“We don’t keep it locked. I guess anyone could come in. But no one does except me and Maire.”
Jackson reached for the magazine. “May I?” He examined its edges the way he’d examined the edge of the grimoire. “Pages are missing. See here?” He showed the group where several pages had been torn from the volume.
O’Reilly took the magazine back. “Let’s assume Maire tore out the pages and hid the magazine behind her drawer. Why? Did she want to keep people from seeing what was on the pages? Did she want to show the pages to someone else?”
“I don’t know why Maire cared what was on those pages,” Gethsemane said, “but I know how to find out what was on them. Let’s go to Andrew’s gallery and find his copy of the magazine.”
The group of seven—Gethsemane, Jackson, Inspectors O’Reilly and Mulroney, Special Agents Grennan and O’Connor, and the uniformed garda—descended on the Perryman Gallery. A locked door forced them to wait for the building’s landlord to arrive with a key.
Gethsemane questioned Kenneth while they waited. “So you made up that story about being a buyer’s agent?”
“It was my cover, yes.”
“And Yseult’s story about being a forensic art and documents examiner?”
“True. The agency recruited her for those particular skills. But she’s a field agent, not a lab dweller.”
“Where does Ronan Leary belong in this? Is he part of your cover?”
“Ronan Leary belongs in prison.”
“Prison?”
“How much do you know about Andrew Perryman?”
“I know he used to deal paintings in New York with his partner, Ronan Leary. I heard he left New York to come back to Ballytuam because—his story—he faced too much competition in an oversaturated market, or—gossip story—he fled a scandal over his relationship with a client’s husband. I suspect he and his partner forged paintings in New York, fled when the law started closing in on them, set up shop again in Ballytuam, but this time they forge antique textiles instead of paintings. Am I right?”
Kenneth gaped. “I’m impressed. You’re right. Gossip was wrong. Andrew left New York because of a scandal, but it had nothing to do with his love life. We knew Andrew and Ronan were selling both forged and stolen paintings. Andrew handled the forging, Ronan handled the stealing. Andrew would also create counterfeit provenance—bogus bills of sale, exhibit catalogs, magazine reviews, what have you. We could never find enough evidence to prove anything. Word of our investigation got out and hurt their business. Destroyed it. Who’d want to buy anything from dealers suspected of forgery and theft? So Andrew sold his gallery, gave Ronan the shaft in the process, pulled up stakes, hightailed it back to Irish soil, and changed his medium from paintings to textiles.”
“Back to Ballytuam with a prolonged layover in Dublin?”
“Right again. You’re good at this.”
“You thought—knew—Andrew was back in the forgery business. Do you think he’s the one who sold Olivia the Freeman sampler? Is that why Yseult had me looking for the bill of sale? To compare it to other examples of Andrew’s work?”
“Criminal habits die hard. It’s much easier to move a faked or stolen piece if you have papers saying the piece isn’t faked or stolen. Riches await a talented forger. When we learned Ronan Leary was in town, we were certain we were onto something.”
“He creeps me out. He keeps popping up without warning. And he accused me of theft and murder. Didn’t exactly endear himself. How’s he fit into this?”
“Ronan Leary hasn’t endeared himself to anyone, including his own ma. She reported him after a heist from a gallery in Kilkenny. He slipped through investigators’ hands on that one. He was a minor at the time and no one could make the charges stick. He vanished and reappeared years later as Andrew’s partner in the New York gallery and his partner in crime. Andrew pissed Leary off when he sold out and fixed things so he kept most of the profit and Leary kept most of the liability. Surprised us when he and Andrew seemed to have patched up their differences and gone back into business together.”
“You think Leary killed Andrew? Out of revenge for the double-cross?”
“He’s our number one suspect, but he has an alibi for the time of the murder. We haven’t been able to break it. Yet. We think a deal went sour and Andrew tried to short-change him again. Leary decided not to be left holding the bag this time.”
“Could he have planted the miniature sampler in Jackson’s pocket?”
