Blue Smoke and Murder

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “The artist is a Chinese immigrant. Lives in Tucson.” Zach skimmed the catalogue. “Someday he’ll be recognized as the great artist he is. Assuming galleries and collectors can get past a Chinese man painting the old West.”

  “That kind of bigotry is disgusting.”

  “So are a lot of things that are real. But don’t feel too bad—this canvas is expected to sell in the low six figures. Not bad for a dude who just turned forty.”

  Jill laughed softly.

  “Something funny?” he asked.

  “Just me,” she said. “I have a fine arts degree from one of the most prestigious colleges in the United States, yet many of these paintings are utterly new to me. I hadn’t realized how blatantly Eurocentric my fine arts education was. Most of my professors never got closer to America than Warhol’s Campbell soup can and Jackson Pollock’s premature ejaculations.”

  Zach made an odd sound. “I take it you’re not a Pollock fan.”

  “I could give you chapter and verse on Pollock’s importance to world art, his daring artistic vision, his slashing intellect, his blah blah blah. Yet his work never spoke to me on any level, including the intellectual. Neither did a lot of English pastoralists, but at least it was possible to admire their technique.”

  Zach started to say something, then sensed a person approaching behind them. He turned with startling swiftness and saw a tall, trim man with salt-and-pepper hair that brushed the collar of his dark blue blazer.

  Ramsey Worthington had risen to the bait.

  35

  SNOWBIRD

  SEPTEMBER 15

  11:28 A.M.

  I’m Ramsey Worthington, and you are…?” he asked.

  Jill turned to face Worthington. He looked more European than American West. His voice was refined, carefully modulated, with just enough of a British accent to suggest high culture as defined by PBS.

  He didn’t offer his hand.

  “Names aren’t important,” Zach drawled. “Isn’t that what dealers always say? ‘It’s the quality of the art, not the name of the artist’ that matters.”

  Worthington’s blue eyes narrowed. “What is this about?”

  “A Thomas Dunstan that was last in your custody before it was ‘lost,’ mutilated, and finally destroyed,” Zach said.

  Worthington’s eyebrows shot up in what looked like genuine surprise. “Mutilated? Destroyed? What on earth are—”

  “But the lost part doesn’t surprise you, does it?” Zach cut in.

  The door buzzer sounded.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Worthington said.

  Christa Moore opened the door. Several people walked in. Their clothes ranged from shabby casual to casual chic. All of them had the bearing that said they could afford anything that took their fancy.

  “I’ll be real happy to explain,” Zach said. “I’ll even use little words and a loud voice. You want that here or in your office?”

  Worthington looked at the newcomers. He knew them. High-level collectors giving a final review to some of the auction goods.

  The collectors were also high-level gossips.

  “My office,” he said curtly.

  The dealer’s office was a sharp contrast to the spacious, neat gallery. Painting after painting was stacked in ranks against the walls and inside specially made cubbyholes. Shelves were buried beneath bronzes and carved marble.

  Zach recognized an intricate Remington bronze of a cowboy astride a lunging horse. An original, numbered Remington was worth bragging about. The aged, bent cardboard tag attached to the statue by wire attested to the work’s authenticity.

  Jill’s hands itched to pull out paintings and look at them. A single glance at Zach’s face told her that wasn’t going to happen. Worthington didn’t look real outgoing, either.

  “Now, what’s this nonsense about a ruined Dunstan? All provenanced Dunstans are accounted for and in excellent condition.”

  Zach gave Jill a subtle signal.

  Showtime.

  “My great-aunt, Modesty Breck, sent out a canvas for appraisal. My adviser”—Jill nodded to Zach—“believes it found its way to you. The painting was reported as lost. Recently it was, ah, returned to me. In shreds.”

  Worthington frowned. “I remember the painting. Hillhouse sent it to me. I sent it back. I’m sure the receiving and shipping forms are filed, if it matters to you. As for the rest, it’s neither my affair nor my responsibility.”

