Chapter 8
Why the press loves to torture me is another mystery I’ve never solved. I’m an easy target for the conservative Squirrel as the weak flank of John’s political campaign. So whereas The Intelligencer has a small paragraph about how my painting was stolen, The Squirrel has two paragraphs with the headline: Stolen Painting or Publicity Trick? Are they seriously implying that I stole my own painting to increase publicity? If that wasn’t bad enough, the article ends with: “… unless she stole it so Weeping Willow doesn’t have to cry over any negative reviews.”
I hate The Squirrel.
And now John’s PR team is involved. Again. I’m like a budget item on his retainer: counter negative publicity about Miranda.
A navy car double-parks in front of me. I squeeze between two parked cars as William gets out of it.
“Q, eat your heart out. My roommate, Tessa, bought us spy tech devices yesterday. She gave them to me this morning. Here’s your walkie-talkie earpiece.” I give William his earpiece and explain how it works after stashing my portfolio in the back seat.
“We should practice the walkie-talkie app before we get there,” he says. “Why don’t you go stand over there by the tree and talk, and I’ll see if I can hear you in the car?”
“Good idea.” I walk down the block to stand behind the tree in its fenced-in bed so he can’t see me. I smile, bringing out Penelope’s novel from my bag, and start reading aloud. “His gaze pierced her as if he blamed her for everything. And then he turned away. She reached out to explain, touching his arm. He shook her off. ‘Haven’t you done enough? Just let me be.’ ‘Is that really what you want? Because I think there’s something here.’ And she pressed her lips to his.”
My phone crackles with William’s deep voice. “It works. We’re good.”
“Are you sure? Do you want to repeat that back to me? I should confirm you could definitely hear me.”
“I heard you. They were about to kiss. Did you just make that up?”
“Hmm … actually, they did kiss. Should I keep reading? I’m not sure you can hear everything.”
“All right. The last line was she pressed her lips to his.” His voice sounds abrupt.
“And you don’t want to hear what happens next?”
“I thought you wanted to track down your missing painting.”
“I’m coming.” I walk back to the car and slide into the front seat. The car is immaculate inside, as expected. “Are you sure you don’t want me to continue reading?”
He shakes his head, his lips curving into a half smile. “Too distracting. Anyway, we should discuss strategy. And should we turn on the ability to track each other—just in case?”
“In case one of us is kidnapped?” I ask skeptically. “No, it’s a good idea. Another source of information. Tessa also bought tracking devices.” I show them to him.
“What are you going to do with them?”
“I don’t know yet. But it seemed handy to have. You can follow it on an app.”
“I would hate to be followed,” he says.
“Did you see the Squirrel article?” I try to fasten my seat belt, which keeps refusing to clip in.
William turns and puts his hand over mine to click it in. His touch is warm, and I can smell the apple shampoo of his freshly washed hair.
“Sometimes it needs a little more force.” He checks the traffic behind our car and pulls out. “What Squirrel article?”
“The Squirrel accuses me of stealing my own painting. I asked John’s PR team to see if they can determine the source. My agent, Jade, didn’t announce it, and the art gallery didn’t release it yet. So it could reveal the thief.”
He turns onto West End Avenue and drives north toward the Seventy-Ninth-Street exit to the Henry Hudson Parkway. William glances at me. “I thought papers never revealed their sources.”
“You can usually figure it out by the details. Only some people would know them.”
“Who is usually the source?
“Ex-friends,” I say wryly as the car stops for the red light.
He frowns.
“But I think this is telling,” I say. “Because whoever reported this wanted to see it publicized that my painting has been stolen, and so they have a similar motive to the thief.”
“Does the thief want the theft publicized?”
“If they want to hurt me, it definitely hurts that it’s now public that I’m probably not going to participate in this art show. And if they want to sell forgeries, they want it publicly known that the original has been stolen, so they can claim that their forgeries are the stolen original.”
“Any telling details?”
We merge onto the Henry Hudson Parkway.
“No, unfortunately,” I say. “But now I can’t say the exhibit will accept a different painting, not with that quote from the curator that I can’t participate without it.”
The Hudson River is still today. We drive up the highway toward Connecticut. One barge is being pushed up the river by a tugboat. We pass by playgrounds and fields filled with people playing sports. Calypso music, then rap music, interspersed with the shrieks of kids playing—the noises of Riverside Park on a sunny day—filter in through my open car window.
“Thanks again for the paints.”
“Did you paint?”
“I did. And I felt better. Even though I destroyed it after.”
His head turns sharply toward me. “You destroyed the painting?”
