The Art Forger

by Barbara Shapiro

  “It’s not about the show. You know that. It’s you. In here. It’s about what they might do—”

  “My beautiful Claire.” Aiden stands and opens his door, turns back and gives me a crooked smile. “Don’t you know I’m going to need all the money from the sale of your fabulous paintings for my defense fund?”

  WHEN SANDRA STONEHAM ushers me into her apartment, I take a moment in the entryway to examine Amelia. There’s no doubt Virgil Rendell had the technical skills to pull off a high-quality forgery of Degas’ After the Bath, but why would he? Could he have stolen the original and replaced it with his own? Could he have blackmailed Belle, forcing her to turn over the real one and replacing it with a forgery? Could the original have been lost or destroyed and Belle hired him to paint a replacement? But the whys and hows are inconsequential in light of Aiden’s current situation.

  “Did your aunt know Virgil Rendell?” I ask, as I try to determine the direction of his brushstrokes.

  She furrows her brow. “I thought you were looking for famous painters?”

  “I am. Yes, I am, but this Rendell is quite good. I guess, I’m just kind of more curious, seeing the painting here, than actually considering him for my book.”

  Sandra looks at me strangely. “Not that I know of.”

  I throw a pointed glance at the closed mahogany doors leading to the parlor, hoping she’ll give me a peek at her more traditional artwork. But if she notices my curiosity, she chooses to ignore it and motions me to follow her down the opposite hallway.

  “I found a few boxes in the attic,” she says, when we reach the living room, “I’ve only just started going through them, but I’ve been having a great time. I found all sorts of lovely things I forgot were there. I’ve decided that, while I still have my faculties, I’m going to do a thorough catalog of each and every one.” She points to items scattered on the coffee table: a pillbox with a tiny ballerina carved on its broken lid, a porcelain doll, a handful of old coins, a sheaf of photos, yellowed newspaper clippings. “These are important pieces of history.”

  “Seems like a worthwhile project,” I say, although at first glance, I don’t see anything that looks important to history. Or to me.

  “But, unfortunately,” she continues, “I haven’t found a single item of Aunt Belle’s.” She purses her lips. “The museum has a stranglehold on everything that belonged to her. Every painting, every art object, even her clothes and the few letters that remain.”

  “Because of the conditions of her will?” I ask.

  “Because of the museum’s interpretation of the conditions of her will,” Sandra corrects.

  “So unfair to the family,” I sympathize.

  I’m rewarded by a smile. “As the kids say, ‘You got that right.’ “

  I look from the coffee table to the half-dozen cartons on the floor. I’m not at all sure what I’m looking for, but I’m sure it isn’t a broken pillbox.

  “I haven’t gone through all of them, but it seems to be mostly paper. Documents and mementos and such. As I told you on the phone, it all appears to be mainly from the twentieth century. Mostly my mother’s. The women in our family have always been the savers, the legacy keepers. Something a family, rather than an institution, should do.”

  “You got that right.” I grin at her. “Early twentieth century could work.”

  “As you know, Aunt Belle lived until 1924, so, with any luck, maybe you’ll stumble on something I missed,” Sandra says, but her tone implies she doubts that very much. “Well, they’re all yours. I’ll be on the other side of the apartment paying bills, so just give a yell if you need me.”

  As she walks into the back of the apartment, I sit on the floor and reach for the first box. I lift up a stack of newspaper clippings. But as my fingers close around them, they fracture like thin sheets of crystal and fall back into the box, unreadable slivers of dust and yellow paper.

  Since Aiden’s arrest, I haven’t had more than an hour of uninterrupted sleep; the visual of his broken finger won’t leave my mind. I push the newspaper slivers to the bottom, so I can see what else is inside. I’ve got only a couple of hours before I have to be at Markel G. All my paintings have been framed and delivered, and Kristi needs me to inspect them before they can be hung. An object in motion.

