Who Are You? (9780307823533)

by Nixon, Joan Lowery

  “But that’s being a thief.”

  “Exactly. Forgery is a crime. Gallery owners who knowingly sell forged work break the law too. They’re also subject to heavy fines and imprisonment.”

  If people knew who owned all the valuable artworks and where they were, then they couldn’t be cheated. I ask, “Isn’t there some kind of an international association that lists the location of every important painting? Maybe on the Internet?”

  The bell rings, and I realize I’m the only one in class not in my seat.

  “No,” Ms. Montero says. “The idea of a registry has been proposed, but it’s always been dropped. Think about it. A list of the location of every valuable painting would be an invitation to thieves.” As she picks up her roll book and pen she adds, “If your friend believes his Kupka is an original, then I’m afraid he’s just one more victim of forgery.”

  Indignation spurts into my words. “He could sue whoever sold him a fake. He could try to get his money back. He could go to the police.”

  She looks at me with surprise. “Yes, he could, but most victims of forgery won’t.”

  Halfway to my desk I turn. “Why not?”

  “People who have spent a great deal of money for a painting usually brag about it and show off the painting to their associates. They don’t want anyone to know they’ve been cheated. They don’t even want to know the truth themselves.”

  I don’t think Mr. Merson would be like that. I’m sure he’d want to know. As I sit at my desk I think about Mr. Merson as a victim, not only of a wouldbe murderer, but also of an art forger. Do the two tie together? And where does the file about me tie in at all?

  After school is over I go to Ms. Chase’s art gallery. Mr. Merson has delivered some paintings to her. Has he purchased art through her gallery as well? There’s one way to find out. I arrive at the Royal Heritage Gallery of Art just as Landreth is saying goodbye to two well-dressed women.

  “Ah, our Ms. Evans,” he says as they leave. “Are you still pretending to be a reporter for your school paper?”

  “I wasn’t trying to pretend anything,” I tell him. “I just asked to see Ms. Chase.”

  “Are you asking again?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He smiles. “Sorry. You’re out of luck. She’s not here. She’ll be in New York until Wednesday.”

  The day after tomorrow. I don’t know whether to believe him or not. Even if he’s lying, what can I do about it? I refuse to give up. “Maybe I can call her,” I say. “Will you tell me where she’s staying?”

  In a patronizing voice Landreth answers, “You might try the Pierre Hotel, although you won’t find her in. Her trips to New York keep her exceedingly busy.”

  Okay. You win. Discouraged, I say, “Thanks,” and turn away, walking to the elevators.

  I wonder why I had bothered to come here. I should have gone directly to Mr. Merson instead.

  As I near his house a car passes me. Gurtz with a scowl is at the wheel. Ms. Babson sits beside him, and she’s crying. My heart gives a jump. Mr. Merson’s bodyguard and nurse left him alone! Is it because—? I can’t allow myself to finish the sentence.

  When I reach Mr. Merson’s house, I don’t pull into the driveway. I park on the street, a little way back, then walk up the long drive. I’m scared. I don’t know what I’m going to find out when Frederick opens the door.

  I’m surprised to discover that the front door has been left ajar. I don’t ring the bell. I push the door a little wider and poke my head inside. “Frederick?” My voice comes out in a whisper.

  I don’t want to shout, in case Mr. Merson is asleep. So I walk in, leaving the door the way I found it. I’ll look through the house until I find Frederick.

  The living room is empty. I hoped Mr. Merson would be there, but he isn’t.

  I take the hallway to the left and walk through a large dining room into a butler’s pantry, and then a kitchen. There’s no sign of Frederick.

  There’s a door to the right. With my heart once again banging in my ears, I open the door and find myself in a sitting room with a bedroom beyond. Frederick, sprawled in an armchair, is snoring loudly; a spilled glass of wine has stained the carpet next to him.

  In disgust I walk out, shutting his door. I look through the other downstairs rooms. There’s still no sign of Mr. Merson.

  My hands are sweaty, and my heartbeat quickens. I want to yell. I could call 911, but what would I tell them? I have to find Mr. Merson myself.

