“Amelia is only interested in the Mathers,” Hank said. “But I wouldn’t mind taking another look at the rest,” he added, extending his hand to Whitcombe.
After only a slight hesitation, Whitcombe passed the catalog to Hank. “I trust that Spencer also shared our usual policy concerning the payment for our special items?”
“Are the arrangements the same as in previous years?” Amelia asked.
“They are. In the event you bid successfully, my assistant will issue a tax receipt for the cash, and will provide the account details to enable you to transfer the balance of the funds electronically.”
The balance? She disguised her wince as a smile. “Excellent.”
Whitcombe pulled back his sleeve and glanced at his wrist. Unlike her, he did wear a watch, and it was indeed a Rolex. “I’m sorry, but I can’t neglect my other guests any longer,” he said as he pushed to his feet. “I’m glad we had this chance to chat. You’re welcome to relax here until the auction.”
“I appreciate that, Rupert,” Hank said, idly leafing through the catalog.
“Yes, thank you,” Amelia added. “I look forward to doing business with you.”
“And I wish you good luck.” Whitcombe tipped his head toward the entrance of the suite. “I’ll tell Juri to remain outside and escort you safely back to the lounge when you’re ready.”
“That’s not necessary,” Hank said.
“Oh, but I insist.” Whitcombe smiled. “We wouldn’t want anyone taking a wrong turn this time, would we?”
Amelia waited until the door closed behind him, then twisted to face Hank. “What—”
He tapped her lips with his index finger and cut his gaze toward the door. “Would you like a glass of water, sweetheart?”
“Stop doing that,” she whispered, jerking her head back. “No, thanks,” she said aloud. “It’s refreshing enough just to be off my feet.”
“We’ll start downstairs in a few minutes, then. Are you still up for the auction?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, darling. You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”
He watched the door for another half minute or so, then brought his head close to hers and spoke quietly. “I think it’s safe to say that Whitcombe didn’t find the ticket.”
“I agree with you there. He figured I wanted the Mathers because I’d already seen it in the catalog, but I’m still not clear why.”
“Could have fooled me. You navigated that conversation like a pro.”
“It must be due to all the experience I’ve had dancing around the truth.”
“Let’s not get into that now, okay? We’ve got bigger problems.”
“You mean that business about the electronic funds transfer?”
“For starters, yeah. Doesn’t seem to be a strictly cash auction after all. Whitcombe expects to be paid extra.”
“But if the ticket’s still in the painting, there’s no problem. Once we get it, we’ll have all the funds we need, regardless of what kind of commission or fee he wants.”
“I suspect there’s more to it than a simple commission.” He put the catalog that he’d been leafing through in her hands. “Take a look at your painting.”
She did. The jolt she usually got from seeing it was muted. Unlike the photos in the regular catalog, the colors in this one weren’t as vivid, and the resolution wasn’t as sharp. There was another more glaring difference: rather than only one painting on the page for item fifteen, there were two. The familiar landscape with the hill and the barns was accompanied by an entirely different landscape, one of foaming water and rugged rocks. Gnarled pine trees, bent from the wind, were silhouetted against a bold, orange-streaked sky. The composition was outstanding, and even the poor reproduction couldn’t hide the masterful use of color. It was compelling and passionate. It also seemed familiar.
Hank pointed to the printed description. “Read this.”
The second painting had three things in common with the Mathers. It was an Ontario landscape, it was done in oil on canvas, and it was exactly the same size, ninety-two centimeters by sixty. But the artist wasn’t a rural doctor who painted for a hobby. “This painting is by A. Y. Jackson!”
“Yup. I don’t know much about art, but even I’ve heard of him.”
