BENNETT’S VOICE FLOATED through her phone, sounding even deeper and sexier than ever. “It was great seeing you last night, Ivy. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“Shelly and I have had the music up fairly loud. We’ve been bringing pieces up from the lower level and arranging furniture and accessories around the house.”
“Are the protective services still there?”
“Sticking like Velcro and just as prickly.” She hesitated. “Bennett, I have a favor to ask, and I’d like your advice on it.” She quickly explained how much it would mean to her parents to see the artwork before the FBI agents removed it. “They’ve spent their lives traveling to find artisans around the world to help them sell their work here. They inspired my love of art, and I would love to honor them with this.”
“You could ask Chief Clarkson, but the FBI will make the decision.”
“Of course,” she said. She doubted that she could persuade them, but she would try. They spoke a little more before Ivy hung up to call her parents. She talked to them for a while, and Ivy invited them to meet her and Shelly in Summer Beach for supper. If the FBI didn’t approve them, the four of them could go to a café in town overlooking the water.
Ivy and Shelly brought a few paintings upstairs and placed them around Ivy’s room.
A delicate spring landscape of Impressionism here, a colorful rendering of a woman in the Fauvism style with unconstrained brushwork there. Ivy’s heart soared as she grouped the paintings.
“Do you want any in your room?” Ivy asked.
“I don’t think I could sleep,” Shelly said. “What if an earthquake hit and a million dollar painting crashed to the floor?”
“I wish you hadn’t put it that way,” Ivy said, but she didn’t regret her decision. With the paintings she’d brought up, the bedroom glowed with color and life. To her, the paintings fairly vibrated with energy. The vivid blue horses seemed to burst with the desire to be freed from captivity and shared with the world again.
Ivy gazed at each painting in turn. They spoke to her heart and filled her with such joy and inspiration. She would paint again soon, she decided. While she would never be on par with these masters, she could share her artistry, passion, and point of view with others who appreciated the beauty she still saw in the world—the beauty she’d found again at Summer Beach.
“These works have been hidden for decades,” Ivy said. “It’s almost as if we were guided here to find them, and it’s time they were enjoyed again.”
“The artists must be smiling down on us.”
“What a nice thought,” Ivy murmured.
Ivy recalled photographs of this room in the book that Nan had given her. Amelia Erickson also had beautiful art on the walls. Again she wondered how Amelia had come by these, and why she kept them under wraps. Ivy breathed in as she stared at each painting, hardly believing she was in the presence of such greatness.
By tomorrow morning, they would be gone. Seeing the paintings here made Ivy realize how much the room cried out for artwork.
After Ivy and Shelly changed, Shelly insisted on taking photographs of Ivy with the paintings. “When will you ever have this chance again? Remember the Mona Lisa?”
Ivy groaned as she recalled trying to view the painting in Paris. “It was worse than a rock concert. I thought we were going to be crushed by the surging crowd. You could’ve written a book: Death at the Louvre.”
Shelly went downstairs to photograph the rest of the paintings. While her sister did that, Ivy went back to her bedroom to change into the sandals her mother had given her. Since her mother would be here soon, she wanted to wear them to show her appreciation.
Ivy slipped behind the antique Chinese screen and into the dressing room. She scooped the jeweled sandals from a shelf and sat on a round, upholstered ottoman to slip them on. As she did, the mirrored closets, shelves, and cubbyholes drew her attention. She rose to explore.
Already she had found two of Amelia’s hiding places: the concealed ledge under the library desk and the bricked-up lower level. Amelia was a woman who had harbored secrets. Here, in her most intimate space in the house, would she have had another hiding place?
Ivy tapped on the cedar planks in the closets, hoping to hear a hollow spot. With patience, she combed the closets, tapping the interior walls. In the far corner of the farthest closet, a hollow sound rewarded her.
She ran her fingers along the edge of the tongue-and-groove planks. Smooth notches carved into one piece gave her just enough room to gain leverage with her fingertips. She tugged, but nothing happened.
Stuck.
