Who Are You? (9780307823533) (16 page)

Mr. Merson’s eyes seem puzzled, but Mom doesn’t notice. She wipes her eyes again and says to him, “Thank you for letting me see this sketch. It brings back happy memories of Ch—Roger. He’d been off drugs for a year. He was working hard on his studies. He was trying to make peace with you.
He had plans. At least we thought …” Her voice breaks.

She passes the folder to Dad and folds her hands in her lap. Mom takes a deep breath and says calmly, “Mr. Merson, you know that Drew, Kristi, and I need an answer to our questions. Why have you kept a folder of newspaper clippings about Kristi? Why have you hired people to photograph her during the last sixteen years? What is your reason? Please tell us.”

Mr. Merson seems to slip deeply inside himself, like a sea creature hiding in a shell. For a few moments he closes his eyes. Then he opens them and writes, “Later. I’m tired now.”

Mom gives a little cry. “That’s not fair. We deserve an answer.”

She glances to Balker for help, but he shrugs and shakes his head.

Connie Babson takes charge. Smiling, she removes the folder from Mom’s hands. In an instant we’re all on our feet. Mom, Dad, and Sergeant Balker walk toward the entry hall, but I stop by the sofa and look down on Mr. Merson.

“You’re cheating,” I say in a low voice. “Why not tell us? You can’t put it off forever.”

He opens his eyes and looks up at me. “Come back and see me, Kristi,” he writes.

“If I do, will you tell me?”

“I’ll tell you when it’s time.”

“Will you let me see your other paintings too?” I ask. “Will you tell me about the Kupka painting in your hall?”

He looks surprised, but he writes, “Come back. We need to discuss your future.”

At the moment I don’t know if I’ll return or not. I’m angry, so I don’t answer him.

As I turn to walk away, I can see that he’s wrestling with problems too.

“Kristi, your parents are waiting for you,” Ms. Babson calls from the doorway.

“Okay, I’ll come back,” I say in a low voice to Mr. Merson.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

Q
uestions spin through my mind, twisting themselves into a tangled mess because none of them have answers. Mom thought she was helping Chip … Roger … to turn his life around, but he ended it. Chip hadn’t shown the sketch he did of Mom to her. Instead, he signed it
Roger
, and his father has it.

I think about the secret sketches I’ve drawn of Jonathan. Nobody knows about them but me. Chip might have planned to give the sketch to Mom later, maybe even as a gift when her baby was born. He signed his real name, as any artist would. After Chip’s death, his father probably went through his things and packed them. Is that how Mr. Merson got the drawing?

Mom’s brooding, and Dad retreats into silence, so I call Lindy and ask if I can come over.

“Sure,” she says. “I’ve been working all day on my report, and I’m ready to relax. I’ve got this new really great CD we can listen to.”

Ten minutes later I’m at Lindy’s house. We make brownies and eat some of them still hot from the oven. We listen to music, and I tell her about my Friday-night date with Jonathan and about going for pizza with him on Saturday night. I don’t tell her about the visit to Dr. Salinas, though. This is something I need to keep to myself.

But it’s fun to talk about Jonathan and what he said and what I said. The questions that have to do with Mr. Merson get tucked away, into a hidden pocket of my mind.

When I get home I quickly kiss Mom and Dad goodnight and run up the stairs to bed.

As I lie in the darkness, warm under my quilt, drifting slowly into sleep, I see Mr. Merson’s words:
your future.
An electric jolt of excitement jabs me, and my eyes fly open.
My future as an artist!
It’s suddenly so real, I want to reach out and cup my future in my hands and hold it tightly.
My future as an artist.
Mr. Merson wants to give me the future I dream of.

I squeeze my eyes shut and burrow into my pillow. This is no time to wrestle with what this means. I’ll think about it tomorrow.

The next morning, as I enter my art appreciation class, Ms. Montero calls me to her desk. “I made that telephone call, Kristi,” she says.

At first I’m blank. Then I remember. “Oh. To the Museum of Modern Art in New York?”

“That’s right. About the Kupka painting. I was told that
Madame Kupka among Verticals
is with a group of paintings on temporary exhibit in Milwaukee.”

Then it hasn’t been stolen. I’m puzzled, and I say, “But I saw it yesterday.”

“You must have seen a copy. I hope the owner is aware that his painting is only a copy. Of course, it might be a forgery.”

“What’s the difference between a copy of a painting and a forgery?” I ask.

“A copy is recognized as the work of someone other than the original painter,” she answers. “A forgery is a copy that is represented as the original painting itself. In a forgery, there’s an intent to deceive.”

“But this painting looks so real!”

“A good forgery is hard to detect. Forgers have developed many ways of making their work seem authentic. If it’s supposed to be an older painting, it’s baked and aged artificially—sometimes under an ultraviolet lamp. Age cracks in the paint can be added by taking the canvas off the stretcher and rubbing it over the edge of a table. Occasionally stolen gallery labels giving numbers and dates of exhibit—faked, of course—are on the back of the canvas. The history and verification of the painting are falsified as well. Some forgers are so skillful they can fool even experts. Almost every museum director—with art experts at hand—
has at some time unknowingly purchased a forgery.”

“I don’t understand,” I tell her. “A person has to be a really good artist to be a forger. So why doesn’t he exhibit his own paintings? Why copy someone else’s?”

“A forger is interested in only one thing—making money. If he’s still struggling to become known, he might get as little as a few hundred dollars for a painting. However, if he can come up with what passes for a Picasso or a Matisse his share of the profit could amount to hundreds of thousands of dollars. The economy is so good that the art market is booming. It’s big business. More and more people are buying art as an investment.”

