He repeated the question. “Where’d you get this? It looks expensive. Real sterling.”
“I stepped on it at a crime scene.”
“And you immediately turned it over to the gardaí as possible evidence of whatever crime occurred at the scene.”
She took the button back. “The gardaí were preoccupied collecting other evidence and wouldn’t see the significance of this button.” Never mind she didn’t trust his ex any more than he did. “I secured it and brought it to you, because you’re going to help me track down its owner.”
“What is it you’re about to get me into?”
“That sounds like a yes.”
“There’s no point in saying no to you. You either talk me into going along with you or you go off on your own and nearly get yourself killed. What’re we doing?”
“You’re my Captain Hastings, Frankie. Grab your coat and your car keys. I’ll explain on the way.”
She filled him in on the events of the auction and Olivia’s fundraiser, including the thefts, Olivia’s murder, and both the Creech miniature and the Patience Freeman sampler turning out to be fakes as they drove to Ballytuam. She omitted the details of her and Jackson’s deals with Yseult.
“So did Olivia fall or was she pushed?” he asked.
“I don’t know. The police haven’t released any statements yet. The autopsy’s pending.” As was her potential murder charge, if Sergeant Heaney had her way. “Seeing as Olivia was involved in art crime, I vote for pushed.”
“Involved in as a conspirator or as a victim? And they’re called gardaí, not police.”
Gethsemane rolled her eyes. “It’s hard to imagine anyone victimizing Olivia McCarthy-Boyle. She seemed like a high-class force to be reckoned with, one of those women who can smile sweetly at you while crushing your hopes and dreams. I don’t have as much trouble imagining her conspiring in art fraud.” She explained her theory about the Koors teddy bear painting.
“A giant teddy bear? You’re codding.”
“I’m not.”
“Some folks are lucky poor taste isn’t an art crime.”
“This is serious, Frankie. A woman’s dead.” She stared through the car window at the countryside roaring past. “Conspirator or not, however you look at it, she ended up a victim.”
“One question: who put the fake sampler in the bushes and why?”
“That’s two questions.” Frankie returned the eye roll. “I have no idea who hid the fake. As for why, most likely Olivia’s death interrupted them. They probably planned to put the fake sampler in the frame and replace it in Olivia’s office. The evidence of forgery was hidden on the back of the piece. In a frame on a wall…”
“You wouldn’t be able to tell what the back looked like.”
“And the substitution might have gone undetected for years. Yseult said the crime ring would sometimes substitute fakes for originals and resell the originals.”
Frankie didn’t respond. Gethsemane kept her eyes forward but watched him in her peripheral vision. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel tighter.
“Yseult Grennan. She’s your ex-wife, isn’t she?”
Frankie nodded, eyes fixed on the road.
“She seems…” Not nice. No reason to use euphemisms to herself. To Frankie, on the other hand...“Intense? Dedicated to her profession?” Borderline sociopathic? No response. “She’s beautiful.”
Frankie lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Aye, she is that.” He drove silent for a while then added in his normal voice, “Smart, too. A feckin’ genius.” The car buzzed past the Ballytuam town limit sign. “Would you mind telling me where we’re going? It’s customary to let the driver know where he’s driving to.”
Gethsemane plucked at his t-shirt. “Frankie, I think it’s time you upgraded your wardrobe.”
“This is ridiculous.”
They stood in the doorway of Walsh and Sons Men’s Tailor and Haberdashery. Frankie crossed his arms and mimicked the expression of a schoolboy told there’d be a pop quiz.
“It’s not.” Gethsemane tugged at his arm. “Tailors keep records. My grandfather kept a record of every detail about every suit and dress he ever made. Color, cut, size, fabric, price. He even kept fabric swatches and sketches of the finished piece.”
“So you’re just going to walk in there, hand the proprietor your ‘appropriated’ button, and ask him who he made it for. If he made it. It could’ve come from anywhere.”
