I sat on one of the workroom stools, figuring I might as well make myself comfortable. Thank goodness Sunny had supplied dinner, since we’d probably be stuck in the library for at least another hour, talking to the authorities. “I remember—your mom said you were rehabbing an old lumber mill or something.”
“Doing a full renovation.” Trey rolled back the cuffs of his sweater, exposing the blue sleeves of his shirt. The vivid color against the neutral cream of his sweater lent him a jaunty, nautical air.
That’s it, I thought. He’s going for the sporty sailor look. The strawlike texture of his thick hair and the high color in his cheeks reinforced this image. He looked as if he’d spent a lot of time in the sun and wind. I could easily picture him at the tiller of an expensive sailboat. He wasn’t my type but was still a very attractive guy.
“The Calloway place, right?” I narrowed my eyes. Zelda had mentioned that the winery, founded by a wealthy couple as a lark, had fallen on hard times and had been sold to a successful entrepreneur in his early forties. But Zelda hadn’t linked this gossip to Trey.
“Yes. I’m converting the old mill into a tasting room. I may possibly add a restaurant once we’re more established.” Trey brushed a thick lock of his sandy hair away from his broad forehead and turned his gaze back on Sunny. “So you’re a Fields. Do your grandparents happen to own the organic farm right outside of town?”
Sunny toyed with the hair tie on her ponytail, twisting it around and around. “Yeah, that’s our farm.”
“Good to know. I’d like to talk to them about supplying some fresh veg to my restaurant. I mean, once I get it up and running.”
I leaned forward, resting my arms on the top of the worktable. “A tasting room and a restaurant? You’ve certainly set some ambitious goals.” I studied Trey’s handsome face. So perhaps the gossip wasn’t entirely correct and he wasn’t broke. Trey’s plans sounded expensive, and I couldn’t imagine Mel footing the bill for such a venture. She lived well, but reliable sources—as in Zelda—claimed that Mel Riley wasn’t quite as wealthy as she liked people to believe.
“Oh, this is pretty minor stuff compared to some of my previous projects.” Trey grabbed a pencil from the bin on the table and rolled it between his fingers as he stared at us. “By the way, what was your intruder after, anyway? I doubt the library keeps a significant amount of cash on hand.”
“I don’t know if we should say…” I shot Sunny a warning glance, but her gaze was fixed on Trey.
Sunny swept the hair tie out of her hair and shoved it in her pocket while tossing the shining fall of her loose hair behind her shoulders. “It was that Caden Kroft kid. He wanted me to tell the authorities that I’d seen someone else fleeing the LeBlanc farm the day Rachel was murdered. Someone other than him, I mean.”
“But you didn’t?” The pencil clattered to the floor. Trey bent over to pick it up, hiding his face from my inquisitive gaze.
“No, I didn’t. Caden swore he glimpsed someone else in the woods but said he couldn’t identify them.” Sunny shrugged. “I saw no one else.”
Trey straightened and flashed Sunny a brilliant smile. “I wouldn’t spare it much thought. The young man probably made up some lie to exonerate himself and wanted to threaten you into supporting his story.”
“Could be,” I said, although, strangely, I found this hard to believe. Even though Caden had come at Sunny with a knife, he hadn’t used it and had actually seemed relieved to leave Sunny and me unharmed when he couldn’t get what he wanted. And there had been that look in his eyes when he was talking about someone else being at the scene … I shook my head. “I guess the authorities will figure it out eventually.”
Through the thick fieldstone walls, sirens wailed, faint but piercing as a muted brass section.
Trey threw the pencil back in the bin and strode toward the exterior door. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll pop outside and get my questioning out of the way so I can head home.” He turned at the door to give us a sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid you’re both in for a more lengthy interrogation.”
“Sure, go ahead,” I said. “No use all of us getting stuck here half the night.”
Trey fiddled with the dead bolt, which could be tricky to unlock. “I’d enjoy the company, but it has been a long day…”
“Not a problem. Here, let me get that.” Sunny crossed over to the staff door and flipped back the dead bolt in one swift motion.
