She tried the glass door, found it locked, and hit the bell, peering in. A long, elegant space, spotlit three-dimensional art on pedestals and stands. A wraith—a woman—rose up behind the counter in the back, and a second later the door buzzed softly. Lucy grabbed a handle and pulled it open.
She did a quick take on the room, and liked what she saw: the Desert was austerely minimal in the manner of most galleries, but with a Santa Fe twist. The walls had rounded, adobe-style corners, and the paint was a shade of off-white most likely called Pueblo Pink or something along those lines. The floor was flagstone, the display stands were made of unfinished timbers, the display niches were rough-cut arches in the walls, and a couple of perfectly-placed, dramatically spotlit Western accessories—an old saddle, a weathered Navajo blanket, and a ten gallon hat with a bullet hole in the crown—instantly established the southwestern ambience, Ralph Lauren with a Native American twist. Counterpointing the southwestern mood, and elegantly stating the gallery's New York credentials, rows of high tech tracklights sparkled in the ceiling, each focused precisely on a piece of art.
Also very New York in style was the gaunt, late fiftyish woman coming towards Lucy from the back of the room. She wore a black silk shirt gold-belted over black leggings on a scarecrow frame, she had expensively punk-styled blueblack hair framing a narrow oval face made lovelier, or at least less timeworn, by what appeared to be a well-executed facelift or two, and her diamonds—on ears, throat, hands—subtly sparkled and sang Oh, how I have money, and I like it. She said, "Hello. I'm Madeleine Rooney." Again, that deep, hoarse voice. The Madeleine Rooney package was five feet tall, chic, sleek, and trendy to a slightly alarming degree.
"Lucy Ripken," Lucy said, and held out a hand. "How are you? What a great-looking space!"
"Thanks. I just had it re-done over the winter." Ms. Rooney said, and gave Lucy's hand a quick shake. Her fingers were cool and soft. "The courier dropped off the package a few minutes ago. I was just getting ready to unpack it. Where's your camera?"
"Outside in the car with my assistant. I thought we could talk fees first."
"Fine," she said, turning and walking away. "Is twelve hundred a day plus expenses suitable?" She tossed the words over her shoulder. "I'm assuming of course that you can do the whole job today. This is a rush."
"That's fine," Lucy said, pleased. Two hundred bucks more than she'd figured. "Expenses, including assistant, the car, and miscellaneous stuff, will probably run another five hundred," she added, as Rooney dragged a small wooden shipping crate out from behind the slate-topped counter.
"I need the photos tomorrow. Can you get it done?" she said.
"No problem. I’ll tweak them at home and email you copies plus send a CD by courier. And I've lined up a writer—two of them, actually—they're a husband and wife team. They'll be coming over at lunch. They work at the Aboriginal Museum and they know their stuff."
"Fine. You seem to have it under control. Darren said you were good."
"You talked to him today?"
"A few days ago. My regular photographer is in Vienna, and I simply must have this catalogue material at the printers the day after tomorrow."
"Well, you'll have the photos on a CD for them tomorrow, and I'm sure Quentin and Beth can turn around copy for you in no time."
"The Washingtons?" Rooney asked, and then, incongruously in the age of NO SMOKING, she placed a brown filterless European cigarette in her mouth and lit it with an elegant little solid gold lighter. She sucked in some smoke and coughed in a practiced manner.
"You know them?" Lucy asked.
"Of course. There aren't that many Pre-Colombian experts in Manhattan, after all," she croaked. "I'm keeping the gallery closed today but I've invited a few special buyers in for a preview, so you'll have to work around them. Give me a hand with this, would you?" Rooney added, or rather demanded. Lucy whirled at the tone, ready to bite back. She bit her lip instead. Now that they'd agreed on money, Rooney had abandoned her efforts at politesse and assumed the role to which she was accustomed: boss.
