Chapter 2
Back at my apartment, the blank canvas taunts me. You call yourself an artist?
Three floor-to-ceiling windows with indigo curtains, currently tied back, frame the north wall of our living room, which also serves as my art studio. We have one long, oak table in the middle and a small couch off to the side with the TV, but the rest is my space. The two walls are covered with my paintings, vivid splashes of color humming. Two easels stand in front of the window; a few paintings lean against chairs. I can’t decide if they’re finished yet. Sometimes I have a hard time deciding when a painting is done.
My phone rings.
“Congratulations on the sale. So now you have time to create more paintings, right? We need a good surplus if the Vertex Art Exhibit is a success,”Jade, my agent, says. Jade is coordinating with the Vertex curator. We met in college in an art history class. She wanted to be an agent, and I wanted to be a painter. It was a match made in heaven, especially because it seemed like I was going to break out quickly. But I didn’t. She did. She’s now representing several big names, but mine on her roster of clients is a black mark. I’ve told her she can take me off. I hate feeling like her charity case, but she says she believes in me still. And I hope that in five weeks, when the Vertex show opens, her faith in me will be justified.
“Yes, I’ll cut back on my waitressing jobs.” I ignore the empty canvas on my easel.
“Have the movers picked up the paintings yet for the Vertex show?” she asks.
“They’re looking for parking right now. I’ll bring Playing Around 1:30 right after they leave with New York Friends and Going for It 10:50.”
Both New York Friends and Going for It 10:50 hang on the wall in front of me. The first one in the series of three, New York Friends, is a portrait of three women laughing. I was trying to convey the emotional love behind their friendship through their facial expressions, gestures, and the colors. In Going for It 10:50, I wanted to evoke the same emotion through color, texture, shapes, and brushstroke, but completely in the abstract. Playing Around 1:30,the transition piece that links these two, is half-abstract and half-figurative and shows my transition from figurative to abstract. I gave Playing Around 1:30 to my uncle. I could never sell it. It’s like my first child.
“Playing Around 1:30 is still at my uncle’s apartment,” I say. “But he told me it’s wrapped up and ready to go, along with the Kimimoto. I’m dropping the Kimimoto off at Vinnie’s gallery so he can show it to potential buyers.”
“Make sure you carry it carefully,” she says. “You can’t be in the Vertex Art Exhibit without Playing Around 1:30. That’s the transition piece.”
“I’ll take a taxi.”
“I can’t believe they’re selling the Kimimoto.” Jade sighs. “I wish I had a buyer so I could get the commission. Kiara would buy it in a heartbeat if she had half a million dollars.”
Uncle Tony and Takashi bought the Kimimoto painting in Japan about ten years ago when the artist was up and coming, but Kimimoto is well-recognized now in art circles. He had even been included in a recent exhibit of contemporary artists at the Museum of Contemporary Art Tokyo. Uncle Tony and Takashi were selling their Kimimoto to buy their dream house in Upstate New York.
“I wish they could sell it to Kiara,” I say. My roommate Tessa’s older sister, Kiara, is a total mentor to me. Her favorite painter is Kimimoto.
“Anyway, I’ll email you my first pass at the description of your three paintings for the Vertex Art Exhibit. I’ve included the lines from your favorite review: ‘Whereas before Ms. Miranda Langbroek flirted with color fields in the background of her portraits, in Playing Around 1:30, she brings it to the forefront—and what a talented breakthrough it is.’ Let’s hope we top that one with the Vertex show reviews!” She hangs up.
Yes, I have that review memorized—and framed. It’s the best one I’ve ever had and sharply contrasts with some earlier ones (“a hack,” “flat,” “relying on her connections”). As the stepdaughter of the Manhattan Borough president, I had a lot of publicity before I was ready.
But then my breakthrough as a top artist didn’t materialize.
The Vertex Art Exhibit might be my last shot.
The flip-flop of slippers announces Tessa’s arrival in our combination living room/art studio. I turn around to say hi.
“Aargh!” Tessa spills some of her tea from her I’m A Lawyer, Let’s Assume I’m Always Right mug. “You need to warn me when you’ve done something freaky to your face.”
“I should remove this makeup.” I slip into the tiny, white-subway-tiled bathroom that’s next to our living room and wipe off the foundation.
Tessa follows me. She’s dressed in a T-shirt and yoga pants, like me. My wig is back on its stand, and I’ve changed my clothes, but I’ve left my elderly lady face on. Strangers sometimes take us for sisters, even though she’s got blonde hair. We’ve been friends for so long that we have similar expressions and mannerisms.