She frowned at the picture. She didn’t recognize it specifically. It was the artist’s unique style and subject matter that had made the painting seem familiar. A. Y. Jackson had been one of the artists known as the Group of Seven. They’d risen to fame in the last century for breaking away from the European Impressionists and depicting the beauty in the harsh Canadian wilderness. Along with the other members of the group, Jackson was a legend, a national icon. His work was featured in art books and displayed in museums. Prints of his distinctive Georgian Bay landscapes hung in schools and government buildings throughout the country, so it was no surprise that Hank had heard of him. She doubted there was anyone in Canada who hadn’t.
And because Jackson’s work was so highly treasured in Canada, as well as throughout the art world, it didn’t often come on the market. Just one of his pieces would fetch a price well beyond the total value of everything at the Whitcombe Gallery.
“Why...” Her voice came out hoarse. She tried again. “Why would this painting be in the catalog?”
“The special catalog,” he amended. “The one that’s only given to elite clients. It’s obvious why Whitcombe would want to keep it confidential.” He paused. “How did you know about it, anyway? Or was that just a good guess?”
“I overheard Morticia.” She ran her fingertips from one picture to the other. “I must be missing something. Unless this is a misprint, why stick an extra photo in an auction catalog? Maybe it’s obvious to you, but—”
“Look,” he said, flipping back a few pages. “I noticed there are duplicate paintings beneath other items, too. They couldn’t all be misprints.”
“This is crazy,” she murmured.
“No, it’s brilliant.” He thumbed through the catalog from the beginning. “Counting the Mathers, there are six paintings with duplicates. Those are the six we noticed before because they were so bad. They’re also comparatively worthless next to the other fourteen. Which pretty well guarantees that no one who wasn’t in the know would want to bid on them.”
She studied the extra entries he pointed out. She recognized the artists both by name and by their style. Every one of these paintings was outstanding, and would be snapped up by any serious collector, though none would be quite as valuable as a canvas by A. Y. Jackson.
Hank returned to the page with the Mathers. And the Jackson. “The auction’s a public event. Whitcombe’s hiding this in plain sight.”
“Hiding what?”
“He’s selling stolen art.”
“What?”
“Shh. Juri’s still out there. And that’s another thing. This explains the level of security Whitcombe brought to the hotel. The cash bidding was just an angle so no one would question all the hired muscle. The stolen artwork must be worth a fortune.”
The scope of what Hank was suggesting stunned her. “No. This is impossible. It’s too far-fetched.”
“Not when you think about it. My instincts told me the guy was shady.”
She pushed the catalog back into his hands, wishing she could push away his ideas as easily. Tipping back her head, she stared numbly at the ceiling, then slowly slid down on the couch until her head rested on the cushioned back.
No. Please, no. Her luck couldn’t be this bad, could it? First a yard sale, then a car collector, then a flea market, now a fraudulent art auction. All she wanted was one small piece of paper that she’d bought at the corner Min-A-Mart. “This can’t be happening. You’re only assuming those extra six paintings are stolen.”
“If they weren’t, then why the secrecy?”
“There must be some other explanation.”
“Nothing that fits. I’ll bet the additional funds Whitcombe wants transferred i
nto his account weren’t for a commission. They’re the balance of the purchase price for the hot paintings. The bid’s probably only a fraction of it.” Hank snapped his fingers. “Remember I learned that Whitcombe was involved in a case of stolen art when he worked for the AGO? The case was dropped when he claimed the painting was a forgery, but what if it was genuine? What if he made a deal with the thieves? He could have lied to get them off the hook in exchange for a cut. He could have opened his own art gallery to help them move the merchandise.”
“Remind me never again to accuse you of having no imagination.”
“I’m just putting together the pieces. This is making more sense all the time.” He rapped the backs of his fingers against the catalog. “The bulk of these paintings are legitimate, and the cash does go to a real charity, so what better camouflage for fencing stolen goods? With the bids for the special items representing a set percentage of the actual price that’s being offered, it can all be done in public. He even gives tax receipts for the cash. And this has been going on for years.” He whistled softly. “It’s so brazen, no one would suspect a thing. This is mind-boggling.”
