“No, I can’t.” The smile seemed genuine this time. “Mother always said women need a mercenary streak if they wanted to be successful in a man’s world. And my husband would have admired your entrepreneurial spirit.”
Maire returned. “Your gown’s arrived, ma’am. I hung it in your dressing room.”
Olivia swept away without another word. Maire remained.
“If you’ll follow me,” she said to Gethsemane.
Gethsemane followed along the serpentine hallways. She looked at the art as they passed. Were any of them fakes? To her untrained eye, they looked genuine. But tomorrow night’s party crowd would include dealers and other collectors. Surely you wouldn’t display forgeries where people who knew what they were looking at could see them. Unless you were a gambler with a steel backbone. Or a wealthy imperious widow so sure of her stature in the world you wouldn’t dream of anyone questioning them.
The door slammed behind her. Snooping would have to wait. Now she needed to find a black dress.
Gethsemane arrived early for rehearsal the next morning. She rode to Ballytuam in a taxi this time. Jackson rode with her. The gardaí wanted to ask him more questions. The taxi driver’s chatter about Cork’s chances versus Mayo’s chances of advancing to the next All-Ireland final provided the only conversation. Jackson wouldn’t tell her why the police were questioning him again, and she couldn’t tell him what prompted her to perform at Olivia’s party.
A few other musicians arrived early as well, which prevented any opportunity to go off on her own and search. All the musicians arrived by half past ten and rehearsal began. Gethsemane replaced the dyspeptic pianist. The program included works by Saint-Saëns, Prokofiev, Tchaikovsky, and Bratton. Each member of the orchestra was a professional or semi-professional musician. She couldn’t imagine anyone less skilled would have auditioned. Unless Yseult’s seven-year-old niece was a musical prodigy, her assessment of the orchestra’s quality fell wide of the mark. They ran through rehearsal without any significant problems and broke at a quarter past two to give themselves time to rest, eat, and change clothes before the party. The cellist, Ciara Sullivan, invited her to lunch.
Gethsemane admired the view as they descended the hill toward the local pub, Ballytuam’s midpoint. “You can see the entire town from here, from Essex House to the train station. I bet I could read the station’s timetable board if I tried hard enough.” She laughed. “And the sun wasn’t in my eyes.”
“Or if you used the spyglass in the tower room.” Ciara pointed back to Olivia’s house. “The late Mr. Boyle used to spend hours up there watching folks’ comings and goings. A nosy bugger he was.”
“You knew him?”
“Not well enough to be invited for tea, but sure I knew him. Everyone in town knew the laird of the manor.” A sneer accompanied the last bit.
“You didn’t like him,” Gethsemane said. They arrived at the pub and claimed a table near a window looking out at the street.
Ciara continued after they were settled. “No, I didn’t particularly like him. ’Tweren’t nothing he did, mind you, ’cept spying on people. ’Twas more like who he was.”
“Who was he?”
“English. Well, not him directly. His ancestors. Bunch of gobshite undertakers who stole our land. Loads of ’em married Irish women. Half of us hate the women for collaborating with the English, the rest of us love the women for turning the English into Irish.” She sipped her Guinness. “You being American, you probably can’t understand us holding a grudge for five hundred years.”
“I understand quite well how past injustices foster current resentments.” She raised her Barry Crockett in a mock toast.
The pub brightened as the door opened to admit someone.
“Mr. Perryman.” Gethsemane waved at the gallery owner.
He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and studied her face.
“We met at your gallery the other day,” Gethsemane reminded him.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Wayne’s friend.”
“Acquaintance.” She shook his hand. “Gethsemane Brown. And this is—”
He shook the cellist’s hand. “Ciara Sullivan. We know each other. Small town. Good to see you again.”
Ciara invited him to join them for lunch.
“Thank you, but I’m meeting someone.”
“Maybe we’ll see you at Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle’s fundraiser this evening,” Gethsemane said.
