Dark Picasso

by Rick Homan

  He went straight to the counter and got himself a latte and a muffin. By the time he sat opposite me, I had finished my online research and closed my laptop.

  “I already had lunch,” he said, “but these muffins looked really good.”

  “Thanks for joining me.”

  He smiled. “I’m sure I won’t regret it. What brings you over this way?”

  “I picked up a painting from John Ghent’s house and took it to the Greenbrae Art Museum so Sandra Carlini could look at it.”

  “Why did you want me to meet you here?”

  “I need you to go with me to John Ghent’s house when I return the painting.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Shawville. It’s about fifteen minutes north of here.”

  “Why do you want me along?”

  “When I was there earlier today picking up the painting, he made a sleazy remark to me.”

  For just a second the gentle man I loved had the look of a killer. “He hit on you?”

  “I wouldn’t call it that. I think he just thought it would be fun to flirt. I’m sure he’d had more than one glass of his fortified orange juice.”

  “That’s no excuse. I’ll be glad to tell him he was out of line.”

  “I just want you to come with me. You don’t have to do anything. Just by being there you’ll keep him on his good behavior.”

  Pat stared out the window for a moment. When he turned back to me he looked more sad than angry. “Alright. I won’t say anything.”

  I squeezed his hand. “It’s fine to be the strong, silent type, but don’t overdo it. Really. Just be yourself.”

  “I’m sorry we’re still living in a world where a professional woman needs to bring along backup so she can do her job.”

  “I’m glad you’re my backup.”

  He squeezed my hand. “So, I guess we’ll both drive. I’ll follow you.”

  “Before we go, there’s something else I want to ask you about. The first time I went to Ghent’s house to look at Anne’s paintings, I saw a Picasso that has a lot in common with the Picasso in Tiffany’s drawing room. They ridicule their subjects. They’re crudely sexual and full of cartoonish gestures. It’s possible he painted them toward the end of his life, but it’s also possible they’re forgeries. The art historian in me wants to know which it is, and I feel an obligation to warn John that it could blow up in his face if he tries to sell it.”

  Pat frowned. “Even though he hit on you.”

  I sighed. “Yeah. I still have to do my job. Also, if they’re fakes, I want to talk to Tiffany about it. I’ve sort of adopted her as an art student. And, as you know, I’m developing donors.”

  Pat sat back and folded his arms over his chest. “Alright, so what did you want to ask me about?”

  “Will you go to New York with me tomorrow?”

  His face went slack for a moment. “Why do you want to go to New York?”

  “To talk to the sales director of the gallery where both Anne and Tiffany bought their Picassos. I want to ask him where he got them and how he knows they’re authentic.”

  “I thought you said Sandra was examining Ghent’s painting.”

  “She performed various tests and now she’s suspicious of it. She suggested getting the provenance.”

  “Can’t you just call the guy at the gallery?”

  “I already did. He got arrogant and blew me off.”

  “Why would it be any different if you go there and talk to him?”

  “If I’m there in person, he can’t hang up on me. Plus, I’ll have you with me.”

  Pat glanced at his cup as if he were thinking about getting another latte. “Are you really proposing that we spring for airline tickets to go up to New York and back in one day so you can help some millionaire who made creepy remarks to you?”

  “No. While we’re at his house, I’ll suggest he pay our way. I checked prices,” I said, tapping my laptop. “The cost is nothing compared to the price of the painting if it’s real. He should be willing to pay so he can feel confident about selling.”

  Pat’s brow was furrowed. He seemed to be struggling to find some other objection.

  “Look at it as a free trip to New York,” I said. “Maybe we can squeeze in dinner at a nice restaurant before we come back, all paid for by John Ghent, of course.”

  Pat sighed and shook his head. “My life was not nearly this exciting before you came along, Nicole Noonan. I wonder how long I can stand it.”

  “I’m eager to find out.”

  After we left Bella’s, I called John Ghent to let him know I’d be there soon to return his painting. I didn’t say anything about Pat coming with me.

  Chapter 23

  I parked in Ghent’s driveway, as I had that morning. Pat parked by the curb and helped me get the boxed painting out of my car.

  “Quiet neighborhood,” said Pat. “On a Saturday afternoon, I would think kids would be riding bikes or kicking a soccer ball around.”

  “I’m sure they’re driven to athletic facilities for those activities,” I said.

  Ghent answered the door wearing his booziest smile. That smile fell from his face when he saw Pat standing behind me.

  “I have some information for you, John,” I said. “Where would you like Pat to put the painting?”

  I enjoyed watching him struggle to come up with replies. “Here, I guess,” he said, pointing to the wall of the foyer.

  Pat carried the box in, set it on the floor, and leaned it against the wall.

  “My consultant has some concerns about your Picasso,” I said. “One of the tests raised questions about its authenticity. We think those questions would best be answered by getting further details of the painting’s provenance.”

  With a scowl on his face, Ghent asked, “Where would you get these details?”

  “From the sales director at the Redburn Gallery.”

  “I thought you took the painting to this expert of yours because the man at the gallery wouldn’t give you details. Now you’re saying you are going to get details from the gallery?”

