Collection (18 page)

Celine spoke again after referencing a paper file in front of her.

“It was Franka. She was the only one in the house qualified to do it.”

This time Lucien directed his attention to Celine exclusively.

“Who returned it to the vault with her?” Celine flipped through the pages, but before she could answer another woman tentatively interrupted. She was quiet but earnest.

“I did. I met her in her studio upstairs. She had the copy ready for you to take back to the United States. She picked up the original and put it into the transport portfolio. We brought it straight down to the vault. She put it into the carousel. It's one of my favorites, that's how I remember. I told her I would love to see it again, but she said that it should only be withdrawn for authorized purposes. You know how she is.”

“Yes, Petra, I do. Did you see it again after that?”

Petra spoke quietly again as she brushed her ash blonde hair behind her ears. “Several months later, she asked me to accompany her down to the vault to withdraw another painting. It was a Pissarro. It was in the slot next to the Vermeer, and she remembered that I liked it. She even pulled it out briefly for me, which was surprising since she's so by the book. I admired it for a moment and she put it
back in the slot and pulled out the Pissarro. She placed it into the transport portfolio and we came upstairs.”

“Did anyone access it after that?”

Celine had found the appropriate document and answered immediately.

“No.”

“Petra, did you see the Vermeer after she put the Pissarro into the transport portfolio?”

Petra shook her head and frowned.

“I didn't look, we left immediately.”

Lucien looked at the empty table in front of him as though deep in thought.

“She could have taken it then.”

Petra's voice became plaintive.

“But, I don't see how. Her travel portfolio only fits one painting, and I saw her take out the Pissarro in her studio and put it on an easel.” Her hands fluttered as if to demonstrate those moments.

Lucien smiled ruefully.

“Franka is good at running this house, and she's good at stealing. I've seen it myself several times. When she was younger she would play the ingénue to distract the guards. She can get people off the street to trust her to restore their most valuable art pieces without much more than a handshake as guarantee. No offense Petra, but she could have managed to steal your wallet while she was knitting a scarf across the room.” Petra looked sad and returned her hands to her lap.

Jane was getting frustrated by the questions Lucien was asking. He was wasting time. In her quietest voice she spoke to Lucien.

“Ask them.”

Lucien whispered back.

“What?”

“Ask them.”

Lucien frowned in silent warning for Jane to remain quiet. Finally he addressed the whole table.

“Does anyone else know anything that might be useful?”

Celine looked up from shuffling her papers.

“Like what Lucien?”

Like the other women, Jane stared at him, except she wasn't confused. She spurred him on.

“That's not specific enough, they all probably feel guilty for not realizing that she was up to something. Just ask them if they stole it or helped to steal it.”

Lucien barely controlled his anger.

“I will not. None of us slept last night because we were doing the inventory. Now, it appears that one of our most trusted and respected members has stolen a painting. Either that, or someone forced her to take it and now she's missing or dead somewhere.”

Some of the women must have heard what he said because they gasped in disbelief. Several spoke at once, and Jane couldn't make out what they were saying, but it was angry and scared. Lucien raised his hands in an effort to calm them. Jane decided to take matters into her own hands.

“I'm sure you're all great people, but did any of you help steal the painting or know where it might be?” The nine women turned to look at Jane, and Lucien buried his face in his hand. Again, the table erupted.

“What gives you the right?”

“Who do you think you are?”

“We are not here to be browbeaten!”

The oldest woman stood. Jane had thought she had been sleeping, but with surprising sternness, she told everyone to be quiet. They all stopped talking and she continued.

“Young woman, your outrage is only surpassed by our guilt.” She turned to the rest of them. “This girl is not one of us, but she is here because of us. We should have seen what was happening with Franka. Her isolation was accepted because we disliked her, or were afraid of her. We may not all be friends, but we are family. Franka is family, and we let her down. We can put this girl's mind at ease. Then, we can locate the painting she needs to save her family. Jane, I am not involved in this, and I will do everything I can to help you.” The old woman looked at the next woman down the table. The following responses varied from truly sympathetic to barely civil.

“I am not involved.”

“Me either.”

“I'm so sorry. I don't know anything about it.”

“I didn't take anything.”

“If I had known, I would have done something about it.”

“No, I didn't do it.”

“I just transferred here. I have no idea what happened.”

“I am not involved, but I hope you can forgive us.”

Even though Jane hadn't asked him, Lucien spoke last.

“I didn't know anything about this either, but we'll fix it. Pippa is correct, we failed Franka in some way, but we will not let that failure hurt you or your family.”

As far as Jane could tell, they were all telling the truth. She felt a little more comfortable in the room full of strangers knowing that they were willing to help her, even if it meant incriminating one of their own. Unfortunately, the fact that none of them were lying meant that they didn't have much to go on as far as locating the painting. No guilty parties meant no leads, and no idea of where to start looking.

24

CICERO PACKED FOR HIS TRIP
to New York. Lucien's closet seemed the best place to stock up on the necessary suits and shirts, and Dani bought only the best to fill his closet. He would look the part of a legitimate, successful private businessman. Cicero preferred to travel light, and the clothes he had brought from London were appropriate for clubbing and yard work, not boardroom meetings. Since he didn't have a personal assistant, Laurel had deigned to make the necessary travel arrangements, and had confirmed his appointments. He would represent himself as an associate with Magnolia House Conservation.

Several potential corporate clients had their headquarters in New York, but allowed their art collections to travel across the country. Anything in disrepair could be diverted to the Atlanta house for restoration and sent back on its way with minimal downtime. Anything worth copying would be forged in tandem with the restoration. Lucien typically negotiated North American deals, but since he was in Europe, Cicero would stand in. In the many years they had been in operation, there had been hits and misses as far as acquiring the items they wanted.

