False Impressions

by Laura Caldwell

  I turned back around to Madeline. “I thought you might leave the gallery closed, what with the storm.”

  “Oh, absolutely not,” she said. “This is an incredible opportunity for us.”

  I noticed that I liked the way she said us.

  “The hotels are all full to capacity,” she continued, “because no one could get out by car or plane, and now it’s Friday, so some people are staying. We should have a fair amount of traffic.”

  “Well, then all right.” I took a breath. “I’m exhausted after spending the night on the plastic seat of a squad car, but I need to go over the shipping documents again.” I growled. “Vaughn,” I muttered. “What a jackwhistle.”

  Madeline raised one black eyebrow at the word.

  “You know what?” I said. “Let’s just call it like it is. He’s a jackass. A real jackass.”

  She blinked. “And you are referring to…?”

  “Vaughn again. The detective. Sorry, I was sort of talking to myself.”

  “Yes,” she said, and a vaguely amused tone had entered her voice. “That’s what I thought.”

  “You thought that I was talking to myself.”

  “No. I meant that I thought you were speaking of the detective,” she said with a small smile. She stood. “Shall we?”

  I looked down at my dress. It showed no signs of wear. “Madeline,” I said, standing, too. “I need you to keep in mind a few things about Syd. More than a few things, actually. Number one—he has keys to your gallery. Your new gallery, where your paintings may have been stolen from you. Unless you got the keys back from him last night?”

  She shook her head, no, she hadn’t gotten them back. I searched her face for signs of annoyance, found none.

  “Number two,” I continued, “Syd’s name is all over those shipping manifests from when you moved art from your old gallery. He had access to pretty much every danger point—the removal of the art from the walls, the packing, the sitting, the shipping....”

  Madeline held up a tiny hand. It struck me for a moment that her nails were perfectly painted—a blue-lavender color—as if she’d just had a manicure moments before. “Enough,” Madeline said, stopping my near rant about Syd.

  She looked at me with that Saga energy—Go with me, it said.

  I picked up my coat from the hook on the back of the front door. “All right, then let’s go,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t have to say, I told you so.

  48

  Madeline was right. People were in and out of the gallery all day. The sun was so bright against the mounds of new snow that we were constantly squinting and moving paintings around. Often I noticed that orange-ish flash outside, one I’d noticed when I first started working.

  We moved a sculpture that Madeline was concerned would not fare well with any sunlight into the back room. After we’d carried it together and put it next to the file cabinet, the ding of the front door sounded.

  “I’ll get it,” I said to Madeline. Over the past few weeks, I’d been trying, whenever possible, to do the things a real gallery assistant would do. And now that Madeline had just tipped off one of our biggest suspects, I needed to understand the art world even more.

  Stepping through the front door was a woman—petite, with lustrous, brown hair to her shoulders, wearing fabulous boots and a long ivory coat. In short, she was gorgeous.

  She stopped walking when she saw me.

  “Ah,” she said. “You must be Izzy Smith.”

  I crossed the room, and I held out my hand. “Yes. Welcome to the Madeline Saga Gallery.”

  She looked at my hand, then looked at me. She made no move to shake it. “I’m Corrine.”

  “Hi, nice to meet you.”

  Still she didn’t shake my hand. “That’s all you have to say?” Her tone was incredulous, her words a little louder. Like Madeline, she was a small woman with a big presence.

  “Um…” What was going on here? I dropped my hand.

  “Are you kidding?” she said. A hand went to her hip, her pretty face twisted into a snarl.

  “Can we show you anything or are you just browsing?” I applauded my ability to dredge up a gallery-ish sounding question until I could get Madeline out here to see if she knew this woman.

  But apparently, she was going to tell me. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Umm…”

  “I am Corrine Breslin,” she said, enunciating her last name.

  And then I got it.

  The Fex was in the house.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “Have you been here before?” I thought it best to feign ignorance until I figured out the right way to handle this. “Any art work in particular that you’re looking for?”

