Elizabeth Lowell - Blue Smoke and Murder

“When was the last time you checked?”

“The last time you called. That would be four minutes and sixteen-no, seventeen-seconds ago.”

“Where’s your computer?”

“At the office, rigged to call the cell phone in my other pocket if something changes. I also have Steve babysitting my computer, in case something good pops. Why don’t you just text-message him and cut out the middleman?”

With a disgusted sound, Score punched out of the conversation. He frowned at one of the computers he had with him. The pulsing light of the locater appeared over a street map of Taos.

The only good news was that the locater had finally stopped moving.

He zoomed in on the map until he had the address. Then he fed the information into his other computer and waited impatiently for directions to appear on the screen. While he waited, he watched the locater.

Still motionless.

“That’s it, babe. Stay where you are. Papa’s coming to get you.”

And he really hoped the Breck bitch got in the way. Nothing personal. She was just more trouble than she was worth. Like her great-aunt. With a little luck, Ms. Breck would be talking to the old lady soon.

Assuming the dead talked.

TAOS

SEPTEMBER 15

6:21 P.M.

So you like Western landscapes,” Frost said to Jill, breaking the long silence. “Especially the Dunstans. Why?”

She started, only then realizing she’d been wholly involved in the art, ignoring everyone in the room. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Not at all,” Frost said. “Seeing your reaction reminds me of just how great those paintings are. I get so busy fitting pieces of pottery together that I forget to look up often enough.”

Jill glance at Zach, silently asking him how much she should say to Garland Frost.

“Whatever is said doesn’t leave the room,” Zach said to Frost. “Agreed?”

Frost measured Zach with shrewd dark eyes. “Just like the old days.”

Zach nodded.

“Agreed,” Frost said. “What do you have?”

“Questions about twelve landscapes that have been in Jill’s family for three generations,” Zach said.

“Good paintings?”

“I like them,” Zach said. “A lot.”

Frost grunted and asked Jill, “Who bought the paintings?”

“I suspect they were a gift.” Or even a theft. “I certainly didn’t find any sales receipts in the family papers.”

“Provenance?” Frost asked Zach.

“From Jill’s grandmother, to her grandmother’s younger sister, and then to Jill.”

“There are plenty of experts and St. Kilda Consulting has a reciprocal agreement with Rarities Unlimited. Why come to me?” Frost asked.

“Until Thomas Dunstan killed himself, my grandmother was his on-again, off-again lover,” Jill said before Zach could. “Originally there were thirteen paintings. When the land taxes were more than Modesty could afford, she sent the smallest canvas out to be appraised by a gallery in Park City, Utah. Somehow they ‘lost’ it.”

Frost’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t say anything.

“Someone gave the painting back to me as a handful of canvas scraps,” she said bitterly.

“Destroyed?” Frost demanded.

“Beyond repair,” Zach answered. “The rags are in her belly bag. Don’t ask me why. I told her they’re worthless.”

Jill shrugged, unsnapped the bag’s strap, and threw the whole thing at him. “Then you get rid of them. I can’t.”

“Later.” One-handed, Zach caught the bag and fired it toward the nearest sofa. The satellite phone gave the bag just enough heft to keep it aloft for the nine-foot flight. “The important thing is the death threat came with the scraps. That’s when she called St. Kilda Consulting.”

Frost looked at the metal suitcase Zach was still holding. “That better be one of the family paintings.”

Zach put the case flat on the floor, unsnapped the catches, and opened it. When he removed the protective coverings, there were two canvases in perfectly cut foam nests, one canvas for each side of the case.

In complete silence, Frost stared at the paintings until Jill wanted to shake him.

“Take them out,” Frost said. “Let me see them more closely.”

Carefully Zach took the paintings out.

“Did you remove them from their frames?” Frost demanded.

“As far as I know, they were never framed,” Jill said.

“Over here,” was all Frost said.

He swept an arm across his desk, clearing a space big enough for both paintings. Art and archaeology magazines and papers fell unnoticed to the floor.

Zack put the canvases on the desk.

“Get the rest of them,” Frost said without looking up from the paintings.