Leaning against the doorway, she watches me. “Are you still having trouble painting? You stared at that canvas for hours last night. What’s going on? You usually don’t have problems.”
“I know.” I rinse my face with cold water. I was sure the sale would clear my block. But now, in front of this canvas, I’m stuck.
“You’ve been painting so much lately,” Tessa says. “I know you’re excited about your upcoming breakthrough exhibit …”
“What if it’s not a breakthrough? What if my paintings get terrible reviews?” My bare face stares back at me from the mirror. “And what if it is? I don’t know which one I’m more worried about.”
“But you want to succeed.” Tessa’s brow is furrowed.
“I want my art to succeed. But I don’t want to be famous. I hate being followed by the press. Maybe my block is related to that?” My stepfather has been in New York City politics his entire career, as a council member and Manhattan Borough president, plus two unsuccessful runs for mayor, so I’ve grown up in the public eye. And it’s not an experience I want to relive.
Tessa hugs me. “At least now your stepfather is no longer running for office.”
I walk back to stand in front of the canvas. My mind is blank. I can’t think of anything to paint. My blood pressure feels like it’s rising, as if I’m about to have to speak in front of one of my stepfather’s press conferences. Which is disturbing—because painting is usually my respite. It’s not that I hate public speaking. I like performing, but I don’t like answering questions designed to trip me up and make me look laughable.
“The press doesn’t usually stalk artists.” Tessa picks up her mug and leans against our table.
“I know they don’t. Not like they follow around politicians’ kids.”
“And anyway, you have to have confidence in yourself and trust your instincts.” She pokes me in the shoulder. “Don’t let the naysayers get to you. You do your thing.”
Still. An empty canvas. Out of the corner of my eye, yesterday’s canvas, a sludgy mishmash, mocks me. I wince. Something to be scraped down later. There’s always that moment of uncertainty when I begin a project and worry whether I can do it again—paint something that resonates. But this is lasting longer than a moment.
My phone rings. It’s the movers. They’ve found a parking spot down the block.
And suddenly, an idea for a painting pops into my head. I stand in the center of our living room, my happy place, and close my eyes to remember this feeling of anticipation and excitement.
A knock taps against the door. It’s our downstairs neighbors, Penelope and Zelda.
“This is so exciting.” Penelope hugs me and hands me a bottle of champagne.
Zelda high-fives me. “I can’t wait to see the three of them together in the exhibit.”
“Has Jade sent over her descriptions of your work for the catalog?” Tessa asks. Tessa is very practical—but she’s got this wild streak. If people don’t think we’re sisters, then they think we’re opposites because she’s a corporate lawyer and I’m like this fairy sprite with messy hair in paint-spattered clothes. I cry at everything (those commercials where people greet their families in the airport, the news, someone giving a pregnant woman a seat on the subway). I’ve seen Tessa cry once.
I shake my head no.
I bounce around, feeling like I should be doing something, but I paid for the full service. The moving company is going to wrap them, crate them, and deliver them to the art gallery.
“Are they also picking up Playing Around 1:30?” Zelda sits on our comfy couch next to Penelope.
“No, that one’s small enough that I’ll pick it up from my uncle’s house and take a cab down.”
“It’s funny that it’s so small and yet so significant,” Zelda says.
Penelope bumps Zelda with her shoulder. “Hey, just because it’s small shouldn’t mean anything.” Penelope is five foot five and not short, but she’s shorter than the rest of us. She pulls her curly, brown hair into a ponytail.
“Exactly. It’s small but mighty.” I had wanted to try a more abstract painting. Unsure if it would work, just playing around, I didn’t use a big canvas. I wasn’t thinking it would be this big of a deal. It was only when it was done and I was so happy with it—I mean so, so happy—that I thought, Yes, this is it. And then, sure of what I wanted to achieve, I painted a bigger canvas, really going for it. That’s Going for It 10:50.
“I love the contrast between the three paintings,” Penelope says. “It’s a brilliant idea for an exhibit—to showcase that moment when an artist finds their calling.”
The doorbell rings, and we all jump.
“What should we be doing?” Tessa asks. “Should we leave? We’ll make them nervous if we’re all sitting on the couch staring at them.”
“We might need to step in and direct,” Zelda says. Directing is kind of her forte.
“And we should see New York Friends and Going for It 10:50 off, like a good luck ceremony,” Penelope says. “Next time we see them, they will be famous, and you will finally be recognized for your talent.”
I fidget and wave it off, but my chest tightens in hope. “As long as I’m not infamous.”
I run down the stairs to let the moving guys in. My phone buzzes, and my uncle’s name flashes across the screen. I click the call off. I’ll call him back once the movers leave.