“Yeah. We’re almost sure that was him. He’d have stolen the miniature with no trouble—’tis what he’s good at—but realized he had no chance to get out of the building with it. We’d have searched him first, second, and third. He must’ve figured no one would ever suspect Dr. Applethwaite of theft so no one would search him. Your brother-in-law would’ve walked out of the auction house with the miniature in his pocket, none the wiser. Leary would’ve stolen it from him later.”
Gethsemane shuddered at the thought of Jackson being mugged. Or worse. “One thing I don’t understand. Why steal the miniature in the first place? Why go to the trouble of slipping a fake into an auction only to have to steal it back right before it’s sold? Insurance fraud?”
Kenneth nodded at Jackson. “For the same reason you wouldn’t will a fake sampler to a museum. A crime-fighting museum curator. Leary and Perryman and the rest of the gang figured the fake miniature would wind up with some private collector too arrogant or lazy to have it properly authenticated. Or perhaps too embarrassed to make a fuss when they discovered they’d been duped. When they learned Jackson planned to bid, well, a museum is a different story.”
“Because of course Jackson would have the piece independently authenticated, and of course he’d call the authorities once he discovered the fraud.”
“Better to steal it themselves before that happened.”
“Then destroy the fake, just like with the Freeman sampler, and no one’s the wiser. The case gets written off as another unsolved art theft.”
“You really are pretty good at this secret agent stuff. I might have to offer you a job.”
“Got one, thanks.” Something nagged Gethsemane. “Since you attended Olivia’s fundraiser, why did Yseult send me to find the sampler’s bill of sale? I understand why she wanted it, but why send me, the civilian, for it instead of you, the trained agent?”
“I’d tried to get into Olivia’s office but couldn’t. Could never come up with a valid reason to be in that part of the house. Olivia watched the goings and comings at Essex House like a hawk. She was hardly some sweet little old lady in her dotage. But with your cover as a musician performing at the party, you had plenty of reason to be in the part of the house where the office is located. I also had some, uh, other issues to attend to.”
“You were surprised to see me.”
“Part of my cover. How would I have explained knowing you’d be there?” The landlord arrived and let everyone into the gallery, ending Gethsemane’s questions.
“Do you remember where you saw the magazine, Dr. Brown?”
“Right here on this end table.” She rummaged through the stack she’d looked at earlier with Frankie until she found it. “Christeby’s magazine, ContempoPop edition.” She flipped to the pages missing from the copy Maire had hidden at Essex House. “Oh. My. But he said—” She handed the magazine to Yseult. “It’s Ray Delaney.”
A four-page photo spread featured snapshots of the auction and the pre-auction preview. Pictures, both candid and posed, highlighted the rich and the beautiful and the notable people who attended the events. Hank Wayne appeared in half a dozen. Two photos immortalized Ray Delaney. In one, he stood next to a man the caption identified as the auctioneer. The other showed him with an elderly woman who favored Olivia.
“Ken, take a look.” Yseult pointed at the woman. “Isn’t she the woman who died in that awful car
accident? You remember.”
“Yeah, she collected street art and outsider art, mostly. She owned several pieces by Basquiat and one or two Harings. Car ended up in the Hudson with her in it. Wasn’t there something funny about her will? Long-lost relations crawling out of the fog or something.”
“No, not mysterious relatives. Her will went missing. Then her assistant found a copy stashed in a closet or cabinet or under a mattress or someplace. Seems he did okay for himself. She left him a pot of money.”
Gethsemane laid a finger on the caption. “Says Ray Delaney is her assistant.”
“Two old ladies dying from unnatural causes, two missing wills, and Delaney worked for both,” O’Reilly said. “I gave up coincidence for Lent. There has to be a connection.”
“Hank thought he recognized Ray from the auction. Ray lied. He swore he’d never even been to New York,” Gethsemane said.
“If Ray expected to profit from that woman’s will,” Jackson said, “he’d make sure someone found a copy.”
Inspector Mulroney sent the uniformed garda to make some phone calls.
“I want Delaney found. Answers to some questions are in order.”
