Where Truth Lies (8 page)

A
n unexpected flow of visitors had kept Grace busy for most of the afternoon, and while she had not sold any more paintings, the Arroyo continued to attract interest. She was saying goodbye to a dozen senior citizens on an art tour when a dark-haired, wide-shouldered man with a scowl on his face walked in.

“I’m Victor Lorry,” he said, his attitude as unpleasant in person as it had been on the phone a few hours earlier. “We spoke—”

He came to an abrupt stop when he saw the Arroyo, his expression a mixture of dismay and anger. He turned to face Grace. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, knowing damn well what he meant.

“The price!” He pointed an accusing finger at the discreet tag beside the painting. “I precisely told you not to change it, but you went ahead and did it anyway.”

“And I tried to tell you before you hung up on me, that we had a binding agreement, one that clearly states that the gallery reserves the right to change the price of any work it takes on consignment.”

She started to ask him why he was in such a hurry to sell
Market Day
but stopped herself in time. The last thing she wanted right now was to arouse his suspicions.

“I’m too busy for this,” Lorry said impatiently. “It’s clear that you and I cannot do business together.” Without warning, he took the painting off the easel.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Grace asked, alarm rising in her voice.

“Taking back what’s mine.”

“I don’t think so.” She gripped the painting on both sides and held it firmly. “You signed a legal contract, and unless you let go of this painting right now, I’ll be forced to call the police.”

“Is everything all right here?” a calm voice said from the doorway.

Grace and Lorry turned at the same time. Matt Baxter stood in the doorway, blocking any possible exit. Grace held back a sigh of relief. She no longer had any doubt that the Arroyo had to be authenticated. The problem was, she didn’t think she alone could have kept Lorry from walking out with the painting.

Taking advantage of the dealer’s surprise, she gave one last tug to free the Arroyo from his grip. “It is now,” she replied. She put the Arroyo back on the easel. “I’ll let you know when I sell the painting, Mr. Lorry.”

Lorry didn’t answer. Instead, he assessed Matt for a few seconds as if he was considering taking him on. Matt just stood there, looking relaxed.

“I’ll be back,” Lorry said to Grace. Then, after one last dark look at Matt, he walked out.

“Charming fellow,” Matt commented after he’d left. “Friend of yours?”

“He’s an art dealer with whom Steven did business.”

“He looks more like a two-bit hood than an art dealer.”

Grace walked over to the desk, took a dust cloth and came back to wipe the frame where Lorry’s fingers had left a few smudges. “He was just angry.”

“Any particular reason?”

“He claims that his agreement was with Steven and now that Steven is dead, he refuses to work with me. He came to take his painting back and I wouldn’t let him.”

“What was he trying to do? Wrestle you for it?”

“Apparently.”

Matt walked over to the painting. “What’s wrong with the painting?”

Grace wasn’t ready to share her suspicion with a federal agent, especially one she had known less than twenty-four hours. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” she said. “Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Its owner was hell-bent on taking it back. You were hell-bent on not letting him. It made me curious.”

“Victor Lorry and I had what you call a personality clash. Now that the matter has been settled, I feel a little silly.”

“Nothing that a good lunch won’t fix.”

“You’re right. Just let me go freshen up.”

Once in the back room, however, Grace didn’t touch up her lipstick, but unclipped her cell phone from her waistband and dialed a number in Boston.

At the fourth ring, Professor Fishburn’s answering machine picked up and the familiar voice instructed her to leave a brief message and a phone number. Trying to be both thorough and brief, Grace told her old friend what she suspected and asked if he would be willing to come to New Hope to put her mind at ease. She gave him her cell phone number and hung up, praying the professor wasn’t on a trip somewhere, hunting for rare art.

“So, what exactly does a curator do?”

Matt watched Grace wrap her hands around one of Lorraine’s hefty sandwiches and take a healthy bite.

“Well…” She chewed, swallowed and took a sip of her iced tea. “Do you want the short version or the long version?”

He laughed. “Give me one I’ll understand.”

