Framed (12 page)

“You thought right,” he agreed with a sheepish grin. The adrenaline rush faded, leaving a sour taste in his mouth, but he was glad now that he had come.

She ushered him into the main workspace, where Sue and Elsie had cleared the table. He immediately focused on the rather small painting they were bending over. “What’s the red stuff?”

“We think it’s a thin wash of watercolor paste,” Elsie replied. “At least, it responds to water.”

“What’s underneath it?”

“That’s what we want to find out.” Sue’s voice was firm but he detected a trace of anxiety underneath the firmness. “Would you close the door, please?”

Ginny objected. “You usually want it open, Sue. What’s up?”

Sue shrugged. “Just a bit nervous, I guess.”

Tom obliged her, then returned to the table. “Explain as you go along,” he requested.

Elsie began the explanation. “We’ve already cleaned the painting with a standard cleaning and conditioning fluid. Sue usually does that, because the smell really bothers me. It was filthy. See?” She displayed the cloths Sue had used, which were indeed grimy. “It was hanging in a bar for years and had gotten covered with grease and smoke.”

He grunted. “Did you find anything else on it?”

“Mud.” Sue shrugged. “There was mud all over the bottom part of the picture.” She swept her hand across the area where the mud had been. “I had to clean it out with cotton swabs.”

“Did you save them?”

“I did.” She indicated a pile of swabs, all filthy gray. He picked one up by its middle and peered at its ends.

“Looks like fine sand, ordinary mud. The lab might be able to get something out of this.”

“After ten years?” Ginny was incredulous.

“You’d be surprised,” was all he said. “So you cleaned it. You didn’t happen to take a picture of it before you cleaned it, did you?”

Elsie nodded. “We always do. It’s fun to see how different it looks before and after.”

“Nothing else showed up?”

“Just the red stuff. Oh, and Jerry’s signature.”

He whistled in appreciation before he bent over the painting, mumbling thanks for the magnifier Ginny stuck in his hand. “The red stuff sure looks like an addition, right down to the fine brush marks in it. But then, an artist would have fine brushes, wouldn’t he?”

“Could it be anything else?”

The women looked at each other. “Gesso,” Ginny ventured. “It could be colored gesso.”

“Would an artist have it on hand?”

“Most artists do. It’s used as a primer for canvas, among other things. We keep it on hand to repair damage to carved frames, rather like plaster of Paris.”

While she was speaking, Elsie fetched the jar of gesso from the other room. She spread a dollop of it on a scrap piece of mat board. She showed Tom how, with a palette knife, she could create a three-dimensional effect, and then she smeared the gesso into a thin layer to let it dry.

DiAndreo dabbed a clean wet swab onto the gesso and watched for an effect. The gesso thinned out, but left a gritty residue. “We’ll try it again once it dries. In the meantime, let’s see what we get when we take a little of the red off the painting.”

With another clean swab, Sue wiped a tiny drop of water onto the paint in an unobtrusive spot. If this process seemed likely to damage Jerry’s work, at least the effect would be minimal. After a pause to allow the water to soak in, she picked up a fresh swab and gently wiped away the red drop. It thinned out, leaving a pale wash of white behind. Sue repeated the process with another pair of swabs, and the paint underneath was revealed. It was a dark brownish red that blended into the stems of the underbrush.

Ginny let out the breath she had been holding and checked the picture with the magnifying glass. “There seems to be no damage, no softening or discoloration of the paint,” she murmured. Sue and Elsie sighed with relief.

“I think we can go ahead,” Ginny said, “but be careful. Take as much time as you need. I don’t care if it takes the rest of the week, I don’t want this work damaged.”

Tom made a gesture of caution. “Hold on a moment. I think you should hold off on cleaning any more. If this does have any bearing on the Berger/Bingham case, we don’t want to jeopardize it by removing evidence.”

Ginny flushed. “This painting is far too valuable to be stuck in a police evidence room. It just won’t do.”

He raised his hand to calm her. “I’m not saying that. Just don’t go any further with it until I get back to you, all right?”

The three women looked at each other. “Well, I guess it goes back into the safe.” Elsie sounded a bit relieved.

