On Thursday morning Dulcie arrived at her office early. She closed the door quietly behind her and sat down at her large oak desk. Then she spun around full circle in her chair several times and thought about the Homer. “What would I do without Mr. Harriman?” she exclaimed. She was almost giddy from the spinning. Gripping the desk quickly on her fourth lap around, she stopped herself.
She dreaded the wait. It was the worst part. Weeks, often months, of research and planning could go into the decision to buy a work. Then it all came down to one moment. ‘Like a horse race,’ she thought. Would they have the highest bid? For once, Dulcie was nearly sure that they would. She heard tapping at the door. “Come in!” she called, trying to sound composed.
Tom opened the door and entered looking a little shabby, as usual. ‘He’s so intelligent,’ thought Dulcie, ‘but he just doesn’t pay attention to the common sense things.’ On this particular morning Tom had neglected to fasten two buttons on his shirt under his necktie. Even at this early hour of the day the tie had sunk into the now open space between buttons and buttonholes. His shirttail trailed along behind him, sadly rumpled. Dulcie looked again at the tie. ‘Funny,’ she thought. ‘No matter what the rest of his clothes look like, that tie is always perfect.’ She smiled.
Tom dragged a hand through his curly hair, a habit that Dulcie had quickly learned to equate with a question about to be asked. “Yes, Tom?”
“Well, here’s the situation. I need to head back home for the weekend. My Dad is sick, and my brothers need help with the boat. It’s a full moon and the lobsters are making tracks. Really great hauls. Would it be all right if I take Friday afternoon off and help them? I’m finishing my final write-up on my research today. I can give it to you by five o’clock.
“Tom, that would be fine. Is your Dad all right?”
“Yup. Just the flu.”
“Oh no! That’s too bad. I hope he’s better soon.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he will be. The doctor has him on a whole bunch of stuff which he hates taking, Mom says.”
Dulcie grimaced. “Good, but you be careful out there,” she said, remembering the times that her brother and father were out on the ocean.
“I’ll just be happy not to put on a tie for a few days.” He grinned and looked down. Seeing the buttons undone he rolled his eyes, turned pink, and quickly fixed his shirt. Dulcie laughed.
“Tom,” said Dulcie, “all of your brothers are lobstermen except you?”
“Yup. Mom has a theory about me. She thinks I was switched at birth.”
“No!” Dulcie’s eyes widened. “Not seriously?”
Tom laughed. “Maybe. She says,” he cleared his throat and his voice increased an octave, “I was in the hospital, you know, and this other lady, she come in screamin’ in labor, just like me, ‘cept I wasn’t screamin’ cause I’d been through it twice already and just popped this thurd one roit out. She was some lawyuh or somethin’ and looked wicked rich and wicked smahht. I thought she must be the kinda lady to have a wicked smahht kid. When my Tommy got older and went to school, he just had a wicked head for learnin’, so I figure I got that rich lady’s kid and my dumb kid must be livin’ with them rich folks someplace now.” His voice dropped to its usual soft, low tone again. “That’s the story she tells.”
Dulcie laughed. “You don’t believe it’s true, do you?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Who could know? I mean, I guess we could do a DNA test or something, but it wouldn’t change anything.”
Dulcie only shook her head and smiled. “Stranger things have happened.”
“Yup. Seriously, though, Mom and Dad do need my help this weekend. It’s all right if I leave early tomorrow?”
“Of course. My father was a fisherman. I know what it means to lose a day’s catch. If you can get me the report this afternoon, I’ll bring it home with me tonight and read it, then we can talk about it in the morning. You can leave as soon as we’re done. How does that sound?”
“Sound’s perfect. I’ll call my brother. Thanks!” He quickly left her office.
Dulcie liked Tom. He worked hard. “I think I’ll reward him,” she thought. “When we get the Homer, I’ll put him in charge of researching a new exhibit. The small one of the local artists. It will look very good on his resume.” Then she smiled slyly, thinking, “It will also make Alicia spit like a cat!”
#
At ten o’clock Dulcie’s phone rang.
“Dr. Chambers,” spoke the saccharine voice, “it's Alicia Harriman. I’m running into a bit of a snag here in Boston. It seems the curator’s files are a little mixed up and it’s taking more time than expected. Would it be all right if I stayed down here for one more night, and not come back to the museum tomorrow as planned?”
Dulcie hesitated for a moment. She suspected that Alicia was lying and that she simply wanted to enjoy the big city a bit more. Dulcie had no patience for her during this week especially, however. She decided to let Alicia get away with it. This time.
“Sure, Alicia. Do what you need to do. I’ll need your information first thing on Monday morning, though.”
“Of course,” Alicia replied with a hint of condescension.
Annoyed, Dulcie decided to give her a little scare. “Perhaps I should send Tom down this afternoon so he can help you out tomorrow?” She asked.
“Oh no, no, no! Nothing I can’t handle! Really!” Alicia exclaimed, the sweetness gone from her voice.
“All right. I’ll see you on Monday, then.” Dulcie could almost hear Alicia’s relieved sigh as she hung up the phone.
‘That girl is trouble,’ thought Dulcie. ‘Too much like her mother, from what I’ve heard Mr. Harriman say.’
Dulcie continued her own work that afternoon with difficulty. Periodically she stared out the window. At four o’clock she abandoned all efforts and turned to the day’s newspapers. She pulled out the Boston Globe and opened it to the Arts section. Nothing very exciting. She leafed through the pages, quickly scanning the columns. A brief story caught her eye about a recent theft. “Hmm,” she muttered, “another small item from a small museum.” The New England art community had been hearing about this for nearly two years. Some clever person had devised a way to steal small works of art from less secure museums and storage locations. So far they had been quite successful.
