by Nupur Tustin
“So you recognize these?” Blake probed. “He showed them to you?”
“No. Hugh Norton discovered that Tony had gone back to forgery. He was absolutely distraught. He knew we were engaged, so he felt honor-bound to tell my father—”
“Who insisted you break it off with your fiancé,” Julia guessed.
Catching movement out of the corner of his eyes, Blake swiveled around in time to see Celine approaching an end table. She snatched up a bronze gu-like vessel.
“That would’ve been around the time Tony made these, right? One for your mother, too?”
“My aunt,” Sofia explained.
Celine frowned as though the explanation didn’t make sense. “Your father’s wife is—”
“My aunt,” Sofia said firmly. “My mother died a few years after Tony showed up here.”
“But he is your father?”
“He would like to be,” Sofia said.
“But—?”
Sofia shook her head. “I don’t want to discuss my family, okay? It isn’t relevant.”
Time to take back the reins of conversation, Blake decided. “There’s just one thing I want to ascertain: These were not in Tony’s possession when you broke up with him, were they?”
“No, I told you. Hugh Norton found them.”
“And took them away.” Things were beginning to fall into place. “The question is”—he looked at Julia and Celine—“how did they get back into his warehouse?”
“They were planted,” Celine said immediately. Was she reading his mind? Or had she worked that out?
“Nonsense!” Sofia scoffed. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”
“To confuse the issue,” Blake said. He was about to continue when Julia interrupted.
“How do you even know they were planted? Does the security camera footage show that? Are you saying Sofia here brought them in?”
“The footage from the night he was killed is missing,” he told her. “There’s a clear jump in the video—evidence it was tampered with.”
“By whoever killed him?”
“Who else?” he asked.
“Couldn’t they have been looking for whatever it was Sofia was in search of?”
“His killer found it,” Sofia gasped. But Blake ignored her, responding to Julia instead.
“They could have, but clearly they didn’t find it. Why break into Annabelle’s cottage and Celine’s?” He turned to Celine. “Ella filled me in.”
He was letting her know that he was aware she’d avoided calling him; she had his cell phone number. She’d chosen not to call. Not that he could blame her after his behavior last evening.
But he didn’t have to like it.
Color rushed into Celine’s pale cheeks. Her eyes darted away. Was he still unforgiven?
Had they been alone, he’d have pressed her for an answer. But now—now there were other matters to deal with. He forced his mind back to Sofia Wozniak.
“What exactly was it you were looking for?”
She bit her lip, uncertain. “I’ll need to talk with my friend before I discuss this with you. It’s a question of her divorce. The alimony she’s owed.” She spread her hands wide, begging him to understand.
“Can you give us her name? Persuade her to talk to us?” Blake didn’t think anything he could do or say would make Sofia budge. And the problem was he understood her reluctance all too well.
“I can’t. Please, you’ve got to understand. I can’t risk having her husband find out where she is.”
“If she comes forward,” Celine suddenly said, “can you protect her?” Her eyes were on him—vividly green. They were both remembering the shots that had killed Grayson Pike four months back. She’d asked if they could protect him. And he’d said yes.
And then failed miserably. Failed to protect Grayson. Failed to protect her. She was still staring at him, eager, hopeful.
Blake wished he could be as confident as he’d been back then. Wished he could provide the reassurance she wanted. But he couldn’t lie to her.
“I can’t provide any guarantees. You know that, Celine.”
She didn’t answer, turning to Sofia instead. “You’re right to fear for your friend, Sofia. She is in danger. I just think it might be far worse if she remains hidden instead of coming forward. They will find her. No matter how careful you are, they will find her.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Penny was not available to meet when they arrived at the Gardner Museum.
“I’m afraid Ms. Hoskins is still at a meeting,” the woman behind the reception desk in the lobby informed Celine. “It’s running late, and she sends her apologies.” The receptionist’s gaze—appropriately regretful—swept past Celine to encompass Julia and Blake as well.
It was obviously an act, but one that Celine appreciated, nevertheless. The woman had deliberately adopted a tone and manner calculated to assuage any feelings of resentment the prospect of a long wait might induce.
It was soothing.
Just what you needed in someone hired to greet visitors. And just what Celine herself needed. She smiled gratefully at the woman.
“But you’re welcome to wait in the living room.” With a graceful hand, the receptionist pointed westward. “It’s back that way, and to your right.”
The session in the Richard E. Floor living room was coming to an end—the host for the week and the visitors who’d shared his collection preparing to head out for lunch. But the buttery aroma of freshly baked shortbread and steaming Brazilian coffee drew Celine in.
She lifted the pot and turned, about to offer a cup to Julia, when she realized—with a sinking sensation of dismay—that it was Blake who’d followed her to the refreshments table.
Her eyes searched the room, locating Julia amidst the departing throng. The former fed had gone up to the host, engaging him in conversation about what looked like an eclectic collection of meteorites, stamps, and Russian nested dolls.
Celine couldn’t imagine coming up with the words to discuss a collection like the one showcased here. But Julia had never wanted for words and never seemed to have any compunctions about engaging perfect strangers in conversation. An excellent trait for anyone in law enforcement to have.