  “That’s right.”

  The doorbell rang. Pat and I stood aside so John could answer the door.

  A uniformed private security guard stood on the doorstep. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ghent. Do you know anything about this car parked in front of your house?”

  Ghent looked past the guard at Pat’s jeep. “No, I don’t, officer.”

  “That’s my car,” said Pat. “Is there a problem?”

  “I’ll have to ask you to move it,” said the officer. “Local ordinances don’t allow for parking at the curb.”

  Ghent stepped back from the doorway, glanced at me with a faint smile on his face, and said to Pat, “That’s right. We don’t allow street parking. You’ll have to move it.”

  “Where am I supposed to move it to?” asked Pat.

  Ghent’s look of amusement had hardened into a smirk. He shrugged.

  Pat looked confused for a moment. When he glanced at me, I knew he was thinking what I was thinking: I was not going to be left alone with Ghent.

  I glanced out to the driveway, where my car was parked. “If I move my car forward, I think you can fit your car in behind it,” I said. “Let’s do that.”

  Without waiting for a reply, I walked out to my car.

  By the time I had started my car, Pat was walking down the drive to his. I moved my car up and waited for him to pull his into the driveway.

  As he got out of his car, and came toward me, he asked, “What kind of a town doesn’t allow street parking?”

  “The kind that likes to harass outsiders,” I replied.

  The security guard walked by and said, “Thank you, sir. Ma'am, you have a nice day.”

  We went back to the house and found John waiting for us, still in the foyer. “You were saying something about getting details from the gallery, professor?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Why would they give yo
u details now when they wouldn’t before?”

  “Because we’re going to New York tomorrow to talk to the sales director in person.”

  Ghent stared at me, glanced at Pat, and turned back to me before saying, “Do whatever you want.”

  “We’ll fly up tomorrow morning and return in the evening. I will send you receipts so you can reimburse me.”

  A little louder than necessary, he said, “Excuse me! I am not financing your romantic getaway to New York.”

  “We won’t be there long enough to get romantic,” I said. “The purpose of this trip is to settle any questions about your painting’s authenticity.”

  “Why would I pay for both of you to go?”

  “I don’t know my way around New York, and Pat does.” I wasn’t sure that was true, but it made for a better argument. I trusted Pat would keep a straight face. “It would be easy for someone to harass me.” I enjoyed seeing Ghent twitch when I said that. “So, I’d like to have some backup.”

  Ghent had begun to shift his weight from one leg to the other. “I don’t know, professor. This is all getting complicated. Perhaps I should just wait a while before doing anything with those paintings.”

  “It’s your choice, of course,” I said. “I’ll be away this summer, spending some time with my family in California. So, if you want me to follow up, it will have to wait until the fall. Of course, September is always busy, getting the school year started. Let’s say October.”

  Ghent folded his arms and pursed his lips. Clearly his resolve was weakening.

  “John,” I said, “if it’s authentic, this painting could sell for anywhere from half-a-million to a million dollars, many times the cost of this trip. But, if you sell it for a large amount, and it’s later found to be fake, you could find yourself in a tricky position, legally speaking.” I wasn’t sure that was true, but it sounded plausible.

  For a moment I thought Ghent might walk away and leave us standing in his foyer, but he looked at me and said, “Alright, but I want this settled. Bring me a signed letter attesting the authenticity of this painting, and I’ll reimburse you.”

  “Obviously I can’t agree to that. I’m not sure it is authentic.”

  “You have to promise me something.”

  “I’ll bring you a letter, signed by the sales director, stating what he knows about the painting with details that can be independently verified.”

  Ghent seemed to mentally review what I’d said before replying, “Agreed. Bring me that letter and I’ll reimburse your expenses.”

  As Pat and I walked down the driveway to our cars, he asked, “Did you ever think about going to law school so you could negotiate trade agreements, divorce settlements . . . things like that?”

  “Sure, I thought about it, but art history seemed so much more lucrative.”

  That made him laugh.

  When we got to my car, he asked, “Are you sure you can get this guy at the gallery to write that letter?”

  I glanced back at Ghent’s house. “I’m not sure of anything right now, but let’s not stand around here and talk about it. I’ll meet you back at your place.”

  Once I was on Route 35, I settled in for the cruise back to Chillicothe and started to absorb what had happened. I felt excited about getting to the bottom of an art-history question, but also nervous about the financial part of my agreement with Ghent. I would have to check the balance on my credit card account before buying these airline tickets and hope the cost of them wouldn’t go over my limit.

  Beyond that were the logistics of getting from the airport—probably Newark—into the city and taking a subway or cab to the gallery’s address in Chelsea. I needed some time with my laptop to figure all that out, and it was already late-afternoon.

  Perhaps I would give Pat the task of calling the Redburn Gallery, making sure that snooty sales director, Lester Jappling, would be there tomorrow, and making an appointment for mid-afternoon. If I called, Jappling might recognize my voice and refuse to see me.

  The largest problem I faced was how to deliver on the promise I had made to John Ghent, a promise I had to keep if I was to be reimbursed. Somehow, I had to get Jappling to give me details—not just a vague description—of the painting’s provenance, and put them in writing.

