She waited until her brother-in-law returned to the study then circuited the upstairs rooms herself. “Eamon?” she whispered. “Eamon, is that you? Stop screwing around if it is. Eamon?”
Several measures of “Pathétique,” but nothing else, answered her. What was it warning her about? Maybe Hank Wayne wasn’t her only problem.
Eamon yawned. He’d run out of things to which to compare the dullness of limbo. He’d decided this must be limbo—not as nice as heaven, as perilous as purgatory, or as much fun as hell. He paced. He grew tired of pacing. He looked for a place to sit. He found none. He walked. He missed Dunmullach. He missed Carraigfaire. He missed his piano. He missed Gethsemane. He especially missed Gethsemane. She aggravated him, but—no, she didn’t, not really. Truthfully, he enjoyed their banter. He admired her stubbornness and the way she stood up to him. He found her strong-willed fearlessness appealing. He wished he’d told her.
Three
Gethsemane and Jackson rode the train to Ballytuam past small farms dotted with cottages and cattle. They ended at Ballytuam Station, a quaint stone building with a pitched roof situated at the bottom of a hill. Modern utilitarian stores, boxes constructed of glass and steel, clustered near the train station. An office supply emporium reminded Gethsemane of the odd break-in at the Dunmullach stationers. She described the encounter with the shop’s owner.
“And that’s all they took?” Jackson asked. “Paper and ink?”
“And pens. As far as I know that’s all. Weird, huh? Stealing items of little value and not even trying to get the cash.”
“Those items may not be worth much in and of themselves, but in the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing, they can be quite valuable.”
“Office supplies? How?”
“Pen, paper, and ink. Basic items in a forger’s tool kit.”
As they walked farther into town, modern architecture yielded to a collection of narrow streets, brick storefronts, and rowhouses with brightly colored doors spreading up the hill away from the station. Glittering tinsel and foil letters hung in several windows to welcome the new year. A mansion built of the same stone as the train depot dominated the hill’s summit. Even from the station platform, Gethsemane appreciated the house’s massive size. Rife with turrets, towers, and chimneys, the imposing structure loomed over its surroundings from the center of a green expanse of lawn.
She whistled the theme from The Addams Family.
“If any place had a ghost or ten, that would be it,” Jackson said.
“You don’t believe in ghosts.”
“A joke. Just kidding.” He jerked his head toward the ticket agent’s office. “They said the auction house is only a few blocks from the station. Walk or taxi?”
“Let’s walk.”
They passed various art galleries and antique shops on the way from the station. Jackson pointed out several of the better-quality paintings and objects displayed in the shop windows. He lapsed into lecture-mode—he was an adjunct professor at Bayview University—as he described differences between early- and late-eighteenth century furniture design. Gethsemane stopped short midway through an explanation of French furniture-making guilds.
“C’mon,” Jackson said. “The auctioneer’s just up at the next corner.”
“Look.” She stood in front of a store window stenciled with “Perryman Gallery” in a golden arc across the top. A single item held pride of place in the window—a large embroidered tapestry. The bright green panel depicted a tree of life heavily stitched with brilliantly colored fruits, birds, and stylized flowers. “1752” was stitched in a bottom corner. “It’s gorgeous.”
Jackson leaned close to the window and peered at the tapestry for a moment. “It’s modern.”
“You looked at that for, like, ten seconds. How can you tell it’s a fake?”
“I didn’t say it was a fake, I said it was modern. As long as the gallery is selling it as a modern reproduction, they’re doing nothing wrong.” He peered at it again. “As reproductions go, the stitchwork’s lovely. Don’t care for the green ground fabric. Light brown or straw colored would’ve worked better.”
“You missed my point, Jackson. How can you tell from less than half a minute’s exam, through a window at that, this wasn’t actually stitched in 1752?”
“The colors are wrong. Too bright. Eighteenth-century fabric dyes were mostly plant-based. They produced colors far more muted than chemical dyes. Think indigo blue instead of royal or Mediterranean. Another thing—look at all the light this piece is getting. Sunlight through the window as well as an overhead spot.”
