by Nupur Tustin
High time, the agent thought, although he wished Pike had used his cell phone instead of the two-way call system on his tracker. This wasn’t an emergency. Now where in the hell was his phone?
He could hear it still ringing, the sound coming from somewhere around the narrow perimeter formed by the couch and two easy chairs in his living room. His eyes darted around, homing in on the coffee table with his black jacket thrown over it.
Bingo!
Blake reached under his jacket, pulled out the phone, and flipped it open.
“You have it?” he asked tersely.
The only reason the FBI had agreed to fund Grayson Pike’s excursion out west was that there was a chance—a very small chance, true, but a very real one nevertheless—of recovering some of the works stolen from the Gardner Museum nearly three decades ago.
The turd better have something for him or there’d be hell to pay. Although, as Blake had pointed out to his supervisor, how in the hell could you ignore a tip like that? Not one tip, but two, pointing to the same geographical location?
That was no coincidence.
The only question was: could an aging, washed-up, half-drunk former art student-turned-informal informant pull it off?
“What, no ’ello, no hi? Is tha’ any way to greeta frien’?”
Blake clenched his lips. Pike was drunk.
“Do you have it?” he repeated.
“No—hey, hey, slow down. Look, I said I’d ge’it fer yer. I will.”
“Have you even seen it?” Blake asked.
“No, but, hey wait. I ’ave infer-may-shun. Yer gotta lissen to this. I’s good!”
“I’m listening.” Sending Pike out had been a big mistake. He should’ve checked the tip out himself. Thing is, a week back, it had all seemed so far-fetched. Despite the two tips he’d received—one from the hotline, the other from Pike himself.
But following up on them had even then seemed like the right thing to do. A way of letting the Gardner Museum officials know the FBI was still on it, investigating leads even if they were most likely a waste of time.
And, boy, had the Director of the Museum been pleased when he’d called her. A chance to finally recover some of the art; to know what had really happened all those decades ago. She’d sounded as excited as a girl going to her first prom.
“Lissen, you’ll never guess who I saw?”
“Get on with it, Pike!”
“Simon Duarte, Blake. Simon Duarte is alive.”
Blake tensed. Shortly after the theft, two museum employees—Simon Duarte and Earl Bramer—had been discovered dead in a fatal car crash, their bodies almost completely charred in the fire that had followed the crash.
The fire had been hot enough to singe a large swath of wild grass at the bottom of the cliff where the black sedan registered to Duarte had been found. But the medical examiner had still been able to return a positive ID on the dead bodies.
That the dead men were both museum employees and art students hadn’t escaped the notice of Blake’s predecessors. And when word filtered through—brought in by Pike himself, according to Blake’s files, via a notoriously shady fence the team had been tracking at the time—that the Gardner art had been consumed in the fire as well, no one had questioned the fact.
But when William L. Worth, the fence, had been brought in for questioning on an unrelated illegal weapons charge, he’d promptly denied being the source of that information much less having any knowledge of it.
There the matter might have rested had not an undercover agent said he’d heard Worth make the same claim. Bramer and Duarte had died attempting to double-cross the mob, and the art they’d stolen had died with them.
Yet less than ten years later, Worth claimed to know where one of the Rembrandts was and had even taken a Boston Herald reporter to a warehouse to show him the painting. That had left agents completely flummoxed.
Because although the paint chips Worth provided had not matched the Rembrandt, they had been consistent with pigments used in Johannes Vermeer’s Concert.
Had all the art with the exception of the Vermeer been destroyed? That had been the working theory the FBI had operated on.
But if Duarte and Bramer had survived the flames that engulfed their car, could the stolen art have survived as well?
“You saw Duarte and Bramer?”
“Not Bramer,” Pike clarified. “Gather ’e died some mon’s back.”
“You speak with him? Duarte, I mean. You talked to him?”
“Sure did.”
“Did he say he has the art?”