  “I’ve already purchased a lot—a lot—of artwork from here.”

  “Oh. Great. Well.” I clapped my hands together inanely. I’d had little experience in the world of married men and their exes, and I decided, right then, that I did not enjoy it. The energy that flowed from Corrine to me felt like seething fury, so I suppose flowed was much too gentle a word. It was palpable. And a tad scary.

  I was grateful to hear the delicate tap, tap, tap of Madeline’s heels on the floor.

  “Ah, Madeline!” Corrine said. “I’m glad to see you.” Corrine took a few steps closer so that she, Madeline and I now formed a triangle in the middle of an already triangular gallery. “Madeline,” she continued, “I’m glad to see you, the woman who introduced my husband—and he is still my husband—to this.” She waved at me dismissively.

  “Didn’t you initiate the divorce?” Madeline said.

  So, I thought, I guess there’ll be no idle chit-chat.

  “Yes,” Corinne said. “Technically, I did. But that doesn’t matter.”

  The two stared at each other. Madeline’s gaze was curious, and yet at the same time very calm and strong, as if she could stay that way forever. Corrine, meanwhile, was squinting with anger.

  Madeline stepped forward then and put a hand on the Fex’s arm. It seemed to be a comforting gesture, yet I wouldn’t have expected Corinne to take it. She took a deep breath, though, and visibly calmed down. She nodded at Madeline. Madeline had something about her that was hypnotic to people, it seemed.

  Madeline’s phone vibrated. She reached in the pocket of her black skirt, pulling it out. She looked at the display, then quickly answered. “Axel, how are you?”

  She looked at me and held my eyes. Which made Corinne look at me curiously.

  “Tomorrow?” Madeline said. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot you’re going to the L.A. Art Show on Sunday.” She listened, nodded. “Let me call you right back.”

  Madeline slipped the phone back in her pocket and looked at me. “Axel Tredstone wants to meet you. Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “He’ll be on the west coast next week, then Germany. Gone a few months. And who knows where we…” Madeline swallowed. “Where we will all be in a few months.” Madeline didn’t seem the kind of person who contemplated the future often. She walked into each moment and lived it. But, apparently, the thought of the future had just scared her. Hypothetically—more than hypothetically, if we didn’t figure out who was stalking her and stealing her work—her gallery could be closed in a few months.

  Corrine Breslin took a step back and looked me up and down. “Axel Tredstone wants to paint you?”

  “That’s right,” Madeline said.

  The Fex didn’t take her eyes off me. “Jeremy told me you did the Pyramus. Did you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “With Syd.” I figured I might as well use Syd to my advantage when I could. From what I’d heard, he had a great reputation in the Chicago art world.

  Corrine looked at Madeline, impressed. “Syd, as in your former assistant Syd?”

  Madeline nodded.

  Corinne looked back at me, a sort of musing expression on her face. “I’m surprised he didn’t mention you to me.”

  “Are you close?” I asked.

  �
�We’re dear friends.”

  Oh, really? Suddenly a whole new array of suspects opened up. And maybe it wasn’t just one person, maybe it was two. Both Corrine and Syd had reasons to steal and forge the artwork—Corrine to keep it for herself or maybe to screw over her husband. Syd to get back at Madeline for their breakup. Although it sounded like they were back together now, Syd seemed obsessed enough with Madeline to stalk her. If the emails and letters stopped now, would that implicate Syd?

  “I will say—” Corinne continued “—and I’m not necessarily talking about you—but both Syd and my ex-husband have excellent taste.”

  I wondered, Should I point it out or not? The blonde in me decided to go for it. “You just called him your ‘ex’ husband…” I said. I let my words die off when no one responded. I looked from her to Madeline and back. Neither of them were moving, and for a moment I felt as if I had stepped into another art installation.

  Corrine Breslin blinked fast, and something changed on her face. Then she burst out laughing. “Oh, my God, you’re right.” She smiled. Her attitude toward me was suddenly different. “Thank you,” she said. I liked her a little then.

