The Trust ss-2

by Tom Dolby

  “How did he do it?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think he did it himself-I think he had some kind of network of thieves. There was something about it all that excited him; he said he got a thrill from having contraband artwork and antiques in his possession.” Genie shook her head sadly. “Really, it was very strange. After the first time, I told him that he had to stop, and he said he had. Only later, after our engagement was broken off, did I learn that he had continued.”

  “How did you learn this?”

  “One hears these things. It was all chitchat at the time, just a high-level form of kleptomania. The rare eccentricities of a wealthy man.”

  Palmer-Patch’s grandfather-was a high-level klepto-maniac?

  “It’s bizarre,” Genie continued. “Every time I read about a major art theft, I thought of Palmer. The Gardner Museum in Boston? That one kept me up for several nights.”

  “One of the greatest unsolved museum heists of our time,” Phoebe said.

  Nick looked dumbfounded. “And you really think my grandfather was behind all this? I just don’t understand it.”

  “Your grandfather had an obsession. He had to win, he had to be the best. Unfortunately, he was also a bit of a skinflint.”

  “What do you mean?” Nick asked.

  “Nick, your family has stayed wealthy for the reason that many people are wealthy: they spend their money wisely. Your grandfather never liked to spend more than he had to. And sometimes that meant that he couldn’t have everything he wanted. Are you familiar with the famous George Stubbs painting of the zebra in the woods?”

  “I think I know it,” Phoebe said. “It’s a beautiful painting. It’s like the zebra is totally out of context-you expect it to be in Africa or something and it’s in this very European-looking forest.”

  “It is now at the Yale Center for British Art. Palmer was obsessed with it, a few years after your father was born. Said he felt like the zebra-a striped creature in a forest, a creature that didn’t belong.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “A girlfriend of mine still traveled in those circles. Palmer was quite indiscreet when it came to his obsessions. Of course, that was always his philosophy, it seems-he kept his petty activities on the surface in order to mask his darker impulses. Talking about an art obsession was fine, but speaking of the Society was not.”

  “So what happened?” Nick asked.

  “The painting was auctioned at Harrods in London, and a number of buyers were interested. Paul Mellon ultimately got the painting for twenty-two thousand pounds. Somewhere north of two hundred thousand dollars on today’s market.”

  “Genie, how do you know all this?” Nick asked.

  She looked at him over her glasses. “Nick, if you read all day like I do, you learn a lot.”

  The conversation made Patch uncomfortable. It was as if Genie was still obsessed with Palmer. Patch had hoped that his death would have put those feelings to rest.

  “Apparently, he tried to reform over the years, but I never believed that he did,” Genie continued. “He would have a relapse every few years; it was as if he couldn’t help himself. I would hear stories from your father, who, as you know, was friends with Patch’s father-”

  Patch interrupted her. “Wait a second, Genie-I think we’d better clear something up.”

  Nick and Phoebe were silent.

  “What’s that?” Genie asked innocently.

  “I know about Parker. I know that he’s my real father. Or rather, my biological father.”

  Genie paused before speaking slowly. “I’m so sorry, dear, that you had to find out from someone else. I would have preferred to tell you myself. I never knew when the right time was; I thought perhaps when you turned eighteen.” Her voice choked up. “I should have told you earlier. I should have trusted that you could handle the truth. How did they tell you about this?”

  Patch looked uncomfortably at Nick and then at Phoebe. It was such a strange thing to speak about aloud.

  “I am a beneficiary in Palmer’s will.”

  Genie looked genuinely surprised. “What, did he give you a painting or something? I hope not a stolen one!” She laughed awkwardly.

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Well, Patch, what did he give you?”

  Patch took a deep breath, and then offered a strained smile. “He gave me thirty million dollars.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Patch!” Genie said. “You can’t accept that. No, I won’t allow it. It isn’t right.”

  Nick felt ashamed about the situation. He took a sip of his hot cocoa to find that it was tepid and a nasty film had formed on the surface.

  “Genie, I have to make these decisions for myself,” Patch said. “I understand that you have feelings about Nick’s family, but don’t you think they owe it to you-don’t you think Palmer owes you after everything he put you through?”

  “Patch, you don’t know the half of it. But you can’t buy people off for heartache. Not even with that kind of money.” She shook her head and drew her cardigan closer. “No, it’s not right.”

  Nick thought maybe they should take a different tack. “Genie, it’s not like Patch is going to get a check tomorrow. I won’t either. The assets will be kept in trusts until we are twenty-five. My father-our father-is the trustee.”

  Genie shook her head. “It doesn’t sit well with me. I’m sorry, boys. I’ll support you, you know that, but I can’t stay silent.”

  “I understand,” Patch said. “It’s been a bit of a shock to all of us. It’s not every day that you learn both that you have a different biological father and that you’re the beneficiary of a trust.”

  “And that your best friend is actually your brother,” Nick said.

  There was an awkward silence before Patch finally spoke.

  “Right,” he said. “Can we just not talk about that right now?”