The movers trudge up the stairs, me following, and into my floor-through apartment on the fourth floor. Tessa, Penelope, and Zelda have all taken up positions in different corners of the room. Their direct gazes and variety in skin tones remind me of Picasso’s Three Women but without the nudity.
Zelda greets the movers at the door. “Now I know you’re going to take good care of my friend’s paintings.”
“You betcha,” one of them says. He’s wearing one of those ripped muscle shirts. My mother would think he’s my type. When I got back together with my last boyfriend, a rock musician, she asked me if I was dating him to piss her off and garner bad publicity for my stepdad. Granted, my mom’s condescending attitude toward Rex would make him play up his bad boy side.
They carefully pack up the two paintings. I can’t help clucking like some mother hen wrapping her children in warm clothes before they go out to play in the snow. Still, having four women spectators definitely makes them up their game.
I watch out our window as they load my pieces into the Art’s Moving Co. truck. Tessa screws the corkscrew into the bottle of champagne on the table. “Let’s toast it again!”
As she pops the cork and pours the champagne, my phone rings. It’s Uncle Tony again. I take one sip of the tart bubbly, savoring it, and pick up the call.
“The paintings are gone,” Uncle Tony says.
“Yes, they were just picked up,” I say.
“No, gone. Stolen.”
I haven’t heard him right. A buzzing fills my ears. “What paintings? What do you mean—stolen?”
“The Kimimoto and Playing Around 1:30 are gone. They’ve been stolen.”
“Stolen?”
“The police just left,” he says.
“The police?” I repeat, sinking into our nearest chair.
I can’t breathe. Stolen? Stolen? I hear a moan and realize it’s me.
My friends circle around me, their concerned faces crowding my vision.
“But how is that possible?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” His voice is anguished. “Maybe the party?”
“The party?” I screech. “But why would anyone steal them? And at the party?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” he says.
“I’ll be right over.” I hang up. “My painting was stolen.”
I bend over, clutching my stomach. And my head—it’s as if I’ve been hit with a brick. My friends are talking, but I can’t hear what they’re saying … like I’m wrapped in cotton padding and can’t breathe or hear.
“Someone stole Playing Around 1:30 and the Kimimoto.” I can’t believe it. “I’ve gotta go.” I stand.
My friends stare at me, their eyes huge.
I’m shaking. Playing Around can’t be gone. I need my keys and my phone. Not on the couch next to me. Not on the magnet key holder on the door. “Where did I put my keys? Where’s my phone? I can’t find them.” I scrunch up my eyes so I don’t bawl. “Where did I put them?”
“We’ll help you find them,” Tessa says. My friends scatter around the room to search.
I’m crying openly now.
“Just sit down.” Zelda puts her arm around me and leads me back to the couch. “We’ll find them.”
I sit and feel the keys poking in my pocket. “I’ve got my keys.” I hunch over.
I don’t know what I can do. But I’ve got to do something. Breathe.
Tessa holds up my phone. “Here it is. You put it down here by the windowsill.”
“Should we come?” Zelda asks.
“No. I know you guys have plans,” I say.
“They’ll find it,” Penelope says.
“They rarely find them,” I say.
“But what about that case you worked on a few years ago where the cops found the paintings in two days?” Tessa asks.
“That was a lucky break, and that cop is retired now,” I say flatly. After college, I worked for Christie’s provenance research department.
“It wasn’t a lucky break. Your boss even said you were an amazing art detective that she was sorry to lose on your departure.” Tessa folds her arms. “You worked around the clock. You were the one who doubted the provenance of that painting and saved Christie’s from selling a fake. You figured out the dealer who was forging the paintings. And coordinated with the police. Take the credit, Miranda.”
I hug her. Sometimes I get so used to my family-defined emotional artist box that I forget I’m more than that. I was a good investigator.
“But I had the resources of Christie’s behind me.” I close the door. Plus, provenance isn’t the issue here. Provenance is about tracing ownership. I know who the owner of Playing Around 1:30 is. Me and my uncle.
I run down the stairs and out the door, around the block to my uncle’s apartment building on Columbus Avenue. Taking in deep breaths of air, sneakers hitting the pavement, darting around the pedestrians, running—it all makes me feel a bit better, like I’m doing something. The doorman lets me in. How did the paintings get past the doorman?
I knock and unlock Uncle Tony’s front door with my copy of his key. Sometimes I walk Cleo, his Labrador-mix dog. Once I’m in the foyer, Cleo scampers in, barking, tail wagging, and immediately jumps on me to give me kisses as I remove my sneakers. I bury my face in her fur, and her doggy smell is comforting.