“I didn’t like it.”
“Shouldn’t you wait to see if you like it?” he asks. “Maybe it will grow on you.”
“No, it didn’t work.”
He bites his lip, mulling that over. “Isn’t that a little quick to judge?”
“No. If you made a mathematical error, you’d erase it once you realized it, wouldn’t you?”
“I never considered painting to be like math.”
“There is some math in it, some proportionality, especially with the composition.”
“Why didn’t you like this one?”
“Too dark and depressing.”
“It can’t all be happiness.” He switches lanes to exit toward the Cross Bronx Expressway.
“I hope that’s not your life motto,” I say dryly.
“If it was, you couldn’t appreciate the happiness.”
“I’m pretty sure I could still appreciate the happiness. My destroying it seems to bother you. Why?”
He shrugs. “It’s nothing. Just reminded me of a date a while ago where I felt she’d decided before even meeting me that she wasn’t going to like me. But it was a setup by our families, so I understand her point of view. It’s not like I expect those to be successful. But sometimes they are.” He half-smiles.
It’s still weird to me that we’re getting along like old friends. I’ve definitely misjudged him.
“I looked up the floorplan of the house on Airbnb,” William says. His slender, competent hands are capably holding the steering wheel. That’s how I first fell for Rex. I was watching his hands strum the guitar and change chords.
“Smart thinking,” I say. “So how many rooms to check out? Do you want to say you have to go to the bathroom and check out those rooms while I keep him occupied?”
“There are two bedrooms, each with a closet, and an office, so it shouldn’t take too long. But guys don’t usually take a long time in the bathroom. Are you sure I should be the one to check?”
“How are you going to keep him occupied? It’s better if it’s me. I can show him my art portfolio and ask him if he can find me another art show while you go to the bathroom and check out the house. Hopefully, he’ll be flattered enough to try to think of options. My art portfolio should take some time. How can I probe his financial situation, though?”
“He must be panicking now if he was really relying on that painting’s sales commission. He’s another victim if that’s the case. It’s suspicious he was so blasé when he heard,” he says. “Could he also know what happens when art is stolen?”
“I’ll ask. You should grab a magazine when you excuse yourself to use the restroom and imply it’s going to be a long time.”
William winces. I laugh.
“Have you talked to Vinnie before?” he asks.
“I interned for him one summer during college. Uncle Tony got me a job there. He’s got a pretty cushy life. He spent most of the summer in Europe or here,” I say. “He had some wandering hands, but I put a stop to that.”
“He hit on you even though he knew your uncle?”
“He thinks of himself as a catch. And he’s not unattractive—especially ten years ago when he was in his mid-forties. He’s got that artsy, long, wavy hair. He’s fit. Maybe he was a catch for other thirty- and forty-year-old women. He certainly dated a lot. I took a lot of messages from women.”
“How’d you tell him he wasn’t?”
“I told him if he put his hands on my butt again, I’d bend his finger backward,” I say. “That may be why he spent so much time away that summer.”
“Could that give him a motive? That he’s still pissed off that you rejected him?”
“That would be a bit much,” I say. “I mean, I don’t think he likes me much because of that, but it seems extreme to sabotage my career and risk going to jail.”
“Was he knowledgeable about art?”
“Very.”
“You can ask him about trends if you need more topics.”
“Good idea. I’ll ask about that too,” I say. We’re both quiet for a few minutes. “So accounting?”
“Is that a question?” he asks.
“What made you decide to become an accountant?”
“I like numbers, and I wanted to have my own business. I wanted that freedom. And whether times are good or bad, people always need accountants.”
I can identify with wanting my own business and freedom. “You’re making accounting seem sexier than I realized.”
“What did I say that sounded sexy?” William asks, perplexed.
“Your own business and independence.”
“And here I thought it was the reference to numbers.”
“Well, I’m open to hearing you make numbers sexy.”
He laughs. “I’ll think about it.”
“What can we ask Vinnie as the most likely suspect?”
“We can see if he admits that he’s in financial difficulty.”
William’s a steady driver, and he puts on some pop music after we fall silent. I sneak a glance at his profile and his broad shoulders. He glances over at me. I look away, back out the window.
“Is this Korean pop music?” I ask.
“Yes. A group I saw at a concert when I was in Japan.”
“I like it.”
“Me too.” He asks, “How’d you know it was Korean?”
“He keeps singing saranghae or I love you.” I sigh. “Korean dramas are very addictive.”
“I just watched Crash Landing on You with my mom. It was good.” He laughs. “What about Japanese dramas? My mom also watches those.”