  It’s hard to step quietly as I climb the stairs. They creak with every movement. I hold my breath and keep going.

  When I reach the top I find myself on a U-shaped landing with two beautifully carved doors on each side and one in the middle. Which way should I go?

  I begin with the door on the right side of the landing. I’m surprised to see that all the doors have old-fashioned, ornamental locks with keyholes. I turn the knob, and the door opens into a gorgeous bedroom with a huge four-poster bed and two deep armchairs facing a marble fireplace. The ceiling of the room shimmers with reflected sunlight from the pool below. In the bed Mr. Merson breathes rhythmically. He’s sound asleep.

  My fingers shake as I softly shut the door. He’s all right. He’s just asleep. He shouldn’t have been left alone by his nurse and bodyguard, though. What was wrong with them? Where were they going? And Frederick—he’s of no use to anyone.

  I should leave. I have no business here. But I hope one of these doors leads to Mr. Merson’s studio. I’d love to see it. Let’s see … north light. I open the door facing the stairs and find myself in a spacious room with large windows and skylights—the perfect room for an artist. There are easels and canvases stacked against one wall, but on the other side of some low cabinets, a sturdy easel has been set up. A very large canvas rests on it. Curiosity gets the best of me. I have to look.

  I tiptoe around the canvas and stare with amazement at an almost finished painting. Shocked, I gasp for breath. I know this painting. At least, I know what it’s going to be. On the nearby cabinets lie enlarged, detailed photographs of the model for the painting. It’s a farm scene by Chagall.

  I drop to the floor and sit cross-legged as I realize what I must have suspected all along. Mr. Merson hasn’t been duped by an art forger. No way. Mr. Merson is a forger—a very talented forger.

  Through the open doorway I hear a creak on the stair treads. There’s a pause, as if someone is listening, and another stair creaks. Then another. Slowly the sound comes closer. Is it Frederick? It has to be. But what will I do if he finds me here? I crouch down, hoping the cabinets in the room will hide me.

  No one comes to the studio door. Instead, I hear a nearby door open. For a while there is no sound in the house. Where is Frederick? What is he doing? Has he come to check on Mr. Merson? Not knowing, not seeing what is going on is scary. I want to run down the stairs as fast as I can, but I fight against my panic. Don’t move, I tell myself. Be very quiet.

  Where is Frederick?

  The same door shuts softly, and in a few minutes I hear footsteps on the stairs again. This time they’re running. I jump up to run too as I hear the front door slam.

  But when I reach the head of the stairs I stop, my nose puckering. I recognize that smell. It’s gas. And it’s coming from Mr. Merson’s room.

  I open his door and run to the fireplace, where the gas jet is open and gas is hissing into the room. I turn off the spigot and dash to the windows, opening them wide.

  “I hope you can manage to walk,” I tell Mr. Merson. Using leverage, I sit him upright, being careful of his bandaged shoulder. Then I swing his legs over the edge of the bed. “Stand up,” I order. “You have to.”

  He murmurs in the back of his throat and tries to see me through half-lidded eyes. “I think you’ve been drugged,” I tell him. “But I have to get you out of this room. It’s still filled with gas.”

  Somehow we manage to make it into the hallway. I don’t dare take him down the stairs, so I help him li
e on the carpeting near the top. I run down the stairs, grab the phone in the living room, and call Sergeant Balker.

  “I’ll send an ambulance,” he says. “We’ll be right there. Is the person who did this still in the house?”

  “It must have been Frederick,” I tell him. “But I heard the door slam behind him.”

  Balker says something to someone. Then he gets back to me. “Some uniformed officers will get there before I do, Kristi. You can let them in. But don’t let anyone else into the house.”

  “I won’t,” I tell him.

  I go back upstairs and sit on the floor next to Mr. Merson. I’m still scared, and the house seems too quiet. I need someone to talk to so I won’t lose my courage. Mr. Merson is still out of it. I talk to try to fight my panic.

  “Your breathing seems regular,” I tell him, “but you were drugged. I guess the doctors will know what to do about that. Who did this?”

