Prom Friday

by J. M. Davis

  Chapter 2

  The plane landed at La Guardia fifteen minutes later than scheduled. His carry-on bag strapped over his shoulder, Philip hurried through the terminal. After he passed through the doorway, marked Ground Transportation, he scanned the area until he spotted a man wearing a traditional chauffeur’s uniform. The man, a cap covering most of his gray hair, noticed him and approached.

  “Hi, Joseph.”

  Joseph reached for his bag. “Welcome back, Mr. Lewellan. I must be losing my mind. It seems like only yesterday you flew out of here.”

  Trying to appear amused, Philip said, “You’re not losing your mind.” His forced smile faded. “I hope I haven’t lost mine.”

  He jumped in the limousine and handed an address to Joseph. “Take me here first, then the hotel.”

  “The James Walker Chapman Art Gallery it is.”

  Forty minutes later, Joseph pulled the limousine over and stopped.

  Philip gazed out the window. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  “Yes, sir.” Joseph pointed to an old brick structure packed between two scruffy looking facades. “The one in the center has to be it.”

  “Wait here.” Philip said.

  The hand-carved wooden door, dried and cracked from sun and rain, could have used some stain. A brass nameplate, tarnished so dark the raised letters James Walker Chapman Art Gallery were almost unreadable, confirmed he had arrived at the correct location.

  The foyer was well maintained, nothing like the exterior of the building. Pale green walls lined the entry. The odor of fresh paint hung in the air as he glanced at the four paintings displayed in the hallway, two on each side of two open archways leading to two rooms, one to his left and one to his right. At the end of the hallway a third open archway opposite the entry door allowed a limited view of a third room. More paintings displayed on its walls.

  “Hello,” Philip called.

  There was no response.

  He raised his voice and tried again. “Is anyone here?” Again, no response. You’d think someone would be delighted to greet a customer entering this place.

  Against the wall on the other side of the archway to his left were landscapes. Others hung above them. Upon entering the room, the sound of a muted alarm in the background disrupted the only other sound, a whistling return air vent in the ceiling. Gazing around the room, a portrait displayed on the wall to his right caught his attention. Illuminated by a light mounted above it, what he had come for was a mere few steps away. He walked close enough to reach out and touch it.

  The brochure photo had not done it justice. The details were flawless. Her brown eyes looked happy and inquiring, the way he remembered. Her hair had been longer the day she disappeared, but the color was right, dark brown, almost black. Scanning down the painting he focused on the smile that had stolen his heart the moment he first saw her. All of her features, so real, he wanted to reach out for her. And the necklace, painted in exquisite quality. The pearls appeared almost three dimensional. The overlapping twists and unique weave of the platinum links connected each pearl to the next. Hair pulled back over her right ear, exposed one of the matching black pearl earrings. The necklace and earrings, his gift to Renée on their second wedding anniversary, were his own custom design.

  Farther down, the little girl, with blue eyes, looked up at her mother. Her eyes and hair color like his, but she had her mother’s mouth. She’s precious. His heart raced.

  The alarm went silent. Moments later, approaching footsteps on the black and white ceramic tiled floor preceded a short man with white hair at the doorway. In his late fifties or early sixties, he appeared to take a quick assessment. His eyes cut a path from head to toe as he approached.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she.”

  Philip stared at the man.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to interrupt your concentration. I’m here to help. If you have any questions, it would be my pleasure to address them.”

  “What can you tell me about this painting?”

  The man smiled and extended his hand. “Roscoe Chapman.”

  He grabbed his hand and shook it. “Philip Lewellan.”

  “Randellini is an artist best known for his life-like portraits in oil. Do you notice how her dark brown eyes seem to study us as closely as we study her?”

  “Yes, I know those eyes.”

  Chapman hesitated, and then said, “Randellini captures the soul of a woman better than most artists of our time. Her hair looks so real it makes you feel even the smallest breeze would blow it across her face.”

  “Yes, thank you. Please tell me what else you know about this painting.”

  Chapman glanced at it. “I was quite surprised when it arrived. I don’t get many from him.”

  “I’m interested in finding out about the woman in the portrait. Do you know who she is?”

  Chapman put his hand to his chin. “That’s strange.”

  “What’s strange?”

  “Another man came in here a few days ago and asked me the same question.”

  “Who was the gentleman?”

  Chapman lowered his hand and rolled his eyes. “Sir, he was no gentleman. I can assure you. He never gave me his name. He was displeased when I told him Rudolf Randellini died over twelve years ago, and I had no way of knowing who the woman was. He stormed out of here mumbling words I don’t care to repeat.”

  Philip turned and gazed at the little girl. “This work is more recent than that, within the last year or two.” He turned toward Chapman. “You have no information in your files to help me find her?”

