Missing Masterpiece
Funny how when you’re a kid, holidays and birthdays take forever to roll around. I’d just gotten back from spring break, and now Good Friday was weeks away. I met Clay on campus Tuesdays and Thursdays after lunch for an hour. He worked at the infirmary nights and weekends, and it was the only time our schedules crossed paths. My plan to lose my virginity in a meet-and-greet kind of encounter had become complicated. I liked Clay a lot and wanted him to like me, too.
Midweek, my art history professor ended class early. Outside the lecture hall, the sun was shining brightly, and the temperature sweltered as if someone had left an oven door open. Student traffic on campus was sparse, and I glanced at my Swatch. Twenty till one. Bodies would spill out of buildings on the hour. I stopped at a vending machine near the bench where I’d meet Clay and pondered Mr. Pibb versus Mountain Dew. I decided on Mr. Pibb, heavier on the cola flavor and less lollipop sweet. The can rattled down the chute. Before it made a final clunk, a tall gentleman in jeans, a navy polo, and tweed jacket asked, “Rachael O’Brien?”
“Yes.”
Reaching a hand he said, “Storm Cauldwell, FBI.”
“Jesus. Do you always show up unannounced?”
His sunburnt face gave him more of a ski enthusiast appearance than FBI. He flashed me his badge and asked, “Can you walk with me?”
“I’m meeting someone.”
Smiling, he indented a dimple on his chin. “It’ll just take a minute. Your friend can wait.”
Since he said it would be quick, I agreed. “How did you find me?”
“Against policy to tell you.”
“Really?”
He chortled. “I looked up your schedule and student identification.”
I snapped my soda tab top open, and a fine mist spritzed from the can. “They keep black-and-white copies of student IDs?”
Storm nodded.
Shit, now the FBI knew I carried a fake ID.
I estimated Storm to be midthirties and six feet tall. He walked with a long, purposeful stride, and I hustled to keep up with his pace. He wore Ray-Bans and slicked his dirty blond hair with mousse that gave an all-day wet appearance.
“I’ve been assigned the case of the stolen Clementine Hunter. I’m coordinating the investigation with the New Orleans office and the IRS to inquire about the business dealings of Jack Ray. I need your word that you’ll use discretion regarding our conversations.”
I agreed.
“Tell me about the trip to New Orleans.”
“You need to be more specific in your questioning.”
He grinned. “How did you meet Jack Ray?”
“At Pat O’Briens. He and a girl I vacationed with, Bridget Bodsworth, were sitting together. He showed me how to eat crawfish and paid the tab.”
“You like crawfish?” Storm asked.
“I thought I might, but I don’t.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I’m sure.”
“What else happened?”
“I got lost without money. I had Lucky Jack’s business card in my pocket and called him for a lift. He took me back to his gallery. Showed me two Clementine Hunter paintings. Wanted to know my opinion.”
“What was your opinion?”
“They were fakes.”
“Did you tell him?”
“No. He’s creepy. I told him he should get top dollar.”
Storm retrieved a small pad of paper from inside his blazer and started jotting down notes.
“Did you have a more personal relationship with Jack Ray?”
“Please.”
“Did he make a pass at you?”
“Is that question pertinent to the case?”
Storm tilted his head and kept writing. “How did you know the paintings were fakes?”
“My dad owns a fine art restoration shop. He worked on the same painting for the New Orleans Museum of Art.” I paused and picked at a nail. “This is going to sound crazy, but I also saw that painting in a New Bern art gallery back in December and in a frat house at Chapel Hill before that. The New Orleans trip was sighting number four. That painting is reproducing.”
“You’re sure?”
I nodded.
“Do you have anything else?”
“I memorized three-quarters of Lucky Jack’s Rolodex and borrowed an invoice that links him to New Bern.”
Storm shook his head. “If he’d caught you.”
“I know. Bad thoughts train tracked through my mind when I did it, but the coincidence is farfetched. Who’d believe me? I needed proof.”
“Where do you have the information?”
“In my dorm.”
“I need you to give it to me.”
Students began to surge the campus. “Um, yeah,” I said, looking at the time. “It’s just that someone’s going to be waiting for me.”