“Not anywhere. Custom-made sterling silver buttons engraved with coats of arms don’t come from the local superstore.”
“Walsh and his sons aren’t the only tailors around.”
“They’re the only ones in Ballytuam.” She pulled him into the shop. “Come on.”
“If it is his button, he’s not going to volunteer the name of the person he sold it to. Don’t high-end shops pride themselves on keeping their clients’ details confidential?”
“Yes, they do. Which is why you’re going to distract the Messrs. Walsh while I have a peek in the office.”
A cheerful “Hallo!” cut Frankie’s sputtered protest short. A slim gray-haired man in the most exquisite double-breasted pin-striped suit Gethsemane had ever seen stepped out from behind a display shelf filled with neckties. “May I help you?”
Gethsemane nudged Frankie forward. The other man ran his eyes over him from head to foot, then spun him around and did the same over his back. “Yes, well, everyone loves a challenge.”
“Loves a—” Frankie flushed as red as his hair. “Why, of all the—”
Gethsemane squeezed his elbow, hard. “Francis, dear, we’ve discussed this. I simply can’t take you to meet Mother wearing t-shirt and jeans.” She rolled her eyes and sighed a deep sigh any Southern belle would have envied. “Men. Whatever can you do with them?”
“You can trust this one,” the gray-haired gent took Gethsemane’s hand in his, “to me.”
“Thank you, Mr.—Walsh, is it? Are you the eponymous proprietor? Or one of the sons?”
“The original Mr. Walsh passed on about one hundred thirty years ago, I’m afraid. I’m currently the senior Mr. Walsh. Both of my boys are away in London at the moment, attending a Savile Row design conference. And may I know your names?”
“I’m Miss Brown and this is Mr. Grennan. And my mother is a very particular woman.” Which was true, even if the rest of what she told the tailor was a fable.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make your fella a suit fit for an audience with the Taoiseach.”
“I adore your suit. Such a magnificent wool flannel. Vitale Barberis Canonico?”
“You have an eye for fabrics, Miss Brown.”
“My grandfather was a tailor. He taught me few things make a man feel more vital than an expertly crafted bespoke suit: his first love, the birth of his first child, and his daughter’s wedding.”
“A wise man, your grandfather. I’ll do my best to honor a brother of the cloth and to please his granddaughter. And his granddaughter’s ma.” Mr. Walsh winked as he steered Frankie toward a corner crowded with jacket-wearing mannequins, sample books, and bolts of fabric. “Perhaps a Merino-wool flannel in navy to highlight those green eyes? Double-breasted, of course. Or something in a silk-linen blend. Judging from the lady’s accent, you’ll be needing a wardrobe for warmer climes.”
Gethsemane called after them. “Excuse me, Mr. Walsh. Do you custom-make buttons?” She kept her tone casual and flirtatious. “My brother lost a button from his favorite jacket—something to do with a party, an alpaca, and the ambassador’s daughter, he really doesn’t like to talk about it—and he hasn’t been able to replace it. He’s devastated. It was sterling, hand-engraved.”
“I don’t make them myself, no, but I use a reliable manufacturer who can create any button to order. He does monograms, coats of arms. I’ve several sample
s displayed over there in the rear of the shop.”
‘Thank you. Oh, and take your time with my fella. Some things shouldn’t be rushed.”
She strolled to the rear of the store, pausing every now and then to admire a shirt or a necktie and to make sure the tailor’s attention stayed focused on Frankie. She reached a row of display cases filled with dozens of buttons of every hue, size, and material, including sterling silver. She pulled out the button she found at Olivia’s and compared it to the samples on display. She spotted three or four similar ones. Then she spotted something else a few feet away from the display cases—an office with an open door. Binders filled floor-to-ceiling shelves and a massive card catalog occupied an entire wall.
She checked on Frankie and Mr. Walsh. “How’s it going?”