  “Forms can be filled out and filed by anyone with a seventh-grade education,” Zach said. “They’re worthless as proof of anything worth proving.”

  “You’ll have to excuse him,” Jill said earnestly to Worthington. “The destruction of the canvas really angered him.”

  Worthington gave Zach a wary glance.

  Zach gave him two rows of hard white teeth.

  “I came here because I wanted to know what you thought of the painting,” Jill said.

  “It’s not my practice to discuss privately held paintings with anyone except the owner.”

  “No problem,” Zach said. “Modesty Breck is dead. You’re talking to her grandniece.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Worthington said automatically. “But that doesn’t answer the question of ownership.”

  “I’m her heir,” Jill said. “Would you like a letter from my lawyer? A death certificate from the coroner? Testimonial from an elder in—”

  Zach spoke over her, “I know it upsets you to talk about it.” He squeezed her shoulder—hard—and turned back to Worthington. “So what did you think of the painting?”

  “Surprisingly good,” Worthington said. “Reminiscent in many ways of Thomas Dunstan’s work. But the lack of signature, plus other issues, made the painting an unlikely Dunstan. Very unlikely.”

  “Issues, huh?” Zach said. “Such as?”

  Jill’s smile asked Worthington to be more polite than Zach was being.

  “Just how are you ‘advising’ Modesty Breck’s heir?” Worthington asked.

  “Any old way she wants it,” Zach drawled. “She’s real upset by her loss. You’re real busy with your auction. The quickest way to get rid of us is to answer our questions.”

  It took Worthington about four seconds to come to the same conclusion.

  “The historical record is the first issue,” he said. “By comparison to other artists, Thomas Dunstan painted remarkably few works. So far as we know, every single one of those paintings has been authenticated and accounted for. His heirs have been very jealous of his reputation. They guard his heritage very closely.”

  “And make money doing it,” Zach said.

  “There is nothing unusual about paying for expertise.”

  “Since when has being someone’s heir made the heir expert on anything?” Zach asked.

  “It’s called droit moral, and I have no time to explain it to you,” Worthington said impatiently. “The second issue is that the subject of the painting is unlike anything in Dunstan’s catalogue raisonné.”

  “More French words,” Zach said.

  “If you aren’t familiar with them, you have no business advising anyone on fine art,” Worthington said in a clipped voice.

  “I understand French just fine,” Jill said, hoping her anger wasn’t coming through. “But the painting was a landscape, which is well within Dunstan’s oeuvre.”

  Zach wanted to laugh, but it would have spoiled his bad-boy sex-toy act. He stroked her arm instead, fiddling with the silky edges of her sleeve.

  “Dunstan seldom painted human figures into his work,” Worthington said to Jill, ignoring Zach entirely. “Less than four percent of Dunstan’s paintings had human figures. The figures were invariably male. Dunstan had an uncanny ability to paint landscapes that conveyed enormous masculine strength measured against the power of a raw, untamed land.”

  “I thought it was pretty well tamed by the time Dunstan was painting,” Jill said.

  “That’s why Dunstan’s work has always
been so sought after by the very men who subdued the West,” Worthington said, glancing at his watch. “His paintings were a tribute to the brute male power it took to survive in, much less to tame, the West.”

  Zach wondered how he would defuse the coming explosion. Jill wasn’t about to take that kind of chauvinism without giving feedback. A lot of it. He squeezed her arm, reminding her that she was supposed to be the good cop in this duo.

  Her muscles were tight.

  He wondered if prayer would help.

  Jill didn’t give him time to find out.

  “Are you saying that women didn’t exhibit strength and courage in the old West?” she asked, wide-eyed. “I’d think that kind of bigotry would get you bounced from the national association of politically correct art critics tout de suite, mon ami.”

  “You make my point for me,” Worthington said, smiling without warmth. “Western art has been politically incorrect from its inception. For better and for worse, Western art is an almost exclusively male domain. Dunstan not only knew that, he celebrated it. His homage to male strength is the very core of his iconic status.”