“Not in so many words. But c’mon, he must ’ave. I see ’im in a bar called the Delft owned by a man called Dirck Thins. The co’nci’ence, man!”
Vermeer had lived and worked in Delft, at the time a city in the United Province. But it was only when Pike said, “Thins, get it?” that Blake recalled the other connection to the Dutch master.
When he’d joined the art team and been assigned to the Gardner theft, Blake had read several books on the artist. He’d learned less than he needed to about Vermeer, but far more than he ever wanted to about the Dutch artist’s mother-in-law, Maria Thins.
“Okay. You flap your lips to anyone else about this?”
“’Course not.” Pike sounded indignant. “Just spoke ’bout some art wi’ some young girl. Anyway, I think Simon got th’ message. Ah’m headed back ter t’is place later to see th’ works. See ya!”
The call ended before Blake could ask any more questions. He reclined in his easy chair. Calling Pike back and badgering him with questions would just be a waste of time. While he didn’t share his informant’s confidence, the lead so far sounded promising.
He reached for his jacket again and pulled out his work phone. Time to check in with his supervisor with an update on Operation Project Recovery.
Chapter Three
“Well, that’s everything.” Dirck hoisted one last hefty bag into Celine’s trunk. He glanced over his shoulder, giving her a half-smile as he pulled the rear hatch down. It closed with a firm, business-like click.
“You’d better get going now,” he continued. “It’s late.”
It was in fact no later than usual. If anything it was earlier than she’d been leaving since John Mechelen had passed and the Mechelen Estate had come into Dirck’s hands. But Celine just nodded, and after a moment’s hesitation reached out to hug her boss.
“See you tomorrow?” Her voice was hesitant, the Lady’s presence at the back door of the Delft reminding Celine that it was no sure thing that they would.
“Of course. Same time, same place.” Dirck withdrew from her embrace. “Now get going or you’ll miss Bob.”—That was Bob Massie, the handyman-slash-guard who manned the guard room at the Winery. He was on duty until ten. It was barely eight now, and the Mechelen was only six miles out of downtown Paso Robles.
But Celine didn’t bother pointing that out either. It was clear Dirck wanted her gone—and soon. It was puzzling and somewhat hurtful, but Celine wasn’t about to make a fuss. She opened the driver’s-side door and maneuvered herself in behind the wheel.
Dirck gave her a smile and her arm a couple of quick taps— like a parent sending a needy child off to school. “Off you go.”
It was a few minutes past eight o’clock when Celine pulled out of the parking lot behind the Delft into the alley. Just before she made her turn onto Pine, she glanced up into her rearview mirror, wanting to give her boss one last wave. But he’d already returned to the bar.
The dull ache in Celine’s chest and the knot of pain in her stomach intensified. She wouldn’t be seeing him again—not like this, anyway, one living person interacting with another—and she knew that. She gripped the wheel harder. It felt cold beneath her hands and she shivered.
It had been a warm day with temperatures in the seventies, but now her car thermometer claimed a chilly sixty-five. To someone like B-aw-ston Greg, that might’ve seemed pleasant. A fine spring evening. And shortly after
she’d returned to California, Celine herself would’ve agreed.
But after seven years back in the Golden State, she’d gotten accustomed to eighty-degree days. And anything below seventy heralded either the coming of winter or its last gasp.
Celine rolled up her front windows, turned up the heat—just a slight turn of the knob to get some warm air going—and shivered again. She was on 13th Street now, headed east.
She cruised toward Paso Robles Street, wanting to take in every storefront, every street corner, as she left downtown. She’d made the same journey, from the Winery to the bar and back again nearly every day for the past seven years. That routine hadn’t looked like it was going to change any time soon—until today.
Aren’t you being a bit maudlin, my dear? Sister Mary Catherine’s sensible voice suddenly boomed out in the stillness of the car. Celine smiled, oddly reassured. In life, the nun might have been willing to coddle Celine’s sensibilities. But in death, Sister Mary Catherine had shown no such inclination.