“You can tell it’s not an antique because the lighting’s wrong?”
“No, the lighting’s fine. What I meant was, think of how much light exposure a two-hundred-fifty-plus-year-old tapestry must have gotten.”
“All those years of light would have faded the colors. The way Grandma’s olive green curtains faded to celery green after hanging in the windows for thirty years.” She looked at the tapestry again. “I still think it’s pretty.”
Jackson agreed. “And a modern reproduction would have the advantage of costing somewhat less than my son’s future college tuition.”
“That much for some embroidery?”
“Snob.” Jackson elbowed her playfully.
She elbowed him. “What do you mean, ‘snob’?”
“Art snob. You’d never say, ‘That much for an old painting?’ if we were talking about a Picasso.”
“We’re not talking about a Picasso.”
“Textiles belong in the fine art realm as much as paintings do, even if they don’t get nearly the same respect. Did you know one of Queen Elizabeth I’s gowns was cut up and turned into an altar cloth at a local church? Creating a magnificent piece of needlework requires as much skill as creating a magnificent painting. People don’t appreciate the quality because the stitching was often done on utilitarian items.”
“I appreciate textiles. Now,” she added sotto voce. “I just didn’t realize how expensive they could be.”
“The needleworker’s skill and the textile’s rarity factor into the price the piece commands.”
“I guess that explains the auction house thefts. Oops!” Gethsemane clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Auction house thefts?”
“I wasn’t supposed to say anything. Three auction houses have been robbed. The gardaí expect more thefts, so they’re going undercover at auctions and warning auction houses to beef up security.”
Jackson frowned.
“It’s true. I heard it from one of the cops working on the case.”
“I believe you, Sissy. I just hope there’s no trouble at Ryan’s.”
Tchaikovsky sounded in her head. She silently told him to shut up. “I’m sure there won’t be. The robberies have been in big cities, like Dublin and Shannon. Ballytuam’s a long way from a big city. I’m sure no self-respecting art thief would be caught in it.” Jackson didn’t laugh at her joke. She leaned close to the gallery window. “A textile thief has an advantage over a painting thief.”
“What advantage?”
“You can fold a textile and stick it in your pocket. Hard to do with a Picasso.”
They moved on to the next block, a brick row of windowless storefronts punctuated with yellow and red and blue doors. They slowed to read the brass plaques affixed near each door to distinguish one professional office from the next.
“Accountant, solicitor, solicitor, solicitor—they’ve got as many lawyers here as we do at home,” Gethsemane said.
“Where would the art world be without lawyers?”
Gethsemane kept reading. “Here it is.” She stopped in front of the next to last office. “M. Ryan, Auctioneer. Smaller than I expected.”
“Ryan’s specializes in atelier and private collection auctions. Usually only a few lots a
re offered at a time and there aren’t as many bidders.” He looked up at the height of the building. “It does have four stories. Not so small.”
They rang the bell and followed the young man who admitted them to a reception area. Light reflected off blond wood floors and highlighted gilt-framed pictures hung on dark gray walls. Small statues adorned occasional tables scattered around the room’s perimeter. The young man offered them tea or coffee—which they declined—then excused himself.
“Why are we the only ones here?” Gethsemane asked. She’d attended one or two Christeby’s presale exhibitions when she lived in New York. They were free and open to the public—two characteristics that made them a viable social outing for a young musician on a fresh-out-of-grad-school budget.
“Ryan’s previews are invitation only.”
“I don’t have an invitation.”
“We’ll think of something.”
She sat in one of the room’s few chairs and ran her hands over the beige silk damask upholstery. “Nice setup. I’m not in here five minutes and I want to buy something.”
Jackson, attention focused on a petit point cushion, didn’t answer.
Several catalogs lay stacked on a marquetry coffee table. Gethsemane sifted through them. “You have some of these same catalogs, Jackson.”
