Gethsemane surveyed the crowd.
“Do you know anyone?”
“I recognize some,” Jackson said. “The white-haired lady in the corner is a distinguished collector of antique furniture. She just donated several pieces to the Winterthur.”
“Is that her grandson with her?”
“Sixth husband. See the twins in the opposite corner?”
Gethsemane acknowledged the identical twins wearing identical gray suits.
“They’re art dealers. I’ll bet they’re here to bid on lot twenty-two. And there’s—”
“Jackson,” a voice called.
Gethsemane and Jackson turned to see an elderly man in a velvet jacket and paisley cravat waving at them.
“That’s business attire?” Gethsemane asked.
“It is when you’re an eccentric artist. I know him from my days at the Cooper Hewitt. Excuse me while I go say hi.”
“Leave me the catalog,” she said as he headed toward his friend. “I don’t want to stand here empty-handed.”
She flipped to the entry for the Guarneri del Gesu violin but only read a few lines before another voice appeared at her elbow.
“Left at the altar?” A handsome red-haired man with remarkably blue eyes smiled down at her.
“My brother-in-law’s catching up with an old friend.” She nodded in Jackson’s direction.
“Ah, the artist. Read slowly.” He jerked a thumb at the catalog. “If it’s been more than a minute since your brother-in-law last saw the fella, he’ll be tied up for a while. The talented gentleman loves nothing more than filling in friend and foe alike on what he’s been doing with himself.”
“Is this the part where you introduce yourself, or are you so famous I should know who you are?”
He smiled and shook Gethsemane’s hand.
“Kenneth O’Connor. I have you at an advantage. I already know who you are.”
“How?”
“A bird told me about your virtuoso performance at the preview, so I checked, Dr. Brown. Impressive CV.”
She thanked him. “Are you an artist or a distinguished collector?”
“Neither. I’m an agent.”
“Agent? Like Secret Squirrel?”
“A buyer’s agent. I travel to auctions and sales and make purchases for buyers who can’t make the trips themselves.”
“Like a personal shopper, except for priceless art instead of clothes.”
Kenneth started to answer when a blond man, half a head shorter than Kenneth but stockier, with a scar on his cheek, jostled him. Kenneth stumbled forward and just missed stepping on Gethsemane’s foot.
“Sorry,” the blond man mumbled. He looked anything but. He kept walking.
“I’m guessing he’s not a friend of yours,” Gethsemane said. Something about him seemed familiar.
“Ronan Leary. Third-rate art dealer. Owned a gallery in Kilkenny that failed about a year ago. Guess they let anybody into these things these days.”
Jackson rejoined them. “Sorry I took so long. The man likes to talk.”
Gethsemane introduced him to Kenneth.
“A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Applethwaite. If you’ll both please excuse me, there’s a woman over there I need to see about a horse. A bronze nineteenth-century horse sculpture, that is.”
“Didn’t mean to chase him off,” Jackson said after he’d gone. “I’ll go after him and explain I’m happily married to your sister if you want.”
“Don’t start.” Gethsemane rolled her eyes.
“It’s just that—”
“Just nothing. I’ve been single for barely four months and I’m enjoying it.” She sighed with visible relief as Ms. Ryan entered the room. She and Jackson claimed seats mid-row.
The auctioneer took the podium, made a few introductory remarks, then began the auction. An image flashed on the screen behind her. “We have Lot One, a late nineteenth-century mahogany library ladder. We have some interest already.” She consulted notes in a binder on the podium. “Three hundred, four hundred, four-fifty from my commissioned bids. Who’ll give me five hundred?”
A man in the front row raised his paddle.
‘Thank you, sir,” Ms. Ryan said. “Do I have five-fifty? Five-fifty?”
A paddle near the window went up.
“Six hundred? Six-fifty?” She fiddled with the gavel in her hand. “Against you, sir. Seven hundred. I’m out. Seven-fifty on the phone. Eight hundred on the internet. Eight-fifty? Do I have eight-fifty? Thank you, madam. Nine hundred. Nine-fifty. The bid is one thousand. Against you. Eleven hundred. Twelve hundred. Thirteen hundred. Well done. Fourteen hundred. Thank you. Fifteen hundred. Any more bids?”