“How’s my best dog?” I ask Cleo in a baby voice, rubbing her. She twirls around in joy. And pees. Every time Cleo gets excited about a visitor, she pees. I grab the wipes that are ever-present in the hallway for that purpose and clean the rubber mat that now covers the front foyer. Uncle Tony surmises that this was the reason Cleo was abandoned at the pound.
William comes in and says, “I’ll do that.” He takes more wipes and crouches down next to me to mop up the rest. “Are you okay?” His brown eyes are soft and sympathetic.
“Not really.” Don’t cry.
I stand quickly, throwing my dirty wipes into the little, sealed trash can in the hallway. The thief even got the paintings past Cleo. Granted, she’s not much of a guard dog, but the peeing should have been a deterrent.
I step around William and open the door into their living room. Think the opposite of minimalist. Their living room is like a peacock strutting its feathers. So many colors and so many moments of their lives are stuffed into one room. And yet it works to make an extremely warm and inviting atmosphere.
Uncle Tony and Takashi sit lumped on their violet couch, both looking pale and drawn and much older than I usually think of them. Uncle Tony looks a lot like my dad with his grayish-blond hair and blue eyes. He’s six feet tall, while Takashi is around five eight. Takashi’s grayish-black hair is standing up at the top like he’s been running his hands through it. They both have the warmest smiles, but not now.
Uncle Tony stands and hugs me. “I’m so sorry, Miranda.”
I collapse abruptly on their light-blue, velvet chaise lounge. “But how?”
“I don’t know,” Uncle Tony says, ending in a near wail.
We stare at each other; the sheer distress in his face must mirror my own.
“Glad you could come immediately,” William says as he returns to the living room.
“You just discovered them gone?” I ask.
“Yes, we called the police as soon as we realized,” Takashi says. “Then we called you.”
“And what did the police say?”
“That it could take years to find the paintings. That it’s an unusual theft, and that it most likely was an inside job,” William says. “There’s no sign of forced entry, and although the Kimimoto is valuable, it’s not the most well-known painting. Yours is less valuable—sorry to be blunt.”
Not yet anyway. And maybe not ever, if my painting is gone. My participation in the Vertex Art Exhibit hinges on this painting—the transitional one where I turned from portraits to abstract color fields.
Uncle Tony’s eyes look weepy. “Yours could have been recognized from the Vertex show posters on the subway.”
“He’s dealing with another painting theft downtown, but in that one, valuables were stolen and the place was trashed. So it seems like a different modus operandi. And although the Kimimoto or yours might inspire an art theft, it’s not public knowledge that Tony and Uncle Takashi own it,” William says. “The theft most likely occurred at the party.”
The party on Friday night to celebrate their anniversary.
“But you didn’t notice it until now?” I ask.
“We’d taken them down from the wall and packed them up to go—in the office,” Takashi says.
The office is a tiny space that probably served as a maid’s room in former times. It’s right off the kitchen, near the front door.
“We noticed today because I went to get your painting and the Kimimoto,” Uncle Tony says.
“Oh no, your cottage—what are you going to do? Was the painting insured?” I ask.
“I didn’t renew the insurance. Vinnie said he had an immediate buyer.” Uncle Tony hangs his head.
My breath hitches.
I. Can’t. Even. Fathom. This.
“Anyway, we’ve given the police a list of who attended the party,” Takashi says. “They’ve fingerprinted the place and will run it against their database.”
Uncle Tony’s living room must have been difficult to dust for fingerprints.
“They’ll report it to various art loss registries,” Takashi says.
“And it will be public,” I say. I’m not ready yet for that. “I have to call Jade.”
“I’m so sorry, Miranda.” Uncle Tony sits next to me on the chaise lounge and puts his arm around me. “It never occurred to me that it would be stolen. And at the party. Those people are all our close friends. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s also your dream cottage.” My eyes tear. “I’m so sorry. Do the police think they might find it?”
“Like looking for a needle in a haystack,” William says.
“Are you playing the voice of doom?” I ask. And immediately regret it.
“Miranda.” Uncle Tony’s tone holds a note of reprove.
“They said it was a victimless crime.” Takashi shakes his head.
“Victimless?” I nearly screech. “It’s my break. It’s your house in the mountains.” Those paintings were our dreams.
“Officer Johnson seemed capable,” William says. “He certainly grilled Uncle Takashi and Tony pretty thoroughly.”
“The police are very capable. But art thefts are not a huge priority. What with budget cuts.” I stand. I can’t sit still any longer. “We need to do our own investigation.”
“I think the police can handle it,” William says gently.
