Elizabeth Lowell - Blue Smoke and Murder

Jase kept ignoring her and talked to Zach. “Your client should know that four million is the bottom level of acceptable bidding. We expect the paintings to go as high as ten million, perhaps higher. Talbert Crawford will be at the auction in person. He is the foremost collector of Thomas Dunstan, although there are at least three others who will be hoping to outbid him. It’s very rare that Dunstan’s work is offered at a public auction.”

“Did Crawford have to fill out a financial qualification form?” Jill asked.

“Of course,” Jase said. “Every bidder must. No exceptions.”

“If we still care, my client’s personal banker will call you tomorrow morning,” Zach said casually. “She’ll answer your questions.”

“What kinds of art does your client already own?” Jase asked.

“Whatever he wants. He’s new to the Western art market. He wants to start at the top. Saves all the kicking and gouging.”

Jase blinked. “Well, a major Dunstan canvas certainly would be a tremendous place to start.”

“Depends on the Dunstan,” Zach said. “Before I give my okay to the client, I want to black-light these. You have a place where I can do that?”

“Certainly,” Jase said. It was something any serious collector would want done with an expensive painting before the bidding began. The fact that Zach was being thorough was reassuring, underlining the earnest intentions of his client. “I’ll have the boys bring the paintings to a back room.”

“Unframed,” Zach said.

Jill held her breath.

“My client never buys a painting until I see it without its frame,” Zach added calmly. “It’s like marrying a woman before you see her without makeup and designer clothes.”

Jase almost smiled. Seeing the paintings naked, as it were, was another common demand, especially if the potential buyer was concerned about the condition of the canvas or stretchers. Framing could-and did-hide or minimize defects.

A snap of Jase’s fingers brought two young men trotting over. Under his supervision, they popped the canvases out of their frames and stood by, waiting for more orders.

“Follow me,” Jase said.

Zach and Jill fell in behind the young men with the canvases. They went down another hallway to a narrow back room where paintings were uncrated and cleaned, repaired, even reframed if necessary. As with real estate and used cars, curbside appeal was all-important to selling art.

If it looked dingy, it sold at a dingy price.

An armed guard sat on a folding chair just inside the door. He nodded to Jase and ignored everyone else.

Easels were scattered throughout the room. Two other people were examining various unframed paintings. One of them was using a battery-driven black light. When she set it aside and left with her companion, Jase picked up the light and handed it to Zach.

“Excuse the rudimentary conditions,” Jase said to Zach.

“Like I said. We’re used to artist’s studios.”

Jase nodded at his two helpers. Each placed a painting on an empty easel and stood close by, waiting to be needed.

“Either shut the door or kill the hall lights,” Zach said.

One of the helpers leaped to a dimmer switch on the wall behind the guard. Artificial twilight descended.

Zach turned on the black light and moved it across the front of one painting.

On the first pass the surface was uniform, constant, as it would be if all the paint had been laid down at the same time.

“Back here,” Jill said.

Zach retraced the painting with the black light until he and Jill could examine several areas where the artist had sketched landforms with extra layers of oil, blending blue and black and green to evoke the rich, earthy colors of a Western landscape.

“Looks clean,” Jill said. “No variation in style, just texture.”

“Signature is normal, painted after the canvas was dry,” Zach said.

“After the artist gave up on achieving perfection,” she said softly, “and went on to a new challenge.”

“Been there, done that?” he asked.

“Every time I picked up a brush.”

Smiling, Zach examined the top and side edges of each canvas. There was wear at the corners and a slight loosening of the canvas itself on the stretchers. Nothing critical, just the natural aging process that began the instant an artist finished a canvas.

“Turn each canvas so that I can examine the bottom edge of the rolled canvas,” Zach said.

The two young men duly flipped each canvas.

Zach moved the light slowly along the bottom edge. Once. Twice. Three times. He looked at Jill.

No thumbprint.

LAS VEGAS

SEPTEMBER 16

5:19 P.M.

Very lightly Zack ran his fingertips along the bottom edge of the painting. Jill took a deep breath, let it out, then took another breath, sniffing the bottom corner of the second painting.

“Black light,” she said.

Zach gave her the light. She held it at an oblique angle to the edge of the stretcher.

“See it?” she asked.

“Looks like it was added after the paint dried,” Zach said.

“Well after,” she said. “It still smells faintly of oil. The modern, quick-dry kind, complete with modern, quick-dry sealant.”

Once discovered, the over-painting leaped out like a scab on otherwise smooth skin.

Jase crowded in on the painting and stared. “You’re right, the repair seems new. But it has no significance.”

“Really?” Jill said skeptically.

“Probably the original frame was put on before the canvas had completely dried,” Jase explained. “When the frame was recently removed for the canvas to be re-stretched, some paint came with it. Thus the repair. It certainly doesn’t matter to the value of the painting as a whole. I doubt if you would even notice it without the black light. Once the canvas is back in its frame, the over-painting will be invisible.”

“Looks like the canvas might have been damaged,” Zach said. “That would affect the price.”

“If it was true, yes. The documents from Lee Dunstan didn’t indicate any such damage,” Jase said.