  The phone rang in Madeline’s office. “Excuse me,” Madeline said, “I need to take that.” She looked at me. When I nodded that I could take over, she turned toward her office.

  “I apologize, Izzy,” Corrine said. “Let’s start over. So what’s new around this place?” Corrine glanced around the gallery.

  “Well, we got this sculpture in this week.” I led her to the other side of the room.

  The sculpture itself was inside one of the large plate windows. Unlike the one we’d moved, Madeline had placed it there for a sunny day just like today so the light could hit the yellow glass tiles of the sculpture.

  As we neared it, I blinked at the sun coming in. Outside, I saw, again, a glimpse of orange. Maybe a security guard wearing an orange Bears scarf?

  I told Corinne what I knew about the sculpture. The yellow tiles had been selected and placed in a particular pattern to represent a scientific idea. I also told her about the artist and his background in DNA science. “According to the artist, the tiles are like a cellular wall—light moves through them naturally.”

  “Yes,” Corinne said. “And the bright yellow reminds me of youth and childhood.”

  We talked more about it, and I found I liked Corinne.

  Twenty minutes later, she had a delivery date of next Friday for the sculpture. And I was elated.

  When Corinne left, Madeline came back into the gallery. “Feel good? Your first sale.”

  “Yes!” For the first time, I truly felt a part of the art world.

  Madeline was a tiny person, but she was strong. And she hugged with a ton of emotion. When we pulled away, she said, “So I have to call Axel back. Are you in for tomorrow?”

  I didn’t think about it this time. “I’ll do it.”

  49

  Madeline had her Japanese weaving class on Fridays, so she headed there after she closed the gallery.

  At home, I read about the blizzard on the computer, watched coverage of it on TV and cleaned my condo. As I did, I tried to mentally prepare myself for being painted by Axel Tredstone. But how in the hay was one supposed to do that?

  I was running high on energy. I was still elated by my first art sale, and intrigued by the thought of working for—with?—Axel Tredstone. My emotions about that were equal parts of excitement and hesitancy. But my mind kept returning to Corinne Breslin.

  And the question that had arisen when she first came into the store. Could Corinne be the thief or the forger?

  I decided to drop Corinne for a moment and rewind all I’d been learning. I’d been assuming that the art was stolen during the move from one gallery to the other at any time. There were just so many danger points, so many ways the heists could have gone down. As a second thought, I’d been considering someone who had access to either of the galleries. Madeline had confirmed that Syd was the only one who had had keys to both. At the old gallery, some construction people might have had keys, or some artists working on installations, but Madeline was pretty sure those keys had been returned. No matter what Madeline thought, Syd was still high atop my list.

  Jeremy was also on that list. I’d been doing research on the black market for art, and it was clear that identities were protected and the money was huge. Jeremy had mentioned money a number of times—money Corinne was insisting he give her. Having the paintings forged, and allowing the forgeries to be discovered, would allow him to pay Corinne less and sell the pieces on the black market.

  But what if it was Corinne? What if she’d had those paintings forged before Jeremy took them in for appraisal? What if she’d been planning to get divorced and had arranged for the paintings to be taken from the house, faked and replaced? Or what if she realized that money was going to be an issue in their divorce and had them copied after they began splitting up? Madeline had said that Corinne initiated the divorce. What if she’d planned the timing to allow her to forge the art?

  She would have needed assistance, though, if she wasn’t an artist herself. Which brought me back to Syd. And then someone else’s name appeared—Margie Scott. The art moving specialist.

  I found her name on the internet and called. I figured I’d leave a message and try to meet with her next week to see what I could find out. I was surprised when the phone was answered quickly.

  “Margie Scott,” a low, serene voice said.

  “Oh, hello. This is…” I hadn’t even planned out a fake name yet. “Isabel Hollings.” That would have been my name now if I’d married Sam. I’d tried it on so often, that even though we were no longer together, it rolled off the tongue.