Walking me back toward the vending machine, Storm glanced at his wristwatch. “I need to get back to the office. Can I stop by Grogan tonight and pick them up?”
“Sure.”
After slipping a business card in my hand, he nodded his head and turned left while I navigated through the swarm of bodies to the bench where Clay sat.
“Who was that?” Clay asked.
“An art history aide. He’s going to look over some papers of mine.”
BEFORE THE SUN DISAPPEARED, bright rays ambushed our dorm room, and I twisted the blind cord closed. Katie Lee was on the phone with her mom. Macy let herself in and made her backside comfortable on my bed. She dug in a baggie of dried fruit and nuts and picked the almonds out. Having one day off for a three-day Easter weekend wasn’t enough of a break to buy a plane ticket to go home. Since the dorms stayed open, both Macy and I planned to stick around until Katie Lee hung up the phone. “Would y’all like to spend Easter in The Bern?”
Macy accepted the invite, but I hesitated. Dad had told me to stay away from The Bern, and I didn’t relish bumping into Nash or Billy Ray. Since Agent Cauldwell had asked me to zip my lip about the investigation, I couldn’t tell Katie Lee the truth. Guilt prickled inside me, and I struggled to concoct a believable excuse. “Let me check with my dad.”
Katie Lee and Macy had spent eight months in tight quarters with me, and both knew I’d skirted around the permission umbrella for spring break. They also knew the last place I’d spend a holiday was in Canton with Dad and his girlfriend, Trudy. Macy cornered me, and Katie Lee stood behind her. “Is there something going on that you haven’t told us?”
An FBI agent had been assigned the case. Knowing there was a case trapped bubbles of nervous energy inside me. “Like I could hide anything from you two.”
Macy was onto to me, and if I hung around Grogan, I didn’t know if I could keep the secret. I grabbed my book bag and darted out the door. “I need a periodical from the library. I’ll catch up around dinner.”
INSIDE THE LIBRARY BUILDING the recirculated air smelled bland, like wearing an all-beige outfit. I veered beyond the double doors that led to the checkout desk and followed an adjacent hallway into an adjoining room with cathedral ceilings. The college used the space to feature seasonal art exhibits. Dropping my satchel to the floor, I sat on a bench and stared at contemporary black-and-white etchings by an unknown artist. I didn’t want to lie to Katie Lee and Macy, but what choice did I have?
From behind, a woman’s voice called my name.
“Professor Schleck.”
“Rachael, I’d like to introduce you to the newly appointed curator of our campus gallery. Liz Stein. Rachael O’Brien.”
Liz’s flour complexion had a splatter of freckles. Dressed in a solid yellow tailored Jackie O dress, she shook my hand. “Have you heard? We received a federal grant to add a new building and acquire art for the university’s permanent collection.”
“I hadn’t told the class,” my professor said. “Has the funding been secured?”
“I expect everything to be finalized after Easter,” Liz said.
“Who are you acquiring?” I asked.
“Tentatively I’m negotiating a Vermeer, a Rockwell, a Saatchi, and some local southern works, including Clementine Hunter.”
I must have turned shades of sickly when I heard Clementine Hunter. Professor Schleck asked, “Rachael, are you okay?”
“Um, yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Fine.”
“It’s going to be fabulous,” Liz said. “North Carolina College is going to build a new wing onto the existing library to house the pieces acquired with the grant. Of course we’ll work with other museums to borrow collections and collaborate on exhibitions.”
“Did I hear you say you were purchasing a Clementine Hunter?”
“Two,” Liz said. “If I can secure them. I’m working through a dealer in New Orleans.”
Professor Schleck beamed. “Clementine Hunter is still alive. She turned one hundred this year.”
Liz smoothed the creases in her dress. “Her great-granddaughter is a student. It would be a fitting tribute to have southern artists’ work permanently featured at our gallery.”
My little voice inside my gut spoke loudly. Liz Stein was being swindled. Lucky Jack was a busy man to be selling North Carolina College an original Billy Ray rip-off. If Liz acquired the painting from Lucky’s Art Consortium, someone would eventually discover that she had purchased fakes, and she could kiss her job and any thoughts of an art career good-bye. Someone needed to expose the Rays before they skipped town to sip mai tais on some beach with their dirty money in a Cayman bank account.