If only she hadn’t chosen to exercise it at that precise moment. Celine didn’t want to be left alone with Blake.
She forced herself to meet his eyes. “Like some coffee?” she offered, giving the pot a slight wiggle.
“Sure thing.” To her astonishment, he stepped forward, took the pot from her in one easy motion, poured out a cup, handed it to her, and then poured himself one.
“Listen, about last evening,” he began after he’d taken a sip from his Styrofoam cup.
“It’s fine.” She cut short his apology. “You don’t always have to agree with me.”
“I know.” He smiled warmly at her. “But I don’t always have to be an ass about it.”
His eyes rested on her face, intent, serious, expressing a need she wasn’t ready to deal with.
She looked down, chewing on her lip.
“I shouldn’t resent questions,” she said, wanting to deflect them both onto a safer path. “They force me to think and see more clearly. I’m no use to you if I can’t answer the specific questions you have.”
He remained silent for a while, then he took the hint, retreating to more mundane matters.
“You were right about Hugh Norton. I’m beginning to realize that.”
She listened carefully as he filled her in.
“It’s a funny kind of coincidence, isn’t it,” she said, “that the partial Jonah got from Sofia’s car matches Hugh Norton’s car as well.”
“Down to the make and model,” Blake agreed. “But I don’t think Sofia was driving his car.”
“No, she’d have told us if she was. I’m guessing, it’s more likely that the car belongs to her friend—the one she’s helping.”
“I should ask Ella to concentrate on the women on that
DMV list,” Blake said.
They sipped their coffee companionably, watching Julia making her way around the room, animatedly chatting with the few visitors who lingered in the room.
“Wish I had that woman’s ability to schmooze,” Blake said.
Celine laughed. “You and me both.”
He turned abruptly to her. “How in the world did you figure out Reynolds had been a forger? And how did you two manage to locate Sofia?”
She shrugged. “I just put together the images I’d been seeing with what we learned about him at the Cambridge Sculptors’ Association. He was an extraordinarily talented painter, but he chose to keep that side of him shrouded. It wasn’t hard to understand why.”
“I guess not.” Blake downed his coffee and tossed the cup into a nearby trashcan. “Those unsigned paintings of his Sofia’s store sold—they’ll be worth several thousand now.”
“If they ever come to light, yes—now that he’s dead.” She shuddered. “I hate that aspect of the art world. It takes a good story to sell a work of art. Not the art itself or any intrinsic merit it has. His paintings—good or not—will be valuable just because of who they’re by and the way he was murdered.”
She’d realized when Sofia had been telling them about it that Hugh Norton had ensured the paintings were left unsigned so no one could ever find the artist, tell him how much they’d appreciated his work, and commission more. Norton would use that fact to convince Reynolds he had no future in painting.
That his only contribution to the art world would be as a forger. It was a cruel deception.
She clenched her fists, fingernails digging into her palms.
“We’ve got to take Hugh Norton down, Blake. We’ve just got to do it.”
“We will, Celine.” His fingers closed over her wrist. “Trust me, we will.”
She appreciated the words but sensed Blake was providing a reassurance he didn’t feel himself.
After a pause, he continued. “Did Reynolds guide you to Sofia?”
She nodded. “Yup. He needs her to know the truth.” Celine shook her head. “She’s so convinced he’s a criminal, though.”
“You can’t blame her,” Blake said gently. “She saw the forgeries—the paint still fresh. What was she supposed to think?”
“He was touching them up for a deal they’d struck—stolen art as collateral for a loan to buy drugs. Reynolds had probably raised Cain about doing it, so Norton and the General got back at him in the only way they knew how. By destroying his relationship with Sofia.”
Something stirred in her brain. A wisp of a clue. She tried to home in on it, but Blake’s grip tightening around her wrist distracted her.
“That was a low blow,” he murmured.
What was a low blow, she wondered. Then she remembered. Oh, yes. The way Hugh Norton had eliminated Sofia from Reynolds’ life. Twisting their love, turning it into hatred.
Chapter Sixty-Two
“Ah, there you are.” Penny hurried into the Richard E. Floor living room. “Renata over at reception said I’d find you here. I’m so sorry I’m late.”
She included Celine and Julia in her smile, but her eyes were on Blake. She looked hopefully at him now. “Anything at the warehouse?”
“A couple of forged Rembrandts and a forged Flinck.”
“Copies of our stolen works?”
“Afraid so.”
He hated to admit that. It was an admission not just of failure, but of a lead that had brought them tantalizingly close to recovering the museum’s lost art only to fizzle away.
Penny was taking it remarkably well, though. “Don’t tell me they were Reynolds’ creations.”
“Planted in his warehouse. But yes, they were his works. He’d been forced into it.”
Penny’s eyebrows rose as he added this last bit. “By?” she asked.
Blake shot a warning glance at Celine and Julia before he responded. Mentioning Hugh Norton’s name before they had any solid proof of his involvement would be a mistake. They seemed to understand.
His gaze reverted back to Penny’s curious features.