"Sure." Lucy joined the woman in her cloud of imported toxins. "My driver's parked in front of a hydrant, but—"
"He can wait," Madame Rooney said, wielding a short crowbar. "You hold the crate steady, while I pry open the top." Lucy did as she was told. Madeleine Rooney quickly worked the top loose, then lifted it off to reveal a heap of styro peanuts. She plunged a hand in, pulled out an object buried in layers of plastic bubble wrap and tape, and began to unwrap it. A moment later, the first artifact was revealed. "Isn't it magnificent?" Rooney asked, holding up the object, a surprisingly naturalistic ceramic statue, about six inches high, of a young woman in an elaborate headdress and a robe embracing an older man, also robed. The faces were vaguely Asiatic. The door buzzed. They looked up. Simon Stevens' hulking silhouette loomed behind the glass. "Who's that?" Rooney snapped.
"My assistant," Lucy said. "Can you let him in?"
"Yes. But he does understand how delicate—and valuable—these pieces are, I assume," Rooney said, then went over and held down a button behind the counter. Simon stuck his head in the door.
"I'm all unloaded and the driver wants to split," he said. "I haven't got that much cash."
"Come on in," Lucy said. "Why don't you help Ms. Rooney for a minute? I'll take care of Ari. And close the door quickly. This stuff is very valuable." Simon strolled back, and Lucy could feel Madeleine loosening up, transforming herself into the coquette as she got a better look at the big, handsome boy. He was six two, 180, with jet black hair and blue eyes. He could pass for a model, and still wasn't sure if he wanted to take pictures or be in them. "Simon, this is Mrs. Rooney," she said.
"Call me Madeleine," Rooney said, offering him a smile, the first Lucy had seen, and a hand. He shook it.
"Hi," he grinned, entirely at ease. "Simon Stevens. Nice to meet you. Great looking gallery you've got here," he added, glancing around. "Wow, isn't that a Jaina Island ceramic," he said, noticing the object she was holding.
"Simon, I didn't know you knew Pre-Colombian art," Lucy said.
"Surprise, surprise. I majored in art history, Lucy," he said. "Did two semesters on Pre-Colombian. This is from the Yucatan—Late Classic Period of the Maya—the moon goddess embracing an older deity—right, Madeleine?"
"My, you do know your stuff," said Madeleine, injecting a coy tone into her vocal rasp. "I wouldn't have known it if you hadn't told me, Simon."
"I'm going to take care of Ari," Lucy said. "Back in a minute. And you've got to help me bring the gear in, Si, so don't get too relaxed just yet." Simon preferred bullshitting around with clients to working. He was good at it—bullshitting around with clients—but that was only part of what she hired him to do.
Lucy paid Ari, adding a big tip for making him wait—got to keep guys like him on your side—and then she and Simon hauled the gear in the front door.
After some discussion and a look through a couple of art books and catalogues for comparison, Rooney decided she wanted large format images of the pieces. Lucy couldn't fault her for that, the large format stuff did look much better, but it meant she had a bit more work to do setting up. They set up a display pedestal, and then Lucy broke out the camera while Simon rigged the lights. By the time they were ready to shoot the first one Madeleine Rooney had the crate unpacked, and had lined up the pieces on the slate countertop in a neat row—several hundred thousand dollars worth of ceramic and carved objects, all of it Late Classic Mayan in derivation.
There was a second two-figure statue, a variation on the first with slightly different versions of the same pair of deities embracing, only traces of yellow pigment added luster to this second piece. There were two shell objects, one of a man apparently riding on the back of a sea monster of a sort, the other of a young woman whom Simon identified as Ixchell, the fertility goddess. The carved iconographic detail was intricate and extraordinary. There was a single carved obsidian object, a head in profile which probably had decor
ated the top of a scepter or sword, also highly detailed with iconography; and finally there was the most precious object of all, a complete, unblemished cylindrical vase, with polychromatic paint illustrations, in almost perfect condition, depicting a range of activities and beings—human, supernatural, and animal—in strikingly dramatic fashion. The imagery on the pot, at first confusing to look at, after a while sorted itself out, and the narrative action became evident. It was an amazing illustration of a world view from a lost time and place—the Mayan civilization of the Yucatan. Lucy was awed by it, even as she contemplated photographing it. The pot would require several photographs to show all the sides. According to Madeleine Rooney, it was worth somewhere between two hundred and five hundred thousand dollars, depending, Lucy supposed, on how the Dow did that week. Handle with care was an understatement.
