Saturday, 10:52 a.m.
Irritated by her fight with the Durans, Meredith considered making herself a mimosa or a Bloody Mary. Halfway to the refrigerator, she thought, Screw the charade, and went for a bottle of cabernet instead. After pouring herself a glass, she adjusted the air-conditioning and pulled a stool to the edge of the kitchen island. She glanced toward the clock on the stove. She drained half the glass of wine, then punched in the number she’d seen earlier on her caller ID.
The art broker answered immediately, greeting her with an overly enthusiastic “Meredith! How have you been?”
“I’m fine.” She didn’t ask him the same in return. The last time she’d made that mistake, Brian had launched into a ten-minute story about a trip to Florence.
Meredith was fairly sure the art broker’s real first name wasn’t Brian and absolutely certain the man’s real last name wasn’t Smith, making his initials oddly appropriate. She wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he’d picked the name for that reason.
Meredith had met the broker only once in person, preferring to exchange paintings and contracts by courier. In his early forties then, the man who called himself Brian Smith had worn his hair long that day (she suspected as a testament to his stubborn hairline) and his dress shirt tight (likely to show off his obvious gym habit).
A failed artist, Brian had an ego that was second only to his greed, and he knew how to capitalize on these same qualities in others. He had an instinct for which dealer would overlook his forged record of provenance to lock in a great deal.
On the other end of the line, Brian cleared his throat. “I trust you’re familiar with van Gogh’s Girl in White in the Woods?”
What was she, a freshman not yet enrolled in her first art history class? Of course she knew the painting. She instantly pictured it—captured in shades of red, brown, and deep yellow, a girl stood alone among the trees. What she didn’t know was why he was asking about a van Gogh instead of hounding her about the Georges Braque he’d put a deposit on.
She took another sip of cabernet, then another, but the wine lacked its usual effect.
“Of course I know it.”
“Can you paint it?”
She found the request odd. Brian had never approached her about a van Gogh before. “I’m not accepting new commissions right now.”
“He’s willing to pay six figures.”
The figure should have enticed her, but it was too generous. A trap of some kind? At that rate, it had to be. “Get someone else.”
“He doesn’t want someone else. He mentioned you by name.”
“You shouldn’t be discussing me with strangers.” She heard the ice in her voice. She hoped he did too. Though what she did wasn’t technically illegal, strict nondisclosure language was written into all of her contracts.
“He said the setting has always spoken to him. Made him feel like he was right there, watching the girl from behind a tree.”
Meredith touched her wineglass, then pushed it away.
Brian continued. “Maybe you can add in the bits of leaves, since he seemed to really appreciate that aspect of the original.”
Another image flashed: sodden leaves clinging to steel.
While van Gogh worked on the painting, bits of oak leaves became embedded in the wet paint. The artwork had been praised for its sense of place—when viewing it once in person, she’d imagined the scent of the woods near her own home, perhaps because van Gogh had knelt on the forest floor while painting it.
Though Meredith had once appreciated Girl in White in the Woods for these qualities, thinking of it now made her abruptly claustrophobic.
“With the leaves, it would fail authentication, naturally, but he’s not looking to sell it,” Brian said. “Told me the painting reminds him of his childhood. He wants to hang it on his living-room wall for the pleasure of all his guests.”
Goose bumps raised on her arms. “What’s this client’s name?”
“You know I can’t say. Confidentiality.”
“Listen, Brian, I appreciate your commitment to confidentiality.” She reached for her glass again and finished her wine in one long swallow. Her mouth puckered at the rush of tannins. “Though I’m also a little concerned that it obviously didn’t apply to your conversation about me with this mystery client.”
“It’s not like that. He approached me, not the other way around. You know I would never violate our agreement.”
The words sounded rehearsed, the placating-a-difficult-client speech he’d probably given dozens of times. Meredith pretended the phone she clutched was her art broker’s neck. “So you’ve said.”
“Which is why I can’t share more than I already have.”
She could picture him checking the time on his stainless-steel Bulgari, already mentally preparing for his next meeting. “I’ll double your cut,” she said.
He couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “His name’s Adam Duran.”
As soon as the name entered the room, the oxygen left it. The air grew warmer still. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she started to sweat in her linen button-down.
“And how did you meet this Adam Duran?”
As Brian started babbling again about the importance of maintaining privacy amid assurances of his commitment to their partnership, Meredith moved to the closet. She pulled out the nearly finished copy of Plate and Fruit Dish and placed it on the easel.
When the art broker came up for air, she said, “About that Braque I owe you?”
“You’re done?” Fully engaged again.
“Not quite.”
She’d gotten the pears in the foreground exactly right, though the shadows on the plate were a little off still. Perhaps a few more strokes of a darker paint? She picked up a palette knife.
Brian sniffed, probably irritated she’d drawn him back into a conversation he’d been wrapping up. “So what, then?”
“It’s not as complex as some of Braque’s later works, but it’s a lovely reproduction.” She traced the plate in the painting with the tip of her knife.
“You always do amazing work,” he said.
“Of course I do.” Her turn to be impatient. “You said it’s a gift?”
“For my sister’s wedding.”
