by Molly Greene
“Painting for someone?”
“Yes. She was an accomplished master of several mediums. She was also an excellent student of other peoples’ styles. If she’d taken another path, she could have created and sold reproductions of the Masters, she was that good. Someone hired her to do the background work on a series of landscapes. Then the artist would go in and complete them.”
Gen sat up straighter in her chair. “Who was this artist?”
“I don’t believe I ever heard the name. I told the police that. She was just excited about having the work.”
“Does the name Patrick Noonan sound familiar?”
“No.”
“How about Gregory Prentiss. Does that ring a bell?”
“No, it wasn’t him. He was one of her teachers at the university, it couldn’t have been him.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Damian Fleur had implied that someone was standing in for Gregory Prentiss, and now Gen had discovered that Corey Uribe was doing exactly that for a painter before she died.
Nobody in the universe involved in police work believed a correlation like that was random. Sometimes a simple link was all it took to turn a flare of instinct into a viable case.
Gen had no reason to suspect that a respected artist might have anything to do with a murder-suicide, of course, but the fact that Corey knew Prentiss must be some kind of key.
But the key to what?
She still had to figure out where the lock was.
She speculated whether Prentiss and Patrick Noonan were the same person back in New York. Was Prentiss moonlighting as someone else, or, like Oliver, simply toying with an alter ego?
Columbia wasn’t much help. They verified that Gregory Prentiss was a visiting teacher two decades before. He’d only been on campus for a year, and it coincided with the time Corey Uribe died and Shannon Keene went missing.
There had never been a Patrick Noonan on the art staff, and they would neither deny nor confirm he’d ever been a student, although with a name that common it would have been a surprise not to turn one up. Even if they had confirmed it, there was no easy way to determine it was the Noonan she was seeking.
They also wouldn’t share much about Corey. Student data was restricted in general, and information about those involved in a nefarious event would only be released to the appropriate authorities.
Which Genevieve, by the way, was not.
They were clear enough about that.
Gen thought of her dinner conversation with Damian and wondered again if an expert would be able to reveal anything significant about the Prentiss canvas Oliver bought in Carmel. She was curious whether parts had been prepped by a different artist, one who did the background, and another the finishing touches.
She had no idea how the knowledge would help, but she knew a reader had to make their way through the book before they could learn the ending. It was like sifting through mud from the bottom of the river, always on the lookout for that glittery speck of gold.
Back to Google.
She opened a browser window and searched art authentication, San Francisco. Over three-quarters of a million hits suggested a lot of art connoisseurs lived in the city, there was a lot of art fraud, or Google was offering her links that spanned the globe. Probably number three, but even so, she might be able to find someone who could help.
She clicked on a URL for Art Appraisals, Art Authentication, Art Experts, and was taken to a website that described the services of a group of consultants serving California, with offices in Beverly Hills and the Bay Area.
Bingo.
She made a call, gave her name and number, and hung up with an appointment for the next day. Then she phoned Oliver with a request. “Can I borrow your Prentiss?”
“That depends.” Livvie sounded cautious. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Take it to an art detective along with the painting of Shannon and see what I can find out.”
“What did I miss?”
“I talked with Corey Uribe’s adoptive mom. She said Corey was painting backgrounds for an artist who went in and finished off the canvases. And coincidentally, Gregory Prentiss was a visiting teacher the year Corey died. It makes me wonder if the Prentiss canvas is genuine.”
“What?” Oliver spluttered. “It better be, considering what I paid.”
“Sorry, poor choice of words. I don’t mean not authentic as in Prentiss didn’t paint it. I mean does he have someone painting for him now, too.”
“Is that an accepted practice for artists?”
“Authors do it, but I have no idea if it’s common in the art world.”
“You’re an attorney,” Oliver said. “What’s the legality of that?”
“I don’t know, Liv. I was a litigator. I have no expertise in this. I doubt it’s a crime, because it’s probably not unusual to have a lowly assistant prepare aspects of a noted artist’s canvases.”
“If it doesn’t matter, why do you want to find out?”
“Just a hunch. Let’s call it curiosity. Can I borrow it?”
“Sure. I’ll take it down and wrap it for you.”
“I’ll come up in an hour or so. Will that give you enough time?”
“It will if I don’t have a glass or two of wine while I’m thinking about the implications.”
“Liv, it’s three o’clock in the afternoon.”
“What’s your point?”
* * *
The authenticator’s offices were in the ultra-hip SoMa District. Lots of too-cool galleries fought for space South of Market and the retail opportunity it provided. Many would kill to join the ranks of those who made a living there, offering multi-media pieces and high fashion that clothing designers considered works of art.
Gen was saddled with a significant load to carry, so she was forced to nix the convenience of the parking garage three blocks from her destination. Instead, she circled for ten minutes until someone vacated a spot in front.
A simple brass plaque affixed to the wall beside the entry read theodore marks & sons in a sophisticated cursive font. The street door opened into a classy foyer that was resplendent with striped wallpaper and two Victorian couches.
