by Sara Rosett
“Thanks for the pep talk. You’re good at it. You could give motivational speeches at business conferences.”
“I’d rather deal with the Samantha Bascoms of the world.” Zoe heard the shudder in his voice. Harrington didn’t like to be in the spotlight. When his recoveries drew press attention, he made his way through the interviews in a workmanlike way, answering reporter questions, but never allowing his photo to be taken. “Let them run a photo of the art, not me,” he always said. He knew that the publicity was good for business, but he was most comfortable recovering lost items discreetly.
Zoe hung up, and after a quick shower to clean up after the run, she focused on work, knocking out the tasks Harrington had given her. She was done in a few hours with the admin tasks of sorting and collating data into spreadsheets, and a few emails that needed a standard reply. Zoe sent off the last email then stood and rotated her shoulders. It was nearly six-thirty. She made a circuit around the island a few times. She always thought better on her feet. Being dropped from the Milam case stung, no matter how nice Harrington had been about it.
The fact remained that a client didn’t want to work with her. Zoe was an unknown while Harrington was the established expert. She paused to do a few stretches that she should have done after the run. As she stretched her quads, her gaze roved over the ceiling, which looked uniformly smooth and even with its new coat of white paint. You’d never know that part of the ceiling drywall had been torn away after a pipe leaked. She couldn’t afford the repair and it stayed like that for months. That had been when she and Jack were on the outs. For quite a while, she’d had a view of the two-by-fours and pipes in one corner of the kitchen ceiling, but now it was all patched over. Kind of like her and Jack.
She grinned as she switched to stretch her other leg. She and Jack were together, and with Jack’s business and her work for Harrington, they had a comfortable life. Nothing excessive. They weren’t moving into the Milams’ neighborhood, that was for sure. But they had enough to pay their bills, keep up the house, and even indulge themselves sometimes with a night out or even a trip.
Zoe had once liked skipping from one freelance gig to another. She’d loved the freedom it gave her. But while she occasionally took on a few freelance jobs—she still got an occasional copy-editing job—she had to admit that she enjoyed the work she did with Harrington. She wanted to do more of it, and not just the support stuff.
She eased out of the stretch, her fingers drumming out a quick beat on the island. There really wasn’t anything more to think about, she decided. She loved the art recovery work, but if she was going to do it, she needed to establish her own reputation. It was obvious to her now that she couldn’t ride Harrington’s coattails any longer. She needed to prove herself. In short, she needed to build up her own portfolio of successful recoveries so that clients would see her as an expert, not just Harrington’s helper.
Harrington said she’d had a run of bad luck with clients. Well, she wasn’t going to wait around and hope things changed. She’d make her own luck.
And she might as well start close to home. She went to the refrigerator. Poetry magnets held up pizza coupons, the schedule of the martial arts class at the gym, and Jack’s doodles. Tucked away, behind a postcard reminder about a dental cleaning, was a newspaper article. She plucked it out and skimmed it as she made her way back to the island.
Old Master Stolen From Dallas Museum, ran the headline. Two months ago, a curator doing inventory at the Westoll Museum, a small private museum, discovered a Canaletto was missing from their storage area. A thorough search revealed another missing painting, a Picasso.
2
Zoe picked up her phone and scrolled through her contact list until she found the name she was looking for.
“Ruby Wu.”
“Hi, Ruby. It’s Zoe. Are you busy?”
“Not if you can give me a second.”
“Sure.”
Classical music came on the line, then Zoe listened to a voiceover recite the museum’s hours. Ruby’s voice cut into a description of one of the Westoll’s current exhibits about Caravaggio. Zoe hadn’t realized that her call would make Ruby think that she’d made a discovery about the lost art. Zoe had met Ruby a few months ago when Zoe was doing research for Harrington. His name opened lots of doors, and Ruby had taken Zoe on a private tour of their galleries. Since then, they’d met for lunch a few times.
Over the last few months, Zoe had made an effort to meet as many people in the local art community as she could. Her contact list was now filled with gallery owners, curators, and artists. She was making her way through the pawnshops and flea markets, too.
Ruby came back on the line. “Okay, I’m back. Do you have news?”
“No. I’m sorry. I should have told you that right away. How are you doing?” Zoe asked.
“Well, I still have my job, so that’s good.”
“But you’re not in charge of security.”
“Someone has to be blamed, and I am in charge of the artwork. The fact that two pieces of art have disappeared doesn’t reflect well on me.” She sighed, then her tone became brisk. “But enough about that. What can I help you with?” Zoe could picture Ruby tucking her long black hair behind her ears and straightening her glasses as she got down to business.
“Actually, I was calling about the theft. I know the Westoll isn’t interested in hiring us—”
“Which is absurd, but you know my thoughts on that.”
“Right. Maybe they’ll come around soon.”
“But by then, where will our lovely Canaletto be? And the Picasso? I’m afraid they’re already out of the country by now, don’t you think?”