She got up and retrieved a metal nail file from her cosmetic kit. After positioning it just so, she tapped on the end. The plank popped open, revealing a cubbyhole. In it was another small leather volume with the same feathery writing she’d found earlier. She pulled it out, plucked her glasses from the side table, and sank into a chair to read an undated entry.
My fog lifted today, and, as I write this, I have the distinct feeling that I have written my thoughts many, many times in a journal such as this, yet I cannot find any such writings in my home. My young maid is of no help, not like Mathilda, who was with me for so many years. Perhaps I hid them or burned them for safety.
Like my mother before me, I have threadbare patches in the fabric of my brain as if the pattern of my memories has been rubbed off. Today my trustee asked me to deposit all my important papers in his care, but I do not know if I have any. He is exasperated with me, but I am more so. For it is I who suffer the daily frustrations. My life is like a novel with missing pages.
Perhaps the trauma of too many wars has taken its toll on me, and my brain erases that which it cannot bear to recall. Yet this is different than before. Although Las Brisas del Mar has been my beloved retreat for many years, I fear I must leave until I am once again well. I only wish that I could recall where the cherished paintings have gone. Did I give them away? Hide them? I am told I do that, but I simply cannot know. Now that the war is over, they must be returned. Someone is waiting for them, but who? I pray I recall soon.
Ivy turned the page, but there were no other entries. She took a photo of the written passage and closed the journal. Perhaps this would help Cecile and Ari untangle the web of mystery.
While Ivy waited for her parents, she hoped to have a few words with the chief and the FBI agents and give them the journal. She opened the door to step outside, but she was immediately inundated with reporters shoving microphones in her face and snapping photos. Ivy flung up her hands.
“Ms. Bay,” one reporter called out. “Any comment about the artwork you found?”
“How’d you know those paintings were the real deal?” another asked. “Could they be forgeries?”
“No comment,” Ivy muttered, caught off guard. “Please, I can’t comment.” Horrified that their secret was out, she darted back inside and slammed the door shut.
“Shelly, come quickly!”
Her sister clattered up the staircase from the lower level just as Ivy’s phone buzzed. Bennett Dylan.
“Bennett, I’m so glad you called. I was just outside…”
“I know. The Chief called me. We’ve got a media situation on our hands, Ivy. More security is on the way. So am I. Stay put and don’t answer the door or your phone for anyone you don’t know.” He clicked off.
A couple of people peered through a front window and knocked on the pane. Ivy quickly drew the drapery.
“What’s going on?” Shelly stared at her wide-eyed.
“When I opened the door, a bunch of reporters and photographers charged me. They’re asking about the paintings.”
Outside, Ivy could hear the ruckus. Then, “I’m the mayor, let me through,” a voice bellowed. “It’s me, Bennett,” he called to her.
Ivy hurried to open the door.
Before she realized what was happening, Bennett squeezed inside and wrapped his arms around her. “Are you okay?” he asked.
Although Ivy felt safe in his arms, she took a half step back. How easy it would be to fall under his protection. She had to stand on her own feet—now more than ever.
“I was just shocked. How’d they find out?”
“I don’t know,” Bennett said, shaking his head. “Did either of you say anything?”
“Not a word,” Shelly said with vehemence.
“Could anyone have overheard you talking? Maybe at the party last night?”
Ivy shot back, “We didn’t even tell our parents, even though we were dying to.” She clamped a hand over her mouth. “And they’ll be here any minute. I was going to ask Chief Clarkson like you suggested, but that’s when I was ambushed. I asked them to come over for dinner, hoping that they can see the paintings. If not, we can go out for dinner.”
“No harm, no foul, right?” Shelly put a hand on her hip. “Now what?”
Before he could answer, another bang on the door erupted. The chief, along with agents Cecile and Ari, spilled inside. Behind them stood Carlotta and Sterling, thoroughly confused at the chaos.
“Do you know these people?” Chief Clarkson demanded.
“Hi, Mom and Dad,” Ivy said.