Zach shrugged. “Then you won’t mind if I record this for my client?”

“Record?”

Zach produced the little digital camera.

“No images,” Jase said immediately. “All reprographic rights remain with the artist’s estate.”

“I’m not going for the front of the painting,” Zach said. “Just the part that will be hidden by the frame at the auction.”

Jase hesitated, glanced at his watch, and said, “Please be quick about it. I have another appointment in two minutes.”

Zach bent over the canvas and recorded the over-painting under various lighting conditions.

The pager on Jase’s belt went off. He looked at the code and frowned.

“We can find our way out,” Jill said. “Don’t be late on account of us.”

“If you need to shift a canvas, one of my helpers will do it,” Jase said. “Insurance, you understand. We can’t have anyone touching the art.”

“Of course,” Jill said. “Thank you for your time. I assure you that our client will be very interested in these paintings. Nothing like a new, extremely wealthy collector to spice up an auction, is there?”

It was every auctioneer’s wet dream, and Jase knew it. “All qualified bidders are welcome.” He smiled. “If you’ll excuse me…”

While Jase hurried out of the room, Zach went to the other canvas. The black light flashed over his face. His grin looked demonic in the purple glow.

When Jill would have said something, he bent and kissed her swiftly, then breathed in her ear, “Not one word about thumbprints.”

Like the other canvas, this one must have been put into the frame before it fully dried, because there was more over-painting near the bottom corner.

Jill leaned in, breathed deep, and said, “Same as the other.”

“Yeah. What do you want to bet it has the same cause?” Zach asked mildly.

“I wouldn’t bet against it,” she said, flinching when the camera’s built-in flash went off.

“Not even in Vegas?”

“Especially not in Vegas.”

“Smart woman.”

“Keep it in mind,” she said.

“Always,” he promised.

As soon as Zach was finished, they thanked the helpers and headed out of the room. When Jill was certain no one could overhear, she turned to Zach.

“How did someone know to-”

He stopped her words with a hard kiss.

“But when-” she began as soon as he lifted his head.

“Not until we’re in the shower. Naked.”

LAS VEGAS

SEPTEMBER 16

6:05 P.M.

Lee Dunstan staggered slightly, then righted himself by leaning against the plush sofa.

Can’t hold liquor the way I used to.

But he wanted another drink anyway.

When he went to get it, he found Betty pouring the rest of the bottle into the bathroom sink.

With an angry cry, Lee lunged toward her, knocking her and the empty bottle against the glassed-in shower enclosure. The shower’s heavy glass banged, vibrated, and held. The bottle shattered.

Betty slid down to the floor and put her face in her hands.

Lee turned on his heel and went to the room phone to order another bottle. Before he could pick up the receiver, the phone rang.

“What?” he snarled into the receiver.

“Ah, Mr. Dunstan?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Jase Wheeler, with the auction. I just wanted to share some very good news with you.”

Lee took a deep breath. The room spun. He took another breath. Things settled down.

Mostly.

“I’m listening,” Lee said.

“The advisers for an unknown, extremely wealthy mystery bidder showed up to look at your Dunstans. They inspected them very thoroughly. They floated the idea that some damage had been done to the canvas because there were spots of over-painting on the bottom edges of the stretched canvas, but I-”

“Edges? Edges! Those paintings are in frames!” Lee shouted.

“Of course. We took them out. It’s quite common for potential buyers to inspect-”

“Tal Crawford is the only buyer that matters,” Lee cut in, “and he’s looked at my paintings all he needs to. What is this bullshit?”

Behind Lee, shards of glass clinked into the trash as Betty began cleaning up after him.

“Obviously I’ve caught you at a bad time,” Jase said smoothly. “I apologize. I just thought you would be pleased to know that, from all the buzz that’s going on, it appears that your paintings could be worth every bit of their high-end estimate. If you have any questions or would like to know any more, please feel free to call me at your convenience.”

Lee looked at the dead phone and slammed it back into the cradle so hard it hurt his hand.

Cursing steadily, he punched in Tal Crawford’s cell number. When it was picked up he said harshly, “Tal, old buddy, we got ourselves a problem.”

LAS VEGAS

SEPTEMBER 16

7:30 P.M.

Like Zach, Jill was freshly washed, wearing new clothes from the skin out, and feeling like a well-scrubbed vegetable. Unless the devices were smaller than anything St. Kilda had heard of, they weren’t carrying bugs.

Anywhere.

They had left everything in their suite, where one of the hotel’s security officers was going over the place for bugs. The new, certified bug-free clothes and electronic sweep were compliments of Shane Tannahill, who really hated devices that weren’t part of his own casino security network.

“Hungry?” Zach asked, massaging the nape of Jill’s neck absently as he sat next to her in a plush booth and looked around the luxurious restaurant.

The Golden Fleece had one five-star and three four-star restaurants on the premises. Foodie heaven. And tonight’s meal was on St. Kilda.

Five stars all the way.

Jill gave him a sidelong look. “I’m hungry. Are you on the menu?”

He smiled. “You are. Dessert.”

She smiled and tried not to think about how much fun their shower had been. Zach in a playful mood was mind blowing.