“It’s not as if she has to read the documents, just look up the keywords we give her and make photocopies of any records she finds. It will be our task to sift through the documents she collects and see what we can find out about Galerie Van Heemsvliet and the circumstances which led Philip Verbeet to sell his collection, before Karen O’Neil’s lawyer goes to the media,” Bernice snapped back.
“I still think we are wasting our time. The inventory list and bill of sale are enough proof for me. We should recommend Karen O’Neil be awarded the title and be done with this, before it turns into a publicity nightmare for all the institutions involved.”
Bernice exploded, “I am not going to hand Irises over to that woman simply because her lawyer is an arrogant pit bull. We have two weeks before they do anything. I say we investigate these claims as fully as possible within the time remaining and then make our own decision as to what happens next, based on the documents Zelda finds for us.” She inhaled deeply, exhaling noisily before glancing over at her intern apologetically, “You’ll have to excuse us, this sort of situation – two strong claimants for one painting – has never happened before.”
Zelda nodded as she stared back wide-eyed, suddenly aware of the gravity of the task at hand. She’d never done archival research before, at least not on this scale, and definitely not in another language. And to top it off, there was the pressure to find something – anything – that might show them who the real owner of Irises was so all twelve institutions and the Dutch government could protect their reputations. Suddenly unsure of herself, Zelda gulped loudly, wondering if she shouldn’t just say she agreed with Huub, that this was a bad idea.
Sensing her hesitation, Bernice added in a reassuring tone, “We aren’t asking you to draw any conclusions, simply make photocopies of any information you find and bring them to us. Archivists are usually very knowledgeable as well as helpful; if you show them our list of keywords and names, they should be able to locate any relevant documentation in their archive for you, or direct you to another institution that does have the information we’re looking for. If anything else, your photocopies will give our research staff a head start once they return from their vacations. Shall we make an appointment for this Friday at three o’clock? You can hand in whatever information you have found this week to Huub and me then. That way we can go through it all next week.”
“Let me emphasize again what Bernice just said,” the curator cut in brusquely. “You are not to investigate anything, simply look up the records we ask you to and copy them. That is all; understood?” He looked to Zelda for confirmation.
“Understood,” she agreed, fully aware she was not planning on keeping her word.
NINETEEN
“I don’t understand why you’re complaining so much. It sounds like you found a lot of new information in the last three days. I’m sure Bernice will be pleased,” Friedrich responded, while fiddling with the Red Baron’s wiring. He was so engrossed in getting the new remote control for his plane to work properly, Zelda was surprised he’d heard what she’d said.
Not that she really minded he was so distracted. It felt so good to be outside again after spending the last three days shut away indoors, sifting through fifteen years of old Dutch newspapers, searching for anything written about Arjan van Heemsvliet or Philip Verbeet that might give the museum more insight into the types of men they were and the businesses they ran. She breathed in the fresh air, thankful she was done searching through those stuffy newspaper archives and could now relax and enjoy the warm summer evening with her friend, guilt-free. Per usual, Friedrich was already flying one of his many remote-controlled planes around the Museumplein’s vast field when she’d arrived.
“True, I have found out a lot of new stuff about that art dealer, but I still haven’t found a clear connection between him and Rita’s dad. They moved in totally different social circles. And that bitch’s grandma is a total mystery.”
“You mean Karen O’Neil, wife of one of the richest real estate developers in New York City?”
“The recent widow of, God rest his soul.” One look at the disapproval on Friedrich’s face made her blush. “Maybe I should stop calling her ‘the bitch’.”
“Indeed, before you slip and say it to her face.”
Zelda reddened at the thought. That would surely get her fired from her internship, effective immediately.
“Let’s go over what you found again,” Friedrich finally laid his World War One fighter replica down on the blanket next to him and gave Zelda his full attention. “You said the art dealer was a real socialite, right? He was photographed at several galas and charity events?”
Zelda thought back to the pictures she’d found of the young art dealer. Arjan was plain in every sense of the word, almost indistinguishable from his fellow socialites in dress and stance. Fashion dictated the identical black suits, waistcoats and white shirts with wide standing collars they all favored. Even their hair was similarly styled, either slicked back over their skulls or with a sharp parting on one side. The only visible difference between Arjan and the rest was the constant presence of a pocket watch, attached with a thin chain to his waistcoat.
“Based on the articles I found in the Dutch national newspaper archives, I’d say he was. It’s as if he’d been invited to every important event held in Amsterdam between 1932 and his death ten years later. And he was either a trustee or major donator to at least twenty charities, primarily soup kitchens and orphanages run by religious organizations of all denominations. On top of that, he was on the board of directors of six different cultural organizations. I don’t know how he managed to find the time to be so involved,” Zelda shook her head, imagining how harried his schedule must have been.
“Considering the sort of business he ran, all that volunteer work would have been a great way to network with those who have expensive tastes and substantial means.”
“That’s true.”
Friedrich stretched out his skinny legs and flipped his long blond braid back over his shoulder. “You said earlier that Karen O’Neil’s grandmother, Annette Schuppe, also came from a wealthy family. Maybe they met at a charity event?”