“I hate to say it, but that would be the smart play for the thief,” Zoe said. Getting art away from the place it was stolen, and in particular, into another country was the ideal way to avoid getting caught. It was one of the things that made finding art so difficult. The police and investigators worked within jurisdictions and one of the simplest ways to confuse things was to cross into another jurisdiction. “But that’s not to say that the local area shouldn’t be checked. Maybe the thief couldn’t leave the country for some reason, or maybe they aren’t that savvy.”
“We can only hope. As long as they don’t do something stupid like…destroy them. Or damage them. I’m sure climate controlled storage is the last thing on their mind.”
“They know those are valuable pieces. It’s in their best interest to take care of them.” It was true, but Zoe avoided mentioning the cases she’d read about when art had been transported wrapped in dirty blankets or left in damp basements. “Look, I know you’re busy, and I don’t want to keep you, but I’m going to do everything I can to find the Canaletto and the Picasso.”
“But you know the board won’t hear of calling in anyone. They swear our security is able to handle it. They don’t even want to work with the police, if you can believe that.”
“I’m not surprised,” Zoe said. As strange as it sounded, many art institutions didn’t want to call the police when something went missing. They feared bad publicity might spook future donors who might pull back their bequest or loan if they thought it wouldn’t be safe. “This is completely on my own. I’ll work on it in my spare time. I know you can’t tell me anything specific about the robbery, but I wanted you to know—”
“Got you. Thanks, Zoe. If you can find them it would be…well, it would be wonderful.”
They talked for a few more minutes, making plans to go to lunch again soon. Zoe hung up then worked her way through the contacts that she thought would be most helpful. Most people didn’t have any information and hadn’t heard anything about the paintings, except for Evelyn at Salt Grass Gallery. Elegant and efficient were two words that came to mind when Zoe thought of Evelyn.
Zoe had met her at an art show in December. A slim woman in her forties, she had crossed the open space of the gallery, making a beeline for Zoe. She had been dressed in a designer suit and had her aubu
rn hair swept up into a chignon. Evelyn held out her hand and said, “I’ve been looking for you. Harrington said you’d be here. Can I show you around?”
Evelyn was single, a co-owner of the gallery, and an accomplished photographer, who specialized in portraits. Zoe had later met her after one of her photography shoots when her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was in casual jeans and an oxford shirt, but she still looked impeccable and had the air of someone who knew exactly what was next on her to-do list—and she’d get it done, whatever it was. When Zoe asked if Evelyn had heard anything about the two paintings stolen from the Westoll, she said, “No, I’m afraid—um, actually…there was one thing…”
Uncertainty wasn’t Evelyn’s usual style. Zoe picked up a pen and turned the flyer that she’d made notes on earlier to a new angle where she had more room to write. Since Evelyn was speaking slowly, Zoe knew she was weighing each word before she spoke, which was not like her usual brisk style of speech.
“A man came in last week and asked several questions. Now that I think about it, he might have been hinting. Subtly trying to see if we were open to something shady. He mentioned Canaletto.”
“Really?” Zoe asked. If the person was hinting around at art galleries, hoping to unload artwork by major artists, he wasn’t a very smart thief.
“I know,” Evelyn said, the cadence of her voice picking up. “But that’s definitely what happened.”
“Did you get a name?”
“No, we didn’t get to a point in the conversation where I could ask.”
“What did he look like?”
“A young Giacometti.”
Of course Evelyn categorized people in terms of famous artists. “Um, not all of us have your art education,” Zoe said. “I’m learning as fast as I can, but I don’t know what Giacometti looked like.”
“Puffy dark hair standing out all around his head, prominent nose, thick brows. Oh, I’m not good with words. Let me look at the surveillance recordings. Maybe we still have the footage from the day when he came in. Too bad I’m a photographer, not a painter or sketch artist.”
“Do you think you could draw his face? Even something rough would be helpful.”
“Only if you want a drawing of a stick figure,” Evelyn said. “There’s a reason I’m a photographer. I’ll check the recordings.”
Evelyn had been her last call, so Zoe opened a new file on her laptop and made a few notes, then shut it down and hopped off the barstool. She ordered Chinese takeout and sent a text to Jack to let him know about dinner.
He texted back. Great. I’m finished here. I can pick up the food on my way home. See you soon.
As Zoe cleared her work-related things off the island, she felt a rush of rejuvenation and excitement to see what she could find out about the Westoll art. She might not find anything, but she would chase down every possibility.
She turned to the cardboard box that she’d shoved out of the way earlier when Harrington called. She checked the return address.
Zoe had never heard of Spar Eon. So it definitely wasn’t the file folders, but she did order quite a bit online now. It must be another order she’d placed. Maybe Spar Eon was a subsidiary of another company or it handled the shipping for another business.
Using a knife from the butcher block, she slit the tape. Layers of shredded paper sprang out, showering across the island like confetti as she folded back the flaps. She pawed through the fragments of paper until she came to a heavy bundle in bubble wrap.
The object was long and narrow, but she couldn’t see through the distortions of the plastic wrapping. It was something dark, black or brown. That was all she could make out. As she unwound the layers of plastic, Zoe mentally scrolled through everything she’d recently ordered online, but couldn’t think of anything of this size, shape, or weight.