“I’m sure I do.” He flipped the cushion and studied its back. “Auction houses keep catalogs for the same reasons curators do.”
She reached for another stack of periodicals. “Auction houses have their own magazines?” She flipped through the one on top. “Christeby’s Insider. Glossy pictures of beautiful people. I guess the art world’s not so different from the music world. The well-heeled need to memorialize who attended what party and what they wore.”
“Those magazines feature some good articles, too.”
“That’s what they say about Playboy.”
A door opened and a plump redhead in low-heeled pumps stepped into the room. Her skirt and blazer, the same gray as the walls, fit her perfectly. Bespoke, Gethsemane guessed. She’d learned to distinguish custom tailoring from her grandfather, who’d funded his dream of playing cello professionally with a tailoring and dressmaking business in Washington, D.C.
“Dr. Applethwaite.” The redhead shook Jackson’s hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Michaela Ryan. I’ve read several of your papers. So good to finally meet such an esteemed antiquarian. I’ve no doubt you’ll find Lot Four exceeds your expectations.”
“The Hester Creech miniature sampler. I’m eager to see it. I don’t mind telling you adding it to our collection would be a feather in the museum’s cap.” He leaned closer to Ms. Ryan and lowered his voice. “You couldn’t give me a hint on how much competition I’m likely to face?”
“Dr. Applethwaite, you know we maintain strict standards of confidentiality and discretion. It’s why so many consigners trust us with their precious objects.”
“Of course, Ms. Ryan. That was my unsuccessful attempt at auction humor.”
Gethsemane cleared her throat.
Ms. Ryan shook her hand. “You’ve someone with you,” she said to Jackson.
Jackson introduced her. “My associate, Dr. Brown, is a professional musician and expert on antique stringed instruments. I wanted her opinion on Lot Eight. With a favorable report, a colleague at the Bayview Conservatory may phone in a bid.”
“The Guarneri del Gesu. An extraordinary violin. Welcome, Dr. Brown. If you’ll follow me.”
They rode an elevator up a flight to a floor occupied by a gallery space identical to the reception room except in size and furniture. Easels and display cases replaced the chairs and occasional tables. Small white numbered cards provided the only identification for the objects on the easels and in the cases. Ms. Ryan handed Gethsemane and Jackson preview catalogs keyed to the numbered cards. Jackson stopped at the case labeled “Lot Four.” Gethsemane went straight to Lot Eight—the Guarneri del Gesu.
Words left her. She closed her eyes and imagined sweet, dark notes rising from its strings.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?”
She opened her eyes. Ms. Ryan stood next to her. “Remarkable doesn’t begin to describe it.” She held her face as close to the violin as the case’s glass allowed. Her eyes feasted on its flamed maple wood, the color of rich bourbon, its elongated f-holes, more elegant than any swan’s neck, and the “IHS” and cross inscribed on the label.
“You’ll need to hear it, I suppose, to make an accurate assessment.” Ms. Ryan pulled a keyring from her pocket and opened the case. “Will you be wanting to play it yourself, or shall I call our in-house instrumentalist?”
Gethsemane marshaled all her self-control to keep from flinging her arms around the auctioneer and kissing her. “No need to trouble your in-house person. I’ll play.”
Ms. Ryan stepped aside as Gethsemane oh-so-gently lifted the violin. “It’s shown with an 1850 Dodd bow, but a 1910 Sartory bow is also available from the same seller.”
Gethsemane shouldered the violin and bowed a perfectly tuned A. “The Dodd’s just fine.” She closed her eyes. What could she play worthy of such a prize?
Eamon’s “Requiem for a Fallen Angel.” Poignant and cathartic, it would serve as both farewell to Carraigfaire Cottage and apology to her spectral friend. She drew the bow across the strings. Dark masculine tones reverberated through the gallery and filled the room with sadness and longing. She played the first movement then lowered the bow.