“If Ray attended this auction he probably met Andrew,” Gethsemane said. “I know he met Hank, Hank remembered him, and Andrew was acquiring art for Hank. But Andrew denied ever going to Essex House.”
“Denied it to you?” Inspector Mulroney raised an eyebrow. “How’d the subject come up?”
Gethsemane blushed. “I, er, may have found something at Essex House that belonged to him.”
“You mean you tampered with evidence from a murder scene?” Mulroney asked.
“I wouldn’t put it that strongly.”
“Just tell us what you found.” O’Reilly’s eyes took on the storm grey hue that signaled controlled fury. “Sissy.”
“A custom-made sterling silver button. I came across some documents at the tailor’s—”
O’Reilly interrupted. “Came across?”
“Came across.” Gethsemane continued. “They proved Andrew owned the button. But if he’d never been to Essex House, how’d he lose a button there?”
“Why not just admit he’d been up there?” Mulroney asked. “Admit he’d been to see Delaney, an old acquaintance. There’s nothing odd about visiting a friend who moves to a house within walking distance of your gallery. It would be stranger not to see him.”
“Either Andrew or Ray,” Gethsemane said, “wanted to keep their past friendship secret.”
“Let’s have another look around,” Yseult said. “We tried to find something to connect Andrew to Leary. We didn’t search for anything connecting him to Delaney.”
“Or to Maire,” Gethsemane added. “She knew more about Andrew’s gallery than the average maid.”
The group searched the gallery as the sun rose. They went through Andrew’s office and his inventory but found nothing aside from the Christeby’s magazine that connected him to Ray and nothing at all that connected him to Maire.
Inspector Mulroney suggested they quit. “The homicide unit’s already been over this.”
Yseult ran her hand under a stack of linens folded on a shelf. She pulled it out and held up a small pink paper. She unfolded it. “Well, well. We did miss something the first time through. A receipt for a Koors teddy bear painting.”
“That god-awful thing at Essex House?”
“Hard to tell without the painting in front of me,” Yseult said. “But I can say with certainty it’s not a receipt for any canvas sold legitimately through this gallery. I’ll analyze it when I get back to the station, but instinct says it’s forged.”
Gethsemane knocked over a book, an exhibition catalog from the Ibiza Museum of Contemporary Art. “Damn.” She bent to pick it up and spied a torn piece of paper in a corner under a desk. She retrieved it. A few words marched across the scrap in Andrew’s neat handwriting. “Hey, I think I found something.” She read aloud. “‘Last will and’...Andrew wrote a will. Or started one.” She handed the paper to Yseult.
“Who’d he write it for? Himself or someone else?” Yseult asked.
“It’s in his handwriting,” Gethsemane said. “I recognize it.”
“Could be a draft copy, a working document to make sure he got the details right. That would explain why it was torn up here. He probably dropped this little piece on his way to the incinerator or dumpster.”
“So you do think he forged a will for someone?” O’Reilly asked Yseult.
She held the paper up to the light. “Not for someone, Niall. For Ray Delaney. It makes sense. A repeat of Delaney’s scam in New York. Hire a forger to rewrite your elderly employer’s will, naming you as the prime beneficiary, switch the copy for the real will, murder your employer, and live off the inheritance. Money runs out, do it again.”
“How do you find a forger you trust enough?” Jackson asked. “What’s to stop them from turning you in to the authorities?”
“These people are professionals, Dr. Applethwaite,” Yseult explained. “They want money, not trouble. If you pay them enough—”
Gethsemane cut in. “Or sleep with them. Look what I found tucked inside the book.” She held up one half of a torn photo. A shirtless Andrew sat on the edge of a lounge chair beside a pool. A man’s arm was draped around him. The hand lay on Andrew’s chest in a manner that suggested Andrew and the arm’s owner were anything but platonic friends. The rest of the man’s image had been ripped away.
“Can’t tell who the other fella is,” O’Reilly said.
