Authors: Susan Mallery
Nina flushed. “I’m not discussing sex with Kyle.”
“No, you’re just having it.”
Nina groaned. “I meant I’m not discussing me having sex with Kyle with you.”
“But he’s good, right?”
“He’s—” Nina pressed her lips together. “I asked to speak to you for a specific reason.”
“Yes, I know. We don’t usually have clandestine meetings. Although I’ll admit it’s hard to take you seriously while you’re wearing a shirt covered with Disney characters.”
Nina glanced down at her scrub shirt. “I came directly from work.”
“It must be nice not to have to worry about what to wear every day. With all the running around you do, you have to be practical. Wear things that wash well. But your scrubs are still cute. You always look so friendly.”
“It’s important with our patients,” Nina said. “Sometimes they’re really sick or scared.”
“Or both.” Averil held in a smile as she silently gave herself another point for the second distraction. She was on a roll. If only she could use her powers for good.
Nina started to say something, then shook her head. “Okay, about the reason I called you.” She opened her purse and pulled out several folded sheets of paper. “Dylan came to see me today.”
Averil started to make a comment about him, figuring she could go three for three, but something in Nina’s eyes stopped her. It wasn’t that her sister was frightened so much as she looked...unsure.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, not wanting to hear anything horrible. No one could be dying, she decided. Or even sick. Not right now.
“Nothing’s wrong exactly. It’s more of a situation.”
Averil relaxed. A situation meant logistics. Something her sister excelled at. “Okay, and it is what?”
Nina unfolded the papers and spread them out on the counter. Averil stared at them.
They were color copies of the ugly painting Bonnie and Bertie had bought. Only they were different. Similar colors and subjects, but not the same. There were different faces and poses.
“This is part of a series?” she asked. “Part of the ‘I’m the weirdest painter of my generation’ collection?”
“I’ve been looking at the signature.” Nina tapped the last sheet where that part of the painting was enlarged. “Mostly because of what Dylan said.”
Averil touched the sheet, studying the letters. “We saw this before. Em something.”
“Emilion Stoicasescu.”
“Why is that name familiar?” Averil squinted as she tried to place it.
“He studied with Picasso,” Nina told her. “Dylan figured it out. He said there was something about the painting that looked familiar. He started doing research online, and this is what he came up with.”
“Okay, so Mom bought a painting from a guy Picasso knew? Big whoop.”
Nina put down another article. Averil scanned the headline, then read it more slowly as the words sank in.
Emilion Stoicasescu Original Sells for Ten Million at Auction.
“Oh, my God.”
“I know.” Nina wrapped her arms around her midsection. “It’s crazy, right? Mom found this painting and nearly tossed it because it was ugly, but, hey, she liked the frame.”
“No way. I don’t believe it. It’s a copy or a print or whatever they call an imitation in the art world.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. There are missing paintings. Some not seen in decades.” She nodded toward Nina’s laptop. “Look it up yourself. He wasn’t nearly as prolific as Picasso, and no one is really sure how many of his paintings are out there. But the consensus is there aren’t that many. Which increases the value.”
Averil typed on the keyboard automatically. Her brain was offering a dozen other explanations to the ugly painting question. There was no way Bonnie had bought some important painting. But even as she struggled to reconcile what was possible with the framed piece currently parked in their living room, she wondered if it was in any way probable.
If someone was going to stumble on an art find, it would be her mother. Bonnie went out into the world with an open heart. She was like a puppy, assuming everyone would like her and want the best for her. She didn’t worry about details like being on time or paying bills. Those mundane activities were for others—mostly Nina. She was meant to be free to find beautiful things and share them with the world.
As a result, she rarely suffered. People did take care of her and look out for her. Over the past decade, that job had fallen to Bertie who sheltered her with love and devotion.
The pictures came up in rows. Various paintings by Emilion Stoicasescu, all strange and unusual. Several were enough like the painting Bonnie had bought to make her wonder if maybe, just maybe, everything was about to change.
“I know,” Nina said, shaking her head. “It’s amazing and horrifying at the same time.”