“One more thing. You say you know where this is?” Tom indicated the pile of rocks in the picture.

“I’m pretty sure of it,” Elsie replied. “I was out training my dog yesterday, and we ended up someplace that looks a lot like this. This stone is rather distinctive.” She blushed as she pointed to the one that reminded Sue of buttocks.

Tom considered it and then grinned. “Cops get paid to be nosy. Could you take me there?”

“We were going to ask you to go along,” Sue said in relief. “We thought it would be a good idea to have an impartial observer with us.”

“You weren’t going to go alone?” His eyes were wide in alarm.

They exchanged guilty glances.

“I see. You were, weren’t you?” He shook his head and thought about it. “Well, I really can’t stop you. I’d just feel better if I went along, too. Besides, I don’t have anything going on tomorrow, and this would be a good excuse to avoid any more phone calls from my future mother-in-law.”

Sue looked eager. “Can we go tomorrow? It’s my day off, but Elsie is supposed to work.”

They turned to Ginny. “I can’t do it tomorrow. I have two appointments with customers. But you don’t really need me, do you? Why don’t you go, both of you? Go with Tom. I’ll be fine here by myself.”

There was a little more discussion, but in the end they agreed to meet at Elsie’s house in the morning. She could even take Mac along for more training.

“Keep that picture safe,” Tom said in parting. “And don’t toss the rags or the swabs. I’ll get an evidence kit from my car and take them back to the office with me. I don’t think it would be a good idea to discuss this adventure with anyone else. Agreed?”

Ginny offered him a cup of coffee, to which he agreed after a quick consultation with his conscience, and they returned upstairs. While she prepared it, he wandered around the gallery looking at the framed art. He leafed through the brochure of Berger’s works, stopping to admire
A Walk in the Rain
and several other prints. He wondered if there would be room in his new condo for one or two of them, and if he could afford them.

Ginny handed him a mug. “What can I sell you?” she asked with good humor.

He smiled and took a sip. “What would something like that one downstairs go for?” To his surprise she took him seriously.

“That’s a good question. A new painting by an artist of his stature—he’s not right on the top rung, you know, but he’s very well respected and his prints still sell well. A couple of his pieces are in significant museums, and I think his reputation will only grow with this piece. The new owners paid a pittance for it, the lucky ducks. Somebody didn’t know what they were selling.”

“So how do you put a price on it? I assume they’ll at least want to insure it, if not sell it?”

She sat down and began to explain it to him. “The biggest obstacle is determining for sure it is one of Jerry’s. The signature, the fact Abby never modeled for anyone else, and my own assessment settle that question. I’ll probably ask Pam and Howard, his sister and brother, to check in their archives to see if they can find any studies or photos that show the work in progress, just to be sure.”

“There’s an archive?”

Ginny smiled. “Sort of. The original paintings, at least the ones Pam and Howard control, are in Howard’s house in New York. Pam lives in Jerry’s old place out in Douglass, and whatever was in the studio is packed up in boxes in her upstairs. It’s quite safe there; we spent a lot of time sorting and packing things properly. The room is part of the house, so it’s climate-controlled. I haven’t been there in a couple of years. All the paintings have been scanned and stored electronically so it’s easy to print what we want to.” She hesitated. “Do you know about fine art prints? Limited editions and so on?”

“Ginny, I don’t know a watercolor from an oil.”

“Okay.” She settled deeper in her chair. “You have the original painting, right? In Jerry’s case, they’re now selling for tens of thousands of dollars.”

“That much?” Tom was surprised.

“The original of
Birch Meadow
recently sold for thirty-two thousand, and it’s not one of his best. So the answer to your first question, how much would the nude sell for, is probably between twenty-five and forty thousand. You can’t tell until it actually goes on the market.”

He whistled. “Well, I guess I won’t be buying it! Go ahead and tell me about prints. Like posters?”

“We’ve only done
One Year
as a poster, because it’s so popular. The limited edition, signed and numbered prints of that one are going for about twenty-five hundred. A limited edition,” she went on before he could ask, “is just what it sounds like. A limited number of very high-quality prints, usually between two hundred and a thousand, are made on high-grade paper. They’re usually a different size than the original, and they are signed and numbered by the artist. They’re fairly high priced and can become quite valuable. Sometimes, especially now that the process is more stable, an edition of canvas prints is made, too. Smaller number of prints, higher price. In either case, no more prints of that size are ever going to be made. They break the mold, so to speak. Okay so far?”