“Okay.” She took another bite of her pastrami and melted cheese on rye. “As a general rule, curators plan and oversee the arrangement, cataloging and exhibition of various art collections. We also schedule lectures, workshops and fund-raisers. In a smaller museum, like the Griff, a curator might be called to perform a number of additional tasks. I run the American Impressionists department.”

Assigned to the art and antiquities fraud unit in the late nineties, Matt knew all there was to know about curators, archivists and conservators, but he pretended ignorance for the sole pleasure of watching Grace while she talked.

The rumors hadn’t done her justice. She wasn’t just pretty, she was fascinating. And what made her even more appealing was that she didn’t seem to have a clue about the impact she was having on people. She didn’t notice the open stare of the few men in the café, or the women’s more covert glances. Her attention was totally focused on him and their conversation.

Her eyes were mesmerizing, although he couldn’t quite make up his mind if they were green or gray. The rest of her features were perfectly proportioned—high cheekbones, a strong, determined chin and a wide, sensual mouth she covered only with a thin layer of pink gloss. She would have looked terrific in any hairstyle, but the short layers of her ash-blond hair worn in that sexy, tousled do suited her particularly well. Her clothes were classic—well-tailored gray slacks and a black wool jacket over a crisp white shirt.

He found himself wondering what she wore in the privacy of her own home. Cozy flannel, maybe. Thick socks on her feet. No bra.

Something she said brought him back to earth. She moved her hands a lot, sandwich and all, as she talked about the museum director and his rigid ways.

“He passed on exhibiting an important collection once because he could only get it for January and February and he thought the museum would lose tons of money. Granted, winter in Boston is brutal, but would the foul weather keep art aficionados away from a major exhibition? Hardly. So what happened? Another museum did the show and broke attendance records. Are you going to finish your chips?”

“No.” He pushed his plate toward her. “Be my guest.”

“Thanks.”

“May I ask you something?”

She helped herself to a potato chip. “Sure.”

“What are you? Five-four? A hundred pounds?”

The question didn’t seem to faze her. She kept on eating. “A hundred and ten. Why?”

“How can you eat so much? Where do you put it?”

She laughed. “Oh.” She took another chip. “A lot of people ask me that. The answer is simple. I can’t cook, so whenever I go out, I stock up, you know, like a camel with water.”

“You don’t cook at all?”

She shook her head. “Pathetic, isn’t it? That’s what happens when you grow up without a mother.”

“You were raised by your father?”

“Yup. Just the two of us. He did all the cooking, plus a million other things. He’s wonderful. You’d like him.”

He smiled at the way her voice had softened. If he hadn’t already taken her off his suspect list, he would have done it at that exact moment. Killers didn’t talk about their dad this way. “Does he live in Boston?” he asked.

“Not anymore. He moved to Napa Valley a few years ago to become a winemaker. He sold everything he owned, packed his clothes and a few mementos into his Bronco and moved to California.”

“How’s the business going?”

“Great. Winemaking is hard work, but he’s happy.”

“How often do you see him?”

“A couple of times a year.” She finished the rest of her iced tea. “What about you? How often do you come home?”

“Not often enough. Traveling is tough on family relations.”

“Lucy said that your job was dangerous.”

“Lucy worries too much.”

She smiled. “I get it. You don’t like to talk about what you do.”

“Actually, I’d much rather talk about you.”

“Didn’t I just finish telling you my life story?”

“Not quite. What’s the deal with Victor Lorry?”

She shrugged. “I told you. He’s not keen on doing business with me, that’s all.”

“Any particular reason?”

“He felt uncomfortable leaving such a valuable painting in the hands of someone he didn’t know. He’s fine with that now.”

She was a lousy liar. Three years in profiling had taught Matt a lot about people’s behavior. From the way she kept avoiding his gaze and trying to find things to do with her hands, now that she no longer had any food, he guessed that there was a lot more to the situation he had witnessed than she admitted. And that Mr. Lorry was anything but fine. Whether or not he had anything to do with Hatfield’s death was something Matt intended to find out, but not behind Grace’s back.