  I hear a tiny sound—a weird kind of moan. It comes from somewhere below me. Someone else is inside the house. I listen intently, afraid to breathe.

  There’s a plop, as though something has fallen. I’m so frightened that my head starts to buzz and, for a moment, I can’t see.

  Stop that, I tell myself.

  Stumbling to my feet, I run into the studio. Boards designed to make stretchers for the canvases are piled off to one side. I pick up a long, sturdy one and venture out into the open hallway.

  Another thump from downstairs, followed by a moan.

  “Stay where you are!” I yell, and raise the board as if it’s a sword.

  I tense, waiting for someone to answer or to appear. But no one does.

  The quiet is terrifying. I can’t stand it. “Where are you?” I shout. “What are you doing here?”

  Again I wait, but the house is silent.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I hear a siren. It’s growing louder as it comes closer. Hurry! Hurry! My fingers grip the board so hard they’re numb.

  “That’s the police!” I yell, hoping I’m right. “They’re coming here. They’re going to get you!”

  A thump from somewhere downstairs startles me. I let out a shriek and nearly drop my board.

  A car squeals to a stop outside the door. Now I can hear other sirens approaching. Heavy feet run up the steps, and the door bursts open. Two police officers stare up at me.

  “Help,” I whisper. My knees buckle, and I sit down hard on the top step.

  “Put down the board,” one of them orders. His right hand rests on the gun in his holster.

  I quickly throw the board to one side. “I was trying to protect Mr. Merson,” I tell the officer, who runs up the stairs toward me. “Someone’s down there. I don’t know who it is.”

  The other officer disappears, then calls out, “This guy’s passed out cold.”

  Uniformed paramedics run through the front door. Two of them head up the stairs. I squeeze against the walls of the stairwell, trying to get out of the way.

  “What’s with this guy’s bandages?” one of them asks me.

  “The Saturday before last somebody shot him in the shoulder and in the jaw,” I answer. “He’s recuperating.”

  “Recuperating? So what happened to him this time?”

  “Someone turned on the gas in his room. I turned it off and opened the windows. I don’t think he breathed in much of it. But he’s having trouble waking up. I think he was drugged.”

  Sergeant Balker appears. He holds out a hand to me. “Get up, Kristi,” he says. “Let’s get out of their way.”

  As he leads me down the stairs I can see someone lying in the hallway. A paramedic is bending over him, listening to his heart with a stethoscope. “Vitals are okay,” he says to his partner.

  “That’s Frederick!” I exclaim. “I thought he was the one who …”

  When I don’t continue, Sergeant Balker finishes the sentence. “Who turned on the gas?”

  “He might have. He could be faking.” I don’t know why I don’t trust Frederick.

  Frederick struggles to sit up. “I don’t need to go to the hospital,” he grumbles.

  “What were you drinking, Frederick?” Balker asks him.

  “None of your business,” Frederick grumbles.

  One of the officers walks into the room from the direction of the dining room. He holds up a bottle of wine. “This is the stuff,” he says. “Most of it’s still in the bottle.”

  “Save and mark it,” Balker tells him. “We’ll have it analyzed.” He squats down, eye-level with Frederick. “Do you usually drink on the job?”

  Frederick raises his head to look at Balker. Frederick looks awful. “The wine was a gift,” he says. “I poured a little into Mr. Merson’s glass and helped him drink it through his straw. It looked like good wine, and I didn’t want to see it go to waste. I was only going to have one glass.”

  I remembered the wine spilled on the carpet in his room.

  “You said the wine was a gift. Who was it from?” Balker asks.

  “I don’t know. It was delivered.” Frederick groans and rests his head on his knees.

  “Take him to the hospital too,” Balker tells the paramiedics. “I’m guessing the wine was loaded with something. We don’t know what with, but we’d better have the doctors check him out.”

  He says to one of the officers, “Look around for a delivery slip or gift card—something that might tell us where the bottle of wine came from.” Then he turns to me. “Let’s sit down in the living room,” Balker says. “I want to hear everything you know about what went on.” He looks like Mom does when she has run out of patience. “And don’t forget to tell me what you’re doing here and why.”

