and tried to stop him.”

“I find that hard to believe. How can an innocent visit from a totally harmless man be a threat to anyone?”

“Because it’s possible that Bernie knows something about Steven’s murder. I don’t know what or how, but the fact is, Steven and Bernie were an odd match—”

“Are you saying you don’t think Steven’s friendship with Bernie was genuine?”

Matt finally let go of her hand. “At the risk of having my sister call me cynical again, no, I don’t. Maybe it developed into a genuine friendship after a while, but initially, I think Steven sought Bernie out for a specific purpose.”

“And what would that be?”

“I don’t know. Yet.”

“Assuming you’re right, how would the killer know that Bernie was coming over that night? I didn’t tell anyone, except Denise. As for Bernie, I can’t imagine who he would tell.”

“He could have been watched. Or his phone could have been bugged.”

“Now you’re talking like an agent.”

He shrugged. “As I said, it’s just a theory.”

“I don’t want to think that Steven used Bernie. He and I had a chance to talk last night while he was waiting for his sister to pick him up. Steven was his hero. I don’t know what it will do to him if he finds out that his friend was nothing but a con man.”

Matt smiled. “You’re fond of Bernie, aren’t you?”

“Very much so.”

The waiter came back for their orders. Realizing that she was starved, Grace glanced at the menu. “I think I’ll start with the goat cheese tart,” she said. “And the asparagus vinaigrette.”

“Certainly. Will the second appetizer take the place of an entrée?”

“No. For my entrée, I’d like the braised short ribs. And could I have a helping of mashed potatoes to go with that?”

“In place of the haricots verts?”

“In addition.”

The waiter wrote it all down. “Very well.”