“I have a confession to make,” he said, looking directly at her.

“I knew it. I’m boring you to tears and you’ve just remembered an errand you have to run.”

He laughed. “Hardly. The reason I seem so interested in your Mr. Lorry is because he doesn’t quite ring true to me. You see, I used to be attached to the art and antiquities fraud unit some years ago, and I’ve seen my share of art traffickers and art thieves. Lorry fits the profile to a T.”

No longer amused, she folded her hands on the table and gave him a stern look. “So you were just pretending to be interested in my work?”

“I was not pretending.”

“Then why didn’t you interrupt me? Why let me go on and on about the details of daily life in a museum if you already knew all about it?”

“Because I loved listening to you. It’s not every day that I get to meet someone so passionate about her job.”

She seemed to mellow a little. “Are you planning on investigating Lorry?” she asked after a while.

“Would you mind if I did?”

“No—”

“Well, son of a gun,” someone said behind him. “If it isn’t my old friend Matt.”

Matt glanced over his shoulder and grinned as George Renchaw, now New Hope’s popular mayor, approached their table, his jacket open and his ample stomach protruding. Although he had tried every diet in the book, he was quickly losing the battle of the bulge, thanks to his wife’s superb cooking.

“George, you old rascal. It’s good to see you.” Matt stood up and shook his friend’s hand before moving aside. “Have you met Grace McKenzie?”

The practiced politician smile snapped on as he took Grace’s hand. “I haven’t had the pleasure yet, but I’ve heard a lot about you, young lady. I’m Mayor Renchaw.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Mayor.”

“I heard what happened on your first night in our town,” he went on. “And I want you to know that our police department is doing everything in its power to find the perpetrator.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mayor. I appreciate that.”

“I hope you don’t think that what happened is indicative of what New Hope is all about. It’s not. Matt can vouch for that. We are a peaceful, law-abiding community with one common goal—the well-being of our citizens and the good people who visit us.”

“All right, George, enough with the political speech,” Matt said. “Your re-election campaign doesn’t start until next year, so chill out.”

“I see that the two of you have some catching up to do,” Grace said, rising. “And I have a gallery to run. Mr. Mayor, it was a pleasure to meet you. Matt, thanks for the lunch.”

“You’re welcome. Let’s do it again.”

George watched her leave before taking the vacated seat. “She’s one hell of a looker.” His eyes shone as he looked at Matt. “Is there something going on between the two of you?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but the answer is no. I’ve known her less than twenty-four hours.”

George smoothed down his tie. “I knew I wanted to marry Louise the first moment I met her.” He was interrupted by the ring of his cell phone, which he had placed on the table. He glanced at the name on the display and sighed. “It’s Thelma at city hall. I have to take this.”

“Go ahead.”

As he talked his way out of some citizen group meeting, Matt picked up his coffee cup and leaned back. George had done well for himself. A straight- A student through high school, he had earned a full scholarship to Harvard before being accepted into Harvard Law. Two weeks after graduating, he had been hired by a large New York firm where he had eventually made partner.

But after seventeen years and two heart attacks, George had left the rat race and returned to his roots. He still practiced law in the town where he was born and raised, but kept a much lighter schedule. Two years ago, he was approached by the soon-to-retire mayor and was asked if he would consider running.

After being reassured by his doctor that he could handle the added responsibilities, George had said yes. He had done a good job. Shortly after taking office, he had hiked the salaries of both the police and fire departments, put an end to no-bid contracts and made sure that the roads were properly plowed during the winter months. His plan to expand the existing high school by adding a new building on Route 202 had met with some resistance at first, but after the skeptics had had a chance to see the plans
and
the numbers, the proposition had passed without a hitch.

“Are you always this busy?” Matt asked when George finally hung up. “Or is this only for my benefit?”

“It depends. Are you impressed?”

“Totally.”

George laughed and slipped his phone back in his pocket. “I’m really sorry about your dad, Matt,” he said, now serious.

“Thanks, but he didn’t kill Steven Hatfield.”