“Unfortunate, because I’m rethinking the commission.”
He gasped. “The wedding’s in three weeks.”
“I’ll return the deposit, of course, as per the terms of our contract.”
“But there’s no time to get her another gift.”
“The Meadowood Mall had tracksuits on sale. His and hers. They looked comfortable.”
The more Meredith considered the painting, the more she warmed to the idea of slashing it. She’d been toying with the idea of retiring anyway, and Brian really was an ass.
“You can’t…” His voice trailed off, as if he was now worried he’d offend her.
She paused, pretending to give the matter thought as she twirled the knife in her hand. “Or,” she said, “if I worked through the weekend, I could have it done by Monday.” She paused again. “You know—if I weren’t distracted by this Adam Duran matter.”
Brian sighed in what she hoped was a signal of defeat. That really would be best, for his bottom line as well as his betrothed sister’s happiness.
But when he spoke, he remained reluctant. “I’ve told you everything I know.”
Did he really value his sister’s happiness so little?
She sighed loudly to be certain he heard it, though she hoped he didn’t notice the tremor in it. “I believe there were several color options available on those tracksuits, though I’m partial to the one with burgundy piping.”
“We didn’t even meet in person,” he said, the last of his hesitancy falling away.
“What do you mean?”
Meredith brushed the edge of the canvas with the palette knife, considering again the shading. Perhaps it was perfect after all. It would be a shame to have to shred it.
“I was out of town that week, and according to my staff, he didn’t even come into the shop himself. He sent someone.”
“An assistant?” That would be a place to start. It shouldn’t be hard to track an assistant to the person who signed the paychecks.
“A courier. Just some young guy in a ponytail with a cross-body bag and a form.”
“What courier service?”
Brian gave her the company’s name and address, which she jotted on the refrigerator whiteboard. “But I followed up with the service myself as soon as I got back in town a few days ago,” he said. “I rarely get commission requests that way, and never from someone who isn’t already a client. So I went in, verified the courier was legit. And of course, I tried to find out who’d hired them. Dead end.”
“Yet you took the commission.”
“I didn’t take it for the money, if that’s what you’re thinking. Not entirely, anyway. Whoever brought it to me knew things about you.” His voice grew hushed, though as far as Meredith knew, he was alone. “Things even I didn’t know, like the name of your daughter. I was sure he was legit.”
Meredith set down the knife before she could do anything rash. Her hand tightened on the handset. “What did he say about my daughter?”
“Nothing, really.” Reading her mood accurately, Brian was suddenly Mr. Cooperation. “In the note, he just mentioned he knew you and your daughter Grace.” Meredith detested the casual way he said her daughter’s name. If she’d been holding the knife, the canvas would’ve been ruined.
“You still have the note?”
He sniffed. “You think I’m an amateur?”
She had many words for him at the moment, but amateur wasn’t one of them. “What else did the note say?”
Brian went quiet, and she hoped for his sake he needed the time to search his memory, not to construct a lie. “He introduced himself. Said the best forgers are often the best liars—it was meant as a compliment.” The broker chuckled, likely imagining what he’d do with his cut. He didn’t know the story he’d been sold was a lie. “Apparently, his father commissioned a painting of yours before he died. Paid six figures for it.”
Six figures again. Her broker might not recognize it for what it was, but she did. Through this story he’d shared with Brian, the man claiming to be Adam Duran was suggesting it would take at least a hundred thousand dollars to buy his silence.
What did he know? What could he know?
Regardless, Meredith would pay it.
Brian said, “Then he mentioned wanting to commission the van Gogh, but he didn’t know how to reach you. Guess his dead father didn’t think to list you in his contacts under ‘art forger.’” This time, his chuckle felt forced.
“What exactly did he write about why he wanted the painting?”
“I’m not sure I can remember word for word what—”
“Of course you can. You’re always impressing clients with your recall of the most obscure bits of art history.” Meredith aimed for flattery, but the sarcasm was unmistakable. She cringed every time Brian started a sentence with Did you know…
“We’ve been over this, and I have an appointment in less than ten—”
“Tell me, Brian.”
His sigh had a hint of irritation again. “‘It’s a scene straight out of my own childhood.’ That’s what he wrote. ‘I want to hang the painting over the mantel so everyone who comes into my home can see what she’s done.’ Like I said, he’s a huge fan. He actually called today to make sure I’d gotten the note since he hadn’t heard from me.” His tone grew petulant. “You haven’t been taking my calls.”
That explained Brian’s persistence. Nothing like an impatient client to motivate the broker. “What did he say?”
“He didn’t talk to me. He talked to my assistant.”
She started to wipe the sweat from her neck, but her hand froze mid-swipe. Since she’d entered the kitchen, the temperature had spiked. Had the air conditioner switched off?
Her gaze landed on the stove and its digital clock. It had been on when she’d entered the kitchen. Off now. The generator had stopped working.
Her mouth was dry. From the cabernet, she told herself. That would teach her to drink red wine before lunch. “And how am I supposed to get in touch with this Adam Duran?”
“He said you’d know how to find him,” Brian said. “Now, when will you have that Braque you owe me?”