The tour proper then began. Straight walls must have been considered gauche by Palm Springs’s mid-century, because, like the Brethwaite, the house was built of intersecting circles, with no straight walls. They began in the kitchen, with its huge, hooded (circular) charcoal grill, and then were taken into the living room, where they were encouraged to sit on the original curved, built-in banquette for snapshots—“If you look right above you, you can see photos of Elvis and Priscilla sitting right where you are now, on these very same cushions”—and to strum a guitar purported to be one of Elvis’s own. Then through the sliding glass doors onto the back patio where they looked at the swimming pool, heard more stories, and went across the lawn to see the roof of Marilyn Monroe’s house just below, and to stand on the very spot on the lawn where Sinatra had parked to help the Presleys flee to Las Vegas for their wedding to escape the gimlet-eyed gossip columnist who lived next door.
Alix and Chris decided to sit out that part of the tour and instead they waited for the others in a couple of lawn chairs beside the pool.
“I’ve been thinking,” Alix said. “Maybe you all have a point about that blog. Maybe just ignoring it isn’t the right thing to do. But is it even possible to find out who’s doing it? Can you trace the what-do-you-call-it, the URL?”
“The URL doesn’t tell you anything. It’s the IP address you need—the address of the individual computer that it was created on—but even if you get it, it’s still a hassle identifying the guy himself. First, it’s next to impossible, and it takes months, if not years. You see, even if you get the IP address, it’s not necessarily the IP address of Mr. Creepo’s own computer. How do we know he’s not sending it from a library computer, or a computer rental place? And even if he’s been using his own computer, the ISP, the Internet service provider, isn’t going to give you his name without a court order, and in order to get a court order you’d have to prove that a crime had been committed, which in your case is the catch, because in order to do that you’d have to first—”
Alix lifted her hand. “Forget it, I’m sorry I asked. I’m already bored with the whole thing and we haven’t even started. Really, I just don’t think it’s worth it.”
When the rest of the tour group returned, Alix and Chris rejoined them to see the bedroom (“Feel free to sit on the bed where Lisa Marie was conceived”), the bathroom (“Climb into the Jacuzzi if you want to”), and the toilet area (“Have a seat on the ‘throne,’ if you want. You can even use it when we take a break”).
Tiny, who had happily sat on the banquette and strummed the guitar, was reluctant when it came to sitting on the bed or in the Jacuzzi, and incensed about the offer to use the toilet.
“That’s disrespectful,” he growled, and being the size that he was and looking the way that he did, no one took Priscilla up on the offer.
For the rest of the tour he remained out of sorts, and at the end, when Priscilla said, “If you enjoyed our tour, please go to our website, where you’ll find a link to TripAdvisor, and give us a good review,” he muttered, “And if we don’t like it?”
It had been meant for Alix, Chris, and Geoff, but Priscilla heard it and cornered him to plead. “Just don’t one-star us, please. Just tell me what we did wrong and if there’s something we can do to improve it.”
“Yeah, don’t let anybody sit on the can,” Tiny grumped.
By the time the tour ended it was three thirty. Geoff and Tiny were scheduled for a five o’clock commercial flight back to Seattle, so Alix drove them to the airport, first swinging by the museum to let Chris off—she was staying in Palm Springs another day—to do a little more exploring on her own. Tiny, with his guidebook tightly gripped in his huge fist, resumed his edifying lectures on the way there. (“Look, there’s Leo Durocher’s house. Wow, you know who lived there? Carmen Miranda! Look . . .”)
In the airport parking lot, Geoff leaned back into the driver’s side window for a final word to Alix. “I want you to put me on speed dial, my love.”
“You’re already on speed dial, Geoff.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But you know what I’m getting at. I want your promise that you will let me know at once should you have any more problems with phantom burglars.”
“Or vice versa,” Tiny contributed, hefting both their bags.
“I promise, Dad.”
Calling him “Dad” always brought a sentimental softening to his features, although it was Geoff himself who had first instructed her to use his given name, against the wishes of her mother. That had been when Alix was twelve, and only recently had she begun to try an occasional “Dad.” It still felt awkward, but she knew it pleased him so she kept working at it.
“Good. And if I can be of any use at all, you know that I’ll be there at once.”
“I know. Thank you, Geoff. Dad.”
A kiss on the cheek from Geoff, a “Stai bene, principessa mia” from Tiny, and they were gone.
When she arrived back at the museum, she found Chris in the break room, a mug of coffee in her hand, fidgeting in front of the window that looked down on the atrium.
“It’s about time!” she declared. “Come with me, I have to show you something!”
What she had to show Alix was the object destined to be Lot 22 in the auction. Having been buried in storage for years, it had been pulled out of the basement and was on a temporary easel with a few of its fellow travelers, awaiting shipment to the Endicott Auction Galleries in San Francisco. Unassembled picture crates, each one custom-made for its particular contents, stood along one wall, giving off the pleasant scent of freshly cut raw wood. No glue smell, though, as most museums were on the fussy side about getting glue anywhere near their art pieces. No hammers allowed either; the crates would be sealed with screws that would be inserted into predrilled holes.