“I can.” Gethsemane pointed at items on the half table still visible in the photo. An umbrella-laden drink stood near Andrew. Next to it—a gold-plated cigar lighter. “That’s Ray’s.” She turned the photo over. A partial inscription read:
To my youn—
Thanks for the bes—
Ibiza
“That’s Ray’s, too. The handwriting, I mean. I recognize it from the playlist he gave me when he hired me for the party.” She recalled what the cellist told her at lunch. “Andrew always had a thing for older men.”
The uniform burst into the gallery, out of breath, and ran up to Inspector Mulroney. “Sir.” He panted. “Sir, we spotted Maire Fitzgerald boarding a train. It departs in seven minutes.”
Fifteen
“We can be at the station in less than two.” Inspector Mulroney motioned to Yseult and Kenneth. “C’mon.” They rushed out behind the uniform.
“You two stay—” O’Reilly began.
“You’re not leaving us here,” Gethsemane interrupted.
“Yes, I am.”
“With Ray on the loose? No one’s seen him since Maire disappeared. She didn’t run because she tried to kill me, she ran from Ray. She must’ve blackmailed him. ‘Give me money and I won’t tell anyone your lover helped you forge a will leaving you your employer’s fortune. Your employer whom you pushed over a balcony.’ Except Ray decides killing Maire is cheaper than paying her. She figures out he plans to murder her, so she takes off before he gets the chance.”
“He killed Andrew, didn’t he?” Jackson asked. “Ray had to be the inside man switching fake textiles for the real ones. If Andrew knew the authorities were on to him, he might have offered them Ray to save himself.”
“I bet Ray engineered my catwalk misadventure as well. I doubt Maire would’ve concocted such a plan all on her own, and I don’t see her climbing on a catwalk removing screws. He and Maire set me up. She never intended to blackmail me. She and Ray wanted me dead. His showing up at the distillery with Hank at that time in the evening was no coincidence. He wanted to find my body in front of a witness to give himself an alibi.” She tapped her watch. “Train’s leaving, Inspector.”
“Damn it, Gethsemane Brown—All right, c’mon. But you do as I tell you.”
A voice cackled over the loudspe
aker. “This train departs in three minutes. Three minutes. All ticket holders please board. Mind the gap. Three minutes until departure.”
O’Reilly showed his identification to the conductor and boarded the train.
“We’re with him,” Gethsemane said as she and Jackson hurried after him.
Yseult met them. “Maire bought an unreserved ticket. Second class is that way.”
“She could be hiding anywhere,” O’Reilly said. “We’d best split up.”
“Ken’s up front with Mulroney and the uniform. Why don’t we start at the back?”
O’Reilly pointed at empty seats, then pointed at Gethsemane and Jackson. “You two stay here.” They sat. O’Reilly leaned down with his face an inch from Gethsemane’s. “Don’t you move. I mean it. So help me, I’ll arrest you for interfering with a police investigation if you so much as stand to stretch your legs.”
“Niall.” Yseult motioned for him to hurry.
Gethsemane waited until they exited the car, then stood. Then sat down again. With Mulroney, Kenneth, and the uniform at one end of the train and O’Reilly and Yseult at the other, Maire had nowhere to go. Neither did she.
Jackson frowned.
“Inspector O’Reilly said not to move.”
“I heard him.”
Jackson stood. “Switch seats with me.”
“Why?”
“So you’ll be by the window where you can’t get out without crawling over me.”
She grumbled as she changed places with her brother-in-law. She leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes. Nothing to do but wait, a task not in her skillset. A wave of fatigue swept over her. She’d been awake since who remembered when, she’d survived an attempted drowning, her bruises ached, her head hurt, “Pathétique” played—
She opened her eyes. Why did Tchaikovsky play? She searched out the window. Maybe Maire was giving them the slip, jumping off the train. No one on the platform except—there! She saw him hop on just as the train began its slow pull out of the station. A dark-haired man with a graying beard and eyes as blue as the Mediterranean. She poked Jackson. “Ray Delaney’s on the train.”
Death in D Minor Page 20