Oh, it boggled the mind, all right, because hers was reeling. She continued to contemplate the ceiling, seeking in vain for something that would disprove what Hank was saying. It was no use. She must be too upset to think straight, because his wild suppositions were actually sounding reasonable.
“But one thing bothers me,” he said.
“You’re kidding. Only one?”
“Whitcombe must be smart to pull off a scheme like this. Why would he risk letting you in on it at the last minute?”
She rolled her head along the cushion to look at him. “That’s easy. Spencer.”
“Sure, it sounded as if your ex was in on the scam. That was quick thinking, the way you picked up on the implication, but it still doesn’t explain why Whitcombe trusted you.”
“Spencer was a crook, Hank. A lot of people believe that I was a bigger and better crook than he was, since I beat the charges. Why wouldn’t our pal Rupert expect I would pick up where my ex-hubby left off, especially since I raised his suspicions at the gallery by my interest in the Mathers, and then showed up here? Since he doesn’t know about the ticket, what else would he assume?”
“But you’re divorced. And he thinks you’re carrying my child.”
“It’s not personal, Hank. It’s only business. Whitcombe sees me as a potential customer.”
“Then he’s about to find out he’s made a big mistake.” He folded the catalog carefully, slipped it into his jacket and pulled out his phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“The police.”
“No!” She jerked upright and snatched the phone from his grasp before he could dial. “Don’t even think about it!”
“Amelia, we have to tell the authorities what we’ve discovered.”
“If we do, they might stop the auction. Wait until it’s over.”
“Those stolen paintings are probably in the hotel right now. This could be the only opportunity to catch Whitcombe red-handed.”
“I don’t care. This could be our only opportunity to recover the ticket. Or have you forgotten why we’re here?”
“Things have changed.”
“You said we were partners. We’re supposed to be working together. That means we make the decisions together, too.”
He held out his hand. “Give me the phone, Amelia.”
“No. Besides, you have absolutely no proof there’s anything criminal about this auction.”
“I have the special catalog.”
“That doesn’t prove anything. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for it, as well as for the whole cryptic conversation we just had with Whitcombe. We could have misinterpreted everything. You keep reminding me we shouldn’t jump to conclusions unless we have all the facts, and we sure don’t have much now. All you have is a convoluted theory you’ve concocted out of your tendency to overanalyze a situation and out of your dislike of anyone who makes more money than you.”
He closed his hand into a fist. “So we’re back to the money.”
“That’s the purpose of our partnership, isn’t it?”
“What about doing what’s right?”
“I am trying to do what’s right. I care more about helping my family and paying back the people that Spencer fleeced than I care about some art collector’s stolen Jackson. If it is stolen. You can’t be sure of any of this. Your suspicions are pure speculation. What if you’re wrong?”
“I’d rather err on the side of caution and let the police figure it out.”
“Sure. They did a bang-up job figuring out Spencer’s crimes in a timely manner. It worked out marvelously for me, didn’t it? Losing my home and my business and paring down my possessions to what would fit in a plastic tub naturally gave me complete confidence in the capabilities of the police and in the competence of the justice system.”
“What happened to you wasn’t fair, but the law got it right eventually. Sooner or later you need to let the past go.”
“I’ll let it go when I get that ticket.”
He exhaled hard, as if straining for patience, then stood and walked to the window. The vertical blinds clattered as he pulled two panels aside, braced his palm on the glass to hold them back and looked outside.
In the black tux, against the backdrop of the city lights, he seemed like a stranger. A determined, devastatingly handsome stranger, in spite of her ongoing efforts throughout the evening to ignore his appearance. This excursion—and their relationship—was supposed to be strictly business. They’d been perfectly straight about that. Yet who would have thought there would be so many occasions to touch each other? And to enjoy his company? The anxiety that currently had her pulse racing made her awareness of him more acute than ever.