  “Gee, and here I thought art was universal,” Jill said, shaking her head. “Goes to show you what a college education is worth. Guess that’s why I need an adviser.”

  And if that adviser doesn’t stop petting me, I’m going to bite him.

  Only question is where.

  Worthington’s smile warmed and he lied like the salesman he was. “In general, of course, art is universal and not gender specific.”

  “That’s why there are so many famous women artists,” Zach drawled, tracing the inside of Jill’s arm. “Universal as all hell.”

  Worthington ignored him and concentrated on Jill. “The Old Masters of the West, and Dunstan most certainly was one of them, were true products of their age. They believed masculine power was the force that subdued the wilderness and created civilization. That is still a fundamental belief among the collectors of Western art. It is the very touchstone of authenticity in the genre.”

  Jill nodded like a good student. “So you’re saying that you rejected my great-aunt’s painting not on the basis of the artistic technique itself, but on the political subtext.”

  “Exactly,” Worthington said. “All art is created in a historical context. That’s every bit as important an element in judging the authenticity of a work as style and pigment selection, brushstrokes and types of oils.”

  Jill fought to look like a student rather than a well-educated woman who had just been patronized by a salesman.

  Zach slid his fingers from her wrist to her elbow, and from there beneath the silky sleeve of her blouse. Caressing. Distracting.

  Warning.

  She let out a long breath. “I understand your point of view.” Arrogant, condescending, bigoted.

  “I’m sorry,” Worthington said. “I know you must have had some high hopes about the value of the painting. Believe me, I would have loved to say the canvas was a Dunstan.”

  Jill tried to look like she cared. She must have succeeded, because Zach took his maddening fingers off her arm and opened up the auction catalogue.

  “Not only would I have been introducing a new Dunstan to the art world,” Worthington continued, “the painting would have been a stellar addition to the Las Vegas auction. Our showcase lot is comprised of some of the finest Dunstans ever put under the gavel.”

  “Really?” Jill asked, not having to act surprised. She was. “With such well-known names as Remington and Russell in your catalogue, I’m surprised that Dunstan would be the star.”

  “Among Western art cognoscenti, Thomas Dunstan is without peer. Setting the intrinsic value of the art aside,” Worthington said, “Dunstan is a terribly attractive business investment. His worth has been rising sharply in the past few years.”

  Jill’s attentive look encouraged Worthington.

  “Frankly,” he continued, “we expect to set a new sales record for a Dunstan canvas.”

  Zach looked up from the catalogue. “Good luck. You’ve got your Dunstans listed at between four and seven million right now.”

  She made a startled sound.

  “That’s conservative,” Worthington said. “These are large canvases, for Dunstans. Last year, a smaller one brought four million. It was a private sale between a Dunstan family heir and a collector. Once the major collectors start bidding against each other in Las Vegas, the price could easily go to eight figures.”

  “Yeah? Who are the lucky collectors?” Zach asked.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Sure it is. I represent the owner of a dozen canvases that can be attributed to Thomas Dunstan.”

  Worthington’s eyes narrowed. He turned away from Zach and looked at Jill like she had just peed on his socks.

  “I’m not in the business of offering free advice,” Worthington said coldly, “but I can’t let that preposterous statement go without comment.”

  Jill waited.

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  “Your so-called adviser is leading you down a dangerous path,” Worthington said in a clipped voice. “His claim that you have a dozen unprovenanced Dunstans is worthless and actionable. If you persist in this foolishness, you will find yourself arrested for fraud. Any number of well-known art experts will be pleased to work for the prosecuting attorney.”

  “I presume the chorus of naysayers will include you,” Jill said, trying to look disappointed instead of furious.

  “You bet he’ll be there, probably singing lead,” Zach said. “Nothing like the prospect of money to put a man in fine voice.”