  I dig into the box. Love letters written during World War I, photos of children presumably long dead, crushed flowers, yellowed report cards filled with perfectly rounded script, menus from restaurants popular in the 1930s. A delicate mantilla, moth-and perhaps mouse-eaten, that, when it was white and proud, must have been its owner’s prize possession. I press my fingers to the graying, threadbare material, taking some comfort in the smallness, the unimportance, of an individual existence.

  I scoot over to the next box. This one’s filled with baby clothes and more unyielding dolls that don’t look like they could have been much fun to play with. One has a painted face reminiscent of the Wicked Witch of the West. Right away, the third box looks more promising. Everything in it appears to be older. House accounts from 1894 through 1898, a photo of a family, horribly trussed in nineteenth-century garb, each one more stiff and repressed looking than the next. But no Belle.

  Then I find a notebook with the initials “VR” in the top right-hand corner. It’s full of difficult-to-read hen scratching, some dated, some not. A journal. The first semilegible date is either 1884 or 1885 and the last one seems to be 1889. I quickly skim the pages, hoping to find a name. It’s obvious that the author is a young man madly in love with a girl named Amelia, who’s sitting for a portrait he’s painting. It has to belong to Virgil Rendell. My heart begins to pound. The timing fits, as does the writer being a painter. But why would his journal be in the Gardner family attic?

  I stop turning pages when I see a mention of Belle, or Mrs. Jack, as he refers to her. And as far as I can make out, none of what’s written about her is flattering.

  “Mrs. Jack is the most bull-headed woman I have ever known.”

  “Amelia won’t stand for it and neither will I.”

  “She’s her aunt, not her mother.”

  “Just because she’s rich and knows all the right people, that doesn’t mean we have to fall to our knees and do as she commands.”

  There’s a lot more scribbling; clearly, this was not meant to be read by anyone but the writer. Yet, every page or so, a readable sentence stands out. “Sumner Prescott is a prig and Amelia will never agree to marry him.” And toward the end: “Belle Gardner is such a hypocrite, pretending to be the renegade of Boston society, while harboring her belief in the superiority of her own ‘class’ to the detriment of her niece’s happiness. I shall never again step foot in Green Hill or her horrid, overfurnished Beacon Street house. Nor will I have anything to do with Mrs. Jack ever again.”

  So much for my theory that Belle hired him to paint the forgery. I glance down at my watch. It’s already past three. Kristi has begun limiting the gallery’s hours to avoid the press, and she was adamant that I check the paintings today. I hesitate, then put Virgil’s journal back in the box and call out to Sandra that I have to get going.

  “I haven’t finished going through this box yet,” I tell her when she comes in. “But I’m late for a meeting downtown …” I let the sentence dangle, hoping she’ll offer to let me take it with me.

  “I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon cooking for Thanksgiving,” she says. “If you’d like to come by then and finish up, it’s fine with me.”

  I take her up on her offer and speed to the Green Line. As I wait in the cold for the trolley, I run Rendell’s words through my head. Nor will I have anything to do with Mrs. Jack ever again.

  Obviously, Amelia did marry Prescott instead of Rendell, presumably due to the influence of her rich and powerful aunt, who felt Virgil’s family lineage wasn’t good enough for her niece. It would give the story a Shakespearian twist if Rendell had decided to exact revenge. What better way to destroy Isabella Stewart Gardner than to steal one of her
most valuable paintings and replace it with a forgery?

  From the pen of

  ISABELLA STEWART GARDNER

  January, 1898

  Paris, France

  My dearest Amelia,

  As soon as you open this letter, take it to a private place and read it only when you are sure you are truly alone. Then, when you have finished, you must burn it and ensure the ashes are also destroyed. This might sound a bit hysterical, but when you read on, you will understand. I should not be putting these thoughts onto paper, but I must talk of it with someone, and I desperately need your guidance in this matter.

  I have gotten myself into a most extraordinary pickle. Oh Amelia, I have been so very foolish! Remember how, last summer at Green Hill, we discussed my meetings with Mr. Edgar Degas at his studio, and I said I would do everything all over again? Well, I was wrong. So very wrong. If only I could take it all back!

