Signature of a Soul

by Riona Kelly

  “Good. We need to have proof or something more solid to go on, although I’m not sure what it might be. I’m really hoping Colin turns up something definite.”

  They went to a nearby restaurant and ordered the house specialty, which happened to be shrimp with garlic butter sauce. Like family dining for two, the waiter brought a platter of roasted vegetables, including zucchini, potatoes, artichokes, and bell peppers, along with the pot of shrimp and thick, crusty bread to soak up the sauce. Lindy hadn’t realized how hungry she’d gotten until the food arrived, and they both dug in with hearty appetites.

  “Omigod, this is so good,” Michelle said between bites of shrimp and bread. “I absolutely love the food over here. The seafood is great. The flavors are pure magic.”

  “It’s the seasoning,” Lindy commented. “Some spices here are different from home, and it’s influenced by Moroccan food as well. It’s a big change from your daddy’s beef and potatoes menu, isn’t it?”

  “You can say that again. You know how Dad is.”

  “Yeah, I do. I’m delighted I’ve been able to introduce you to the wonderful flavors of the world.” She paused and gazed at her niece with misty eyes as her emotions surprised her. “I mean it, Michelle. I am so glad we had this trip together. It’s been a joy to spend the time with you.”

  “Even though I worried and upset you?”

  “Yes, even through that. I haven’t been around most of the time you were growing up, and I think I should have gotten to know you better sooner. We are very similar, you know. Both creatives and looking for the elusive bubble to success.”

  “But you have it,” Michelle objected. Her eyebrows lowered as she looked puzzled.

  “I do, and I don’t. I have success as a fantasy and romance artist who creates book covers. Some of them are seen by more people than those who will ever see a painting by Degas. But even though I have awards and have won accolades, I don’t really have the recognition of the art community. I’m an outsider in their arena.”

  “Is that why you want to put your paintings in Marchant’s gallery?”

  “To some extent. If I display there with other well-known artists and my work sells, then it might attract more attention.”

  “What about your personal life, Auntie? Don’t you long for a loving partner? Someone to share your success with?”

  Lindy turned her eyes away as her smile faded to a more serious line. “I haven’t had good luck there. I meet men, and I date a lot, but finding someone who is constant and is someone I wish to be with always hasn’t happened. I’ve come close, but it’s always ended badly. I don’t think there is anyone for me.”

  “I don’t believe that. There’s someone for everyone. I know there is. You can’t give up. Colin might be the one, you know, if you give him the chance. But you have to let him in ...” Her voice faded as her phone chimed at her, and she glanced at it to see the caller, then back at Lindy.

  “Go ahead and take it. I need to go to the loo anyway.” She slipped out of her chair and started across to the marked facilities as Michelle answered the phone in a low voice. Lindy guessed it was Roberto. Who else would call her at this time?

  When she returned, Michelle said nothing about the phone call, and Lindy figured it wasn’t any of her business to ask. If Roberto had any new information, then her niece would have told her. They finished dinner off with a delicious orange almond cake, a wonderful match with their spiced cocoa.

  Lindy woke before Michelle the next morning and quietly slipped into the bathroom to get through her routines before the girl woke. In fact, she hoped she could get dressed and slip out without her this morning. She had things to do which she preferred Michelle not be involved in.

  As she came back out, dressed for the day in a pair of trim dark gray slacks and a cream-colored blouse, she saw Michelle had rolled the other direction, away from the window and still seemed to sleep soundly. She scribbled a note telling her she had errands to run and would be back around one. Putting the note on the breakfast table where her niece was sure to see it, Lindy slipped out of the room, stopped for a sweet roll and a morning coffee, then took a taxi back to the art district and the studio on the Rua da Tristeza.

  The place had just opened when she walked in. The same woman sat behind the same table and held her embroidery ready to begin working on it. Lindy smiled at her and asked if Pablo de Sintra was in yet. The woman stared at her a moment as if she didn’t recall her from the previous day, then she told her to wait. Or at least, Lindy thought she’d said it.

  She disappeared through the door at the back of the studio where it seemed to lead to steps upstairs if the short glimpse Lindy got meant anything. As she waited, she went over to look at the painting at the end of the row again and studied the signature a little more closely. Yes, she was certain the paint below had been touched up a little, perhaps giving the impression the artist had made an error and had to redo the signature on the painting although her gut was telling her Roberto’s was obscured under the new signature on it.

  She heard footsteps behind the door and moved to the middle aisle of paintings and wandered down them, giving the impression she was looking at them again. The woman came through the door alone, walked back to her table, then said, “Una houra.”

  One hour. Presumably, she meant de Sintra would be there then. She told the manager or clerk or whatever she was that she would return to see him.

  Leaving the shop, she went back to the crossroad and found a cafe where she could get a cup of tea. She checked her email, hoping to see something from Stephanie, but nothing had come in yet. There was a short text message from Colin: Have news. Will talk to you soon.

  She texted back, saying she was eager to hear it and to call if he got the message in the next half an hour. Michelle hadn’t called or sent her a text, so she trusted everything was okay there. After she finished her drink, she started back toward de Sintra’s studio, taking her time and checking out the shop fronts as she went.