“Wouldn’t the artist want to take pride in his own work?”

Ms. Montero sighs. “Unfortunately, the forger does take pride in the fact that he’s good enough to fool people and get them to part with large amounts of money.”

“But that’s being a thief.”

“Exactly. Forgery is a crime. Gallery owners who knowingly sell forged work break the law too. They’re also subject to heavy fines and imprisonment.”

If people knew who owned all the valuable artworks and where they were, then they couldn’t be cheated. I ask, “Isn’t there some kind of an international association that lists the location of every important painting? Maybe on the Internet?”

The bell rings, and I realize I’m the only one in class not in my seat.

“No,” Ms. Montero says. “The idea of a registry has been proposed, but it’s always been dropped. Think about it. A list of the location of every valuable painting would be an invitation to thieves.” As she picks up her roll book and pen she adds, “If your friend believes his Kupka is an original, then I’m afraid he’s just one more victim of forgery.”

Indignation spurts into my words. “He could sue whoever sold him a fake. He could try to get his money back. He could go to the police.”

She looks at me with surprise. “Yes, he could, but most victims of forgery won’t.”

Halfway to my desk I turn. “Why not?”

“People who have spent a great deal of money for a painting usually brag about it and show off the painting to their associates. They don’t want anyone to know they’ve been cheated. They don’t even want to know the truth themselves.”

I don’t think Mr. Merson would be like that. I’m sure he’d want to know. As I sit at my desk I think about Mr. Merson as a victim, not only of a wouldbe murderer, but also of an art forger. Do the two tie together? And where does the file about me tie in at all?

After school is over I go to Ms. Chase’s art gallery. Mr. Merson has delivered some paintings to her. Has he purchased art through her gallery as well? There’s one way to find out. I arrive at the Royal Heritage Gallery of Art just as Landreth is saying goodbye to two well-dressed women.

“Ah, our Ms. Evans,” he says as they leave. “Are you still pretending to be a reporter for your school paper?”

“I wasn’t trying to pretend anything,” I tell him. “I just asked to see Ms. Chase.”

“Are you asking again?”

“Yes, please.”

He smiles. “Sorry. You’re out of luck. She’s not here. She’ll be in New York until Wednesday.”

The day after tomorrow. I don’t know whether to believe him or not. Even if he’s lying, what can I do about it? I refuse to give up. “Maybe I can call her,” I say. “Will you tell me where she’s staying?”

In a patronizing voice Landreth answers, “You might try the Pierre Hotel, although you won’t find her in. Her trips to New York keep her exceedingly busy.”

Okay. You win. Discouraged, I say, “Thanks,” and turn away, walking to the elevators.

I wonder why I had bothered to come here. I should have gone directly to Mr. Merson instead.

As I near his house a car passes me. Gurtz with a scowl is at the wheel. Ms. Babson sits beside him, and she’s crying. My heart gives a jump.
Mr. Merson’s bodyguard and nurse left him alone! Is it because—?
I can’t allow myself to finish the sentence.

When I reach Mr. Merson’s house, I don’t pull into the driveway. I park on the street, a little way back, then walk up the long drive. I’m scared. I don’t know what I’m going to find out when Frederick opens the door.

I’m surprised to discover that the front door has been left ajar. I don’t ring the bell. I push the door a
little wider and poke my head inside. “Frederick?” My voice comes out in a whisper.

I don’t want to shout, in case Mr. Merson is asleep. So I walk in, leaving the door the way I found it. I’ll look through the house until I find Frederick.

The living room is empty. I hoped Mr. Merson would be there, but he isn’t.

I take the hallway to the left and walk through a large dining room into a butler’s pantry, and then a kitchen. There’s no sign of Frederick.

There’s a door to the right. With my heart once again banging in my ears, I open the door and find myself in a sitting room with a bedroom beyond. Frederick, sprawled in an armchair, is snoring loudly; a spilled glass of wine has stained the carpet next to him.

In disgust I walk out, shutting his door. I look through the other downstairs rooms. There’s still no sign of Mr. Merson.

My hands are sweaty, and my heartbeat quickens. I want to yell. I could call 911, but what would I tell them? I have to find Mr. Merson myself.

It’s hard to step quietly as I climb the stairs. They creak with every movement. I hold my breath and keep going.

When I reach the top I find myself on a U-shaped landing with two beautifully carved doors on each side and one in the middle. Which way should I go?

I begin with the door on the right side of the landing. I’m surprised to see that all the doors have old-fashioned, ornamental locks with keyholes. I
turn the knob, and the door opens into a gorgeous bedroom with a huge four-poster bed and two deep armchairs facing a marble fireplace. The ceiling of the room shimmers with reflected sunlight from the pool below. In the bed Mr. Merson breathes rhythmically. He’s sound asleep.

My fingers shake as I softly shut the door. He’s all right. He’s just asleep. He shouldn’t have been left alone by his nurse and bodyguard, though. What was wrong with them? Where were they going? And Frederick—he’s of no use to anyone.

I should leave. I have no business here. But I hope one of these doors leads to Mr. Merson’s studio. I’d love to see it. Let’s see … north light. I open the door facing the stairs and find myself in a spacious room with large windows and skylights—the perfect room for an artist. There are easels and canvases stacked against one wall, but on the other side of some low cabinets, a sturdy easel has been set up. A very large canvas rests on it. Curiosity gets the best of me. I have to look.