No paddles went up.
“I’m selling at fifteen hundred. Am I bid more? The bid would be sixteen hundred. On the phone? No? Online? Sixteen hundred? Fair warning. Sold.” The gavel’s rap echoed off the podium’s wood. “Bidder number three-eighty-one,” she said to a woman taking notes next to her.
Ms. Ryan repeated the process with second and third lots, a painting of a Labrador retriever and a set of architectural prints. Gethsemane watched Jackson. He remained relaxed in his chair, legs crossed, as the bidding for the second lot began. He twirled his paddle in one hand and flipped through the catalog with the other, appearing disinterested in the proceedings. However, he sat straight in his chair, both feet on the floor, by the time Ms. Ryan announced “fair warning” for the third lot. He handed Gethsemane his catalog and held his paddle still.
“Up next, we have Lot Four.” An image of the needlework miniature Jackson had studied so intently at the preview, an index card-sized cross-stitched silk on linen alphabet sampler, came onscreen. Tchaikovsky blasted in Gethsemane’s head. The young man from reception hurried onto the podium as Ms. Ryan picked up her gavel and whispered in her ear before she could ask for an opening bid.
Ms. Ryan turned off her microphone and huddled with her assistant. He gesticulated and frowned as he cast glances toward the elevator. Ms. Ryan gasped then covered her mouth with her hand as her assistant rushed off. She returned to the podium. “My apologies, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll move on to Lot Five, an early nineteenth-century George Three satinwood cheval mirror.”
Gethsemane leaned over and whispered to her brother-in-law, seated open-mouthed beside her, “What just happened?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the consigner withdrew the lot at the last minute.”
The auction proceeded without further incident. Jackson appeared distracted and took no notice when a bidding war over the Guarneri del Gesu violin ended with a bid of five hundred seventy thousand euros. Neither he nor Ms. Ryan gave any clue about the absence of Lot Four.
After the auction, buyers and staff descended in the elevator in groups of three and four. Gethsemane and Jackson got in line. She wanted to ask Jackson about what happened, but his expression said he had no answers and wasn’t in the mood to speak.
The elevator doors swished open. The young man from reception stepped off. A squat man with a face as craggy as Dunmullach’s cliffs accompanied him. The two blocked Gethsemane and Jackson’s path and the young man pointed. Ms. Ryan came up behind them.
The squat man carried a herringbone overcoat. “Dr. Applethwaite,” he asked, “is this your coat?” He pulled his identification from his pocket and held it up for them to see—a sergeant with the Ballytuam Garda an Síochana.
Why did a policeman have Jackson’s coat?
“Yes.” Jackson pointed to the monogrammed JTA on the lining. “It’s mine.”
“Can you tell me, sir, how this got into your coat pocket?” He held up an index-card-sized cross-stitched silk on linen alphabet sampler.
Gethsemane and Jackson spoke simultaneously.
“No, I can’t.”
“Of course he can’t. He didn’t put it
there.”
Gethsemane recognized the look the sergeant gave her. She’d gotten the same look from O’Reilly when he debated between choking her and arresting her. Maybe they taught it in garda school. He addressed his remarks to Jackson. “Perhaps we could continue this conversation over at the station. I do have to caution you that you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.”
Gethsemane stepped between her brother-in-law and the officer. “Station? No! You can’t arrest him. He didn’t do anything. He couldn’t have. He’s been here in this auditorium since Junior,” she nodded at the assistant, “brought us up here. We have a room full of witnesses.” She looked around and saw that only she, Jackson, Ms. Ryan, the assistant, and the sergeant remained. “Had a room full of witnesses.”
The sergeant exhaled and waited a count of three before speaking to Jackson. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.” He looked at Gethsemane. “Someplace where we won’t be interrupted.”
“Ask Ms. Ryan’s staff a few questions,” Gethsemane interjected. “Ask them a lot of questions. They had the run of the place. Ask Ms. Ryan some questions while you’re at it. She didn’t come into the room until a good fifteen, twenty minutes after all the buyers arrived. And she and her staff had access to all the lots. Any one of them could have slipped that thing into Jackson’s coat.”