  I told Margie that I was moving, from a Gold Coast apartment to an Uptown home, and needed assistance moving my art.

  “Of course,” she said. She described the process she went through to assist in moving art from one residence to another. “We’ll even install for you in your new home,” she said. “Now, how many pieces are we talking about?”

  Shazzer. I should have thought about this before I jumped into it. If I gave too high a number she might wonder why she hadn’t met such a collector. If I gave too low a number she might tell me she didn’t do that size job.

  “About twenty,” I said, taking a stab.

  She murmured, “Okay, okay.” Then, “What type of art or artists?”

  Shazzer again. I dredged up a few artists I knew from Madeline’s gallery. “I received your name from Madeline Saga actually.” I threw that in for good measure.

  “Oh, Madeline,” she said in a happy-sounding voice. “She’s wonderful. Such a pro.”

  I decided to throw out another name. “I believe Corinne Breslin also mentioned you.”

  “Hmm. I don’t recall her. But we’ve done so many jobs.”

  “Of course.” I asked if we could meet the next week, and within minutes, I had an appointment for Tuesday morning.

  I got off the phone, my mind returning to Corinne. Margie Scott didn’t know her, but Jeremy had said that Corinne knew the art world well, and that was clear from my dealings with her that day. If she was responsible for the forgeries, she could have had her ear to the ground. And she said she was dear friends with Syd, who now knew my real identity.

  Could Corinne Breslin have heard about me being a part-time private investigator? Was that why she came into the gallery today, using my date with her husband as a ruse?

  The thought didn’t sit well.

  And I didn’t sleep well that night.

  When I got up the next morning, before I headed to Axel Tredstone’s studio, I knew who to call for help. “Mags,” I said when she answered. “I’m coming over.”

  * * *

  “Come in, come in,” Maggie said, opening the door to her high-rise apartment. From down the hallway, I heard a full, soulful sound. I cocked my head that way. “Is that Bernard practicing?”

  She nodded. Bernard played t
he French horn for the Chicago Symphony.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah, well.” Maggie rolled her eyes. “It’s not that beautiful when you have to hear it all the time. We’ll soundproof the room eventually, but in the meantime, sometimes I think I’m losing my mind.”

  A haunting yet lovely note snuck down the hallway, then grew louder.

  We went into her kitchen. “You’re still not drinking coffee?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “Actually, I’m dabbling,” I said.

  “Good.” She poured me a cup, then put sugar and milk in front of me. “It’s decaf.”

  “Pregnancy thing?”

  “Yeah.” She sighed, leaning against the counter. “And you cannot believe all the physical stuff that happens when you’re doing this.” She pointed at her belly. “I’m a human science experience. I can’t believe women have been doing this forever. It’s freaky!”

  Maggie’s face was growing animated, and it made me laugh.

  “Seriously, Iz,” she said. “Seriously.”

  She held up her hands. She looked like a stand-up comedian about to tell the best part of the bit. “I woke up the other night, middle of the night, and I forgot I was pregnant, you know? I was half asleep, and I thought I was the old Maggie. And then I heard this snore, and I looked around and my first thought was, Holy shit, there’s a huge Asian guy in my bed. But you know, that happens all the time, that’s not necessarily pregnancy related. My brain still doesn’t always realize right away Bernard is here.”

  I leaned back on Maggie’s counter, ready for the rest of the story. I loved Maggie’s stories. It was like actually being in her life. The way she told them made you feel you were down the hallway, in the middle of last night, waking up to your new boyfriend, a big Filipino French horn player who’d gotten you pregnant quite quickly.

  Ten minutes later, she ended with, “Only then did I remember I was pregnant. I had completely forgotten while I was sleeping!”

  I was laughing again, imagining tiny Mags, naked in her bathroom, shocked at her swollen belly.

  “Aside from that, how do you feel being pregnant, about to be a mom?”