They looked inviting, but Gen knew from experience the Victorians didn’t have a terrific grasp of the concept of comfort. The seats were too shallow and the cushions too hard. They were designed to support ladies with whale bone corsets who were forced to sit up straight and hold a cup of tea.
She leaned her packages against the wall and rang a bell on the counter, then opted for a nearby chair and settled in to wait. She hadn’t gotten beyond a quick perusal of the magazines on the vintage bamboo side table when a door opened.
A young woman stepped through. Her chest was nearly flat and she was a little overweight. She wore a tight ponytail secured with an elastic band, and her glasses were huge and out of style, almost twins of the pair Gen bought for her librarian costume.
Some might consider her dowdy. The vest she wore over her shirt was too tight. Her skirt was too big by at least one size and much too long for her frame. The heavy-soled sensible shoes on her feet made her look about eighty years old.
Her smile, however, was lovely.
“Miss Delacourt?”
“Yes.” Gen stood. “I have a ten o’clock appointment.”
“And you’re early,” the girl replied. She waved a hand toward the hallway behind. “Won’t you come with me?”
Of course she would. Gen hefted the parcels and followed. The girl smiled and reached for one of the packages, then turned and bore it along with practiced ease. As she walked, she tossed a question over her shoulder. “Would you like coffee or tea?”
“No, thanks.”
“How about water?”
“That would be wonderful.”
“Sparkling or plain?”
“Sparkling, please,” Gen replied. “I love me a little fizz.”
The girl laughed. “Isn’t that true? Bubbles are so r
efreshing. And they’re even better in champagne.” She stopped at an open door and stood aside to let Gen pass.
“I hope you don’t mind if I leave you alone, but I’ll be back in two minutes with that water.” She trailed Gen in and leaned the painting against the wall, then left.
The room reminded Gen of a medical exam room, but this one stopped just short of clinical. A waist-high table in the center was overhung with a trio of bright lights. Cabinetry stacked with wide, shallow drawers lined the walls, and the countertops were littered with an array of tools she would not have been able to name.
Gen was carrying the Prentiss. She unwrapped it and placed it flat on the table. True to her word, the girl was back almost as soon as she’d gone. Gen took the proffered bottle and uncapped it. “Thank you. I should have asked your name.”
“I’m Natalie Marks. One of the sons.”
“Excuse me?”
“Theodore Marks and Sons.”
Gen laughed, but the minute the chuckle escaped she felt wretched. She covered her mouth with her fingertips and tried not to stare. “I’m so sorry, that was rude. Are you–”
“Oh, no, no,” Natalie replied. This time it was her turn to laugh, and she did so with confidence. “I forget we’re in San Francisco. No, I was born female, much to my parents’ surprise. The doctor swore I was going to be a linebacker. My father was shocked again when I showed an interest in his work. He’d already changed the business name to include my brothers, and I don’t care much about formalities.”
Gen liked this girl a lot. She liked her even more when she moved to the Prentiss and stood over it, one hand braced on the table to either side of the frame. “Do you mind?” she asked. “You’re actually going to be working with me today.”
“On the contrary,” Gen said. “I’m delighted.”
Natalie Marks drew a business card from a pocket in the side seam of her voluminous skirt. “My credentials. I’ve studied pictology with the best in France and Italy.”
“I’ve no doubt I’m in good hands.” Gen retrieved the other canvas and Natalie helped her slide the painting free.
“So what can I tell you about these?”
“Whatever you’re able to, actually.”
“I see. You don’t want to spoil my opinion by sharing your suspicions.”
“Something like that.”
Natalie picked up a magnifying glass and bent over each canvas in turn. She returned to the Prentiss landscape and had another go-over, then gave her attention to Gen. “Are you concerned about the fact that there are two different sets of brush stroke styles in one of the pieces?”
“I’ll be darned,” Gen replied. “So it’s true.”
Natalie nodded. “I won’t sign my name to it after such a quick examination, but it appears to be so. Perhaps Gregory Prentiss employed an assistant or an apprentice to prepare some of his canvases. It helps speed the production process, of course.”
“So it’s a common practice, then.”
“Some of the famous works of the Old Masters were not completely executed by the artist’s hand. It doesn’t affect the authentication or the value of those. Was that your concern?”
“Yes, I was curious if Prentiss used a minion. I wonder, though, does it lower the value of his work? He’s not exactly Renoir.”
“It shouldn’t. Unless of course, as the owner, you object. If you expected to purchase a painting that no hand had touched except his, you might choose not to add another Prentiss to your collection.”
“I don’t own either one,” Gen replied. “I’m here on someone else’s behalf. And you’re being very diplomatic, Natalie.”
“Yes. We’re forced to be somewhat vague. The art market is a high-stakes game, Miss Delacourt. That makes forgery lucrative. Dealers and auction houses are getting sued right and left. We’re in the line of fire, as well. Professionals in the field have grown cautious. It also makes the protocol for actual authentication lengthy, expensive, and complicated. What I’ve said today is not the final word, not by any means.”