Ms. Ryan and her assistant uttered protests.
“Ma’am,” the sergeant said to Gethsemane, “if you don’t step aside, I will arrest someone—you—for interfering with an investigation.”
Jackson put his hand on her arm. “Sissy, it’s all right. I’ll go with the officer. We’ll get this cleared up.” He pulled out his wallet. “Here’s cab fare. Go back to the cottage—”
She pushed his hand away. “I don’t need cab fare, and I’m not going back to Dunmullach without you. You’re damned right we’ll get this cleared up. This is ridiculous.” She appealed to the auctioneer. “Ms. Ryan, c’mon. This is Dr. Jackson Applethwaite. The guy whose papers you read. The esteemed antiquarian you were so honored to meet. He’s no thief.” Ms. Ryan stared at the floor.
“Dr. Applethwaite.” The sergeant motioned to the elevator. Jackson followed him. Gethsemane started after them. The sergeant blocked her. “It’s best if you wait for the next car.”
“You really should go back to the cottage, Sissy.”
“I’m not. Leaving. Ballytuam. Without you. Don’t worry.” The elevator doors began to close. “Just don’t say anything. I’ll think of something.” She turned to Ms. Ryan. “What are you up to?”
“Dr. Brown, really, I—”
“Really nothing. You and your staff are the only ones who weren’t in this auditorium for the entire auction. You’re the only ones who know what kind of super-secret security system you have. You’re the only ones who had access to all the lots, and you had access to all the coats. One of you planted that sampler on my brother-in-law.”
“Obviously you’re upset, Dr. Brown. But making unfounded accusations—”
“Ha!”
“I think it’s best if we not discuss this situation any further and let the guards handle things from here.” The elevator doors swished open. “The elevator’s here.” Ms. Ryan waved Gethsemane inside. “We’ll wait for the next one.”
Gethsemane rode down alone. She’d run through her entire repertoire of profanities by the time the elevator reached the ground floor. She kicked a wall just as the doors opened.
“Careful,” Kenneth said. “You’ll leave a mark.” He and four or five others loitered in the reception area. Everyone stared at Gethsemane. Some whispered.
“What are you still doing—never mind. Do you have a phone?”
He handed her his smartphone. “Who are you calling?”
Gethsemane dialed. “Reinforcements.” O’Reilly answered on the third ring. Gethsemane identified herself, then asked, “Do you remember telling me to let you know if I needed anything? Well, I know it’s out of your jurisdiction, but I need you in Ballytuam.”
Five
Gethsemane looked at the clock. Again. Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven minutes she’d been waiting. O’Reilly couldn’t come to Ballytuam, but he’d promised to make a few phone calls on Jackson’s behalf. However, no one told her anything about her brother-in-law—not how he was or where he was or whether he’d been formally charged with anything. Frustrated didn’t begin to describe how she felt. She got up from the hard wobbly chair to find someone who knew what happened to Jackson when a uniformed police officer called to her from a side door.
“If you’ll follow me, please.”
The officer led her to a cheerless room with two chairs on either side of a table scarred with doodles, initials, and obscenities. More waiting. Ten minutes passed. She picked up a chair, then took a deep breath and brought her emotions under control. Banging furniture would land her in a cell. It wouldn’t help Jackson. She turned the door’s handle. Unlocked. She stepped into the deserted hallway. Where was everybody? Where was anybody? Time to make a little noise. She cleared her throat and sang, “Old MacDonald had a farm, ee yi ee yi oh.” Her voice echoed off Formica and tile. “And on that farm, he had a cow, ee yi ee yi oh.”
A door at the end of the hall opened before she started to moo. A dark-haired Amazon stepped out. Curled tendrils escaped her messy-on-purpose up-do to frame her porcelain face. She wore a tailored dress the same shade of green as her eyes. She towered over Gethsemane, four-inch heels adding to her statuesque demeanor. “Dr. Brown, so sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Yseult Grennan,” she said in a BBC news anchor accent tinged with a hint of brogue.