  Worthington’s face flushed with anger. “I have no monetary interest in Dunstan canvases. I don’t own any.”

  “If two Dunstans sell at auction for seven million apiece, you’d make ten percent of fourteen million,” Zach said. “If that isn’t a monetary interest, what is?”

  “This conversation is over,” Worthington said through thin lips. “Leave immediately or I’ll call the guard.”

  Zach laughed derisively. “That rent-a-cop? Get real.”

  Jill stroked Zach’s arm and tugged him toward the office door. “Forget it, honey. If Mr. Worthington isn’t interested in newly discovered Dunstans, it’s his loss.”

  Without a word, Zach allowed himself to be led out of the gallery and back to the rental car. He tossed her the car key, got in the passenger side, and slammed the door hard.

  “What’s wrong?” Jill asked as she got in and started the car. “I thought it went well.”

  Zach didn’t answer.

  “Didn’t it?” she persisted. “We came here to scatter enough rumors to bring our buddy ‘Blanchard’ out of hiding. Once he finds out there are more paintings, that he missed them at the ranch and the casino, he’s going to come sniffing around. So why are you angry?”

  “He’ll be sniffing right up your sweet backside.”

  “Isn’t that what St. Kilda expected?”

  “Yeah. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Take us to the airport while I make some calls.”

  “What about the other galleries?”

  “Not going to happen. I’ve had all the fun I can take putting your ass on the firing line.”

  36

  RENO

  SEPTEMBER 15

  1:00 P.M.

  Crawford residence, Caitlin speaking.”

  “Caitlin, this is Ramsey Worthington. Is Tal around?”

  Caitlin closed her eyes for a second, murmured a prayer that nothing had gone wrong with the auction, and said, “Hello, Ramsey. Let me check.” She hit the hold button, then the household intercom button. “Tal? If you can tear yourself away from the game, Ramsey would like to talk to you.”

  “I’m taking a crap. I’ll call him back.”

  She winced at the coarseness that was as much a part of her husband as his bolo tie. And his money.

  Unfortunately, money could be lost. Tal had done a lot of that in his li
fe.

  He always comes back richer than ever, she reminded herself.

  He was younger then.

  That doesn’t matter.

  She took a steadying breath.

  Does it?

  Fear crawled coldly through Caitlin’s stomach. At forty she was too old to find another trophy husband looking for a trophy wife. She let out her breath in a long exhalation. When she was certain her voice would be calm, she picked up Worthington’s call.

  “Is it something I might help you with, Ramsey?”

  There was a pause, then an impatient sound. “I just wanted to tell him that there are two scam artists peddling unsigned and almost certainly fraudulent Dunstans.”

  “What?” Caitlin knew her voice was too sharp, but there was nothing she could do about it, any more than she could control her suddenly frantic heartbeat.

  Worthington was talking about her worst nightmare come true.

  “A man and a woman,” Worthington said, “I’d guess in their early thirties. I just wondered if they’d come to Tal with their dubious goods.”

  “No. He would have told me.” Wouldn’t he?

  “Well, if anyone comes to Tal peddling previously unknown Dunstans, please ask him to contact me before he buys anything.”

  “He always does.”

  Worthington laughed. “Caitlin, you’re beautiful and the soul of discretion, but we both know how single-minded Tal can be, especially when it comes to Thomas Dunstan’s art.”

  Caitlin forced a light laugh. “You know my husband so well. But seriously, he hasn’t said a word about any Dunstans except those coming up at auction in Las Vegas. We’re so excited, the only reason we aren’t in Las Vegas is the press announcement of the new museum in a few hours.”

  “Just what an auctioneer likes to hear. It’s going to be an exciting time for everyone, especially once word of Tal’s generosity hits the headlines.”

  An agreeable sound was all Caitlin could manage.

  “I have a lot to do before the auction myself,” Worthington said. “But if Tal hears anything, I’m never too busy to talk to him. Right now, I have to speak to Lee Dunstan.”