“I live to serve,” Zach muttered.

“I’ll help,” Jill said quickly.

“Clear a space over there,” Zack said, pointing to a library table littered with books. “I’ll bring the paintings.”

Frost ignored everything but the canvases in front of him. The intensity in his eyes was reflected in his silence. He didn’t look up until Zach put out two more paintings. Frost went to them, his footsteps silent on the Persian carpet. When some of the books Jill was rearranging slid off onto the floor, he didn’t notice.

Zach came back with another set of paintings.

Frost was looking at his own Dunstans. When Jill put the fifth and sixth canvases on the library table, he crossed quickly to them.

For the first time in her life, silence was driving Jill crazy. As Zach came back with numbers seven and eight, she lifted an eyebrow in silent question. He shook his head, closed the empty case, put it next to the others, and left.

Frost rearranged two of the canvases and said, “Light. The steel lamp near the potsherds.”

Since Jill was the only other person in the room, she assumed he was giving the order to her. She went to a table halfway across the great room, unplugged the lamp, and carried it over to Frost.

He dumped more books on the floor to make room for the lamp’s heavy base and long folding arm. Without being told, she plugged the cord into the nearest outlet.

If he treated Zach like this, it’s no wonder the two of them didn’t get along, she thought. But I assume Frost’s expertise equals his arrogance. If it didn’t, Zach wouldn’t have made the trip.

She cleared books and Zach brought more paintings until all twelve were on the library table and six empty aluminum cases were lined up behind the door. The last painting on the table was her favorite-the landscape with a woman in a red skirt.

Frost studied it very closely. Then he picked up each canvas and searched it front to sides to back.

“Unsigned,” Zach said. “All of them.”

“I have eyes,” Frost snapped.

The silence grew as he examined the last painting.

And grew.

Finally Frost looked up at Jill. “What horse’s ass said these aren’t Dunstans?”

TAOS

SEPTEMBER 15

6:40 P.M.

The answer to that is complicated,” Zach said. “One of the dealers was shut down hard by Lee Dunstan himself.”

“When it comes to art, Lee doesn’t know his butt from a warm rock,” Frost said.

“Two words. Droit moral.”

Frost’s lips twisted in a sour line. “Like there’s a gene for art that always gets passed on to the next generation.”

Zach shrugged. “In the absence of provenance, the son has a lock on determining what is and isn’t a Dunstan.”

“Horseshit.” Frost made an impatient gesture. “Yes, I know, that’s the way it is. It’s one of the reasons I got out of the art trade. Too many idiots.” He turned to Jill. “So Lee Dunstan refused to certify your paintings?”

“I haven’t sent him any. But if what he said to Jo Waverly-Benet is any sample, I’ll save the postage.”

“Which painting did he see?”

“The one that’s now in rags,” Jill said, gesturing to her belly bag across the room.

“Son of a bitch. Are you telling me that an unknown Dunstan actually has been destroyed?”

“All I know,” she said carefully, “is that my great-aunt sent out the smallest of the thirteen paintings to be appraised. Now all I have are twelve paintings and a handful of rags.”

Without a word Frost strode across the room, unzipped her belly bag, and dumped the contents on the sofa. When he saw the pieces of canvas, he began cursing under his breath, ugly words that he ordinarily wouldn’t have spoken in a woman’s presence.

He left everything on the sofa and turned away.

“Some days I despair for humanity,” Frost said as he walked back to Jill. “This is one of those days.”

“I despair on a more regular basis,” Zach muttered.

Frost ignored him and asked Jill, “Who else didn’t like the paintings?”

“Nobody but you and Zach has actually seen them. I sent JPEGs of three other paintings to various gallery owners in the West.”

“Including Ramsey Worthington,” Zach drawled.

“And?” Frost demanded impatiently.

“Worthington as good as told me I could be arrested for fraud,” Jill said.

Frost’s eyes narrowed. “Show me those JPEGs.”

Zach went to his duffel, pulled out his computer, and booted up. He got the JPEGs on screen and handed it over to Frost.

The older man spent much less time with the JPEGs than he had on the canvases themselves. “No one even asked to see the paintings?”