She flicked the last layer away and was able to see a base of some sort, thin and nearly circular. With a flick of her wrist she untwisted the remaining wrapping and nearly dropped it. It was a sculpture of a ballet dancer—a Degas ballet dancer.
3
“A Degas?” Jack asked. “I thought Degas was a painter.”
“He was, but he also sculpted.” Their Chinese takeout dinner sat forgotten on the kitchen counter. Jack had arrived home to find Zoe scrolling through websites, searching for information on the sculpture.
Jack circled around the figure and studied it from all sides. About twenty inches tall, the sculpture portrayed a dancer balanced on one foot as she looked at the sole of her other foot. It conveyed a feeling of graceful motion. The surface was dark brown with some lighter golden highlights and wasn’t completely smooth. Several cracks traced along the rough exterior.
After the surprise of seeing it, Zoe had immediately set it down on the island.
“At first I thought some neighbor’s box had been delivered to the wrong address, but then I saw the stamp and the foundry mark.”
Jack leaned against the island. “I take it that’s important?”
“Yes.”
Zoe had known a little bit about Degas from her reading and gallery visits, but in the last half hour, she’d given herself a crash course in his bronzes. “Degas originally worked mostly with wax for his sculptures. After he died, his family commissioned a foundry to create copies of the sculptures in bronze, but only a limited number were made.” Zoe pointed to the sculpture. “This one is marked with a number and letter, a reference to the original sculpture in Degas’s series that this sculpture belonged to. That reference number along with the foundry mark…well,” Zoe pushed both hands through her hair, drawing it off her face, “that means this could be one of the original bronzes cast in the nineteen twenties.”
Jack raised an eyebrow, picking up on her doubt. “You think it’s a forgery?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve been concentrating on paintings lately. I know nothing about bronze sculpture.”
“I’d say you know a little more than nothing. You recognized the artist and are bringing yourself up to speed on the artwork.”
Zoe waved a dismissive hand. “But that’s not the biggest problem.” Zoe swiveled the computer toward Jack. “This piece—if it’s real—is stolen.”
Jack gave her a long look. She nodded. “Once I realized it might be a real Degas, I switched to searching for who owned it. It came up on the first stolen art directory site I checked.”
Jack had been leaning over the computer, scrolling down the page while Zoe talked. He stood up. “What a headache.”
“You’re telling me.” Zoe realized her voice sounded shrill even to herself. She took a breath and brought it down a notch. “The site doesn’t list who owns it. It only describes the piece, so I don’t know if it was taken from a museum or a gallery or an individual. I’d contact the company that shipped it to us, but I can’t find anything about it online, and there wasn’t anything else in the box.” Zoe picked up a handful of the paper shreds that she’d dumped on the island. “No packing slip, no identifying tag or sticker on the sculpture. Nothing.”
Jack sifted through the paper. “And all the paper used to make the packing materials is blank as well.”
“Right. So no hint of where it came from, at all. Even the shipping label doesn’t help. It’s just a P.O. Box. I suppose I could pack it up and return it to the sender, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“No, having a possibly stolen sculpture is bad enough. Let’s not compound things by sending it through the mail—I think that would be a Federal offense.”
Zoe groaned. “This is so not what I need. I want to work on the Westoll’s missing paintings, not spend my time sorting out this…” she gestured to the box “…mess.”
Jack dropped the shredded paper and faced her. “So the Westoll came around and hired you guys?”
“Not exactly.” Zoe pulled out a barstool and dropped onto it. “Let me tell you about Harrington’s phone call. The Milam family will only work with him.”
Jack
sat down beside her. “That stinks.”
“Yeah. It does. And what’s worse is that it’s not the first time it’s happened. So I decided I need to establish myself. I need my own reputation. I’m looking into the Westoll theft on my own.”
Jack said, “I think that’s a great idea.”
“You do?” Zoe turned her head and looked at him out of the corner of her eye.
“Yes.”
“I thought I’d have to convince you that I should do it.”
“I know better than to attempt to sidetrack you when you lift your chin and get that determined look on your face.” He leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss. “Besides, I think you’re right. If you want people to trust you, then you have to show them you can do the job by yourself. Part of business is about who you know, but another part of it is about what people think of you. If people consider you Harrington’s assistant—and even though he hired you as a consultant, that’s how they see you—then you’ll have to keep fighting the battle again and again to have them trust you.”
“Glad you agree,” she said. “I might have even found a possible lead.” She told Jack about Evelyn and the security footage. “It’s not much to go on, but it’s a place to start.” Zoe’s gaze slid to the sculpture and the open box on the counter. “I’d done all I could for today, and it was getting late, so I opened the mail.” She tilted her head toward the ballet dancer. “I can’t believe I was working away while it was sitting on the island right beside me. If we hadn’t returned from our run as the delivery truck left, anyone walking by could have swiped it off the porch.”
“It’s a pretty quiet neighborhood,” Jack said. “Most people would never think of taking a package off someone’s porch.”
Zoe rubbed her forehead. “I almost wish someone had taken it. Then it wouldn’t be our problem. That’s terrible to say, I know…but this isn’t good.”