Lot 22 was a dark blue felt–covered panel about two feet by three, on which were mounted twelve small oval portraits in three rows of four each—six women, four men, and two children, all in mid- or late-eighteenth-century dress. The largest of them was less than three inches in height, the smallest about an inch and a quarter. Alix had passed by them once or twice before, but they hadn’t caught her interest and she hadn’t looked closely at them.
“Aren’t they lovely?” Chris asked. “Look at those tiny little faces. They’re so appealing, so . . . so damn lovable! Especially the two kids at the bottom, on the right, they break my heart.”
“Sure they’re lovable, they’re supposed to be lovable. They’re portrait miniatures.”
“Are they made to be pendants? There are those little metal loops on most of them.”
“Right, for a cord or chain to wear around the neck. Or if you were a man, it’d have a cover on it like a watch cover and you’d keep it in a vest pocket. These things weren’t like regular full-size portraits, Chris. They weren’t painted to hang on a wall for anybody to see, but strictly as personal, private keepsakes—lovers, parents, children. They’re mostly watercolors on ivory, and that, I’m afraid, pretty much exhausts my store of knowledge on portrait miniatures.” She leaned closer to the rows of gentle, minuscule faces that looked back at her so very innocently and openly across two-and-a-half centuries. “And yes, they are affecting, aren’t they?”
Not one was smiling or laughing, but not one had on a “public face” either. They reminded her of the kind of semicandid snapshots that might be taken at a family gathering today: “Hey, Uncle Ed, look over here for a minute!” All of them had convex glass covers—“crystals”—and were framed in gold, most of them simply, some more ornately. The majority appeared to have been done by eighteenth-century “limners,” self-taught painters who were closer to artisans than artists, and who went from town to town peddling their services. These were pleasant to look at, with a naïve folk-art quality. But a few of them, including the two that had drawn Chris’s attention, exhibited the subtleties and nuances of ac
complished artists, all the more impressive for having been rendered on a three-square-inch surface.
“Lovely,” Alix murmured.
“The boy and girl are a set,” Chris said. “The cases match, do you see?”
Alix nodded. “Probably brother and sister.”
“Do they cost a lot?” Chris asked.
“I don’t think so, no. On a guess, I’d say you could get the whole panel for a lot less than what you paid for the Hartleys.” She straightened up and threw a sidewise look at Chris. “Wait a minute, don’t tell me you’re thinking about buying these, too.”
“Hm, do I note a certain disapproval in your tone?”
“You can buy whatever you want, Chris, but they’d be anachronisms. Where would they go in your collection? They’re completely different from anything else you have.”
“I like them, they appeal to me, isn’t that reason enough? I’d like to have them on my wall to look at. Is something wrong with that?”
“No, of course there isn’t, but . . . well, in a way, there is, yes. You’re a collector, right? And you’ve worked hard. You’ve got a wonderful collection going that’s getting better all the time—”
“But . . . ?” Chris was standing erectly, feet wide apart, arms folded across her chest. One eyebrow was lifted.
“Quit looming, Chris. You’re plenty intimidating as it is.”
Chris laughed and relaxed. “I can’t help it. It’s what I do when somebody makes me mad.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to do that, but look, here’s my ‘but.’” She paused to get her thoughts together. “All right. An art ‘collection’ isn’t just any old bunch of paintings or drawings, you know that. To be a collection it has to have a theme, a focus. It has to be about something. And yours is American Modernism, first half of the twentieth century. The Marsden Hartleys are a great addition to that. But these”—she gestured at the panel—“sure, they’re attractive, but they’re from a different time and from a wildly different culture. If O’Keeffe and the rest had been influenced by artists like these, you’d have a point, but they came at their work with a totally—totally—different set of aims, and values, and techniques. There’s no connection. If you—”
“Say, do I get to say anything here? Of course, I realize that it’s only my collection, and my money I’d be spending, so maybe I don’t have the right—”
Alix smiled. “Okay, your turn.”
“It’s just this: I like these miniatures, Alix. It makes me feel good to look at them. Somebody’s going to wind up with them, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t be me.”
“Let me put it differently,” Alix said. “Where are you heading with this? Where would you rather be in five years, surrounded by a comprehensive, orderly collection, or just by a hodgepodge of things that make you feel good to look at?”
Chris looked blankly at her, eyes opened wide, and Alix stared right back, and both of them broke out laughing.
“Do I really need to answer that question?” Chris choked out.
Alix shook her head until she was able to speak. “Point made,” she said. “And you know”—she leaned closer to the panel again—“those two children are really beautiful, really well done. They’re almost like Peales, or even—”
“John Singleton Copleys,” said Jerry Swanson, who had materialized behind them. “Am I right?”
Alix turned. “You are right. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“If only,” Jerry said, prayerfully turning his eyes to the ceiling, “Nope, they’re by a guy named Joseph Dunkerley. You know him?”