“I’m afraid my little gallery isn’t in that league. Now when I was in New York—never mind, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about ancient history.” He looked over his shoulder. “I see my friend. Please excuse me. But stop by the gallery again if you have the chance. I just got in a lovely Jacobean-style embroidered wall hanging you might like.” He sat at the far end of the bar next to a gray-haired man. Soon the two had their heads bent in close conversation.
“Andrew’s always gone for older men,” Ciara said. “He told you about New York?”
“Not exactly. Someone mentioned he used to deal art there. Contemporary paintings, I think. He said he left because the market was saturated.”
“He left because of a scandal.” Ciara lowered her voice. “Haven’t sussed all the details, but I gather it had to do with a client’s husband and trips to tropical resorts that had nothing to do with buying art.”
The two women finished lunch and returned to Essex House. Several of the musicians lived too far away to return home to change, so they’d been assigned rooms at the mansion to use as dressing rooms. Gethsemane received an assignment in the tower where Olivia’s late husband used to keep watch over the town. She looked into several of the rooms she passed on the way to the tower. One held her attention. File cabinets interspersed with bookshelves lined the walls. Art books and auction catalogs crammed the shelves. An oversized desk, its ornately carved cubbyholes stuffed with papers, dominated the center of the room. French windows that led to balconies over an interior courtyard dotted one wall. Statuettes and other tchotchkes—Jackson would cringe at her referring to what were probably priceless artifacts as tchotchkes—decorated the shelves.
However, only a single piece of art adorned the walls. A framed sampler hung opposite the French doors. Gethsemane moved for a closer look. Some of the finest stitching she’d ever seen formed an alphabet on the top half of the twenty by twenty-four-inch piece of ivory linen. A multiplication table done in the same fine stitching filled the bottom. A flowered border surrounded both and tied the sections together. Centered at the bottom, below the flowered border, a stitched name and date identified the maker and the year of creation—Patience Freeman, 1764. Yseult might have been a lousy judge of musical talent, but she’d been right about the photograph. It didn’t do the sampler justice.
“Stunning, isn’t it?”
Gethsemane gasped, jumped, and nearly fell into a bookcase.
Olivia, her silver hair now in a loose chignon, entered the room. She wore heavily embroidered red Chinese silk pajamas and matching slippers. Ruby and diamond rings graced slim fingers tipped in the same shade of red as the pajamas. A diamond bracelet glittered on a delicate wrist.
Her smile stopped short of her eyes.
“Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle, I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be in here, but—”
“But you heard about my famous sampler and just had to see it for yourself. Despite your lack of interest in the visual arts.”
“But I am interested in history. I’m from Virginia, you see, so when I heard the sampler was stitched in Virginia…” She let the statement trail off. Best not to be too specific. “This,” she gestured at the textile, “is absolutely unbelievable.”
Olivia moved closer. “It’s the star of my collection.”
“I can see why. How did you come by such a one-of-a-kind piece? Or is that one of those questions you’re not allowed to ask?”
“Right up
there with a lady’s age and her weight.” She held her face inches away from Gethsemane.
Gethsemane stepped back. “Security or no, I’d be afraid to display such a rarity. The temptation to steal it—”
“I don’t live my life in fear of maybe.” Olivia ran her hand along the frame. “Would you hide a Kandinsky in a vault? Stick a da Vinci in a closet?” She held her face close to Gethsemane’s again. “It’s not as if I allow hordes of people to troop through my office.”
Gethsemane backed up—and bumped into an end table. Papers swirled to the floor as she righted the delicate furniture. “I’m so sorry.” She noticed a brochure advertising a golf course as she scooped papers. “Florida? Planning a vacation?”
Olivia snatched the brochure. “Are all musicians this inquisitive?”
“Didn’t mean to be nosy. I was just going to recommend a travel agent. My sorority sis—”
“My travel arrangements are taken care of.” Olivia held the office door open. “The party’s starting soon.”