As she watched him, the tall, broad-shouldered man in front of her merged with her memory of the boy who had taken her to the prom. How different he’d been then, his lanky frame not quite filling out his rented jacket, his blond-streaked hair brushing the collar of his white shirt. His hands had trembled as he’d pinned the corsage he’d brought her on her dress, and when he’d gallantly helped her into his old car, he’d caught her hem in the door. But then he’d smiled and she’d thought he was the handsomest boy in the world. And she’d believed their love would never end.
“What do you want to do, Amelia?”
She rubbed her thumb along the edge of his phone and forced herself to think. What she really wanted to do was to get off the couch and run to the window, slip her arms around his waist and press her cheek to his back. She wanted to apologize for her impatience. She wanted to apologize for the past, for her mistakes, for the obstacles that Fate kept throwing across their path. “I want to finish what we came here for,” she said finally. “Buy my painting and get the ticket.”
“You heard what Whitcombe said about the extra funds. The ten thousand I brought with me might have been enough to buy a Mathers, but it won’t buy a Jackson.”
“I don’t want the Jackson. All I need is to get close enough to the Mathers to pry my ticket out of the frame.”
“Even if we win the bidding, there’s no guarantee you’ll get that chance.”
“Well, if we don’t bid, there’s no chance of it happening at all.”
“Amelia...”
“Isn’t it better to try than to decide ahead of time something won’t work and just give up?”
Her words hung between them. They both knew she wasn’t referring only to the ticket. His palm squeaked on the glass. He dropped his arm and the blinds swayed shut.
“Don’t cut out on me this time, Hank. Please.”
He turned to face her. “I won’t.”
“Then you’ll see this through to the end?”
“Define end.”
“We keep trying until we recover the ticket.”
“Or until we both agree that recovering it is impossible.”
>
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” She got to her feet, retrieved her purse and hitched the chain over her shoulder.
Once again, he held out his hand for the phone.
Amelia wanted to trust him, she really did, but the stakes were too high, and the past was a long way from being laid to rest. She slipped his phone into her purse.
* * *
“AND NOW WE move to the thirteenth item of this evening’s program. I trust it will prove lucky for someone.” Whitcombe smiled at his own joke. A few laughs rippled through the audience. Amelia watched two of his more moderately sized hulks, wearing white cloth gloves, carry an abstract painting from the doorway that was to the left of the raised platform at the front of the room. Under Evangeline’s supervision, they placed it on the easel beside Whitcombe’s podium, then retreated to resume their surveillance of the crowd. Someone who sat a few rows from the front opened the bidding at two hundred dollars. It quickly rose to four. When it lagged, Whitcombe extolled the merits of the painting, which was actually quite good, and reminded everyone of the worthy boys and girls of the inner city who were counting on these good people to provide the tots with a healthy, horizon-broadening experience in the great outdoors.
Amelia tuned out his spiel and looked at the catalog she held. It was one of the glossy, professionally printed ones that had been freely available in the lounge. The other one was still in Hank’s jacket. There had been no need to refer to it once the auction had started. It had been clear to both of them when one of the “special” items came up. The bidding pattern was different. Of the hundreds of people in attendance, only a core of about a dozen showed any interest in the painting displayed on the easel, and it was the same group each time. They stood out from the rest of the crowd because of the intensity of their bidding. They weren’t treating the auction as a good-natured competition to give a charitable donation but as a deadly serious battle.
They also stood out because of who they were. She recognized many of them from the pictures she’d seen in the financial papers or on the news. There were political figures from various levels of government, as well as a prominent author who wrote controversial exposés of politicians. There were bank executives, professional athletes, a judge and an aging folksinger. They didn’t seem like the kind of people who would knowingly try to purchase stolen art, yet the special group of bidders held more notorious individuals as well, including the president of a brewery who had served time for tax evasion, and a trucking company executive who was rumored to have connections to organized crime. It wasn’t surprising that Whitcombe assumed a notorious former financial advisor, who had let her husband take the blame for the fortune it was rumored they both stole, would fit right in with this company.
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