Frankie shot her a look that would have been censored had he verbalized it. Mr. Walsh assured her everything was just fine, no need to worry, he’d suited clients much more difficult than her fella. He’d once outfitted an entire Gaelic football squad for an awards ceremony.
She’d have plenty of time to search for her button. She started toward the rear of the store but paused near the suspenders. She spoke over her shoulder. “Francis, while you’re here, why not get something to wear to Nia’s Valentine’s party? Maybe a sports coat and slacks? You know Patsy will be there with that stuffy prince of hers. I want to show her up.” She hurried off before he could wrap Mr. Walsh’s tape measure around her neck.
Gethsemane slipped into the office. Convinced Frankie’s sartorial challenges would occupy the tailor for the foreseeable future, she risked turning on a desk lamp. She scanned the binders. They were sample books, an archive of fabrics and finishings like the ones her grandfather kept. A label affixed to each listed a year, the contents, and a Dewey-decimal-like code. The earliest book dated to 1902. The card catalog went back even further, to 1812. She pulled open a drawer in the nearest one. Each card listed not a book but a name, an address, and vital statistics: waist, collar, sleeve length, hat band. The cataloger had annotated a code in a lower corner of each card. Another look at the binders confirmed the codes on the cards corresponded to those on the labels.
She examined her found button. Still shiny, no trace of tarnish, few scratches, no dents or nicks. A new, or at least new-ish, button. She pulled the current year’s button binder from the shelf and skimmed its illustrated pages. She found what she wanted about two-thirds of the way through. Schematics for a sterling silver shank button with a hand-engraved coat of arms. She held her button next to the illustration. A match. The same coat of arms graced its front. She noted the button’s code and turned to the card catalog.
Finding the card took longer. Two forays to the showroom floor reassured her she needn’t rush. Mr. Walsh was in his shirt sleeves, Frankie wore a jacket borrowed from a mannequin, and half the bolts of fabric had migrated from the shelves to the table and floor. She concentrated on the catalog.
She opened the “P” drawer and located this year’s cards. She stopped at the thirteenth card and bit her lip to keep from shouting. A name printed in block lettering as neat as that of the Freeman sampler paraded above the code for the silver button. A name she recognized. Andrew Perryman.
Ten
“This is what happens when I let you talk me into things.”
Gethsemane and Frankie walked the three blocks to Andrew’s gallery, Gethsemane in the lead.
“Stop complaining,” she said. “It’s going to be a beautiful suit. The midnight blue flannel was an excellent choice.”
“It’s going to cost me a month’s pay.”
“But it will be oh so worth it. An investment. That suit will last you thirty years. You’ll more than get your money out of it. Would you please hurry?”
“Where’m I going to wear a suit, anyway?”
“That cute new chemistry teacher’s throwing a housewarming party next month.”
“Don’t start, Sissy.”
“Don’t call me Sissy.”
“Why are you walking so fast? Nothing’s on fire.”
“I want to catch Andrew at his gallery before closing time. Which is in forty-five minutes. Come on.”
The gallery seemed deserted.
“Hello,” Gethsemane called. “Anyone here?” She whispered to Frankie. “Think he closed early?”
“And left the door off the latch?”
“I’m so sorry.” Andrew hurried from a back room, glasses perched on top of his head, brochure in one hand. Today’s suit was a navy single-breasted pin-stripe. He laid the brochure on the counter as he dabbed at his lips with his pocket square. “How may I help you? Have you come about the Jacobean-style embroidery? The wall-hanging I mentioned at the pub?”
“We’re not interrupting your dinner, are we?”
“No, no, of course not. Just having a little snack to keep the wolves from the door, as they say.”
“And doing some vacation planning?” Gethsemane picked up the brochure. “Spain, is it? Everyone’s going on trips. Olivia was headed to Florida.”