“Perhaps they did,” she admitted reluctantly. “Her father, Geert Schuppe, owned a construction company that helped build the Rijksmuseum and several other monuments in Amsterdam. Though I couldn’t find a single mention of Annette in the society pages until 1939, and only then as the escort of another, much older man. She was eighteen at the time.”
“There you go,” Friedrich nodded in satisfaction. “She ran in the same social circles as Arjan van Heemsvliet and was attracted to rich, older men. Sounds like it runs in the genes,” he laughed, referring to Karen’s marriage to Samuel O’Neil, a real estate tycoon who died the previous year at the ripe old age of ninety-five, leaving his fifty-year younger bride one of New York’s richest widows.
It sounded so easy the way Friedrich laid it out. But something was still bothering her. “I guess. It’s just, in all the pictures of Arjan at galas and events, there’s not a single shot of him with a woman. Even at the parties he gave at Galerie Van Heemsvliet, he’s always surrounded by men.” Zelda rushed to get her words out before her friend could scoff at her. “Of course, most of the time he was photographed with museum directors, trustees or other philanthropists…”
“Who were predominately men back then, and even today despite all the hubbub about equal rights in the workplace.”
Zelda nodded, knowing he was right – unfortunately. Newspaper articles and society columns only told so much. There were all kinds of explanations for Arjan van Heemsvliet’s lack of female companionship, in photographs anyway. He and Annette could have met at a charity event but weren’t photographed together. Or maybe his girlfriend was camera-shy. Though in all those society columns she had plowed through, there was not a single mention of a lady in his life. But then, the society pages in the 1930s and 1940s were more concerned with reporting the names and titles
of those attending high profile parties, detailing what their wives were wearing and whose daughter was engaged to whose son, but certainly not the sexual escapades of the Dutch elite. Modern tabloids and gossip columns seemed downright sleazy in comparison. And in reality, Arjan and Annette only had to have been together once to create their daughter, and not necessarily in a long-term relationship which would have been reported on by the press.
“And you found no connection whatsoever between the art dealer and Rita’s father?” Friedrich asked, surprise in his voice.
“Nothing – not one mention of Philip Verbeet in the newspapers or society pages, only a few small advertisements he’d placed throughout the 1930s announcing a broad selection of frames at reasonable prices. The ads must not have cost much, and they only appeared a few times a year.”
“Arjan van Heemsvliet was an art dealer, what if he got his frames made there?”
Like I hadn’t thought of that already, Zelda huffed to herself, frustrated he was drawing the same conclusions she’d had and not offering new insights. How she wished she could talk to Pietro about everything that was going on. They’d had so little contact these last few weeks; his mobile phone was always switched off and he rarely had time to check his email because he was perpetually by his dying grandma’s bedside since she’d taken a turn for the worse. Despite her momentary irritation, she had to admit it was sweet, Pietro’s dedication to his family. And having so little contact only made her want him that much more. Until university resumed next month, she’d have to be content with his sporadic electronic messages telling her how much he loved her and how he couldn’t wait to be with her again in September.
“Arjan could have gotten his frames made at Philip Verbeet’s shop,” she replied evenly. “Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find any records indicating they ever did business together. Hopefully tomorrow, in the city’s archives, I’ll be able to find out more about both the gallery and frame shop. If only Rita still had her dad’s business ledgers,” she sighed, “that would have been the easiest way of finding out if they ever worked together.”
“Well, it sounds like you’re doing the best you can.”
“Bernice said she’s getting a lot of pressure from the museum’s board of trustees to just sign the official recommendation effectively giving Karen full title to the painting. They are now saying the inventory book and bill of sale are proof enough. Bernice’s still pushing the director to give her the full two weeks to investigate Irises’ provenance, but she’s worried the trustees are going to force him to cave in to save face. I guess they’re afraid Karen’s lawyer is going to show up with a television crew one morning and ambush them. And now Ms. O’Neil wants to have her own art conservator examine Irises so he can write up a condition report and tax it. Can you believe that? She doesn’t even have the title yet, but she’s already preparing to sell it.”
“Some nerve.”
“Got that right. It’s such a shame. Bernice, Huub and the others created this exhibition with such good intentions.” Zelda sighed as she looked across the grassy field towards the Van Gogh and Stedelijk Museums. “Anyway, it’s become a point of honor for Bernice not to turn Irises over to Karen or grant her conservator access until I’ve had a chance to check the archives on their list.”
She laid back on the blanket and rested her head on her folded arms so she could gaze up at the cloudless blue sky. “Bernice wants a status report Friday afternoon so she can prove to Karen they’re taking her claim seriously, in the hopes she wouldn’t go to the media before the two weeks are up. I guess she expected me to have found a stronger connection between Arjan van Heemsvliet and Philip Verbeet by now.”
“Come on, you’re doing this research by yourself, and for free I might add. Normally they’d have a whole team of professionals working on these claims, you said so yourself. Bernice can’t expect miracles. Besides, she just wants to see if any new documentation comes to light, not necessarily prove one way or the other who’s painting it really is.”