Uncle Tony hangs his head. “I should have renewed the insurance.”
“We agreed that we wouldn’t,” Takashi says. “It’s not your fault.”
Uncle Tony wrings his hands. Cleo comes over and puts her snout on his knee. He pets her absentmindedly. “Maybe we should do our own investigation, especially since you helped solve that one art theft, Miranda.”
“But that’s because we doubted the provenance of that painting, and I was researching it, and then a stolen painting with similar brushwork to the fake painting was offered for sale.” I don’t want to get Uncle Tony’s hopes up.
“I’ll ask my friends to keep an eye out to see if there’s any mention on the dark web, but that’s not likely. They’re not exactly Picassos,” Takashi says.
“Can I see the party guest list?” I ask.
“Yes, I sent it to the police.” Takashi shows me a list on his phone. “I’ll email it to you.”
“We contacted the building management company to get the security footage from the hallway,” William says.
“That’s good.” My phone beeps. It’s a text from the moving company that my two paintings have arrived safely.
The guest list is mostly friends of Uncle Tony and Takashi, including their theater and cybersecurity friends, my stepsister Annabelle, our childhood friend Edmund, my ex-boyfriend Rex—and the catering company.
“But you’ve used the catering company before, right?” I ask.
“For years.”
“Off the top of your head, is there anyone you suspect?” I ask.
“No.” Both of them shake their heads.
“We have to interview everyone, I guess.” That’s what detectives do. They interview people. I’ve done interviews before, when I researched art provenance for Christie’s. But my heart is beating too fast, as if I’ve just run a mile. What happens if we don’t find my painting?
“We should let the police interview them first,” William says. “Otherwise, we’re giving any suspects a practice session since it’s not like we know what we’re doing.”
I’m not sure there is a “we.” I’m not planning on interviewing them with William. I nod. It’s best to look accommodating and then do my own thing.
Uncle Tony stands. “I have to go to work now. Saturday matinee.” His shoulders slump. “Maybe I should take a sick day.”
“You never take sick days,” Takashi says.
Uncle Tony always says he’d work at the theater even if they didn’t pay him. And he’s usually a firecracker. It’s hard to see his light dimmed.
“I don’t have any creative fire today.” He glances at Takashi, and it’s a look of such sorrow. Takashi reaches out and holds Tony’s hand with both of his. My eyes water.
“The show must go on,” Takashi says. “And it will cheer you up.”
“Plus, you should talk to Diane, Dan, and Donald and see if they saw anything suspicious,” I suggest.
“I will.” Uncle Tony hugs me.
“I can’t see them stealing our Kimimoto. They’re all close friends,” Takashi says. I nod, and tears well up.
“I’m so sorry. I hope you can still be in the Vertex show. It never occurred to me that anyone would steal the paintings.” Uncle Tony releases me.
My painting … stolen. So much work. All my paintings are like little pieces of my heart. It’s okay if they go to good homes where they will be loved and cherished, but not this. And not this one. This one I had given to Uncle Tony to keep forever. It is irreplaceable. If it has been destroyed … I let out a little sob.
Uncle Tony’s face crumples up.
“Why? Why would anyone steal these two paintings?” I ask.
We need to research these people and look for motives.
“I’m going to do some Internet research on the guest list.” Takashi has a determined look on his face, like when he’s white-hat hacking a company. Usually that look means disturb at your own peril.
“I’ll help,” William says. “Let’s make a spreadsheet of motive and opportunity.”
“That would be great. With your accounting background, maybe you can see who has a financial motive,” I say.
“That’s not usually out on the Internet,” William says.
“Well, whatever you can help with,” I say.
“What are you going to do?” William asks.
“I’ll go with Uncle Tony and talk to Diane, Dan, and Donald. But I won’t bring up that the painting has been stolen. It’s not like I want that out.” I also have to call Jade. I’m not looking forward to that conversation. But maybe she’ll have a solution.
“I’ll come too,” William says.
“But you should do research with Takashi,” I say.
“I’ve actually done fraud investigation interviews as part of my job,” he says. “This is my uncle’s retirement savings. If we’re investigating this, I’m in.”
“I did art fraud investigations when I worked for Christie’s,” I say.
“Does that involve people, or is it just scouring through ancient records?” William asks.
“Does accounting fraud involve people, or is it just adding numbers?” I ask.
“We need all the help we can get,” Takashi says. “We need to work together and pool all our strengths. And we have strengths. Tony can create any disguise, Miranda is a former art detective, you’re a fraud detective, and I’m an IT master. We’re an unbeatable team.”
Except that stolen paintings aren’t usually found.