  Just before we left for London last October, I received a cable from Edgar telling me he had heard we would be abroad this winter. He said that I must come to visit as he had a surprise for me. I did a bit of rearranging of our itinerary and managed to get us to Paris for Christmas. On arrival, I immediately left a card at Edgar’s apartments.

  The next afternoon, he turned up unannounced at our hotel. Your Uncle Jack was at the Free Masons with, coincidentally, none other than your father-in-law, whom I assume you are aware is in Paris for the holidays. He is such a fine man, and I am deeply gratified that you and your children are Prescotts. I shudder to think where another choice might have brought you. But I digress.

  Edgar’s carriage was parked outside the hotel, and he whisked me away to his studio. “What do you suppose this surprise might be, my dear Mrs. Gardner?” he asked, as we rode along the wide boulevards.

  Of course, I was hoping it was a picture, but I didn’t want to be disappointed or insult him if this was not the case. “Another gown?”

  Edgar chuckled and told the driver to go faster. “Perhaps it is,” he told me. “I fear you might have guessed.” But his eyes twinkled in such a way that I knew I had not.

  I cannot tell you how excited I was. I knew it had to be a painting for my new museum, but I did not know the style in which he had painted it or whether it would be a gift or require payment. I am sure you can guess my hopes on both of these matters.

  When we entered his studio, a large canvas sat on an easel in the center of the room. It was covered with a sheet. I pressed my hand to my breast to control the beating of my heart. I tell you, Amelia, I was afraid it would leap from my chest, so hard was it pounding. Edgar watched me, his face alight with pleasure.

  “Show me,” I begged, like a child on Christmas morning. “Please.”

  “Settle yourself, my dear girl,” he said, pointing to the sofa. “Shall I call the maid to bring tea?”

  “No,” I said, not caring that I was being unpardonably rude. “I want to see my—your—picture.”

  He laughed outright. “If only you were a man with that spirit. Just think of the things you could accomplish!”

  I crossed my arms and glared at him. “I shall remind you, sir, that I am in the process of accomplishing many things. Most of which I see no man doing at all.”

  “You are exactly right, my dear Belle,” he said. “I apologize to you and toutes les femmes.”

  He bowed in my direction, then pulled the sheet from the canvas with a flourish.

  At first, all I could take in was the brilliance of his colors. Blue, green, and coral burst into the room as if they were alive. The depth of the values, the saturation of the paint! The brushwork! It is a tour de force! The man is a genius, and I applauded myself for convincing him to return to his early classical style.

  “My fifth and last After the Bath,” he said proudly. “Do you like it?”

  I blinked and focused on the composition. It is a depiction of three nudes toweling themselves dry, not an unusual subject for Edgar. But this is so much superior to his recent work, translucent layers of vibrant color set on top of one another, expressing the inexpressible with a luminosity that can only be the finger of God. I wanted to touch it so badly that I had to clench my fists to keep my arms by my sides.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  I tore my eyes from the painting and looked at him. “Like it?” I breathed. “It is your masterpiece.”

  “So you will accept it? As a gift for your new museum?”

  And although this is what I had hoped for, prayed for, I was momentarily speechless.

  Edgar’s face clouded with concern. Did he really believe I might say no?

  “Of course!” I cried. “Of course, I accept it. I’ll cherish it. It shall hang in one of the most prominent places in the museum.”

  “Only one of the most prominent?” he teased.

  “The most prominent! Absolutely,” I promised.

  He beamed. “Then champagne rather than tea? To toast your new acquisition?”

  We settled into the sofa, and his maid brought champagne and the loveliest little cakes. I was delirious with joy and grew so tipsy on the champagne that I barely looked at my new picture. Edgar and I sipped and chatted gaily of my plans for Fenway Court and the gossip of Paris.

  Only after we finished the bottle did I take a closer look at the painting. And, oh, Amelia, it appears that I only saw what I wanted to see, not what was there in front of my own eyes the entire time. It pains me to tell you this, but one of the nudes is me!