  When she got back, she found the artist in the shop. At least, she presumed the portly, elderly man sitting by an easel at the back of the shop was de Sintra. The woman was not in the shop, so Lindy made her way to the fellow and asked if he was Pablo de Sintra. He nodded in the affirmative, and she offered her hand.

  “Do you speak Spanish?” she asked in the language.

  “Si,” he answered and added, “Also, Basque, French, and Portuguese. We learn many languages in this area.”

  “I am Melinda Morton, an American artist. Mainly, I do book cover paintings, but I studied in Paris many years ago.” Why did she feel she had to justify her status to this man?

  He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and motioned to a stool to sit. “Good, good. For us to make a living doing something we enjoy is very good, yes?”

  “Yes. But if I read your biography correctly, you didn’t actually start painting until about ten years ago? Is that true?”

  “It is. I work as the brickmaker for most my life. Then the shop close down, and I have time for something else. I dabble with paints many years but not done pictures with them. So, I decide to paint scenes such as this one.” He motioned to the painting she’d looked at the previous day.

  “It’s a wonderful painting. What was your inspiration for it?”

  His eyes grew wistful-looking as if they were about to water. Come to think of it, they looked like he didn’t focus very well. Lindy notched up things about him as things hinted he didn’t paint anything at Roberto’s level. Judging from the way he rubbed at his fingers and the stiffness of them, she believed he had arthritis in them. His hands had shaken a little when he had taken her hand.

  He went on to tell her how he’d witnessed a young woman with her children in a Spanish village, and she’d inspired the painting. He’d returned to the studio and drawn her from memory.

  “How fascinating,” she said and wanted to ask him what village it was – like maybe Mijas? But she already knew he was
lying. “I love your technique, Señor. Are you working on a painting now?”

  “Not now. I wait for inspiration. Perhaps a beautiful woman, like you, might spark the idea.”

  “You flatter me. I hoped I might buy one of your paintings, like this one here.” She motioned to the canvas.

  “It would honor me to sell, but, sadly, this one is already sold. All my others also. I am fortunate they sell almost as they are done.”

  “Truly fortunate,” Lindy agreed. “Perhaps I might get on a waiting list to buy ...”

  Just then, the embroidery woman burst through the back door with a man who looked like a dock worker with big muscles and a frown on his face. She pointed at Lindy and said something in Portuguese. Lindy interpreted it as, “That woman has been snooping around here. Claims to be an artist and insisting on seeing de Sintra.”

  Lindy got to her feet and backed toward the front entrance as she spoke. “What? What is going on? I only wanted to meet the artist. Is that a problem?”

  “Maybe you be too nosey,” the man said in broken English and stepped forward. “What business do you do here?”

  “I’d hoped to buy a painting.” What was this? Did de Sintra not sell from his studio?

  The artist looked puzzled by this as the woman encouraged him to go to the apartment upstairs.

  “Who send you?” the man demanded.

  “No one. I simply admired his work and thought I could buy a canvas. Don’t people come here to purchase?” She was almost to the door, but the man was only a few feet away.

  The door opened behind her, and Lindy whirled around, fearing another attacker at her back and turned into Colin’s arms.

  “There you are, darling,” he said, smiling at her. “I misread the address you gave me.” He pulled her around to the door, giving a little wave to the man who had stopped when he’d come in. “We’ve got to run now. An appointment with Lady Michelle, you know.”

  He guided her out the door and down the street. Behind them, the man stepped out and watched them go.

  ‘What are you doing here?” Lindy asked as he hustled her along.

  “Rescuing you. What were you doing in there?”

  “Trying to figure it out,” she replied. “I know de Sintra didn’t paint any of the paintings I’ve seen, and I don’t know if he ever did. His hands aren’t steady enough for the quality.”

  They rounded a corner, and Colin glanced behind them, then pointed to a car and opened the door for her. Once he was in the driver’s seat and maneuvered the car into traffic, he said, “You’re right. Roberto painted those, all of them. Every painting my friend in Paris looked at showed the same hand had created them, and that hand was the kid from Marbella and Mijas. De Sintra is making a fortune buying the paintings from Roberto and passing them off as his own.”

  “I knew it! But why was the big guy coming after me? I only wanted to talk to de Sintra, maybe buy a painting.”

  “I think they must consider you a threat. The old fellow the woman hustled out of there... Was he de Sintra?”

  “Yes. He was very pleasant, and I thought we had a nice chat going, but it was clear his hands are arthritic, and they shook too much for him to paint a steady brushstroke. But I didn’t threaten him or anything,” Lindy protested. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Unless someone else knows who you are and thinks you might present a problem to the arrangement,” Colin said, then turned the car toward her hotel.

  “Who? And what are you doing here? I mean, I’m glad you came when you did, but why are you in Lisbon?” She just realized he should be on his way to Mijas if he was just in Paris.

  “I left Paris early yesterday, got to Mijas, and talked to Roberto. We drove in last night. Michelle said you had probably gone to the studio again, so I came over here.”