“What if it’s real? Do you have any idea what it’s worth? As much as that one that sold for ten million?”
“I have no idea. I guess it could be that much. Or it could be nothing. We need a plan.”
“First, find out if it’s real,” Averil said.
“Absolutely. But if it’s what we both think it is...” Nina drew in a breath. “That’s where I get overwhelmed.”
Millions, Averil thought. That would be a life-changer. Bonnie and Bertie would be able to buy the biggest antique store ever. Or travel the world. Or save the spotted owl. She supposed she would leave some to her daughters.
Averil wondered what would change then. A million or two meant no worrying about the mortgage. Not that Kevin would ever quit his job. He loved it. She would...
She realized she had no idea what she would do differently. If anything. As for Nina, Averil wasn’t sure her sister had dreams.
“We need to make a list,” she said, pulling herself back to the moment at hand. “That’s what you always taught me. Break the problem down into manageable pieces. Step one. Is it real? How do we find that out?”
* * *
Deanna Phillips lived in a restored Queen Anne home next to Andi’s house and practice. The downstairs was a combination of period-appropriate furniture and pieces that reflected the on-the-go lifestyle of a busy family with five growing daughters.
Nina perched on the edge of a tufted chair. She’d refused the offer of tea, mostly so she could keep her hands pressing down firmly on her shaking knee. In the past two days she felt as if one part or another of her body was always vibrating. Nerves, she told herself. Or a breakdown.
She didn’t have time for either. In addition to her regular life, dealing with her mother and worrying about her sister, she might now have the headache of a valuable painting. An undiscovered or missing Emilion Stoicasescu was one definition of a blessing and a curse, she thought. Because Bonnie was involved, nothing about this was going to be easy. She’d decided to go to the closest thing to experts she knew. Boston and Deanna.
“You look on edge,” Deanna said with a smile. “You’re stressed.”
“A little,” Nina admitted. “Mom’s back and she can be a handful.”
Boston laughed. “You know I adore your mom.”
“Everyone does. Bonnie’s the life of the party.”
Deanna’s gaze sharpened. “Always a challenge for her daughters. How can we help?”
Nina and Averil had discussed the best way to explain the problem without actually going into detail. “We think Bonnie might have picked up an original painting on her trip. I was wondering if either of you knew a reputable art expert in the Seattle area who could tell us.”
“Your area of expertise, not mine,” Deanna told Boston.
Boston motioned to the beautifully decorated living room. “You’re the antique queen. You have contacts.”
Nina wanted to smack them both. Yes, they were good friends. Love to all—she needed an answer to her question.
But instead of saying that, she forced herself to smile and breathe.
“We’re talking a painting,” Deanna said. “Who comes to mind?”
Boston leaned back against the sofa and nibbled at her brownie. “Do you have a century?” she asked.
“Twentieth,” Nina told her. Based on her limited research, if the painting was an Emilion, it seemed as if it would have been done in the 1930s or 1940s.
“Twentieth century art.” Boston thought for a second, then nodded. “Ambrose Priestly. He’s the best. Pricey, but worth it. I have his card in my studio. He travels, but he’s based in Seattle. I’m sure he would be happy to make the trip here, as long as you pay for his time.”
“Thank you,” Nina said.
Boston made no move to get up, which meant they were going to visit before she got what she’d come for. Something she would usually enjoy. Just not today.
* * *
Ambrose Priestly looked like a cross between a butler from a Jane Austen novel and a British host of PBS. He was tall, thin and dressed in a three-piece suit. Custom made, Nina thought as she escorted the man into their house, based on what he’d charged to make the trip to the island.
Nina told herself that peace of mind and knowledge were worth the cleaning-out of her savings account. The sooner she knew what they were dealing with, the better. And if it turned out the painting was a fake or an imitation or worthless, everything would go back to what it had been before that much quicker. She would be out five grand, but, hey, it was only money, right?
“I haven’t been to the island before,” Ambrose told her as he stepped into the living room of their house. “It’s charming.”
“We like it. There are a lot of tourists in the summer, but as they pay the bills for much of the island’s population, we make do.”