Ms. Ryan blew her nose into a crumpled handkerchief, then wiped tears from her cheeks.
Jackson looked away and fumbled in his pocket.
Gethsemane turned toward noise near the gallery entrance. A half-dozen people, one of whom she recognized as the young man who’d escorted them in, crowded the doorway. Some swiped at noses with handkerchiefs and shirt cuffs. Everyone bore wet faces.
“Sorry,” Gethsemane said. “I didn’t mean to—” She imagined Eamon’s snarky, “Jaysus, darlin’, way to shut down a hooley.”
“Captain Heuston’s Lament” popped into her head again. She played the first stanza and alleviated the grief that pervaded the gallery. She replaced the violin and bow in the case. “My report will state that if Jack—Dr. Applethwaite’s colleague doesn’t bid, he’s an eejit.”
A staffer’s cell phone rang. Everyone jumped. Ms. Ryan and her employees snapped back into business mode. “Dr. Applethwaite, Dr. Brown,” Ms. Ryan said. “I trust you gathered all the information you need? I don’t mean to rush you, but,” she glanced at her watch, “my next appointment arrives at half past.”
Their original escort arrived in the entrance as if summoned by some inaudible signal. Ms. Ryan accompanied them as far as the elevator. “I’ll see you at the auction, Dr. Applethwaite. You, too, I hope, Dr. Brown. These affairs prove quite exciting, especially if a bidding war starts. Anything might happen.”
Back out on the street, Jackson hugged Gethsemane. “Sissy, you are a genius.”
“Normally, brother-man, I’d agree with you, but in this case, I have to give at least half the credit to the violin.” She winked and nudged him with her elbow. “Wanna grab a bite before we catch the train back to Dunmullach? We passed a fish and chip shop on the way up to Ms. Ryan’s.”
Jackson made a face.
“Oh, don’t even. You eat fried catfish almost every Saturday. This is fried haddock. Close enough.”
Eamon sniffed. Fish and chips? Was that what he smelled? Twenty-five years of no eating and the scent of malt vinegar and fry grease still made him hungry. A fish and chip shop in limbo? He peered into the gray mist. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Did the aroma come from the other side? Was someone trying to reach him?
“Gethsemane?”
Silence.
He shouted. “Gethsemane!” No answer.
He took a deep breath. The aroma had vanished. He was alone
again. No fish and chips, no Gethsemane, no anything. His torrent of curses dissolved into tears.
Gethsemane paused with a forkful of fish halfway to her mouth. “Did you hear something?”
Jackson shook his head. “No.”
She twisted in her seat. “I thought I heard someone call me.”
“Gastritis-induced hallucinations triggered by fatty food.” Jackson ate the last of his fries and licked his fingers.
“No such thing. Trust me, my mother’s a doctor.” Gethsemane polished off the last of her fish. “I forgot to look at the Creech miniature. What’d you think?”
“The provenance seems in order, workmanship appears exquisite. Assuming I place the winning bid, I’ve got a spot in the museum’s main hall already picked out. After a thorough assessment and authentication, of course.”
“You just said it looked fine.”
“From the front and on paper. But I’d be an irresponsible curator if I didn’t examine the piece from all angles out of the case. I’d hate to make the same mistake the Zaxby made.”
“The Zaxby Museum of European Art? The one whose job offer you turned down?”
Jackson nodded. “They purchased—years before they offered me a job—a medieval tapestry collection from the estate of a prominent collector. They independently authenticated two of the pieces, as a formality, and took it on good faith the rest of the collection was genuine. The collector’s heirs had hired their own authenticator to certify the tapestries before selling them, and the museum didn’t want to insult the heirs. Then the will was contested by some long-lost niece and the probate judge ordered an appraisal. She appointed an authenticator unconnected to either the Zaxby or the heirs.”
“Let me guess. The rest were fakes.”
“Not all of them. Three were. But three were enough to ruin the Zaxby’s reputation. They never quite recovered from the humiliation.”
Death in D Minor Page 4