Everyone died. But death wasn’t the end of life. Celine was in a better position than most to realize that.
It had been disconcerting at first to hear a disembodied voice, and one with such strong opinions at that. But Celine was used to it now.
I can’t manifest both voice and form, the nun had explained when Celine had asked her about it some years ago. It takes more energy than I have to do both. Besides, my voice is more useful to you than my face.
True enough, Celine now thought, pushing down on the gas pedal when she saw the light at Riverside Avenue up ahead turn green. But the Lady’s presence that evening had been so persistent, the signs so clear, it was clear to her that death was coming.
And she didn’t like it.
An untimely death, Sister Mary Catherine said, but not—
“Oh my God!” Celine jammed her foot down on the brake. She’d been about to go through the intersection at Riverside Avenue when the figure passed in front of her car. It turned toward her as she squeaked to a halt a half-inch past the white line that marked the intersection.
The Lady. Oh God, it was just the Lady.
Celine closed her eyes in relief, heart pounding, clammy hands clinging to the steering wheel.
What were you thinking, Celine? Sister Mary Catherine’s voice was so loud, it was nearly a bellow. You’ll get yourself killed, driving like that.
“I am going to die,” Celine replied.
Not tonight, you’re not. Not unless you keep driving like a madwoman.
“What else was I to do? You saw her. I know you did.”
Celine opened her eyes. But the Lady was gone.
“Make her stop doing that. Please.” Her hands gripped the wheel. “I can’t handle it. Not now. Not while I’m driving.”
Still breathing heavily, she eased off the brake.
Traffic had been fairly light, and now as she left downtown, passing by Paso Robles Street and heading toward South River Road, it thinned out even further.
Confident Sister Mary Catherine would keep any disturbing visions at bay, Celine hit the gas a little harder.
In a little over ten minutes she was on Linne Road, following the street as it wound left toward the gates of the Mechelen Estate at 5125. The Winery and its grounds went back to the mid-nineties when John Mechelen had bought and cultivated the lands, planting his first Cabernet Sauvignon.
Since then the vineyards had expanded to include Zinfandel, Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Mouvedre, Viognier, and Syrah.
Now the ninety-five-acre plot belonged to Dirck, passing into his hands when John had died, childless and single, last October. The strain of running a huge estate and a wine bar must’ve gotten to Dirck because since John’s death, Celine had noticed her boss slowly going to pieces.
He’d been staying ever later at the bar, but his focus was on running the vineyards he’d inherited. That had forced Celine to pick up some of the slack at the Delft, help that Dirck had welcomed until just a couple of weeks back.
Then he started insisting she leave shortly after the bar closed. At the time she figured he felt bad about allowing the burden of the business to fall mostly on her shoulders.
But tonight, Dirck had positively shooed her out of the bar.
Why, Celine wondered.
And why was Dirck even considering the idea of parting with the art he and John had labored over? That was their history—a visual history, he and John had called it.
Celine had even put up images of it on the About Us page on their joint website. Along with short, catchy captions, the art had provided a more vivid, colorful narrative than the usual “Our Story” most other estates included on their sites.
He does need to put his affairs in order, Sister Mary Catherine reminded her quietly.
“So he does,” Celine agreed. Dirck, like John, had remained single and childless, happy to enter into more or less casual, no-strings-attached relationships with women who weren’t looking for commitment either.
But now the thought of who was to inherit the vineyards John had cultivated and the bar Dirck had built up probably consumed him as well. Was Dirck planning to sell the business? Before a sudden heart attack took him as abruptly as it had his friend?
The thought felt like death to Celine. The bar was all she’d known since–
She shook her head, trying to rid her eyes of the film of tears that was beginning to blur her vision.
Dirck could sell the vineyard, she thought, driving through the gates of 5125 Linne Road. She could live with that.
But she’d built a life around the Delft. What would she do if that were taken from her? Was that the death the Lady’s presence portended? A metaphoric death—the death of a life and a career?