Luckily, time was a mostly forgiving concept in their business. What they didn't get their hands on one year, they would get a chance at in the next fifty years. Art was a commodity. It bought things, it was collateral, it changed hands. Today's miser was tomorrow's estate sale. Occasionally, Lucien or Cicero would act to secure at-risk items that may not make it another fifty years. Desperate situations, war, and natural disaster threatened the most significant pieces, but also
made it easier to make them disappear. The family did what it could to track world events to predict where it might pay to proactively secure valuable works.

He took what he needed from Lucien's closet and returned to his own room. This trip would not require vigorous effort on his part. The reputation of Magnolia House Conservation was well known, and he was certain he would be able to sign contracts with most of the representatives he was set to meet. The tricky part of the trip was dealing with Mr. Luis Alvarado and wrangling a Davies canvas from the Guggenheim.

Mr. Alvarado was unpleasant and Lucien had dealt with him almost exclusively, since Cicero was very tempted to punch him in the face the one time he spoke to him on the phone. Lucien had been negotiating on the phone with him for several months, and they had not been able to come to an agreement. Finally, Mr. Alvarado had called while Lucien was in China, and Laurel had asked Cicero to call him back. Cicero read through Lucien's notes on the negotiations and pretended to be Lucien for the twenty minutes it took to make plans. In that short time, Mr. Alvarado alleged that Lucien/Cicero's mother was a whore, and that Lucien/Cicero participated in sexual acts with farm animals on a regular basis. The conversation was not pleasant.

Cicero persevered because he didn't want to waste Lucien's efforts of the previous months, and Mr. Alvarado was willing to pay top dollar for what he wanted. All he wanted was a Davies. Sir Thomas Davies was an 18
^th
Century English landscape artist with a penchant for painting Scottish cairns in the desolate Highlands. He'd painted a few and promptly died of fever. While no doubt a talent in his time, Cicero personally considered Davies middling and unambitious. Regardless, Mr. Alvarado had quite a passionate desire to see a Davies on his wall. A likely candidate was on display at the Guggenheim on loan from the National Museum in London. Cicero had to get the curator to give him the painting. Failing that, he had to steal it.

Cicero was meticulous as he packed his bag. Among the Gucci and Prada, Cicero placed a few books and pack of chewing gum. He would fly in early, take a few meetings, then handle Mr. Alvarado's request the next day. If everything went as planned, before the end of next week, he would be in possession of the Davies. Nervous energy
coursed through Cicero's body, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep. He left his room and wandered the house until he found a place to wait out the night.

It was late and the library was deserted. The air was still heavy from the heat of day. Cicero sat on the couch in front of an unlit fireplace. He looked at the tall walls of books and tried to recall some of the plot details of the ones he had read. He was not particularly successful. As a prolific reader, he had read most of the books in that very library over the years, yet he merely remembered the titles and not the content. Many of the daily details of life are easily lost over time, but Cicero was missing years.

He could remember what he had for breakfast that morning, but his youngest years were long gone. He wondered if he would be a different man if he could remember it all. Maybe he would be a worse man. Sometimes he would remember flashes of the lost time. Without context, it often was difficult for him to make sense of these memories. They were glimpses of someone else's life. Sometimes he saw a sunset, sometimes a dead man. The memories could be disturbing, and Cicero had resigned himself to the fact that he would never really understand them.

25

LUCIEN STOOD BEHIND FRANKA'S DESK
. He looked around the room and tried to figure out what she was thinking. Nothing could have prepared him for this eventuality. Franka was family. She belonged with them. Now, she was gone with no explanations, and the worst suspicions pierced his mind. He wouldn't have thought she would be capable of betraying them. But nobody forced her through the door, probably out of the country, and away from the only home she'd ever known. And he'd let her go.

What she did at Montreaux was dangerous to herself and others. They had to walk a thin line with their work. They had to hide in plain sight. They had to take precautions and plan for the worst. If she'd made the copy, it was careless and she knew it.

What could have made her do it? He didn't know. He sat down in her chair and stared out the window. She had a view of the lake and the garden outside. It was beautiful. Someone knocked at the door, and Lucien considered not answering.

“Lucien, I must speak with you.”

It was Pippa. She was not someone Lucien could hide from.

“Come in, Pippa.” She entered and read Lucien's expression from years of experience. Pippa had known Lucien longer than anyone else in the house because she was the oldest. She had held Franka's position as head of household years earlier, and this entailed daily interaction with Lucien and Cicero. They had at times been friends, verbal combatants, and comrades in arms. Today was no different.

“This is not how I expected to spend my weekend,” Pippa said.

“I know, me neither.” Lucien looked tired, and he was obviously preoccupied with the present problem.

“I am sorry.” She knew that an early intervention would have prevented Franka from acting so recklessly. There was no retirement from this job. You can't take a break from your obligations to the family. She had failed them all.

“There's been too many apologies today.”

“The one person we really need to apologize to isn't here.”

“Where is she, Pippa?”

“I don't know. If you remember, she was a runner once she graduated university. She could be anywhere.”

Lucien did remember. As a runner, Franka sold paintings to dealers, gallery owners, and private collectors all over Europe. She passed herself off as an intermediary for shy sellers, but all of her inventory was forgeries that came straight out of the family vaults in Geneva and London. She had all the right contacts for provenance. She sold over a thousand paintings for Lucien and Cicero in just five years on the road. It was a difficult occupation, but Franka was the best they ever had. Even though she worked out of the back of an old VW van, she was able to get her customers to trust her and her paintings. She was able to keep a low profile by promising to deliver exclusive deals. None of her clients wanted to divulge their secret source, so they often unknowingly concealed her from each other.