Averil had taken Bertie and Bonnie to lunch. They’d left a half hour ago and wouldn’t be back until after one. That gave Nina what she hoped was enough time with Ambrose and his expertise.
He crossed to a small display case and studied the tiny figurines inside. Nina was sure she saw him flinch.
“You know those aren’t valuable,” he murmured, turning toward her.
“Yes, but my mother likes them.”
“I see.”
His dark gaze swept over the lumpy sofa and ancient carpet. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but if she had to guess, he was hoping the check cleared and wishing he’d asked for cash.
“The painting is over here,” she said, pointing to the easel and painting Averil had brought from the store.
Ambrose walked toward the painting. She’d positioned it by the window, so it got a lot of light, but away from the doorway. He had to circle around to see it.
“My mother travels the country looking for antiques,” she explained. “Not that many of them are valuable. She has unusual tastes. We have a small store here and sell to the tourists. Every now and then she finds a real treasure. This painting is probably nothing, but it seemed prudent to check it out and—”
She was aware of the art appraiser going completely still. She doubted the man was even breathing. His brown eyes were focused on the canvas. As she watched, his pupils dilated, and his fingers fluttered slightly.
“My dear girl, do you have any idea what you have here?” he asked.
“No. That’s why I wanted you to see it.”
He gave her a faint smile. “I meant that rhetorically.”
“Oh.”
He picked up the painting. “I need more light.”
“Sure. The kitchen is through here.”
She led the way and turned on the overhead light. Ambrose held the frame steady and studied the piece.
“It’s stunning. Look at the mastery, the brilliance. There’s complexity in every stroke.”
Nina looked down at the face made of boxes and the claw hands. Maybe she should have taken an art appreciation class in college or something.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “Is it...”
“Genuine? I’m sure of it. There are tests that would have to be done, of course. You’ll want an official appraisal. An Emilion Stoicasescu here on Blackberry Island. I never would have guessed.”
Ambrose took the painting back to the easel and set it in place. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “All right, let’s get to the paperwork.”
“Right,” she said, pulling the check from her back pocket.
“Yes, my fee. Of course, but there are some forms to be filled out, and I have some information for you.”
They went back to the kitchen and sat at the large table. Ambrose pulled several papers out of his briefcase.
“Research will have to be done,” he told her. “As I mentioned before, tests to confirm it’s genuine. Does your mother have a receipt for the purchase?”
“I think so. It was in one of those storage unit auctions.”
He winced. “I will not think about that treasure in a storage locker.” He picked up a pen. “Document the purchase. Make copies of everything. Now to the painting. You’ll need to keep it somewhere secure with temperature and humidity control. There are several places in Seattle. I assume you have a safe here you can use until we secure a proper home for it?”
“Ah, sure.”
They had an old vault at the store, but it hadn’t been used in years. Nina wasn’t sure where the key was. Averil might know.
“Do you have a preliminary value?” she asked tentatively.
Ambrose tapped his pen against the table. “It’s hard to say. The more important works have gone for quite high sums. Given the subject matter and age, the size.” He pressed his lips together. “I’m going to be guessing.”
“That’s fine.”
“I’m not guaranteeing this is a certain amount.”
Nina nodded and told herself hitting the nice art appraiser wouldn’t help her situation. “I understand.”
“I would say ten million.”
The room shifted ever so slightly. “Dollars?”
“Yes. You’ll need to insure it for at least that amount.”
Nina nearly choked. Insure it? For ten million? How much would that be? Her car insurance was about four hundred a year. She could replace her car for maybe ten thousand dollars. She wasn’t sure how the numbers compared, but she knew for a fact there was no way to afford whatever the sum might be.
Wasn’t worrying about the store, the roof, her mother and her own job, not to mention her sad little life, enough? Now she had the painting. A ten-million dollar Emilion Stoicasescu original that was currently sitting in her mother’s living room.
She felt something heavy pressing down on her shoulders and knew it was the knowledge that she would never escape. Never be able to walk away. Not that she had a destination, but she hadn’t intended to live her life on this island. Not the way she was.