  What leverage did I have? Sandra had made clear that nobody ever makes a fuss over forgeries. Instead they prefer to keep quiet and sell to “a greater fool,” as Abbie put it. So, if I told Jappling that John Ghent was threatening to sue him, he probably wouldn’t believe it.

  Sandra had also made clear that galleries are sensitive about their reputations. I could imply that together Ghent and the Milmans could steer people away from the Redburn, but that might not be much of a threat. The Redburn probably didn’t have many customers from Ohio.

  Perhaps I should be thinking of a carrot rather than a stick. I’d already mentioned “other clients” on the phone with Jappling. I could hint I knew of some buyers who, if only they were sure the Redburn was trustworthy, would flock to the gallery and buy paintings. I could say that writing a good letter of provenance for John Ghent would be just the thing to reassure them. Clearly this was one of life’s occasional situations in which a harmless lie is the best tactic.

  Chapter 24

  I brought my professional outfit—shoes with heels, pants and blazer, all in black, with a white blouse—to Pat’s house Saturday evening, and we left at dawn on Sunday. That gave us time to drive to Columbus, get through security, and board our ten o’clock flight to New York.

  After landing, we took the Newark Airport Express to Penn Station, where we stopped for slices of pizza. From there we took a taxi to the gallery in Chelsea. We could have taken a subway downtown, but John Ghent was paying.

  Everything went like clockwork, and we arrived in Chelsea in time for a walk before our two-thirty appointment with Lester Jappling. The area featured a delightful mix of older, five-story, brick houses and recent apartment buildings made up of whimsical shapes and covered with glass. In the mild spring weather, people sat eating at sidewalk tables in front of neighborhood restaurants. We even went up the stairs from the sidewalk and walked several blocks on The High Line, a former elevated rail line, turned into a garden and walking path.

  “I think I could live here,” said Pat.

  “I could too, although I hear it can be brutal in winter.”

  “We’d spend winter at our place in Palm Springs.”

  “All right then, it’s settled. When do we move?”

  “As soon as we publish our books and royalties start rolling in.”

  “Do university presses pay royalties?

  “I’m planning to write best sellers.”

  “Oh, good! We can move next summer.”

  I didn’t know why we indulged in these fantasies about things we could never afford, but I doubted we were the only ones who did.

  Making our way to the Redburn, I noticed many of the galleries on the streets between Tenth and Eleventh avenues were closed. I had thought the Redburn’s website listed hours on Sunday afternoon, but I began to wonder if I’d misread. “Are you sure you made the appointment for today?” I asked Pat.

  “Yes,” he said. “Jappling read it back to me: two thirty, Sunday afternoon.”

  We found the Redburn Gallery open. It occupied the commercial space on the street level of one of the older buildings. The big front windows let in plenty of light. The cast-iron radiators and large, old-fashioned woodwork had been painted flat white to blend with the walls.

  We browsed the watercolors hanging in the main section of the gallery near the front windows before starting to explore the alcoves further back.

  A young woman, dressed as severely as I was, approached to offer assistance. Pat gave his name and mentioned his appointment. She said she would be with us in a moment and went to her desk to make a call.

  We walked into another alcove, and I stopped dead in my tracks at the sight of a painting apparently by Picasso. It s
howed a woman lying nude with emphasis on her lady parts and a man sitting by her with a guitar. The artist had done his best to make them ugly. It was a parody of a lyrical erotic interlude. Like Tiffany and Anne’s paintings this one lacked energy, which made it just as unconvincing as theirs.

  Pat must have noticed I seemed paralyzed. “Are you alright?” he asked.

  “They’re multiplying,” I said.

  The woman rejoined us and said Mr. Jappling would see us now. We followed her upstairs and along a corridor. She knocked on a door and showed us into an office, which was sparsely furnished and loaded with magazines and paperwork.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Gillespie,” said Jappling as Pat walked in.

  Jappling was half a head taller than Pat and was one of the skinniest men I’d ever seen. His pants were tapered, which made his legs seem longer and thinner. His shirt was partly unbuttoned, revealing a hairless chest. He wore an oversized gray sport coat with the sleeves pushed up to the middle of his forearms. The thick black frames of his glasses contrasted with his pale complexion. He had used some hair product in an attempt to make his sparse blonde hair seem thicker.

  When he turned to me and offered his hand, I took it and said, “Professor Nicole Tang Noonan, Cardinal University.”

  Jappling’s face clouded up. “We’ve spoken recently, haven’t we?”

  Pat closed the office door.

  “Yes. I called you about the provenance of a painting by Picasso you sold to Anne Ghent.”

  Jappling drew back and looked past me to Pat, who stood patiently by the door behind me.

  “My client, Mr. Ghent, needs further details of the provenance,” I said.

  Jappling glanced from Pat to me and back to Pat. “You’re here under false pretenses.”

  “Not entirely,” said Pat. “I am interested in those watercolors, but we have other business to settle first.”

  “Perhaps we should sit down so we can discuss this,” I said.

  “We most certainly will not sit down,” said Jappling. “We’re not discussing anything. You will leave my office.”