Trey looked down at her with an expression that made my lips tighten. “Thanks. And nice to meet you, Sunny. I hope we can spend some less stressful time together sometime soon.”
Sunny slid her tongue across her lower lip and gazed up at him from beneath her golden eyelashes. “Sounds fun.”
“And you too, Amy,” Trey called out as he stepped outside.
“Nice guy.” Sunny closed the door and slumped back against it.
“You’ll have to open that again in a second,” I said. “You know, when Brad and the others arrive.”
“Did you notice those muscles? I mean, that sweater kind of hid his body, but you can tell he works out.” Sunny stared over my head, her dreamy gaze fixed on the fluorescent light fixture hanging over the worktable.
I snapped my fingers at her. “Brad, remember? And how can you be thinking about men or whatever after being held at knifepoint?”
“It helps,” she said, looking at me. “Block it out, you know.”
“I guess.” I softened my expression as I noted the pain lurking in her blue eyes. “And remember—Trey seems nice, but there’s that mother of his. Do you really want to date someone who has Mel Riley for a mom?”
“Oh, I can handle Mel.” Sunny waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.
I couldn’t hold back a little grin. Yes, she probably could. But as Sunny opened the door to let in the chief deputy and his team, my expression sobered.
“Poor Trey. He made a special trip and then didn’t even get a chance to drop off any donations,” I said.
Sunny, already talking with Deputy Coleman, didn’t appear to hear me.
Brad crossed to me and looked me up and down. “We really must stop meeting like this,” he said.
Which made me laugh before I burst into tears.
Chapter Ten
I arrived home so late that I didn’t bother to call Richard, figuring he might already be asleep. I simply answered his text about arriving in New York City safely with “That’s great. Talk tomorrow. Love you.”
He didn’t reply, which confirmed my thought that he was probably sleeping. I tapped my cell phone against my palm before placing it on the kitchen table. “I’m not sure if I should even say anything to him about today’s incident,” I told Aunt Lydia as she took a seat across from me.
She swirled a teaspoon in her cup of chamomile tea. “Don’t you think he’ll be upset if he doesn’t find out until he gets home?”
I ran my forefinger over the ridges created by the dinosaur skeleton picture on my mug. “Dinosaurs Didn’t Read and Now They’re Extinct,” the caption said. Richard had discovered the mug when he was off on one of his other choreography gigs and presented it to me on his return. “Probably. But I don’t want to distract him. You know he’ll be torn about staying or coming home. And he can’t really come back until Sunday, since the final rehearsals start tomorrow and the performances are Thursday through Saturday. It’s hard enough that he’s had to step in with such limited rehearsal time. I’d hate for him to be worrying about me too. I’ll tell him when he gets back Sunday night.”
Aunt Lydia’s eyes were hooded beneath her lowered eyelids. She examined her tea as if she could read fortunes in the pale jade liquid. “If you think that’s best.”
“I do. Changing the subject, you haven’t told me anything about our new lodger. I assume he arrived sometime today, since I spied a strange car in the driveway.”
“Yes, he showed up around ten this morning. Said hello, dropped off his suitcase, then headed back out to meet with
the sheriff and other investigators. They moved those suspicious paintings to a secure storage facility. It seems that’s where Dr. Chen will be working. Anyway, he got in late tonight, claimed he’d already had dinner, and headed up to his room.”
I eyed her as I drank some tea. “What’s he like?”
“Too soon to tell. He seems nice enough. He is Asian, as you would expect, given his name. Around my age, I guess. Says he goes by Hugh because no one can get his actual name right. He’s rather nice looking. Distinguished, I would say.” Aunt Lydia sipped her tea, her eyes unfocused as if her gaze was turned inward. “Dark hair and eyes, of course, but taller than I expected. My height, actually.”
“Not all Asian people are short,” I said, before downing another swallow of tea.
“I know that.” Aunt Lydia’s tone was testy, but I really couldn’t fault her. She was undoubtedly exhausted, and I knew she’d been worried about me even though I’d called her from the library as soon as the authorities allowed me to contact anyone.