“I was on my way to change.” Gethsemane inched past Olivia. “I’ll go do that now.”
She looked back down the hall when she reached the corner. Olivia stood watching her.
Seven
Gethsemane changed into the black sheath dress she’d purchased in a Dunmullach dress shop after her audition and hurried back to the hall outside Olivia’s office. Ray Delaney directed a staggering number of staff members from a position at the head of the stairs. He twirled his cigar lighter through his fingers in time with his barked commands. His presence nixed any hope she had of sneaking into the office for another look.
Maids and kitchen staff and dozens of others she couldn’t identify by uniform scurried back and forth carrying trays loaded with drinkware, silverware, and dishes, arranging and rearranging furniture, and checking lists. Several maids, including Maire, dusted and straightened.
Gethsemane excused herself and slipped down the stairs past Ray. She entered the great hall and found most of her fellow musicians gathered. She headed toward them when a commotion broke out in the reception hall. Everyone rushed to see what went on.
“I’ve every right to be here!” a man shouted from the front doorway. The butler and a man Gethsemane didn’t recognize struggled to keep him from coming farther inside.
“I’ve every right!” he shouted again. He wore an unbuttoned tuxedo jacket with one sleeve pushed up to the elbow. His other shirt sleeve lacked its cufflink. His bowtie hung loose around his open shirt collar and his thinning brown hair stuck out at odd angles. Gethsemane smelled the liquor from where she stood.
Ray pushed through the crowd. He grabbed the man’s thumb and bent it back, then twisted the man’s arm behind his back before pushing him out the door. The butler slammed the door behind him, and Ray returned to his post without comment.
“Who was that?” Gethsemane asked the person next to her.
“Curtis Boyle, Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle’s nephew and heir apparent to the family estate. Assuming she hasn’t cut the tosser out of her will.”
The crowd dispersed. As guests drifted back to their pre-party small talk, Gethsemane thought she spotted a stocky blond with a scar. The unpleasant man from the auction house. Ronan something. She tried to follow, but a near-collision with a tuxedoed whale derailed her. By the time she and the big man finished their excuses, Ronan had gone. She started toward the reception hall when something caught her eye—an explosion of color on a large canvas, a technicolor riot of word and image fragments. She stepped away. From a distance the seemingly disjointed images formed part of a coherent painting. The massive work occupied most of the wall on which it hung. Gethsemane stepped farther back. The fragments of color coalesced into the shape of a gigantic teddy bear. She leaned in to read the artist’s signature. Jasper Koors.
“A provocative piece, no?” Ray stood behind her, flipping his lighter in his fingers. “Bold yet tender. A paean to childhood’s innocence but, at the same time, a condemnation of the brutish forces that would destroy that innocence.”
Gethsemane frowned and squinted at the painting. “It’s—bright.”
“Not a fan?”
“Of contemporary art? Not so much. Give me a nice Caravaggio or Reubens over this any day.”
“A fan of the Old Masters,” Ray said. “Not surprising, I guess. Classical music, classical art.”
“Not strictly Old Masters. I admire Kahlo and O’Keefe and wouldn’t say no to a Rothko. Just not that into teddy bears.” She turned to the pieces hung on the opposite wall: framed silk kimonos, a small Chinese screen, a Japanese fan. “I’m surprised Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle’s into Jasper Koors. Kind of out of character with the rest of her collection.”
“She made a brief foray into the contemporary art market. She considered expanding her collection in a different direction.”
“What changed her mind? The idea of Essex House awash in Day-Glo paintings of children’s toys?”
The lighter disappeared into a pocket. Ray’s voice took on a hard edge. “Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle doesn’t discuss her thought process with—what did you call it?—the hired help.” He kept his eyes fixed on the painting. His hand followed the lighter.
Gethsemane watched him for a moment. She imagined the lighter somersaulting in his pocket. “Did Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle acquire this from Andrew Perryman?”