Alix shook her head. “Not a familiar name.”
“Well, neither does anybody else who doesn’t specialize in miniatures. American, last half of the eighteenth century. Born in England, I think, but mostly worked in Boston. As far as I know, miniatures were all he did, and as you can see, he’s pretty good—better than most. I’ve valuated his stuff before, and the Copley question usually comes up somewhere along the way, because he does paint a lot like Copley—in this teeny-tiny version, anyway—but it always gets shot down. These particular ones, they’ve got an ironclad provenance that goes all the way back to the day when Dunkerley sold them . . . back to the original commission, in fact, if I’m not mistaken.”
“No such thing as an ironclad provenance,” Alix said. “You ought to know that.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t seen this one. Oh, it’s the real thing, all right. Trust me, we’d love to be able to at least say ‘attributed to Copley.’ That alone would quadruple the price. Thought about ‘school of Copley,’ and I suppose we could have gotten away with that, but, I don’t know, it seemed like it was reaching a little. Copley didn’t really have a ‘school,’ did he?”
“No, he wasn’t a unique or original painter in that sense. He just painted in the classical English style—only better than ninety-nine percent of the Brits did.”
“What I thought. According to the records, these two right here were commissioned by Mr. Jeremiah Hobbie, Esquire, of Oldham, Mass, 1770. The kids’ names are . . . oh, hell, I forget—Alfred and something—but it’ll be in the catalogue. Anyway, if you look at them closely, like with a magnifying glass, you can see they’re not anywhere near as delicate as Copley’s miniatures.” He laughed. “That’s what they tell me; what do I know?”
“Well, who’s looking at them with a magnifying glass?” Chris asked. “I think they’re beautiful. I think they’re all beautiful. What’s the estimate range on this lot?”
“Twenty to forty thou, and most of that is based on those two kids. Good Dunkerleys go for about ten thousand each, and these are good. The others aren’t worth much, between you and me.”
“I think they’re wonderful,” Chris insisted.
“You should put in a bid at the auction, then. Well, I’d love to stay and chat, ladies, but duty calls.”
The moment he left, Chris rubbed her hands together. “I want them,” she said in a low growl. “Let’s go see the Man.”
“How much are you expecting to get them for this time?” Alix asked. “It’s more interesting to watch if I know where you’re going.”
“I don’t know, but if I can’t get them for thirty, I’ll be very surprised.”
“He’ll probably nail you for that fifteen-percent premium again.”
“And I’ll pay it if I have to, which I probably will. I really love these little guys.”
They found Clark hunched over a putter, stroking balls into a spring-loaded contraption that popped them back to him. “One second,” he said, and hit one more that rolled off to the left and missed. “Darn, that’s what happens when I have a gallery.” He leaned the putter against the wall. “So. Something more I can do for you?”
Again, Alix felt uncomfortable around him. She thought briefly about excusing herself, but decided her interest in watching the negotiations outweighed her repulsion and she took the same seat she’d had earlier.
He and Chris had the hang of each other’s styles now, so things went more smoothly than they had the first time. In five amiable minutes they’d settled on exactly what Chris had predicted: The miniatures were hers for $30,000 plus fifteen percent, for a total of $34,500. Chris was obviously delighted, and Clark seemed pleased too.
“Our printer’s going to love me when I do this to him,” he said merrily, dabbing at his nose. This was a monster cold, all right. His nose was even redder than it had been in the morning, and his eyes were heavily bagged. She almost (but not quite) sympathized with him.
“They chewed me out about the Hartleys, but”—big boyish grin—“if I’m not good at sweet-talking, then what am I good for? Piece of cake. Let me do it right now.”
He wasn’t on the phone thirty seconds before his fragmentary comments made it clear that things weren’t going well.
“You’re joking . . .
But you had no trouble with the Hartley page, why would there be . . . ? You did? Already? As fast as that? . . . Well, can’t you get them back before they’re actually sent out? We’ll pay for the additional costs . . . Okay, all right . . .Yes, I understand. Goodbye, Sal.”
He put the phone down, his electric smile nowhere in sight. “Can’t be done. I’m sorry. The catalogues have already been mailed, two hundred and seventy-five of them. They went out an hour ago.”
“You mean they printed them up, bound them, and mailed them off between eleven o’clock this morning and one o’clock this afternoon?” Chris asked. “That’s kind of hard to believe.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. But according to them, the printing and collating only took an hour, and they’re not bound, they’re just center-stapled. All they had to do after that was to slip them into pre-addressed envelopes and drop them off at the post office. Just two hundred and seventy-five of them, all told. I’m really sorry, Chris.”
“Clark,” Alix said, “why is this a problem? Couldn’t you follow up with an announcement—a correction—saying that this particular lot is no longer available?”
“Not possible, Alix. The implication would be either that we’ve withdrawn it because of some problem with it—authentication, condition, who knows—which would cast doubt on all the rest, or that we had presold it to a customer with special access—”
“Which would be the case,” Alix said.
The Art Whisperer (An Alix London Mystery) Page 11