“They’re addictive too. It’s a wonder I get any painting done.”
We discuss some of our favorite dramas, laughing over plot points, especially when I had thought the plot was going to go in a completely different direction. I explain to him the plot of Boys Over Flowers, one of my first Korean dramas. It’s based on a Japanese manga series.
I say, “So she loves this guy who is a potter. His hand gets broken in a fight, so it’s unclear if he will ever be able to make pottery again. The next scenes show her walking all over Seoul, going into all sorts of buildings. Since he hurt his hand and couldn’t use it, I thought she was trying to find a physical therapist for him—but no. She was trying to find the I-love-you message from the love of his life.”
“I didn’t realize you were so practical,” he says. “I would’ve thought you’d be pursuing the most romantic thing.”
“Really? Finding an I-love-you message from his ex when I love him?” I ask. “I’m not that selfless. Would you do that?”
William blushes. “Maybe.”
I smile. I find it funny that William thought I was romantic, and I thought he wasn’t romantic.
We pass several trucks on the road.
My phone rings.
“Hi, Jade,” I say.
“Hey. I’m using the Squirrel and Intelligencer angle to spin it that they should give you a bit more time before they make the decision to pull you from the exhibit,” Jade says. “The theft is giving the exhibit free publicity, so it’s a bonus for them.”
“That’s good,” I say.
“I convinced them they don’t need to announce you’ve been replaced until they find your replacement.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“It’s a start. It still doesn’t give us much time. They had a backup list in case anyone said no, so they’re reviewing that list. I was hoping they’d be starting from scratch. Anyway, I’ll keep you updated.” She hangs up.
I sigh.
“Are you okay?” William asks.
I repeat what Jade said.
“Like Uncle Takashi said, five weeks may be enough time to figure it out, especially since we have only a few suspects,” William says.
I nod. I have to keep a positive attitude.
The view out the window is all single-family homes now. It’s another world from Manhattan.
“What are you thinking about?” William asks.
“This is the same drive up to my dad’s house,” I say. “He moved here after the divorce.”
“Do you want to stop by and visit him?”
“He’s not there. He’s away now, working at an art school in Thailand. As he says, one of the benefits of not having a career is the ability to pick up and live wherever you want.”
“I remember talking to him about his trip to Tokyo at one of Uncle Takashi’s parties. Was he coming back for your show?”
“No. He said he didn’t need to attend it to know my art is good. I love discussing art with my dad, and he gives constructive feedback. It’s great to relax and have no expectations. As opposed to my mom and her expectations that I can’t meet because she doesn’t want me to be an artist. But it would be nice to have a happy medium between the two of them.” I was stuck between no expectations and my mom’s expectations that I couldn’t meet.
“I had a similar issue with my dad. He didn’t want me to start my own accounting business. He wanted me to keep working for one of the big accounting firms. I definitely found it hard to disappoint my dad—in that moment. But now that I’ve shown that I can be successful, he’s fine with it. You have to do what makes you happy. It’s your life.”
I look at William, surprised that he gets what I’m going through.
“Yes. She hasn’t criticized my choice to be an artist since my paintings were picked for the Vertex Art Exhibit. But now …”
“We’ll find them. We’re an unbeatable team.” William smiles at me, and I grin back at him.
A short while later, we pull up in the driveway next to Vinnie’s compact house. Off to the side is a grassy area with a wooden swing for two, all framed by tall oak trees. A stone pathway leads from the driveway up to the front entrance.
Vinnie opens his front door and strides out on his pathway, his blousy shirt billowing in the breeze.
He waves us in with a graceful bow, as if greeting royalty. “Miranda and William, emissaries from your uncles.”
He opens his arms wide and steps forward to hug me.
Ugh. I really don’t want to hug the guy.
William brushes past me and envelops him in a huge bear hug, patting him on the back.
Vinnie retreats out of William’s embrace, smoothing his brown hair, now tinged with gray, from his forehead. He clears his throat. “William. How delightful, if the circumstances were not so disastrous.”
I slip by to enter the house. Glancing around, there is no mistaking the nautical theme—crisp blues, anchors, jute rugs, wicker furniture, and several cardboard boxes interrupting what seems like a comfortable room. William follows me inside. I hang up our coats.
“You must forgive the boxes. I’m renting this out, so I’m packing up my personal stuff. So you’ve come all this way to see if I stole the paintings?”
“Yes,” William says as I’m about to deny it. “Did you?”
What happened to let’s not take the direct approach?