  “Take him to Riverview Hospital,” Frederick orders.

  The paramedics look questioningly at Balker. “Yes. Go ahead. His doctor is at Riverview.”

  Sergeant Balker leans toward me. “Ready, Kristi?” he asks.

  It only takes a few minutes, but I start at the beginning with my visit to the art gallery. I tell him everything.

  When I’ve finished, Sergeant Balker says, “Stay put.” He walks into the entry hall, and I can hear him speak to Frederick, who is loudly refusing to either walk out to the ambulance or be carried out on a stretcher. “Where did the nurse and bodyguard go?”

  “Ms. Babson got an emergency phone call. Her mother had a heart attack. The doctors don’t know if she’ll make it. Gurtz took her to the airport.”

  “Which airport?”

  “Bush Intercontinental … Continental Airlines.” As Frederick goes on, his voice sounds as if he’s pouting. “I told them I was perfectly capable of watching out for Mr. Merson. I’ve done it for years without any complaints.”

  “Where did the phone call come from?” Balker asks.

  “I do remember that. Queen of the Angels Hospital in Los Angeles,” Frederick answers.

  “Thanks,” Balker says. “Now stop creating a problem. Get out to that ambulance.”

  As Frederick leaves, Sergeant Balker uses his cell phone to make a call. He comes back to me and sits down on the white sofa, stretching out his legs. Staring around the room as though he’s seeing it for the first time, he says, “These paintings must have cost a fortune.”

  “Some of them are Mr. Merson’s work,” I tell him. “He’s an artist. I guess you know that.”

  “Which of all these are his paintings? Can you tell me?”

  I think a moment, and then I make my decision. “I can’t be sure because … because Mr. Merson copies paintings.”

  I feel sick, but I go on. “I’m pretty sure that Mr. Merson is a forger.”

  I point out to Sergeant Balker the signature on the Kupka painting. Then I lead him upstairs to Mr. Merson’s studio and show him the “Chagall” in progress.

  “Very interesting,” he says. He writes something in his notebook.

  As I look at the painting I begin to cry. Whatever I’ve built up to hold back the tears breaks loose, and they pour down my cheek
s. “Please don’t arrest him, Sergeant Balker,” I beg. “I’m not an art expert, and I may be wrong. Just please … give Mr. Merson a chance to explain.”

  Balker’s cell phone rings, and he answers. He listens a moment, then says, “Okay. Have her intercepted at Bush airport. Continental.”

  He snaps the phone shut, drops it into his jacket pocket, and looks at me. “Nothing’s wrong with Ms. Babson’s mother. The hospital didn’t call. All the phone calls coming into the house today were local. Not one long-distance call.”

  “Do you mean somebody made up the story to frighten Ms. Babson? Why would they do a terrible thing like that to her?”

  “Possibly to get her out of the house—Gurtz, too.”

  “But how could the person count on Gurtz taking Ms. Babson to the airport instead of Frederick?”

  “Maybe it didn’t matter. Gurtz may be as easily tempted by good wine as Frederick. That’s a question for me to figure out.”

  “Meaning not me.”

  “Right. Meaning not you.”

  “About Mr. Merson,” I begin, but Balker doesn’t let me continue.

  “Art forgery is out of my league. As homicide detectives, my partner and I will do our best to solve these attempted murders. We’ll present our facts to the district attorney’s office and let him come up with the art experts. He’ll decide how and when to proceed with that part of the case.”

  “Okay,” I say, feeling relieved. “That will take some time, I guess, so for now Mr. Merson will be all right.”

  Sergeant Balker gives me an odd look. “About as all right as anyone can be with someone out to kill him.”

  I remember that I said just about the same thing to Lindy.

  Balker’s phone rings again. He answers, listens, then says, “Good. Bring her back.”

  A gruff voice calls, “What’s going on?”

  Sergeant Balker and I walk to the head of the stairs. We look down at Gurtz, who stands in the open doorway.

  He glances warily at the policemen, then stares up at Sergeant Balker. “I shouldn’t have left Mr. Merson,” he says. “When the woman from the hospital called, I—”