“By the men responsible for his death.”
She frowned, turning to Celine. “Then I don’t understand his message to you. The Flemish oak cabinet in the Dutch room. That wasn’t the only item stolen.”
Blake had no idea what Penny was talking about. But a single arrow of understanding pierced through the fog of uncertainty that enshrouded him—what stolen item? What oak cabinet?—and jolted him into a painful awareness.
Reynolds had conveyed a message to Celine—one that she’d shared with Penny and Julia. But not him.
It was small comfort to see that Celine and Julia seemed as nonplussed as he.
“What stolen item, Penny?” Celine managed at last. She turned to him. “I had a dream last night. I was looking at the south wall, at the empty frames of the stolen Rembrandts, when Reynolds spun me around and told me I was looking in the wrong direction.”
All right, that made sense. He felt the hot turbulence that had welled up within himself easing away.
“I thought Penny might know what he meant,” Celine continued.
She turned from him to Penny.
“I do” Penny’s eyes sought his, puzzled. “Or at least I thought I did. But if Reynolds had access to the Rembrandt oils and the Flinck panel, why would he focus on the least valuable item stolen?”
He had no answer to that. But Celine fortunately did.
“He didn’t have access to the originals, Penny. All he had were photographs. I imagine that’s all the General had as well.”
Penny’s face cleared. “Okay, I guess I understand why he was pointing you to the Flemish oak cabinet, then.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
“I’m sorry I was so short with you this morning,” Penny looked over her shoulder at Celine as she led the way into the Dutch Room. She’d managed to have the gallery cleared of its visitors before taking them in.
“I understand,” Celine brushed aside the apology. “You had a lot on your plate. The memorial—”
“Oh my goodness, yes!” Penny gasped, stopping abruptly just inside the threshold and turning around. Her hand rushed up to cover her mouth. “I meant to mention it to you. You’re invited—all three of you, of course.” Her eyes glided swiftly over the three of them. “It’s tomorrow and Sunday, with the main events scheduled for Sunday.”
“We’ll be there,” Julia assured her. “Yup.” Blake nodded his assent as well.
“It’s a good thing you’re psychic, Celine.” Penny spun around and headed left. “My memory’s an absolute sieve these days. I wouldn’t have remembered to tell you about the memorial until it was too late.”
“Actually, we heard about it at the Cambridge Sculptors’ Association,” Celine found herself saying. Damn. Why had she opened her big mouth? And after she’d decided not to say anything, too.
Just as she’d expected, Penny was instantly distracted.
She turned to face Celine. “Were they able to recommend someone?”
“Mitch Finlay.” Celine contained her rising impatience. Penny had evidently deciphered Reynolds’ message to her; Celine could hardly wait to discover the significance of the oak cabinet. But here they were talking about Mitch Finlay.
“Is he going to be here?” Julia asked.
“Oh, yes. I expect you know they were quite close at one time, sharing a studio.” She turned to Blake. “It might be useful for your investigation to speak with Mitch.”
“Absolutely,” Blake agreed readily enough. Then much to Celine’s relief, he turned the conversation back to the all-important matter at hand. “But why don’t you tell us what you wanted to show us.”
Penny grinned. “I can’t believe you haven’t guessed yet.” Her heels tapped sharply on the floor as she strode toward the oak cabinet and stood before it. “Although I have to admit it took me a while to figure it out myself. But I still don’t understand how Tony Reynolds could
be so sure—”
Celine couldn’t help herself, interrupting Penny midstream. “What exactly did you find out, Penny? Did Reynolds leave something in the cabinet?” It was a more logical conclusion than to suppose he’d handed over clues when they’d met—it seemed eons ago—back at the Mechelen.
It had been Tuesday, she realized with a shock, that they’d met. Just three days ago. Tony had still been alive then. She’d seen the Lady—Belle Gardner—drifting in and out of her vision, and mistakenly assumed Reynolds would cause her demise.
How wrong she’d been.
There was a death connection between them all right. But Reynolds wasn’t meant to be her agent of death. He’d merely shared the misfortune of being in the sights of the same hunter.
The thoughts faded and Penny’s chatter filtered back into her consciousness.
“I’d just about given up and was about to leave when my skirt brushed against this frame.” Penny moved to the side of the cabinet beneath the large self-portrait the thieves had omitted to take. “Do you see it?”
She looked over at them, a slender, well-manicured forefinger pointing to a thick gold frame.
“We keep forgetting that was the third Rembrandt stolen. Not the most valuable one. But a Rembrandt nevertheless.”
Compared to the self-portrait that hung above the cabinet, the empty frame on the side of the cabinet was tiny.
“You mean he was referring to the etching?” Celine stared at the gold frame, stunned. “Reynolds had information about the self-portrait Rembrandt etched?”
“Created in roughly the same period as the self-portrait in oil, yes,” Penny said. “They were also coincidentally the first two Rembrandts Mrs. Gardner acquired. That’s why they were placed together.”
“So that’s the connection between that portrait”—Julia raised her eyes toward it—“and the stolen Rembrandt Reynolds discovered.”