They had done several 35 mm test shots, adjusted the lights, and were ready to start shooting when the buzzer sounded again. Rooney let Quentin and Beth Washington in the door a little past noon.
"Luce," said Quentin, striding over to hug her. "How are you doing?" He was temperamental and somewhat delicate—tall, thin, high-waisted, high-strung, and long-legged, crane-like, with a large nose, curly hair, and a wide forehead over pale green eyes. He came from New England blueblood, complete with a DAR grandma. He had dressed, as usual, in rail-thin jeans and a blue workshirt.
"Not bad," Lucy said. "Hey Beth," she added, with a quick hug of Quentin's wife. Beth was five years younger than Lucy and Quentin. She was a solid, brilliant, handsome brown-haired Jewish woman who came from Lower East Side radical stock, like Rosa, except her parents had only made it as far north as Yonkers. Her father still practiced leftist law, and was not rich. Beth and Quentin were an odd yet perfectly-suited New York couple. "You guys know Mrs. Rooney," Lucy said, deferring to the money.
"Hi," said Beth. "How are you?" The gallery queen nodded recognition.
"Hello, Madeleine," Quentin said offhandedly, glancing at Rooney, his tone perfectly arch. "How are you? My God," he interrupted himself as he spotted the artifacts lined up on the counter. "Look at this! Beth, can you believe it! it's from Jaina! Fantastic! Where did you find these?" He approached the pieces, more fired up than Lucy had seen him since they all gave up recreational drugs. "Do you mind if I have a closer look at this?" He looked at Madeleine Rooney.
She nodded. "I don't have to tell you to be careful, do I, Quentin?" she said.
"No," he laughed. "I would hate to have to sell my daughter in order to pay for breaking one of these." He gently picked up the conch carving of the man on the sea monster and carried it over into the brighter light under a row of ceiling tracks. The doorbell sounded, and after taking a good look Madeleine Rooney buzzed in a client, then headed up to the door for personal greetings and an apology for the chaos in the gallery. Lucy heard her begin to crow at Mrs. Hopkins—or Agnes, as Rooney gushingly called the lady—about the new pieces. Agnes Hopkins carried a sleek black shopping bag in one hand and had tucked under the other arm a small terrier. Madeleine Rooney greeted the animal, named Duncan, with nearly as much enthusiasm as she had greeted its owner. The dog emitted high-pitched yaps and resentful little growls from its position under the lady's arm.
"Beth, have you met Simon Stevens," Lucy asked, tuning ladies and dog out. "My photo assistant? Simon, Beth Washington."
"Hi," said Simon, "How ya doin'?"
"Beth, come here a minute," said Quentin impatiently.
"Hi." Beth shook Simon's hand quickly. "Excuse me, Quentin gets so excited about this stuff."
"Go on," said Lucy, "Have a better look." She watched with amusement, and perhaps a touch of envy, as Quentin and Beth huddled over the little shell figure, passing a magnifying glass back and forth. Lucy had thought the piece unquestionably lovely, but it didn't have the mysterious potency for her that it did for them. They knew where it came from, what it meant, who had created it and why, and knowing this made all the difference.
Ms. Rooney waltzed back with Agnes Hopkins to show her the goods. "Pardon the mess," Rooney said as she walked past, "I simply had to have this photography done today to get the catalogue printed on schedule, you see, dear?"
"Oh, don't worry Maddy," said Agnes, rail-thin and elegaunt, just like Madeleine, as she eyeballed Simon, "I know how it is. I've been re-decorating like mad, and there are workmen stomping around my house constantly." She passed Lucy without so much as a nod to indicate that she recognized her existence, although the terrier snapped fiercely in Lucy's direction. Lucy turned away from her and gazed through the camera.
Quentin called softly, "Hey Luce." He waved her over, watching Rooney surreptitiously. Rooney and her client were too engrossed in admiring the goods on the counter to notice.
Lucy said, "Si, see if you can discover from Ms. Rooney where we can get some lunch." Then she joined Beth and Quentin in the corner. "What's up?" she asked.
"Lucy, where did she get this stuff?" Quentin asked, waving the small carving in the air.