  Nick wondered if Patch was upset about the outcome. He seemed so stoic about it-it was strange news, of course, but if Patch had to discover that he had a brother, wasn’t it easier for it to be his best friend?

  Maybe Nick had to start acting like a brother before Patch could treat him as one.

  Genie looked frustrated as she put down her hot cocoa on the coffee table. “All right, let’s get on with this,” she said. “Where’s this hoard of artwork you’ve been telling me about?”

  Nick led Genie, Patch, and Phoebe down to the basement, urging them all to watch their step as they walked through the dank, mildew-smelling passageway. When they reached the metal door, Nick used the key again and the door opened. He flicked the light switch, and everything was just as it was. He did notice one new detail, however: at the far end of the room was a large metal sliding door, the kind you would see on a loading dock. Nick imagined that it led to the outside, as these artworks couldn’t be delivered to this room through the main house.

  Genie walked around the antiseptic space, examining the labels on the sixteen pieces that Nick had counted. She shook her head, clucking as she read each one.

  “He certainly got around,” she said, shaking her head. “Imagine that. Sixty-something years of doing this. I’d say he relapsed every five to ten years. Probably did multiple hauls. These two are from the same museum,” she said, pointing at two crates. “I remember reading about it in the newspaper.” She turned toward Nick and the others. “So, here’s the question: What are you going to do about all this?”

  Patch rested his hand on a crate that contained a Vermeer. “I feel like it’s really up to Nick.”

  There was a sound behind them as the door opened. Horatio stood there.

  “I was asked to deliver a message to you,” he said. “Your grandfather gave a simple instruction. He said: ‘You must do whatever you think is right.’”

  “Typical cryptic answer,” Nick muttered in frustration.

  “Well, maybe it is, Nick, but actually he seems to suggest that it is in your hands,” Genie said.
<
br />   Horatio excused himself and went back upstairs.

  “Can I weigh in here?” Phoebe asked.

  “Sure,” Nick said, nodding.

  “This is just me, speaking as an artist, and as someone whose works have been stolen before. The emotional trauma that you endure when this happens-it’s beyond belief.”

  “Most of these artists were already dead when the works were stolen,” Patch said. “I know that doesn’t change anything, but-”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Phoebe said. “Collectors donated the pieces to these museums. People worked hard so that they could buy the pieces and then show them to the public. Or maybe they even still owned them outright, and they were on loan. Maybe they were family heirlooms. The point is, they don’t belong in this basement, where no one can see them except for a select group of wealthy Society members. If Palmer even let anyone see them.” Phoebe took a deep breath. “I feel like the only honest thing to do is to tell the world about what your grandfather has done.”

  Nick looked at her. How could she be so nonchalant about this? It wasn’t her family they were talking about. Maybe she couldn’t understand. Her family wasn’t well known. No one had any expectations for them.

  “Phoebe, you have no idea what this is like,” Nick said. “I don’t want people knowing this about my grandfather. I know it isn’t right, but it’s just-well, honestly, it’s embarrassing. It was one thing to return that necklace anonymously, but to return all of these major paintings, and for the world to know about it? It would tarnish our entire family name if word got out that Palmer Bell was an art thief. I’m not proud of many of the things my family has done, but that doesn’t mean that I want everyone to know about them. In fact, I’d appreciate it if we kept all this between us until I decide what to do.”

  “Nick, aren’t you perpetuating the cycle?” Phoebe said. “Aren’t you just making it okay for other people to do the same thing that your grandfather did? I mean, whoever actually took the artwork for him-I’m sure they’re still alive. Do you really want them doing this for more rich people? More people who get off on owning stolen art?”

  “No, of course I don’t,” Nick said. “But my question is, why would Palmer lead us to all this?”

  “I think he wanted the art returned after his death. He didn’t have any use for it anymore,” Phoebe said. “There’s no other reason he would have told you about it.”

  “Maybe he was looking for redemption of some sort,” Genie mused. “Of course, it’s just like Palmer not to do it himself. Never wanted to get his hands dirty.”

  “Okay, but now that my grandfather’s gone, how is it supposed to get us out of the Society? Like Horatio’s going to wave his magic wand and somehow get us out? I feel like we don’t have any hope of getting out, at least not this time around.”

  “There’s only one person who can get us out now,” Patch said.

  “Who’s that?” Nick asked, turning to him.

  “Our father.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Phoebe was grateful when it was finally time to leave Eaton House and return to Nick’s parents’ house in Southampton. The two properties were so different in style; while Eaton House was cold and foreboding, the Bell compound was as warm as a house on twelve acres could get. It was a classic shingle-style house, and unlike Eaton House, which was anonymous in its furnishings, it actually seemed like a family lived there.

  Genie sat in the front seat, once again bundled up in a dozen layers, while Nick drove. His old Jeep ground its wheels onto the gravel driveway.

  The four of them got out, and Nick pulled out his monogrammed key ring, picking one and using it on the front door.

  A persistent beeping started from somewhere in the house.

  “What is that?” Phoebe asked. After everything they had been through, she didn’t feel like she could take any more surprises.

  “I don’t know,” Nick said. “Is it an alarm system? We never had one before.”