“No. I’d make much more money if I got the commission,” he says. “I can’t sell it on the black market.” He gestures us to the navy couch in the living room, then lounges on the armchair next to the couch, his long legs spread out. I sit at the farthest end of the couch, and William sits next to me, closer to Vinnie.
“Do you know anything about the black market for art?” William asks.
“Not enough to help you.” Vinnie puts both hands behind his head, his gaze directly meeting William’s. “I’ve met some shady types in my time, but no connections I’ve nurtured. I’ve got my reputation to uphold.”
“Did you tell anyone about the Kimimoto?” I ask. “Who was interested in buying it from you?”
“I’d rather not reveal that to you. I want that commission if the police find it.”
“Fair enough.” I presume he had to tell the police that information. That person also knows my uncle possessed that painting. “We brought some cookies.” I pull out the box of Levain Bakery cookies I picked up earlier this morning.
“You treat your suspects well. Here, let me get some refreshments,” Vinnie says. “Tea, coffee, iced tea?”
“Tea would be great.” Levain Bakery cookies are my go-to gift to bring over when visiting, plus their pure decadence may loosen tongues. “We were hoping you’d be of some help. Did you see anything suspicious during the party?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “And what would you like to drink, William?”
“Coffee,” he says. “No sugar.”
Black coffee. Blegh.
“I’ll help you in the kitchen,” I say. As I follow behind Vinnie, I wave at William to go. The app is on, so William can hear our conversation remotely.
I ask Vinnie about the art market, probing to see how his business is doing, as he makes tea and coffee. I put the large cookies on a plate and cut them into quarters.
We head back into the living room.
Vinnie stops short. “Where’s William?”
“Maybe he’s in the bathroom. His stomach was acting up while we were driving.” If only I could see William’s face as I say that.
I open up my art portfolio. “I was hoping I could show you some of my work. Could you suggest some other shows? The Vertex Art Exhibit may still work out, though.”
“I doubt it.” He shakes his head. “I can’t help you.” His tone is dismissive, final. He places the tray on the coffee table and distributes the mugs. Then he lounges back in his chair, his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed, watching my reaction.
My stomach twists. “But you can at least look.” I can’t help it; a pleading note quivers in my voice. My shoulders curve forward.
“No one is going to touch you. You’ve just had to pull out of this one because of a ‘stolen painting.’” He actually does air quotes with his hands.
I scoff. “It is stolen. You know that.”
“I know that. But The Squirrel is implying otherwise. And what art dealer is going to take that kind of a risk—that they build some show around you and then you flake out?”
My chest tightens. I sputter. “I’m not flaking out. I’ve never flaked out.”
“I’m not saying you are.” He leans forward, then shrugs. “There are a lot of artists out there, and art dealers are going to go for the sure thing.”
“I thought they were supposed to go for visionary.”
“Only in the books, dear.” He sits back and sips his tea.
My throat closes up. I hold tightly to my portfolio. I have to keep the conversation going. I have to ask again. Even though I’d like to walk out right now and say your loss. I clear my throat. “Are you sure you don’t want to—”
“Sorry I took so long,” William interrupts as he enters the room. I blink my eyes and stare at some painting of a boat being tossed by high seas. I wipe away a tear.
William heard the whole thing. I should’ve turned off the app.
“Did you already finish showing your portfolio?” he asks. “I wanted to see it.”
He knows Vinnie doesn’t want to see it. It’s a bit cruel to ask Vinnie to explain again why he doesn’t want to see it.
“Especially that new piece that Jade was raving over.” William winks at me.
He remembered my art dealer’s name. He sits down next to me and picks up his coffee. I can’t tell if he was able to check out all the rooms. I didn’t provide him much time.
“Jade was raving over a piece?” Vinnie asks. “I might as well look over your portfolio since you’ve come all this way. But really, you should have let me serve as your mentor when you were in college. You showed such promise. Such …” He smacks his lips, leaning forward, putting his hands, palm down, on the table between us.
William tenses next to me. I place my hand on his knee. I can handle this.
“I could have opened a lot of doors for you back then if you’d been more receptive to my advice.” Vinnie leans back, crossing his arms, a slight smile hovering on his lips.
“Maybe we should go.” William stands, towering over Vinnie.
I’d rather not show Vinnie either, but what’s important now is figuring out who stole the paintings. I pull William back down to sit next to me.
Vinnie still resents that I turned him down.
I open up my portfolio, the thick, leather case feeling solid in my hands. I’ll pick the last painting as the one Jade was raving over. “Yes, Jade loved this one.”
The doorbell rings.