Chapter One

“So many pictures,” Lee thought as she scanned the walls, “and each with something to tell. Who knows? Some maybe even true.” While she’d seen more than a few artworks that were designed to deceive, most were meant to tell a story. Some tell the story of the artist or the sitter. Some tell the story of art, itself. Some tell the story of entire societies. And some—the really great ones—tell all those stories and more. Those were the ones Lee loved most, but she wasn’t finding any of them, here.

Not surprising, since this was Spencer’s Marketplace auction, the job lot of the New York art world, a kind of a off-price sale for art. Still, since Spencer’s was the top auction house in the city and probably the world, there was always a chance of finding something interesting.

Lee Sheridan’s life was all about art. Studying art. Looking at art. Buying art and selling art. Her subscriptions were all to art magazines. TV was mostly for the Antiques Roadshow. Travel was usually only considered when there was a museum at Point B, and New York had become home, or Point A, because it was the indisputable art capital of the world.

When she’d left Connecticut, all those years ago, armed with her major in Art History and minor in Art Studio, she had no doubt that doors to the art world would open before her. It didn’t take long before she knew better. So, she’d taken some bookkeeping and accounting courses at New York City Technical School. It was a decision that had yielded a steady income and an unforeseen bonus—her best friend, Daisy Vargas—the short, smart, fast-talking, fun-loving Latina she’d met there.

It turned out that art lovers seeking employment were not scarce in New York, but Spencer’s did need a payroll clerk. So, though it had only been a back door to the art world that had opened, Lee grabbed it. At the time, she needed the money. To tell the truth, she still needed the money. Life in Manhattan was many things; cheap wasn’t one of them.

Just how cheap life wasn’t stayed in her thoughts as she looked past the dining tables, mirrors, and soup tureens—a mishmosh of the average Joe’s treasures and the tchotchkes of the rich and famous—for any reasonably priced paintings, drawings or etchings.

“It’s not what you find. It’s what you can do with it,” she reminded herself, having become, once or twice, the owner of something she’d planned on selling. That’s why, now, she only brought home work she really liked.

Spencer’s was perfect for her. Promotions and raises provided a nice financial cushion, and she had the first look at whatever went on sale. The auction circuit was the high stakes, Las Vegas equivalent in the art world. Fortunes could be made overnight with the right purchase and a little luck.

Just a month ago, she’d picked up an English landscape with a church in the background and some cows in the foreground for eighteen hundred dollars. She’d had it cleaned so the sky was nice and blue again, and sold it to an antiques dealer upstate, where churches and cows were big, for four thousand. Okay, not a fortune, but nice.

Lee had just about finished—nothing gained, she thought, but then again, nothing but a few minutes of her lunch hour lost—when something stopped her. It was a small painting placed on the wall above an ornate silver tea set, and apparently, Spencer’s had higher hopes for the teapot than for the painting. The spotlight was pointed at the gleaming metal, leaving the picture somewhat in shadow.

“Hmm,” she thought, “What are you doing here?” This didn’t look like a Marketplace painting. It looked like it belonged in a higher rent neighborhood.

The surface was so darkened with age, that at first, all she could make out was a blackish background with a half-length figure emerging. But then she saw that the background wasn’t black at all, but a rich, mahogany brown with hints of green and red. And it was a young woman in the center, or rather a girl, as the V-shaped opening of her shirt showed a slight roundness underneath of budding, but not yet fully formed breasts.

She wore a white blouse with the sleeves rolled up, but the white was painted with such strength and surety of stroke, that its simple cotton carried more presence than a king’s ermine. A partly folded fan dangled casually from her hand, and her sparkling eyes and moist, slightly parted lips gave the impression she was about to offer some juicy gossip, or a bit of flirtation.

Her full cheeks were flushed a healthy pink. She smiled casually, confidently and a little coyly. “Probably a maid,” Lee decided, but painted with great tenderness. There was no flattery in this portrait, but there was real beauty.

The painting reminded Lee of something. Or, the girl reminded her of someone. She wasn’t sure which, but, she decided it deserved a closer look.

Every detail was a clue, so Lee noted each carefully. The girl in the painting was leaning on a ledge, facing left, looking straight at the viewer. Falling light brightened her forehead and caught the highlights in her hair, which was loosely pulled up, the way Lee’s own hair was at that moment. She wore a gold chain looped twice around her neck, and, in her hair, a white mantilla, or comb with lace attached. They added a decorative element, but Lee wrinkled her nose at them. They were lifeless compared with the girl. “That lace,” she thought, “looks as flat as my grandmother’s tablecloth.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out her small, powerful combination flashlight and blacklight. Sweeping the strong beam over the surface, she quickly picked up seams, well varnished over, about three inches from the right side and three to four inches up from the bottom. The painting looked old—maybe two hundred years or more. “But old can be faked,” she thought.

The added panel on the bottom accommodated the fan in the girl’s hand. So, if the panel had been added, then, the fan must have been, too. The mantilla, Lee decided, was probably not original to the picture, either. Some ivy on the right seemed to just fill what otherwise would’ve been an empty black stretch of added space.