Celine couldn’t bear the thought of that happening. Not again. It had been devastating enough when it had happened seven years ago.
Chapter Four
Bob Massie had left one leaf of the Mechelen’s wrought iron gate open for Celine. He was waiting for her by the guard room as she rolled in, and flagged her to a stop.
“Dirck called,” he said, opening the passenger-side door of her Honda Pilot and hopping in. He settled into the wide leather seat and fastened his seat belt. “He wants them bottles stored in the barn by the guard’s cottage.”
“The barn?” Celine repeated. But the empty bottles weren’t in cardboard wine carriers. There’d been no time to pack them into the special boxes with corrugated inserts they used to transport, ship, and store bottles, regardless of whether they were full or not.
And the barn didn’t have any crate wine racks either.
“Did he tell you to get some of those crate racks from the bottling room?” she wanted to know.
“Nope. Why? Do we need any?”
“Yes, unless you want the bottles rolling around in hefty bags.” Celine shifted her gear into Drive and followed the packed dirt driveway as it wound past a gentle slope dotted with oaks.
Bob sighed. “Guess I’ll have to get some, then.”
“I’m sorry. I’d have packed them myself if I’d known that we’d collected enough for the bottling plant to clean. But the new girl—the intern—had already put them in hefty bags, and . . .” And Dirck had wanted her out of the bar.
She glanced over at Bob. “I can get the bags out of the trunk while you go get us fixed up,” she offered.
He nodded. “I’ll need your car, though. It’ll take forever if I have to walk them racks over one rack at a time.”
“Sure.” She knew he could’ve stacked the crates on one of the many aluminum hand trucks scattered about the estate. But Bob, stocky, with thinning hair and a beer belly, usually preferred to take the easy way.
He probably wouldn’t even help her unload the trunk. But Celine didn’t really mind that. Not this evening. Not with the one hefty bag, among all the others, that Dirck had entrusted her with.
“You’re the only person I can trust with this, Celine,” he’d said. “Find a secure place
for it somewhere on the Estate. Far from prying eyes.”
And grouchy Bob Massie’s eyes tended to be more curious and prying than most.
The driveway twisted around opening out onto a beautifully laid ornamental garden.
Outdoor lighting cast a fairytale light over the circles of rich green boxwood that enclosed trees and flowering plants. It illuminated the stone porch and glass-and-wood doors of the Mechelen Estate Tasting Room behind the garden.
And it threw a faint glow over the Estate’s guest cottages with Spanish tiled roofs that stood on the left.
Only one of them was let out now. To a Ms. Hood, Celine recalled. A silver-haired woman with a wide mouth, a ready smile, and shrewd blue eyes. The few times they’d met, she’d reminded Celine of Sister Mary Catherine, the nun who’d become her guardian angel.
The barn, a rustic structure constructed out of rough-hewn gray-black stone, was on the right. The driveway ran along past it to the main production facility and bottling plant at the back.
Celine stopped the Pilot directly in front of the barn but left her key in the ignition and the engine running.
“I’ll unload the trunk and then you can get going,” she told Bob as she popped the rear hatch and jumped out. To her dismay, he cut the engine and lumbered out of the SUV as well.
“No need to do it all by yourself. I can help. I’m no spring chicken, but I’m not past my prime either.”
“No, no, of course not,” Celine said hastily. She stood by the truck, wondering how to stall him.
He had just hoisted the first hefty bag from the trunk, the bottles clinking loudly as he swung the bag over his shoulder when an image flashed into Celine’s mind—a white cotton blanket with colorful patches and a red border spread out on a cold stone floor.
She didn’t need to hear Sister Mary Catherine’s voice whisper, The Christmas blanket, Celine, to know what she needed to do.
“Bob, wait. Let’s throw down a blanket on the barn floor. The Christmas blanket is still in there. In the plastic box on the bottom shelf, remember?” She’d asked Bob to put both box and blanket up in the rafters in January. It was March now, and he still hadn’t done it.