“Andrew Perryman? Doesn’t he own one of the galleries here in town? Deals in modern crafts, I believe.” He made “modern crafts” sound like a social disease. “I imagine paintings are out of his purview.” He locked eyes with Gethsemane. “Why would you think Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle had any dealings with him?”
“He used to sell paintings when he lived in New York. He owned a gallery there years ago; I’m not sure how many. He still sells paintings to some of his more important clients.” Hank Wayne counted as an important client, if you considered importance in terms of financial worth instead of worth as a human being.
“You know a good bit about Mr. Perryman. You two are close?”
“Not at all. I really don’t know any more about him than what I just told you.” Except his taste for older men regardless of marital status. “I know one of his clients, Hank Wayne. I overheard Mr. Wayne discussing a Koors with him and he—Mr. Wayne, I mean—told me Andrew used to own a gallery in New York. I gathered he specialized in contemporary paintings.”
“Hank Wayne, the hotel magnate. He’s shown interest in properties in this area. You’re one of Mr. Wayne’s…?” The question trailed off.
One of Hank’s what? Enemies? Antagonists? Or did Ray think—girlfriends? Ick. No. “One of his nothing. I said I knew him, I didn’t say I enjoyed sharing air space with him. How do you know he’s looking at property—Oh, the newspaper.”
“Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle owns the distilleries.”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t come after Essex House,” she said almost to herself. “Much more room for a cocktail bar than at Carraigfaire.”
Color rose on Ray’s neck. “Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle would never sell Essex House.” His voice strained and he stared at the Koors with such intensity Gethsemane half expected flames to burst from the canvas. “This land has been in the family for generations. Generations! She can’t sell it.” He looked at Gethsemane as though he’d forgotten she stood there and couldn’t quite place her. He shook his head and the suave, controlled Ray returned. The lighter reappeared in his hand. “The cocktail hour approaches. I have guests to attend to.”
Gethsemane headed back toward Olivia’s office. If Olivia wasn’t there, she’d snoop for the Freeman sampler’s bill of sale. If she found Olivia in her office, she’d ask her about the Jasper Koors, a painting so out of keeping with the rest of her collection and her demeanor.
Everything about Olivia screamed classic. Why had she bought it? When had she bought it? Before or after Andrew left New York? Before o
r after the fraud investigation went cold? If you bought something knowing it was forged, would you care how ugly it was while you bided your time until you could unload it?
A male voice interrupted her thoughts. “’Scuse me, miss? You Dr. Brown?”
She stopped short in time to avoid a collision with the young man who’d stepped in front of her. She guessed from his shirtsleeves and matching vest and bowtie he was one of the waitstaff. “Yes, I’m Dr. Brown.”
“A man out back wants to speak wit ya. Says his name’s Jack Apple or something like that.”
Jackson? Here?
“Ask him in.”
“You’d better speak with him outside, seein’ as he ain’t got an invite.” The young man jerked his head in the direction he’d come. “Through the kitchen.”
Gethsemane followed him through a maze of shouting cooks, scurrying waiters, and teeming food service trays to a small courtyard at the rear of the house. Jackson paced in front of a dumpster. He rushed over and hugged her.
“Jackson, are you all right?” He appeared worn out with his shirt collar open and bowtie undone. His eyes were puffy and his lips chapped. “Have you been at the garda station this whole time?”
He nodded. “They seem convinced I’m responsible for the attempted theft, that I have a conspirator who hid the Creech miniature in my pocket so I could walk out with it and meet up later. They’ve determined the sampler is a fake. They theorize we were trying to get rid of the sampler before the authorities got hold of it.”
“That makes no sense, even for the police. You were bidding on the sampler. Why—”
“One of the other bidders was working undercover. He, or she, had no bid limit. They would have outbid anyone.”
“It’s still ridiculous. Conspirator? Partner? Who? You’ve been in Ireland for, like, five minutes. Who do they think you know well enough to commit felonies with?”
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