Grennan. As in Francis Grennan, her favorite curmudgeon. How common was the last name? She must be Frankie’s ex. Less than twenty miles from Dunmullach, yet Frankie hadn’t mentioned it. How bad was the breakup? Gethsemane glanced at her left hand. Nothing on her ring finger. No engagement ring didn’t prove she wasn’t engaged, but…
Yseult ushered Gethsemane back into the room. “Please sit.” She waved at a chair and took the one opposite.
Gethsemane ignored the offer. “Are you one of the gardaí?” She didn’t look like a cop, and she hadn’t introduced herself as one. But she knew Gethsemane’s name and walked in like she owned the place. “Or are you the DA or prosecutor or whatever they’re called over here?”
Yseult hesitated a second before answering. “I’m with an outside agency, on special assignment to the Garda National Economic Crime Bureau.”
Outside agency? An insurance agency? Antiquities carried insurance, loads of it. Jackson said crooks staged thefts so owners could file bogus insurance claims. But an insurance investigator wouldn’t wield the clout Yseult seemed to. Interpol, Military Intelligence, CIA? She tried to picture Frankie married to a spy. The effort gave her a headache. “Where’s my brother-in-law? Jackson Applethwaite. How is he? Do you know? Has he been charged with anything?”
“Dr. Brown, I understand your anxiety.” Gethsemane started to protest, but Yseult’s hand stopped her. “Dr. Applethwaite is fine.”
“So where is he? Is he under arrest?”
“Your brother-in-law is cooperating with the investigation.”
Gethsemane gritted her teeth. This woman had a knack for giving non-answers. “What investigation? Will you, or someone, anyone, please tell me what the f—” Gethsemane closed her eyes and held her breath for a three-count. “Will you please explain what’s happened?”
“Niall said you weren’t one for dancing around a subject.”
O’Reilly came through on his promise to make calls. But why Yseult? “I’m sorry, Ms. Grennan. I’m worried about Jackson. He has a wife and son. If he’s been arrested on theft charges, I need to notify them. I also need to find out about bail and hiring a lawyer or solicitor or whatever they’re called.”<
br />
“As I said, Dr. Brown, I do understand. But your worries are premature. Your brother-in-law hasn’t been charged yet.” Gethsemane detected a slight emphasis on the word yet. Or had she imagined it? “But he was found with a valuable art object in his coat pocket. The situation needs explaining.”
“Your statement needs refining. Jackson was not found with the object. A valuable art object was found in Jackson’s coat pocket. A coat he hadn’t been anywhere near since he took it off and gave it to one of Ms. Ryan’s employees less than five minutes after we arrived at the auction house. A coat pocket that plenty of people, none of whom were Jackson, had access to.”
“Point taken. Niall also said nothing slipped past you.”
“How do you know Inspector O’Reilly? You know him well enough to call him Niall. You’re not a garda, and you’re not a prosecutor. You’re obviously here in some official capacity. You say you’re on ‘special assignment,’ but what do you do?”
“I’m a forensic document examiner. I’m also a forensic art examiner. I worked with Niall several years ago on one of his cases. Long before he transferred to Dunmullach.”
“Forensic examiner. That means you authenticate things. Or expose them as frauds. Jackson’s suspected of theft, not fraud, which is out of your lane. You work in a laboratory, not an interrogation room. So why did Niall call you?” If Yseult could refer to him by his given name, so could she. “Because you were in the neighborhood and he thought you’d help in a pinch, or because something about that sampler, which, for the record, was planted in Jackson’s coat, interests you?”
“Good again, Dr. Brown. Niall called me because he thought it too much of a coincidence for an attempted art theft in a small town to be unrelated to an ongoing art fraud investigation in the same small town.”
“Art fraud? In Ballytuam?” O’Reilly had told her the police were on high alert for theft. He’d also mentioned a couple of fakes turning up on the local market. Were the crimes connected? “How does Ryan’s auction house figure into this investigation?” An exclusive, secretive auction house could facilitate the movement of fake art. Could Ryan’s be the new information that reopened the New York-Dublin case? Ballytuam was a far cry from Dublin, but maybe the fugitives decided a small town was the perfect cover.
Death in D Minor Page 6