“I know. It’s just I really wanted to figure this out for her, to be the one to solve the mystery, even if it does mean Karen O’Neil is the real owner. Of course I still hope she’s a fraud and Rita gets to keep Irises. She’s the one who will actually cherish it.”
“Wait a second, solve the mystery? Your assignment is to gather information for Bernice and Huub to sort through, right? You aren’t supposed to draw conclusions of your own.”
“No, of course not,” Zelda quickly replied, as she propped herself up on one elbow. She knew better than to tell her friend she’d made two copies of all the documents and records she’d found so far; a set for herself and another for the museum. Sure, her assignment was to photocopy any relevant documents and let her bosses decipher them, nothing more. Yet neither of her superiors really had time to read through everything she’d found so far. Maybe she could piece together the truth before Huub and Bernice did. She’d surely be guaranteed a place in the university’s master’s program if she managed to do that.
“There’s one thing still bothering me about Karen O’Neil,” she added, hoping to change the subject.
“Just one thing?”
“Irises is an unknown work made by an unknown artist. Even if she sold it, the painting wouldn’t bring in enough to pay for one night at the Amstel Hotel, let alone two weeks. On top of that, she’s got the private investigators’ and lawyers’ fees to think of. Karen’s spending tons of money to claim this ‘worthless Wederstein’, as Huub Konijn calls it. It’s just odd.”
Friedrich shrugged. “Who knows why? Perhaps she’s trying to set a precedent for future claims on the rest of the paintings in her grandfather’s ledger. You know, scare other museums into giving in. You said several pieces on Arjan’s inventory list are worth a small fortune. Or it could be she’s bored. She is super rich; perhaps tracking down and claiming her grandfather’s artwork is simply something to keep her occupied. Couldn’t find a charity she liked, so she started up this crusade.”
“That’s probably it,” she said, forcing a chuckle. Deep down she knew there was something peculiar about Karen’s claim. But without proof Friedrich would never believe anything derogatory she said about the New Yorker, maintaining her own dislike of the woman was seriously impairing her judgment. Zelda knew it was more than that. But for now, she had to let it go.
“Could you get the remote control to work?” she asked, pointing at his Red Baron.
Friedrich nodded enthusiastically, “I think so, shall we find out?”
“Sure,” Zelda said, turning to face the warm summer sun as her friend prepared his little plane for take-off.
TWENTY
Karen was so easy to manipulate. Love struck since their first rendezvous in New York City five years earlier, she’d been hounding him relentlessly since her husband’s death nine months ago. Konrad Heider knew she would be perfect for the job at hand; pliable, completely self-absorbed and greedy as only the absurdly rich could be. She’d been so gob-smacked by the contents of Arjan van Heemsvliet’s inventory list she hadn’t even heard him explain why he needed her help claiming it. Not that he expected her to check and see if the artwork really belonged to his childless godfather or not. It didn’t matter what she believed, as long as she went along with his plans and didn’t ask too many questions. Callous as she was, he knew she wouldn’t stand by his side if she discovered the real reason why he couldn’t claim Irises himself, or any of the other paintings listed in Van Heemsvliet’s inventory book.
After slipping his horn-rimmed glasses back onto his nose, his thoughts turned again to their meetings with the exhibition’s project team and Leo de Boer, director of the Amsterdam Museum. They had definitely not gone as he had envisioned. After so willingly presenting Rita Brouwer as the rightful owner during the exhibition’s opening, he’d expected the threat of embarrassing them in the press to be enough to scare them into cooperating. He’d counted on De Boer caring more about his museum’
s reputation than one insignificant painting created by an unknown artist.
But no. The museum’s director was even less receptive to Karen’s demands of immediate restitution than Bernice Dijkstra and Huub Konijn had been. Despite his deep regret at the emotional trauma Karen had been subjected to, under no circumstances would the painting be returned to anyone before both claims could be fully investigated.
“Damn it!” Konrad swore aloud in his native German tongue. He had to get his hands on that blasted Wederstein, no matter what the cost. It must be the key to finding his family’s treasures. His uncle had become convinced Irises was the missing link; somewhere hidden in its frame or canvas was a clue to the whereabouts of the rest. Why else would Arjan van Heemsvliet’s cohort have packed that painting in his suitcase, instead of one of the many masterpieces in the art dealer’s possession?
If only his uncle had taken Irises with him. A wistful sigh escaped his lips as he thought of how his life might have been, without this wretched search dominating it. His uncle was lucky to have escaped Amsterdam at all after the Nazis unexpected surrender, only a week after Adolf Hitler’s reported suicide. And he did manage to carry a few pieces back, Konrad reminded himself, smiling as he thought about the etchings hanging in his study.
Leo de Boer had ten days to sign the official letter recommending Karen be awarded sole claim to the Wederstein or he’d be forced to steal it. There was no way he was going to wait for the Restitution Committee’s researchers to decide the painting’s fate. He was pleasantly surprised the documents Karen presented to the exhibition’s project team passed their initial scrutiny, but he knew he wouldn’t be so lucky once professional researchers and documentation experts got involved. They would not be so easily misled by his quickly conceived forgeries. And only an official recommendation signed by the museum’s director would get him around that hurdle.
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