  She gaped at him. “Wait a minute! Roberto is here also? I thought Michelle told him not to come until we had more information.”

  Colin shrugged and pulled the car into the hotel entry. “After I told him what I’d found out, he couldn’t be stopped. Those are his paintings, after all.”

  The hotel doorman opened the door for her, and Lindy climbed out, waiting with a tapping toe as Colin spoke to the man, tipped him, and came around to join her.

  “So, am I the only one who doesn’t know what you’ve learned?” she complained in a low voice.

  “Let’s go up to my room to discuss this, dear. You weren’t here when we got up this morning. See what happens when you sneak off.”

  “I didn’t sneak off,” she muttered, but she didn’t resist as he took her arm to lead her to the elevators.

  Another couple joined them in the elevator, so they said nothing more until they were off the elevator and entering the room. “Tell me what you know,” Lindy demanded, anxious to find out what he’d turned up.

  Colin’s room was the mirror image of hers, except it had a loveseat in it next to a computer table. He told her to sit, opened a bottle of orange water, and poured a glass for each of them, then sat at the table.

  “Here’s what I found out. As I said, the paintings my friend examined — and he looked very closely at several from the past four years – were all painted by the same artist. The style, color, detailing, and any other measure you can look at, all looked exactly the same as Roberto’s paintings. Even Roberto’s cheap for-tourists paintings show the same detailing and style. We have no doubt he is the artist.”

  “I still don’t understand why the woman accused me of causing trouble,” Lindy said as she thought about this. She has suspected this. Likely a middleman handled the transactions unless Arturo betrayed Roberto and was helping to swindle him. “Did you check out Arturo?”

  “When I told Roberto, we went to talk to Arturo. He confirmed everything he’d told us before. He never met the person who ordered the commission paintings, and he’d had repeat orders from three different people and addresses. One was in Madrid, one in Seville, and one in Lisbon.”

  “Was the one in Lisbon to Rue da Tristeza?” If it was, then we have him, she concluded.

  “No, it was a different address here. But it doesn’t mean they weren’t being cautious.”

  “They?”

  “We believe all three addresses are drop points for the canvases, and several people are involved in this.”

  “Incredible. I wonder if Alain is aware of this.”

  “Alain?” Colin asked.

  “The Paris gallery owner, Alain Marchant. He was the first to push de Sintra’s work through shows and his gallery... Oh, dear.” Her face paled as she realized the implication.

  “We may have found a link,” Colin said and turning to his laptop, quickly called up the web page for Marchant’s gallery. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

  They went through every information page on the site, looked at every art expert who advised the gallery, every listed employee, and of course, Marchant and his company officials. Once again, Lindy noted the man she thought she recognized and mentioned it to Colin, who made a note of the name. The dates Marchant started handling de Sintra’s work lined up with the time the art world first noticed him, but then she heard Alain say he had discovered his work by accident and began promoting him.

  Colin frowned. “What if the artist he discovered was actually a young man from Spain, but the story of an elderly man, who was a male Grandma Moses, made for a more promotable option? What if he came up with the plan to pass Roberto’s work off as this old fellow from the Basque country?”

  “You can’t be serious, Colin. Why would he even think of such a crazy scheme?”

  “Consider it a moment, Lindy. Just the back story would arouse interest in the press and around the world. Allowing he could get his hands on custom paintings from a very good artist, then he could present them and make them into a collectible piece of art from an artist who may not live many more years. It boosts the value with the possibility of the number of paintings being limited and the uniqueness of the man’s his
tory. What did de Sintra tell you he did for a living before he started painting?”

  She sighed, not liking where this was going. “He made bricks in a factory.”

  “A brick maker. I think the concern with you being at the studio is they knew you were an artist, and it wouldn’t take long talking to de Sintra to know he wouldn’t be able to create those canvases. I’d bet the signature on the paintings isn’t even his. It’s theft. Pure and simple theft.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Lindy stared at the page of photos where Marchant was arriving at his gallery opening. In one, she spotted a familiar face right behind him as he stepped away from his car. She pointed, “That’s the man from the shop who was coming after me. He’s Marchant’s bodyguard!”

  Colin nodded, his expression dark with a grim, tight-lipped mouth as he said, “You’re sure?”

  She nodded.

  “Then, we have proof enough to go to the authorities on this. And this man, who works for Marchant, threatened you.”

  “Which authorities do we take this to – the Spanish or the Portuguese?” She glanced at the web site again. “Or the French?”

  “I would say this might extend to Interpol,” he replied. “But we can start with the Portuguese since we’re here. Let’s have some lunch sent up while we build a timeline and statement to take to them, then we can get Roberto and go down to the local office.”

  Chapter 21

  Aware her aunt was up early and getting ready to go out, Michelle feigned her sleepiness as Lindy went about her preparations. Roberto had texted her during dinner to let her know he was coming to Lisbon and would be there in the morning. Even though she’d told him to wait, he said he was already on the way, so she wanted to be at the hotel when he arrived. Her aunt’s plan to go to the studio on her own worked out well for her. She smiled a little smugly into her pillow as she heard the room’s door shut.