  Genie observed the situation with curiosity, and Phoebe gave her an awkward smile. After all these months of avoiding the truth, it was a relief finally to hear Genie be honest with them.

  “Patch, is there something you can do?” Phoebe asked.

  “Alarms aren’t really my thing,” Patch said. “Thad taught me the basics, but I don’t really know enough-”

  At that moment, a loud shrieking began, a whooping alert that resonated over the potato and cornfields and seemed to shake the walls of the house.

  Nick was blushing furiously as he tried to figure out what was going on; he had located a panel in a coat closet to the right of the front door. “I can’t believe they wouldn’t mention this to me,” he said. “I don’t even know how to work one of these things!”

  Within five minutes there was a patrol car parked in their driveway. Nick and Phoebe stood dumbly near the front door, while Patch sat nearby on an iron bench with his grandmother. Nick had his ID in hand, and he handed it to the officer who approached them.

  “This is my parents’ house,” he said nervously. “We were just coming here for the weekend. I didn’t know they had installed an alarm system.”

  “Don’t worry about it, kid, we’re not going to shoot you. Let me just turn this thing off.” The two cops laughed as the officer went to a control panel in the foyer and punched in a few numbers. Phoebe imagined that Southampton in the winter was probably pretty slow when it came to crime.

  The cop looked at Nick’s ID. “He’s on the list of approved residents. You’re fine, kid. Just get the code from your parents so it doesn’t happen again.”

  “Thanks. Sorry for the trouble.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll send your parents the bill!” The officer laughed again, and the patrol car pulled away.

  “Let’s go inside,” Nick said. “I’m freezing here.”

  Everyone scrambled inside, and Nick went to turn up the thermostat. The four of them sat down in the kitchen, which, being central to the house, heated up more quickly than the rest of the first floor.

  “Nick, why do you think they put in an alarm system?” Phoebe asked as she threw her coat over one of the chairs in the kitchen. “Because the Pollock was stolen? Why wouldn’t they have told you?” It didn’t make any sense.

  “I don’t know,” Nick said. “Maybe they were trying to catch us off guard or something. Maybe they think we stole it.”

  “Okay, and another thing: why the Pollock?” Phoebe asked. “Why would your grandfather steal it from his own son?”

  “He always hated it,” Nick said.

  “I don’t think that’s the reason,” Patch said.

  “I have an idea,” Phoebe said. “Remember, the Pollock was our starting point. Or at least, it was our first real clue. He could have just left a note on the mantel for us saying ‘Go to Eaton House, you’ll find some stolen art there.’ But instead he sent us all the way down to Florida to find a key, then we had to try that key on each property, then you got the clue at the Dendur Ball, which sent you back to Southampton…”

  “What’s your point?” Nick asked impatiently as Phoebe flushed. Why was Nick being such an ass about this? Had all the pressure finally gotten to him?

  He leaned forward to touch her arm. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Phoebe nodded in resignation, but she was still annoyed. Just because it was Nick’s family they were talking about didn’t mean he was the only one who had a stake in the matter.

  Genie interrupted. “What she’s trying to say, Nick, is that Palmer was giving you a roundabout tour of your heritage. Boys, where did you find the key?”

  “In his study in Palm Beach,” Nick said. “Which was filled with memorabilia from his life. There were also the family photos on the mantelpiece. And all the history that was part of the Dendur Ball. The photograph of your mother, Patch. The picture of my parents.”

  “So what does it all mean?” Patch asked.

  “I think it’s like Horatio said. He wants us
to do what we think is right,” Nick said.

  “He sent you to a series of important places in your family’s history,” Phoebe said. “The question is whether he’s saying you should do what’s right for your family, or what’s right for all of us.” She thought of the memorial marker, the one Patch didn’t even know about. It was another example of something the Bells had covered up, another thing that wasn’t talked about.

  Nick frowned. “We need to do what’s right for us. It’s just that-well, we can’t just let everyone know about the art-can we?”

  “Perhaps he wants you to weigh out all the options,” Genie said. “Considering that you are both technically members of the Bell family.”

  “Nick, I think you need to call your father,” Phoebe said. “I hate to admit it, but he’s the only person who can help us. Why don’t you leverage your knowledge of the stolen art and try to get us out of the Society? Isn’t that what Palmer wanted us to do?”

  Nick nodded slowly. “I can make the call in the library. Patch, I think you should listen in.”

  Phoebe bit her lip as Nick and Patch left the kitchen. Would Nick be able to stand up to his father?

  It scared her that she didn’t know.

  Chapter Fifty

  In the library Nick called his father on every one of his numbers and finally was able to reach him on his private number that only rang in his study. He explained to his dad what they had found, about the trove of art in the basement of Eaton House. Patch listened in on an extension at the other side of the room.

  “Well, you’ve done it,” Parker said. “Your grandfather’s been trying to reveal this to your brothers for the past year, and neither of them have picked up on his clues. I guess he finally had to be more blunt about it.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call sending us down to Florida, and then three times to Southampton blunt,” Nick said.

  “I suppose not.”