“Come in,” Ari said, closing the door after them. “How the hell did this happen? Which one of you called the media?”
“We have no idea,” Ivy said, slicing her hands out. “Don’t put this on us.”
Sterling’s deep voice boomed out. “Would someone tell us what’s going on? As their father, I’m deeply alarmed.”
“Dad, it’s okay.” Ivy quickly explained. “We found some paintings—stolen masterpieces—on the lower level, which had been bricked up for decades.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Carlotta asked.
“It all happened so quickly this week,” Ivy said. “We found it late one night, and the next day I spoke to Bennett and Chief Clarkson. We were sworn to secrecy, and the FBI came right away. But tonight, we wanted you to come and see the artwork before it leaves tomorrow.”
Ivy turned to the FBI agents. “I didn’t say anything to our parents before, but they’re here now. They’re in the arts, and it would mean so much to them. And to me.”
“I can vouch for them,” Bennett said.
“And I found this,” Ivy said, stretching out her hand with the palm-sized journal. “I believe this is Amelia’s journal, although there is only one entry. It might be helpful.”
Cecile took the journal and opened it. A moment later, she looked up. “They can stay,” she said, although she and Ari still wore serious expressions.
The entire group trooped downstairs. When Ivy snapped on the lights, her parents gasped.
“Are these real?” Carlotta asked.
“That’s what we wondered, too,” Ivy said. “In school, I studied the artwork that had been confiscated just before and during the Second World War, so I knew that many pieces had been stolen and were never found.” She didn’t need to tell them the entire story; they were familiar with it, too.
“How did they end up here?” Sterling asked as he watched Cecile unwrapping a painting for them to see.
“That’s what I’d like to find out,” Ivy said.
“We must be very gentle with these old works,” Cecile said. “But since you are an art lover, I think we can make an exception, no?”
“Your call,” Ari said.
Cecile glared at her colleague. “We owe this incredible find to Ivy and Shelly, who came forward with this discovery.”
Sterling shook Ari’s hand. “We’re privileged to view these paintings, thank you. And we’re awfully proud of our daughters right now. This will go no further, I assure you.”
When Cecile unveiled the first piece, Carlotta and Sterling gasped. “This is almost unfathomable,” Carlotta said.
“And these are real?” Sterling asked.
“We’re fairly certain,” Cecile said. “We’ll conduct tests to make sure.”
Ivy helped Cecile and Ari, and together they shared each framed print, as well as the canvases in the flat files. Her parents stared, awestruck, at the array before them.
Carlotta placed a hand over her heart. “Never would I have imagined these works here, just a few miles away from us. All these years. What had Mrs. Erickson been thinking to hide all these for so long? She was a well-known collector, a steward of modern art, and a benefactor of artists.” She swept her hand around the grouping. “Why would she have concealed these?”
“None of us can say, ma’am,” Cecile said. “But we hope to discover her reasons.”
“That journal entry indicates that she was holding the artwork for someone,” Ivy said. “She meant to return these pieces.” Ivy felt a strange kinship to Amelia and wanted her to be absolved of any wrongdoing. But could she? And would Amelia prove innocent or guilty?
Ivy and Shelly watched their parents, who were overcome with emotion, just as they were, at the astonishing discovery.
Suddenly, Cecile spun around with alarm. “Wait, some paintings are missing,” she cried. “A Klee, a Kandinsky. A Chagall…”
Acutely embarrassed, Ivy cleared her throat. “They’re all still here. I have a few upstairs in my bedroom. I just wanted to enjoy them tonight before they left.”
“That’s an artist for you,” Carlotta said, a smile tugging at her lips.
On Cecile’s insistence, they all went upstairs and crowded into Ivy’s bedroom. Hastily, Ivy shoved the dirty clothes she’d left on the floor into the linen basket.
“Ivy, you were right. It’s much better to view these paintings here,” Carlotta said. “In a room, surrounded by the living, as the artists intended.”
Cecile nodded. “The work is even more stunning here.”