“I’ll introduce you tomorrow morning. Dr. Chen did say he’d appreciate breakfast.” Aunt Lydia finished her tea before she looked up and met my inquisitive gaze. “I know you’ve been through a lot today, and it’s late, but if you could join us before you head to work…”
“Of course. I’d like to meet him.” I drank my remaining tea in two gulps before standing. “Now I think I’ll go on up to bed if you don’t mind. I’m pretty beat.”
“I can certainly understand that.” Aunt Lydia pressed her palms against the table, using that leverage to help her rise to her feet. “Just leave that cup. I’ll wash up.”
“No, I can do it. You must be tired too.”
“But I wasn’t threatened at knifepoint by a deranged murderer.”
“Possible murderer,” I said, crossing to the sink to place my mug on the adjacent butcher-block countertop.
Aunt Lydia carried her cup to the sink. “Who else could it be?”
I almost said “Kurt Kendrick” but bit back the words. No use bringing up my suspicions to my aunt, who always looked for any reason to speak ill of the art dealer.
“You never know,” I said instead, as I headed for the door to the hallway. “Maybe our houseguest will turn up some other evidence soon.”
Aunt Lydia just harrumphed and turned on the faucet.
* * *
The next day I hurried through my shower and other morning tasks, allowing my hair to dry naturally instead of messing with the blow dryer. Throwing on a pair of beige slacks and a crimson silk blouse, I tossed my caramel-colored jacket over my arm and headed downstairs.
The scent of coffee wafted upward as I made way down the stairs. I followed my nose into the kitchen, where Aunt Lydia was stirring batter in a yellow ceramic bowl.
“What can I do?” I asked when I joined her at the counter.
“Take that to the table,” she replied, with a jerk of her head toward a pressed-glass bowl filled with sliced strawberries and pineapple chunks. “And the coffee carafe and creamer. There’s sugar out already.”
“You should’ve woken me earlier,” I said as I carried the items over to the table.
“It’s fine. I have everything under control.”
Which she did, of course. I examined the table, noticing that three places were already set. “So, pancakes?”
Aunt Lydia, her hands clutching the ceramic bowl, blew a strand of white hair out of her eyes. “Yes. Just waiting for our guest before I drop them on the griddle.”
I looked at her—in a purple sweater over worn jeans, her feet bare, her normally well-coiffed hair a bit mussed, and a spot of flour dusting the end of her nose—and thought she’d never looked so beautiful.
“Good morning,” said a cultured male voice.
I turned to the speaker—an older man wearing a simple but well-tailored navy suit. He didn’t notice me at first, though. He was staring at my aunt, and with obvious admiration.
Aha, I thought. Aunt Lydia has made a conquest, and in just one day.
She seemed oblivious to this. “Good morning, Dr. Chen. Please, have a seat. I was just about to make some pancakes, but there’s fruit and coffee on the table if you’d like to start with that.”
“Thank you.” He sat down and examined the china and silverware, the short crystal glass filled with orange juice at each place setting, and the cloth napkins. “You’ve gone to too much trouble, Mrs. Talbot.”
“She always does that,” I said, sitting across from him. “Guests are treated with the utmost respect in this house, Dr. Chen.” I held out my hand, then pulled it back when I realized he couldn’t reach across the table to grasp it. “I’m Amy Webber, the niece.”
“Ah.” He unfolded the napkin and placed it in his lap. “The library director.”
“Yes.” I looked him over as he scooped some of the chopped fruit into a small china bowl. “So, what do you think of those strange paintings, Dr. Chen? Are they forgeries or what?”
“Amy.” My aunt shot me a sharp glance over her shoulder. “Don’t badger the man with shop talk at breakfast.”
“Oh, it’s all right. And please, I’d like both of you to call me Hugh. I don’t think we need to stand on ceremony. On that note, if I may call you Lydia and Amy, I’d appreciate it very much.” Hugh Chen waved his spoon, including both of us in his request, but his gaze was fixed on my aunt’s slender back.