Tom nodded, and Ginny continued. “The artist can, if he chooses, use the same image for other purposes. For instance, one artist we sell had a fairly large edition of fine art prints of one of her pieces, and then she also licensed a part of the image for note cards, calendars, mugs, and so on.”

“I see. All kinds of ways to make money from art.”

Ginny laughed. “It only works for a very few. Some of the best ones only do very high-end prints and make a very good living. Others do better with the licensed products and make a pretty good living. Most artists starve.”

“And people like you make a living off the artists. Oh, don’t get upset,” he forestalled her. “I can see where artists need you to sell their stuff. Marketing is a job all in itself, from what I hear, and not everyone is good at it.”

“I’d much rather see a good painter have the time to work with their art, rather than at selling.”

They sipped at their coffee for a few minutes in silence. Then he asked, “Is it important to have a chain of custody in art? In my field, we have to prove a certain item we hand in to court is the same one we picked up at the crime scene. We call that a chain of custody, and it’s crucial sometimes.”

Ginny smiled. “We call it provenance. Knowing where something came from. Yes, it can be important. Sometimes the stories that go along with the art are just as important as the art itself. Like the Hope Diamond, for instance, with all the so-called curses on it.”

“Or the Curse of the Pharaoh?”

“Yes, like that.” Ginny laughed. “In this case, we know so far that it was hanging in a bar, and we know how it got to the current owners. We just don’t know how it got from Jerry to the bar. Now that we have the signature it’s not critical, but it sure would be nice to know.”

DiAndreo was beginning to think he really should get back to his office when a sudden racket arose two doors down at Jemmie’s Gems. Ginny rolled her eyes. “He’s at it again. Damn, and he’s been so good ever since you talked to him.”

He listened to the crescendo of shouting. Jemmie’s voice rose higher in pitch and volume, and enough words could be distinguished Tom felt the need to shut him up. He feigned nonchalance. “I think I’ll take a stroll down there. Thanks for the coffee.”

Chapter Sixteen

Elsie had coffee ready when Sue and Tom DiAndreo arrived at her house the next morning, dressed for hiking on a damp spring day. They tossed waterproof boots into Elsie’s truck in anticipation of mud puddles and stuffed rain gear into their backpacks. At least, they agreed, rain would keep the omnipresent bugs down.

Maculato was beside himself with excitement at meeting all the new people and could hardly settle down long enough for Elsie to put a leash on him. His whole body wiggled as he greeted Tom and licked his hand. Then he danced over to Sue.

“He’s gotten so big since the last time I saw him, Elsie. Look, I don’t even have to bend down to pet him. Will he get much bigger?” Mac recognized her friendly voice and pressed his head against her hip. Sue smiled at him and patted him between the ears.

“I hope not. He’s almost too tall for his breed. We’re hoping to put him to stud in a couple of years. Come on, Mac, up you go.” Elsie all but shoved him into his crate.

Tom was to follow in his personal car. “I don’t have any jurisdiction in Douglass, so I talked to the chief over there. He said to call him if we discover anything, but he’s pretty sure the case is cold. My chief thinks I’m just stirring up old gossip, but he’s willing to stretch a point and let me go with you on the strength of the painting. Especially since I’m off duty. Just so we’re clear—if anything turns up, I take over until the Douglass police arrive, okay?”

The two women agreed, grateful for his company. They felt safer with him on this expedition. Elsie gave him detailed directions in case they got separated. She and Sue climbed into the truck and headed out. It was a straight run west for about twenty miles on the main highway, over Temple Mountain, then north into and beyond Douglass on a back road. The trip would take about forty-five minutes.

They were carrying several photos of the Berger painting in various stages of cleaning. As they drove, they studied them and speculated on what, if anything, they might find.

“Bags of gold and jewels,” Elsie suggested dreamily.

“Or some pictures of them being naughty,” said Sue, bringing them down to earth.