"I don't know. I didn't ask."
"They're fakes," Quentin said quietly. "At least this one is, and I'd be willing to bet they all are."
"What?" Lucy snapped sharply. "But Simon said that—"
"Really well-executed," Beth said, "But definitely forged."
"How can you tell? How do you know?"
"Look," Quentin said, holding up the piece. "See this?" he held the magnifying glass up to the figurine. "See these markings along the bottom of the fishy creature? These kinds of patterns aren't—they don't belong on a piece like this. This is what forgers do a lot of the time—take imagery off something they know—in this case, ceramic figurines—and re-create it somewhere else. But this pattern was never used in shell carvings. Least not that I've seen, and I think I've seen most everything around. No way this thing wasn't made in the last year or so."
"Jesus," said Lucy, her heart sinking. There went the job. She had a flash of inspiration, but it died even as the words came out. "Can you wait till I finish shooting them to—"
"Come on, Lucy," Quentin said. "We can't do that. She might be selling one to that dame right now," he said, glowering at the two women over by the counter.
"Yeah, you're right," she said. "Damn. Well, you want to do the talking, Quentin? I know I don't."
"Sure. Let's get it over with." He led the way to the counter, where Duncan greeted them with a renewed burst of yapping. "Um, excuse me, Madeleine."
"You want to talk fees, Quentin? Fine. Would you mind waiting a few moments? Can't you see I'm busy?"
"No, I don't want to talk fees, Ms. Rooney. I want to talk about the pieces. Privately, if it's all right.”
His tone caught her attention. "Excuse me, Agnes," she said. "I'll just be a moment. Let's go into my office, Quentin. Don't let Dunkie peepee on the floor, now, Agnes."
"Now don't you worry," Agnes said. "Dunkie's a good little boy, isn't he?" she said, lapsing into babytalk and stroking her dog. Lucy followed the Washingtons and Madeleine Rooney through a door behind the counter into her office. Prints, posters, and pieces of art were scattered about on the glass-topped desk in the middle of the room. Lucy closed the door. The three of them faced Rooney.
"What is it, Quentin?" said Madeleine Rooney, anxiety surfacing in her voice. "Is there a problem?"
"Well, yes," said Quentin, placing the little carving on the desk. "This." He picked it up again. "See this?" he said, indicating the iconography on the sea monster. "This doesn't belong here, Madeleine."
"What do you mean, doesn't belong?"
"This iconography is ripped off a ceramic piece—I don't know exactly which one, but—"
"What do you mean, ripped off?"
"This is a fake, Madeleine," he said, not without some satisfaction. "I know Mayan work, and they never put these patterns on shell carvings."
"What are you talking about?" she said, snatching it away from him. "I have papers. These pieces were certified by a man in Santa Fe. I can't
remember his name, but he was—Margaret Clements said—" She drew herself up. "I'm afraid you're mistaken. I have Letters of Authentication."
"I'll be happy to look at them," said Quentin, "But that doesn't change the fact that this piece is bogus. I think we'd be wise to check the others before you show them to anybody else, although I doubt that any of them are authentic. Why would a forger put anything real in with a bunch of fakes?"
"Wait here a moment," Rooney said, and bustled out of the office.
"Well, that could have been worse," Beth said.
"So much for my gig," Lucy said. "I can't imagine she's going to want this stuff photographed if it isn't what it's supposed to be."
They watched through the window as Rooney talked Agnes Hopkins and her dog towards the front door. "Sorry, Lucy," said Quentin. "Way it goes. Well, that bitch is out the door. Let's go check out the other pieces."
He led the way back into the gallery, where they joined Madeleine Rooney and Simon by the counter with its row of artifacts. Quentin picked another shell carving and examined it with his magnifying glass. "Yes, like I thought. Same deal. Another fake."
"I don't know what makes you so sure these are fake," said Simon. "I studied this stuff in school, and I'm not so certain."
"Forget it, Simon," said Lucy. "Quentin knows more about this stuff than you could ever comprehend."
"Now wait a minute," said Rooney. "Maybe Simon has a point. Maybe you're making a mistake, Quentin."
Mexican Booty: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 2) Page 2