  There is no doubt, and everyone will know. Do you remember how your Uncle Jack reacted to John Sargent’s picture of me with the heart-shaped décolletage? He was so angered by how “revealing” it was that he banished it from public viewing until after his death. And I was completely clothed!

  What shall I do? Edgar made it expressly for my museum, and I cannot insult him by not displaying such a gift. And yet, it cannot be displayed! Nor can I turn it down. This After the Bath is his true masterpiece, and he gave it to me! It is mine and must remain mine. And to receive such an item at no cost! I shall never give it up. Never.

  So, my dear Amelia, you now see why this letter must be burned. Please do so immediately and send a cable with your thoughts as quickly as you can. I am desperate for your counsel. We must devise a plan.

  I am your despairing and foolish,

  Aunt Belle

  Thirty-nine

  Three stacks of bubble-wrapped canvases sit on a worktable in the overcrowded back room at Markel G. All twenty of my paintings. Fresh from the framer. Although we can’t start the installation until two days before the show, as the current show will be up until then, Kristi likes her ducklings lined up ahead of time.

  I touch the bubble wrap and remember the afternoon Aiden and I unpacked Bath. It’s so wrong for him not to be here. A deep sadness sits in the center of my chest. My vibrant colors strain through the semiopaque bubbles the same way Degas’ did, but the thrill of that day is conspicuously missing. It’s painful being here without Aiden, moving ahead with the show as if nothing’s wrong. And as if things might not get far worse.

  Chantal’s out front with a customer, of which there have been many since the arrest, and Kristi’s coming back to help me unwrap the paintings as soon as she’s off the phone. We pretend that Aiden’s at a meeting or getting lunch, gone for only a moment. We avoid mentioning his name.

  Under normal circumstances, I might have already unwrapped the paintings, leaned them up against the wall, carried a few to the front to see how they might fit. Instead, I sit in a wobbly chair with one arm thinking about Virgil Rendell blackmailing Belle. If I’m right, then his family might have the original After the Bath, which they may or may not know is a real Degas. If he’s got a family.

  My phone rings. “How you doing, Bear?” Rik asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say, but my words come out a little raggedy.

  “I’m here for you. You know that, don’t you?”

  My throat closes up and, for a moment, I can’t speak.
“I know that,” I finally whisper. Would he be there for me if he understood the part I’d played in Aiden’s debacle?

  There’s a hollow emptiness on the line, then Rik asks with false cheerfulness, “Have you bought a dress yet?”

  I know he’s trying to be kind, to distract me, but this is the last thing I want to talk about. “I took a cruise down Newbury Street the other day.”

  “And?”

  “I didn’t see much.”

  “Did you try anything on?”

  I dread the reinstallation without Aiden. A hole at my side. “There’s still time.”

  “Like four days. Not including Thanksgiving.”

  “I’ll go when I leave here.”

  “If you want to wait until about eight, I’ll go with you.”

  I don’t want him to come with me. He’ll just be going on about the rich and famous guests, the celebrity-chef food, Yo-Yo Ma on the cello, the Dutch tulips. Just as the media’s been doing all week. There’s never a mention of the reinstallation without a mention of Aiden, and I’m thinking about him enough as it is. And about how stupid we’ve both been.

  “No thanks,” I say. “I’m at Markel G now, so I might as well do it while I’m down here.”

  “Have you seen Aiden?”

  I lower my voice. “We’ll talk later.”

  Rik hesitates. “How about a hot haircut to go with the new dress?” he asks in another misguided effort to lift my spirits. “You never got to go to Canyon Ranch, so how about I treat you to a new do at Salon Arnaud? If you want some PR attention for your show, there’s nothing like a great haircut to make you stand out.”

  My eyes fill with tears, an event that’s become increasingly common. It’s only an art show. As Isaac once said: We’re not curing cancer here. “Please. Rik. I’ve got a lot my mind, and—”

  Kristi comes in, and I jump at the excuse. “Got to go,” I tell Rik. “Got a meeting.”

  “The limo will be at your place around seven on Saturday,” Rik says, and I click off.