Andrew took the brochure and folded it into a pocket. “I detest Florida. I’m thinking of Barcelona. Ibiza has too much of a party atmosphere. Guess I’ve outgrown that scene. But you don’t really want to know about my travel plans. Perhaps I can show you something?”
Frankie chimed in. “We’d love to see the wall-hanging. She can’t stop talking about it. Sight unseen, she’s ready to buy.” Gethsemane pinched him.
Andrew didn’t appear to notice. “Wonderful. Such an exquisite piece. And at a surprisingly affordable price point.” He gestured to chairs. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll go get it.”
Gethsemane hissed at Frankie as soon as Andrew was out of earshot, “What are you doing?”
“I bet ‘affordable price point’ means less expensive than a bespoke suit.” He settled in an overstuffed chair and lifted a magazine from a stack on a nearby end table. “Art Quilt Review. Quilts are meant to keep you warm in the dead of winter, not to be hung on the walls. Basquiat is meant to hang on your walls.”
Gethsemane picked up another magazine. “Christeby’s. Wonder what Andrew’s doing with this? He said he didn’t deal in paintings anymore.”
“They handle more than just paintings.” Frankie reached for the magazine. “It’s old; look at the date. A souvenir of a former life.”
“This issue’s about the ContempoPop auction. The one where he met Hank Wayne. Jackson said the New York-Dublin art crime investigation folded about nine years ago. This magazine’s eleven years old.”
“Does that mean something?”
Andrew returned before she could answer. He carried a rolled fabric tube. Gethsemane held it while he cleared the table. Then he unrolled the fabric.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?”
A riot of bright-hued pomegranates and flowers and vines and birds and fantastical creatures spilled across the linen square. “Yes,” Gethsemane said. “It is.”
“Nia would just die if she saw that.” Frankie draped an arm across the back of his chair. “It’s twice as nice as the one her stuffy prince gave her.”
Andrew frowned, puzzled, and looked back and forth between the two.
“Ignore him,” Gethsemane said. “He thinks he’s being witty.”
“I do think you should get it,” Frankie said. “Hang it in the music room to inspire the boys when you start the Jacobean music unit.”
“It’s definitely more my style than that ghastly painting at Olivia’s. You know the one I mean? The Jasper Koors, with the bear?” She shuddered.
“You were at Essex House?” Andrew used his pocket square on his neck.
“I was there the night, you know, it happened. Dreadful business. Dreadful evening. For no one more so than Olivia, of course.”
“Of course,” Frankie said.
Gethsemane pin
ched him. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but I cannot imagine why Olivia would display a painting as awful as that Koors thing.”
“Jasper Koors is highly sought after by collectors. One of his most recent works sold for over thirty million.”
“Some folks have more money than taste.” Frankie thumbed a magazine. He stopped at a photo of a Banksy mural. “I’d spend thirty million on that. Well, maybe fifteen.”
“Aren’t you looking for a Koors for Mr. Wayne?” Gethsemane asked.
“You remembered,” Andrew said.
“Between you and me—”
Frankie interjected. “And me.”
Gethsemane ignored him. “I bet you could snag Olivia’s Koors for a bargain. She has no use for it anymore, and it doesn’t go with the rest of her collection. Her estate would probably be happy to sell. Which would mean a handsome commission for you.”
Andrew fiddled with his pocket square’s hem. “I’ll certainly pass the word on to Mr. Wayne.”
“Maybe you’re familiar with the work? A giant teddy bear. Lots of garish colors.”
“Mr. Koors has painted several teddy bear portraits. He’s known for them.”
“A guy who sells paintings for thirty million should be able to afford a life model,” Frankie said.
“He’s making a statement.” Andrew sounded offended.
“He certainly is.”
Gethsemane refocused Andrew’s attention. “This canvas is massive. Takes up almost an entire wall. Are you sure you don’t know it? I thought with your experience in contemporary art…”
“I’d have to see the piece to be certain.” He looked at his watch. “I do hate to rush you, but…”
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