  Chapman shook his head. “Most definitely not, but you are correct, sir. I was merely stating what I told the other man. After he left, I decided to do some checking. I don’t know as much about art as my father. This gallery was his passion. After he became ill, he tried to teach me the business. Unfortunately, it was too late by then.”

  “I’m truly sorry about your father, but I must find this woman.”

  “Thank you, sir. Rudolf and my father were close friends. My father, deeply saddened by Rudolf’s death, sold many of his paintings over the years. This one was not done by Rudolf Randellini. Regrettably, I gave the other man erroneous information. Not intentionally, of course, but all the same I believe it probably cost me the sale.”

  “This painting is a fake?”

  Chapman jerked his head up, raised his voice slightly and said, “No, sir, it is not.”

  Pointing to the signature, Philip said, “It’s signed R Randellini. What else am I to think?”

  “I see your point, sir, but I can explain. This one was shipped with two other older paintings from France. I assumed all three were from Rudolf’s collection. I have since learned Rudolf’s son, Ramsel painted this portrait, not his father, Rudolf.”

  “You described how Randellini could—”

  “Capture the soul of a woman better than most artists of our time. Yes, sir, the artist capable of matching Rudolf’s ability is Rudolf’s son, Ramsel.”

  He glared at Chapman. One hoped to get simple straight forward information, but Chapman’s approach seemed to be anything but that.

  “If you’re disappointed, sir, I have the two by Ru—”

  ”I’m only interested in paintings of this woman.”

  Chapman shook his head. “I only have this one of her.”

  “Do you know when Ramsel completed it?”

  “As you thought, within the last year. After I reviewed the records more closely, I realized Rudolf’s son had to be the artist.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “I suppose I could get that information for you.”

  Picking up on Chapman’s hint, he asked, “How much for the painting?”

  “I can let you have it for five thousand.”

  It’s the proof he needed. “I wish to take it with me along with the information on Ramsel Randellini.” Pulling a credit card from his wallet brought a smile to Chapman’s face.
>
  “Yes, of course,” responded Chapman. He beamed and grabbed the card. “It will only take me a moment, sir.” He turned and walked toward his office.

  While he waited for Chapman to run the card, Philip read the name of the portrait again. My Sweet Beautiful Rachel. Painted within the last year. He removed his cell phone and took several photos of the painting. He should call Copeland. No one knew more about the case. But would she be willing to help him after what he had put her through?

  At the time, the detective seemed too young and inexperienced to lead the investigation. His requests for a more seasoned person had been denied. He was told Detective Sandra Copeland had outperformed her equals as well as older and more experienced detectives. If anyone could find his wife, she would.

  His thoughts were interrupted once again by the sound of footsteps. Chapman approached with a frown. “I have bad news. I should have checked the status of the painting after I returned from lunch. My assistant accepted an offer while I was out. I’m sorry, but this painting is no longer available.” He held out the credit card.

  Philip took it and said, “Can you tell me who made the offer?”

  “That’s not our policy. My assistant accepted it and confirmed the sale by e-mail.”

  “Tell them you have another buyer for the painting.”

  Chapman stared at him. “Another buyer? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll pay them three times the price they paid you for the painting. In addition, you could earn a nice fee. Let’s say, ten thousand for brokering the deal, if you can get it done today.”

  Chapman’s eyes widened. “I’ll try my best, sir.”

  That was more like it. He held out a business card. “I expect to hear from you no later than this evening. Do you have the information on Randellini?”

  “Yes,” Chapman said, taking the card. “He lives in Paris, but like his late father, spends a lot of time in New York. He maintains his father’s old studio apartment, not far from the Brooklyn Bridge. In fact, according to my assistant, he could be in town as we speak.”

  Chapman handed him a piece of paper. “Here’s the address. I’m sorry I can’t give you a telephone number. Ramsel detests them, but I’m told he often dines at the River Café, a nice restaurant near the bridge. If he’s not at his apartment, you might find him there this evening.”

  “Thank you.” He took the paper and glanced at the address. Brooklyn.

  “It is I who want to thank you, sir. Please accept my apologies for my lack of knowledge about the woman in the painting.”

  Philip left the gallery. As he approached the limo, Joseph opened the rear door. He handed Joseph the address. “Take me to this address.”

  Before he closed the door, Joseph glanced at it and said, “Brooklyn it is.”

  What if Chapman doesn’t come through? Without physical evidence, getting Copeland out of Dallas would be like getting Washington out of the dollar bill. There had to be a way to get her to New York, painting or no painting in hand.

  Joseph started the car. Philip pushed the button that lowered the privacy window. “Joseph, I need to make stop before we cross the bridge.”