“Can you verify that this was finished by Gregory Prentiss?”
“No. First of all, I’ve heard of Prentiss but I’m not familiar with his work. Secondly, our science is excellent at establishing that a canvas is a forgery, but on the flip side, proving authenticity is much more difficult. That would take deep study of his catalogue raisonné – his authenticated pieces, his methods, everything. I couldn’t establish much with just a glass, even if it is a strong one.”
“What you’ve told me is all I really wanted to know.”
“Does it bother you, then?”
“No. That’s not why I came.”
Natalie nodded and pointed at the image of Shannon Keene. “The artist is promising, if that helps.”
“That’s what others have said.”
“I can understand why Prentiss would take on this apprentice.”
Gen was trying to work out what Natalie was telling her, but it wasn’t coming. “I don’t understand.”
Natalie indicated Shannon on the cliff. “The brush strokes in this piece are similar to what appears beneath the top layer in the Prentiss canvas,” she said. “If I had to guess, I would say that the artist responsible for this unsigned painting is the assistant who prepped the canvas Prentiss signed.”
You could have knocked Gen over with a feather. “That’s unexpected,” she said.
“Oh, my,” Natalie said. “I assumed that was why you brought the unsigned piece in.” She looked startled. “I’d better have another go at it to be sure I’m not talking through my hat.”
She gave them both another close perusal. “No, I agree with my original assessment,” she announced. “The similarities are undeniable.”
“I know it’s farfetched,” Gen said, “but is it possible there was a signature on the apprentice’s painting once upon a time, maybe one that was painted over?”
“It’s not out of the realm of possibility. Let me keep it a few days and I’ll examine the canvas under ultraviolet light. That and several other processes can reveal underlying layers of the work. If you really want to know, that’s the only solution I’m able to offer.”
“You’re on,” Gen replied.
“It’ll cost you.”
“I believe the person I represent will be happy to bear the expense.” Genevieve opened her purse. “Do you take Visa?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Hey Livvie. I got the okay from Sophie so I’m driving back down to Carmel tomorrow. I know it’s short notice, but I wondered if you wanted to tag along.”
“Hold on a minute.” Oliver covered the phone and excused himself from whatever he’d been doing, which clearly involved the company of other people. When he spoke again, the drone of background conversation was gone.
“The last time you mentioned it I said I would.”
“Sorry to interrupt.”
“Oh, no problem. I’m just having lunch with some of the girls. We’re waiting for the check, so your timing is excellent. Hopefully somebody will pick up my tab while I’m gone.”
“Ha ha. What do they think about your wardrobe, or should I say lack of it?”
“Genny, they’re gay. My friends like men. I’m dressed like a man. They can deal with it.”
“Just teasing. Sheesh. Carmel?”
“Only if I can drive again. You know I don’t do well with women drivers. No offense.”
“What a sexist thing to say,” Gen replied. “And that’s rich, coming from you. Some of your friends are more of a woman than I am. When the driver is a man dressed like a woman, do you make them pull over so you can take the wheel?”
“Somebody’s feeling their oats today. What happened?”
“I just found out there’s a strong possibility whoever painted the Shannon Keene cliff scene may have also prepped your Gregory Prentiss canvas.”
“Get out.” Oliver audibly sucked in air. “Don’t tell me if this person also said that fact devalu
es my investment.”
“Apparently the Old Masters used assistants for that sort of stuff all the time. It doesn’t affect da Vinci and Botticelli’s prices.”
Liv released a noisy breath. Gen wondered if he’d been holding onto it the whole time she was talking. “So you’re in?” she said.
“I need to re-schedule an appointment. What time do you want to leave?”
“As soon as you can pack your closet into the Rover and be ready.”
“Very funny. The wardrobe has dwindled, remember? Okay, I have to get back to the table now. I should be ready to go before lunch tomorrow.”
“Sure.”
“Okay, no later than two o’clock. That will put us in the village around check-in time.”
“That’s closer to reality. Call me after you skip out on the check.”
“Weren’t you listening? I already did.”
“So do we know each other well enough to sleep in the same room? The Carmel Village Inn is right in the middle of town, and they offer a suite that has two queens and a kitchen.”
Oliver began to laugh.
“I know,” Gen said. “It’s too perfect. I thought so, too, so I went ahead and made the reservation.”
* * *
This time the drive south felt familiar. Gen didn’t recognize every turn in the road, but she recalled a street sign here and there and the occasional vista and many the stellar view. In theory she may have challenged Livvie’s demand to take the wheel, but in truth she was ecstatic at the prospect of being chauffeured again.
The laptop was packed and had been loaded with scans of the Shannon Keene documents. She’d Xeroxed Mack’s police file, then caught him one morning on his way in to work and returned the leather folio.
The painting she left with Natalie Marks. She had color copies. She’d snapped close-ups of the scene, the date, and Shannon’s face, and she didn’t want to risk damaging the canvas. It had already made too many voyages in the back of a car.