“Of course,” Aunt Lydia said without turning around. She gracefully wielded a plastic spatula to flip the pancakes on the griddle.
“Dr. Chen—I’m sorry, Hugh. I don’t want to disturb your breakfast, but I am very curious about those paintings. I was there when they were discovered, you know, and I have an art history background, so Chief Deputy Tucker asked me to look into them before you arrived. I searched the Art Loss Register, among other things, but didn’t find much, although the one that looks like a Caravaggio seems to be a study based on some lost painting.”
“The Nativity?” Hugh replied, holding a spoonful of the fruit aloft. “Yes, it does look like a study for that work, which was stolen back in 1969, as you’ve obviously realized from your research.”
“It’s a forgery, though?”
Hugh chewed and swallowed before replying. “I believe so. I need to conduct some more in-depth research, but I suspect they are all forgeries.”
Looking at his expression, which displayed a genuine interest in my words, I decided to share my latest theory. “Is it possible that they are all based on lost or stolen works, or even paintings that were only referenced in letters or other documents?”
Aunt Lydia carried over a platter of pancakes and set it on the table. “What are you getting at, Amy?”
“It’s just a thought, but when I examined that study that was supposed to be a Caravaggio, it made me suspicious. It would be clever to fake something that looked like a study rather than a well-known lost work. That would display a high level of sophistication about the art world and the black market.”
“Indeed,” Hugh said, giving me an appraising look.
“So I wondered about the other pieces, the Impressionist ones in particular. I thought maybe the forgers had created them based on pieces the artists talked about in letters or other documents. Paintings they might have been working on at some point but never actually finished.”
“Or finished and then destroyed. Or sold to someone who subsequently lost the painting somehow. It happens.” Hugh used his fork to spear a short stack of the pancakes and transfer them to his plate. “Sadly, many great works have been lost in fires or floods, or even wars. At the time they might not have been considered extremely valuable, so they weren’t protected against such catastrophes.” Hugh winked at me as he reached for the syrup bottle. “That’s some clever thinking on your part, Amy. You might be in the wrong line of work.”
Aunt Lydia sat beside me, daintily unfolded her napkin, and placed it in her lap. “Hugh, if you prefer jam or something else…”
; “No, this is perfect.” Hugh glanced at Aunt Lydia. “What do you think of your niece’s theory?”
“It sounds reasonable, but wouldn’t such forgeries be easily exposed when the paintings were sold?”
“Not necessarily.” Hugh took another bite and appeared lost in thought as he chewed and swallowed. “There’s a lot of misinformation floating around the art marketplace. You’d be surprised how easy it is to fool people, especially when they want to believe something is an actual masterpiece.”
“Meanwhile, my late husband’s work goes unappreciated,” Aunt Lydia said, before filling her bowl with fruit.
“Yes, it is a shame. A lot of collectors are only interested in ‘names’ and would rather own a disputed work that’s supposedly by a famous artist than a true original by someone unknown.” Hugh shrugged. “And of course, works like those discovered at the LeBlanc studio are probably intended for the black market. Collectors who buy items from shady dealers aren’t likely to publicly exhibit them. If they’re convinced the pieces are real, they’ll just keep them hidden away for their own enjoyment. No scholars or experts are likely to ever see them, much less dispute their authenticity.”
I cut my stack of pancakes into quarters, then eighths, before pouring on syrup. “So you agree that these paintings could’ve been created in the style of certain artists based on information about their lost works?”
“Yes, that makes sense. They’d have to forge the signatures too, of course, but that’s much simpler than faking the actual art.” Hugh polished off another forkful of pancakes. “These are delicious, Lydia. So light and fluffy.”
“It’s Aunt Lydia’s secret recipe,” I said between bites. “She’s shared it with me, but no one else.”
Aunt Lydia raised her narrow shoulders in a slight shrug. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. Simplest recipe in the world. But I’m glad you enjoy it.”
“Don’t listen to her. She’s a great cook. Totally rocks out everything she makes.” I lifted my fork, laden with pancakes and syrup, and pointed it toward my aunt, who frowned at me.
Shelved Under Murder Page 9