“Such a shame,” Lee shook her head, as if looking at an act of vandalism. Closing one eye and holding two crossed fingers in front of her, she cropped out the added portions, trying to see just the picture of the girl. When she saw just the girl, she understood what had drawn her eye past the glittering silver. It was lovely, actually. And, while half-length portraits were common, this one was anything but. She couldn’t quite put her finger on why it felt so familiar, though.

What was it on? She slid her hand up behind the picture, and felt wood, about a quarter of an inch thick. Interesting, since canvas was more prevalent in recent centuries. Then, she walked over to the table with the catalogs, and looked for its lot number—144. “‘Portrait of a Woman with a Fan’ Follower of Goya (?) c.1800,” read the entry.

Lee frowned. That much ambiguity meant that, quite simply, no one knew. If there’d been the slightest evidence suggesting a higher value, the question mark wouldn’t have been there. Still, it was a painting of a woman with Spanish accouterments. It had a dark background. It was old. Why not guess a follower of Goya? This was the art world’s version of spin, and auction house appraisers could be very skillful spin-doctors.

When she read the estimate, she frowned again. Six to nine thousand dollars—on the high side for a Marketplace Auction, and way on the high side for her. “Still,” she thought, “estimates have a lot of wiggle room.” The mysterious, captivating, smile of the girl had started to work on her. “I could buy it for, say, seven, and sell it for maybe ten,” she thought of a client with a posh antique shop in the Hamptons.

The auction was still three weeks away, plenty of time. She’d have to find out everything she could about the painting—its condition, its age, its history and provenance, and most importantly, who and what it was, and why she felt the way she did when she looked at it. Then she just had to try to get her hands on the picture before anyone else noticed it. Not always easy.

She stood another moment in front of the painting and then decisively walked back to the door.

“Tony,” she said in a hushed voice to her friend the guard. Lee knew all the guards at Spencer’s by name. She also knew their salaries, their number of dependents and their withholding tax brackets. Payroll was like that.

“Hey, Lee. How they treating you in accounting?”

“Payroll,” she smiled. “Good. Listen, could you do me a favor?”

He looked surprised, but waited for her to continue.

“You see that painting over there, by the tea set? I like it. But it’s kind of expensive for me. Could you keep an eye and let me know if a lot of people seem interested? Not like three people looked at it today, but if a lot of people are looking, or if some millionaire types are checking it out. Because that could make the price go up.”

“Sure, Lee. I’d be glad to.”

“Thanks a lot,” she said before heading back towards the girl in the painting. Lee was skilled at assessing a work of art. She could easily evaluate size, condition, period and style. But then, there was something else. Something she thought of as the magic factor, and this painting had it just about spilling out of the frame. This girl practically winked and smiled back. It was as if she had a secret to tell and was just waiting for the right ear to come along.

Chapter Two

Joost de Groen scurried quickly across the busy street. He had only one day in London, and, as usual, he planned to visit all five major auction houses. One could never predict where things might be hiding. He announced himself at the front desk, and before he’d shaken out his umbrella, was met by an impeccably dressed gentleman and directed towards the elevator.

Mina looked at the man standing in front of her with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. He’d been swept through the departmental roadblocks like a VIP, escorted and announced by the assistant director, himself. He didn’t look like much of a dignitary, though, in his worn suit and damp raincoat. She’d seen the type that usually warranted her boss’s immediate attention, and this grey little man wasn’t it.

“Just a minute, I’ll see if he’s available.” The young woman stood and knocked gently on the door.

“Yes, Mina?”

“There’s a Professor de Groen to see you,” she offered as a question.

“Yes. Right away. I always have time for Professor de Groen,” he told her as he stood. “Professor,” he said warmly, “so good to see you again. How are you?”

“Have you seen anything? You know what I’m looking for,” the older man said abruptly.

“No. Nothing of the sort. Of course, I’d have called right away if I had.”

“Do you expect any more pieces before the auction?”

“Well, one can never be certain. I’ll look at everything that comes in. Come and sit. I’ll have Mina get us some tea.”

“Thank you, no,” he waved away the offer. “And the other houses? Anything?”

“The catalogues haven’t come out yet, but I just had lunch with Davies the other day. He knows, as well as I do, what you’re after.”

So, it seemed there was nothing in London. Taylor wouldn’t miss something like that. The professor had, for years, been seeding the art capitals of the world with informants and agents. He had lots of former students, and the ones he thought the most gifted, the most reliable and the most loyal, had, with a word from him, found their careers advancing faster than the norm. Few names in the art world carried the international heft of Professor Joost de Groen.

He’d been searching for this painting for years, and would continue until either he’d found it or he’d died. Nothing else would stop him. Despite his successes, this one thing eluded him. He quickly made excuses and left Taylor’s office.

Taylor didn’t take it personally. He knew his former professor’s single-mindedness allowed no time for pleasantries or formalities.

“I’ll call Paris and Zurich, just to be safe,” the professor thought as he hailed a cab outside. “Then, where the real possibilities are—New York.”