The latest heist had been a miniature nineteenth century portrait painted by one of the Peale family members. The two Peale brothers, Charles Willson and James, had been enormously talented. Charles had intended that his children would follow, ostentatiously naming them after the great masters: Titian, Rembrandt, and Raphaelle. James had fathered two daughters, Anna and Sarah, who became respected artists as well. The stolen work was a miniature by Anna and, once again following the pattern of the other thefts, it was not as valuable as the works done by the fathers or the sons. This thief certainly knew art and knew what would sell quickly with few questions.
“Now that's the smart way to lead a life of crime,” said Dulcie aloud. Many small museums lacked sufficient security for their less valuable items, especially items in storage rooms. She knew from experience that it would be quite easy in some museums to slip out with something. Generally no one would miss it until weeks, months, perhaps even years later.
The black market thrived in the art world. Private collectors often chose to acquire works through private dealers. They sometimes did not question the source, especially if the price was right. Private collectors were becoming increasingly knowledgeable, Dulcie had noticed. Authenticity and provenance were not issues of concern for many of them; they were experts in their own right and knew well enough when a work was genuine. Of course thieves and forgers were also becoming quite good at faking provenance documents as well. New technology made it surprisingly easy.
She read through the article. The most recent theft had been from the museum at the Augusta Academy in Cambridge. Dulcie had been there a couple of months before with Tom and Alicia. ‘They didn't have much security,’ she thought. ‘Just one alarm system at night, plus that guard.’ She remembered how Alicia had eyed the tall, handsome guard coyly. “She’s just awful,” she said aloud.
“Who is awful?”
Dulcie jumped. Tom had walked in silently while she was reading.
“Oh. No one. Just someone I read about.” She looked down feeling her face grow warm.
“Hey, I read about that this morning,” said Tom, pointing at the art theft story. “Somebody has a system.”
“Yes. It has to be an insider, too. What do you think?”
Tom nodded. “Has to be. They can get into storage areas. They know which things to take. Small things, moderate value, stuff that won't get noticed very soon. They must have connections, too, so that they can get rid of the goods.”
Dulcie grinned. “ ‘Get rid of the goods?’ You've been watching too much TV, Tom!”
“Well, it's true! They do need to get rid of what they take. Quickly, too!”
“You’re right, of course. I wonder if it’s anyone I know?”
“I'll bet it is. Most of the thefts have been around Boston and north. They haven't hit Maine yet, have they?”
“Not to my knowledge. And they won't, if I can help it! Not here, anyway.”
Tom looked back down at the article and chuckled. “You know, I’ve always thought that if I were ever to lead a life of crime, I would counterfeit one dollar bills.”
Dulcie raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“No, I am not planning a career change, but when you think about it, counterfeiters usually make twenties or more, right?”
“I’m not an authority on the subject, but that’s what you generally hear about,” she replied.
“Well, I would make ones. No one would suspect that a one-dollar bill is a fake. Think about how many you spend in a week. Buy a cup of coffee. Get a sandwich for lunch. You could pass off bad ones all over the place!”
“And they’d add up after a while, I suppose,” Dulcie mused.
“Right! It wouldn’t be the big time, but it would help lighten the load. I mean, you couldn’t quit your day job, but that’s good because then no one would suspect.”
Dulcie was laughing now. “And, if you did get caught, the judge would be lenient because it’s such a ridiculous notion!”
Tom grinned. “I swear it would work!”
“Yes, well let me know how it turns out.”
Tom looked a bit sheepish. He decided to change the subject. “Anyway, here’s the report I promised.” He handed her a folder. “Enjoy!”
“Thank you, Tom. We’ll talk about it tomorrow morning. Then you’re free to go help your family.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Have a good night.”
“You too, Tom.”
The telephone rang at the front desk of the museum, just outside Dulcie’s office. The museum was shifting to its evening staff, a much smaller group of part-time assistants who often trickled in a bit late after working daytime jobs. Dulcie let it ring twice, and then answered it at her own extension. “Maine Museum of Art. May I help you?”
“Dulcie? That you?” Joshua Harriman’s voice sounded crackly.
“Yes! Can you hear me all right?” she said loudly.
“Good enough! I’m on my cell phone. Guess I oughta pay my bill!” he laughed. “Just wanted you to know I’m in New York now! At the Waldorf, or I hope to be as soon as this damned traffic lets up! Got the best cab driver in New York, though! Right, Lenny?” Dulcie heard a man laugh in the background.
‘He must have had a scotch or two on the flight down,’ she thought. “All right, Mr. Harriman!” she shouted. “Is there anything more that you need from us up here?”
“Nope! Just calling to see if you have last minute instructions for me! I’ll be off to the auction in the morning. You’ve got my cell phone number, right?”
“Right!”
“OK, call if you need to! Otherwise, I’m bringin’ home a Homer!” he exploded with laughter at his quip.
Dulcie laughed too. “Good one! Have a nice dinner, and call me when you have the painting!”
“Roger Willco! Over and out!”
“Bye!”
Dulcie hung up the phone while shaking her head. “That man can be a total fool!” she thought out loud.
The mention of dinner made her realize how hungry she was. Scooping up Tom's report and several other files, she stuffed them into her worn leather briefcase and strode out the door, wishing the evening staff a good night on her way.
An onshore breeze greeted her with cool air. The sun sank slowly toward the horizon. She paused for a moment feeling the warm sun and the misty air at the same time. ‘I love this place,’ she thought for the hundredth time. She was jarred from her thoughts by a police car, sirens blaring, roaring down the street. Dulcie shivered as she watched it continue on. She pulled the collar of her dress more tightly around her neck and walked home.