MEMORIZING FACTS AND INTREPRETING meaning takes concentration. I’d spread my books and notes across a chunky library table. I aligned my pens, pencils, and highlighters fattest to skinniest. My focus was zero. I needed to call Storm Cauldwell, but I’d left his business card in my room. Mindlessly staring at books wasn’t exactly productive. I dumped everything back in my bag and left. Mr. FBI would shit when I told him about this coincidence. What were the chances of North Carolina College buying a legitimate Hunter? Slim to zil. Did Liz Stein find Lucky Jack or did he target colleges? And how? Who was the middleman? Halfway across campus, I pulled a cigarette out of my pocket and stopped to light it.
“Don’t you know those will kill you?” Storm said.
My hand flew to my chest. I looked over both my shoulders to see if anyone I knew was around. “Are you tailing me?”
“Stopped by to pick up the invoice and contacts. Your roommate said you were at the library.”
“Wait a minute, you talked to Katie Lee?”
“Nice girl. And a guy.”
“What guy?”
“Tall, dark hair. His name had to do with pottery.”
“Clay?”
“That’s it.”
“What did you say to him?”
“Not much. Just that I was looking for you.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be, like, undercover while you flush out criminals?”
Storm motioned to a bench. Neither of us sat. He put a foot on it and leaned on his knee. “Don’t worry. I didn’t tell them anything. Said I had an extracurricular project you and I were working on.”
“You didn’t?”
“It’s no big deal. Your roommate said I could find you in the library.”
“What did Clay say?”
“Didn’t say anything. Excused himself.”
“Great. Now I have to go on damage control.”
“Settle down. I didn’t blow the cover.”
“Are you kidding?” I pointed at Storm’s left hand. “A guy, without a wedding ring, asks about me?”
He smiled.
“Did you flash that dimple at Katie Lee? It isn’t going to help the lies I’ll have to tell. When I get back, you’ll be the talk of the seventh floor.”
“Something’s come up that I need to share.”
“Ditto.”
Storm motioned his hand. “Ladies first.”
I took a drag from my cigarette and nervously rubbed the talisman tucked in my pocket. “Get out your note pad. You’ll want to pen this one.”
Storm reached into the liner of his sport coat, and I noticed his shoulder harness and gun.
“You carry a gun?”
“For work.”
“I figured you were a desk guy.”
“Occasionally they let me out.”
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“You’d be surprised what I’ll believe.”
“I just left the curator and my art history professor in the arts display room next to the library. North Carolina College has been awarded federal grant money to build a proper art gallery. Liz Stein is in charge of purchasing the collectables to fill it.”
“I’m with you so far.”
“She has some pieces picked out. A Vermeer, a Rockwell, a Saatchi.”
“Sounds expensive. That must be some grant.”
“And two Clementine Hunters from a dealer in New Orleans.”
Storm stared at me. “You’re not kidding?”
I shook my head.
“What’s your news?” I asked.
“You know the Clementine Hunter in the New Orleans Museum of Art.”
“Which one?”
“Baptism.”
“The one my dad refurbished?”
“Not sure if the one in the museum is the one your dad refurbished.”
“What are you saying?” That my dad had a hand in stealing the original?
“An agent from the New Orleans division met with the head of exhibits down there. We’ve done some checking. Matched the photos from the insurance file to the painting on the wall. It’s been confirmed. The Baptism on the wall is a fake. The real one has gone missing.”
Storm stopped talking as some students moved past. I rubbed the pulsing throb in my temples. Once we were alone, I asked, “Does my dad know?”
“He’s cooperating while we investigate.”
“Why did you tell me?”
“Because you keep turning up Clementines.”
I stubbed out my cigarette. “Katie Lee has invited me to New Bern for Easter break.”
“No, absolutely not. It could be dangerous.”
“I need to clear Dad’s reputation. I’m going.”
NOTE TO SELF
Bumping into Billy Ray, Stewart Hayes, Bubba Jackson, and Nash over Easter weekend—highly probable.