“But it will be even better with proper light and placement,” Ivy said, catching the awe in Cecile’s voice. Ivy could tell the FBI agent wasn’t just a government employee; Cecile was an art lover, too, and devoted to her job. “I hope it won’t be long that others can enjoy these, too.”
Cecile stopped, speechless before a group of paintings Ivy had placed in a prime location.
“These are my favorite artists,” Ivy said, pressing both hands to her chest. In college, she had conducted research and written papers on these women artists, among others. “They’re not as well known, but only because they were women. Just look at the artistry though.”
Touching the edges of the canvases and frames, Ivy spoke of each one in turn. The first was a sun-drenched landscape of vivid blues and greens. “Maria Caspar-Filser was a German painter who was inspired by Cézanne, Impressionism, and Expressionism. She infused her work with such wondrous light and color.”
Ivy moved beside a sketch and paused in reverence. “Here’s a sketch from Emy Roeder, a German sculptor, of a woman emerging from a bath. Much of her work was destroyed, and she suffered greatly for her art.”
A dark, unflinching face stared out at them. “This is a captivating portrait from Elfriede Lohse-Wächtler, who struggled with mental health issues. Her work was bold and unflinching. This might be a self-portrait.”
Moving on to the last one, a graceful portrait of a woman, Ivy added, “And this is from Russian-born Magda Nachman Acharya, who migrated first to Berlin and then lived out her life in India, where she became a well-respected artist. Her portraits of Indian dancers are exquisite.”
Against the incessant roar of the ocean, the small group gazed at the artworks in quiet admiration.
Shelly said, “Ivy’s right. I think these pieces, and the women’s stories, are among the most important to share because they’ve been buried so long. A new generation needs their inspiration.”
As Ivy contemplated the artwork, she thought about Amelia and wondered what she would think about this small gathering in her bedroom. She liked to think that Amelia would be relieved and satisfied that these pieces—under her stewardship for so many decades—would now be returned to their owners and shared with the world again. As these thoughts went through her mind, she had an inexplicable feeling that Amelia’s spirit was there with them and approving of their actions.
After they had all gazed their fill, Ivy said, “Glass of wine, anyone? I think we should open a bottle.”
They gathered in the kitchen, and Ivy opened a cabernet sauvignon from a Sonoma winery for her family. Cecile, Ari, and the chief politely declined.
“Maybe Gert and Gertie can offer us something to go with that,” Shelly said as she opened one of the turquoise refrigerators.
Alarm registered on Ari’s face. “Who are Gert and Gertie?” he demanded.
If Ari hadn’t gone on high alert, Ivy would have laughed. “That’s what we call our vintage refrigerators,” she said, trying to keep the humor out of her voice. “They’re real workhorses. Still running icy cold, too.”
“People name cars, so why not appliances?” Shelly brought out an assortment of cheeses and fruit and arranged it on a platter for their guests. She made coffee for those who were still on duty.
“So what do we do with the media camping on our doorstep?” Ivy asked.
“If you would like, I can talk with them—as mayor,” Bennett said. “Tell them we will have a press conference in a couple of days.”
Cecile nodded. “We’ll be finished by then.”
Bennett cast a reassuring smile toward Ivy. “That should take some of the heat off, but I can’t guarantee that the most tenacious souls won’t hang around.”
“I’ll move them off the property,” Chief Clarkson added. “No closer than the curb.”
“Thank you all,” Ivy said. She was grateful for each person in her kitchen and for the part they had played in assisting her in this unusual saga.
Shelly beamed and gestured. “You know, the media is right outside. If only we could announce the opening of our inn—”
“—iBnB,” Ivy and Bennett said, correcting her in unison. Bennett shook his head as though chagrined, though Ivy could tell he didn’t really mean it. She understood that he had to follow the city protocol.
Ivy sipped her wine and tried not to think about the media outside her door. The entire experience of finding the stolen art had been surreal, but then, everything about this house was, too. It was as if Amelia Erickson had been beckoning to her, knowing that her secret would be safe in Ivy’s hands. A shiver raced through her. What other secrets did this house contain?