Chapter 27
Holding my umbrella slanted against the wind and sleeting rain, I walk down a wet, cobblestone street, deciphering the building numbers, trying to find the Tribeca gallery holding this exhibit.
There it is. I pull the door open, tugging it hard against the gale sweeping off the Hudson. Inside, it’s a brick-walled room with high ceilings, crowded with people.
I hang my soaking raincoat up on the coatrack and place my umbrella in the black, plastic receptacle labeled Wet Umbrellas.
An alcove beckons off to the side. A mix of couches cluster in the middle where people socialize, making it seem more like a Friends reunion than an art exhibit. The strident, pulsating music makes the conversations louder. The paintings reflect a real mix of artistic styles, although most are figurative paintings. It’s not clear why Vinnie recommended I come, but I suspect it won’t be good. The painting caliber is not that high; Vinnie is probably signaling that this is where my artwork now belongs.
I’ll walk around quickly and then go. It’s not like I’m in the mood to hang out here. What if William doesn’t show up?
And then I see him.
William is by the bar. His back is to me.
He came.
I walk over. He’s talking to a guy in a maroon smoking jacket.
As I near, I overhear William saying to the guy, “My girlfriend is an artist.”
I stop. We’re definitely still together.
“Really? What kind of art?” the guy asks.
“Abstract artist, but very colorful. Lot of emotional punch.”
“It’s all about the passion, man. Good stuff, right?” the guy says. “And it’s not just confined to the art, am I right?”
William sputters. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
“No, no, I can see it from your face. Good stuff,” the man says.
I back away. I don’t want to interrupt that conversation.
William turns, however, and sees me. He smiles, but it’s tentative.
He says goodbye to the guy and walks over to me.
“I’m sorry again about last night,” I say quickly.
“I’m sorry too. Maybe we’re getting carried away with all this investigation stuff.”
“I think I am,” I say. His eyes are warm and welcoming. I’m so relieved.
He puts out his arms. “A hug?” he asks.
“Yes.” I step into his arms. They enfold me, and I feel so comforted.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I say.
“Don’t think you can get rid of me that easily.” He hugs me tightly and then releases me but keeps hold of my hand. I squeeze his in return. Holding hands, we walk around the exhibit. Vinnie still hasn’t texted back.
We circle the main room until I stop in front of one sculpture I like. It’s a stone hand holding another hand.
“I like this,” I say.
William tightens his grip of my hand. “Yes.”
We’re back together like last night didn’t happen. Just like that, without any drawn-out drama, we’ve moved past my freak-out behavior. I kiss him on the cheek.
“What’s that for?” he asks.
“I’m happy.”
“Do you want a drink? I realize you never got one.”
I nod. We walk over to the bar and wait in line behind some other patrons.
“I have no idea why Vinnie thought I should come see this exhibit,” I say.
“It doesn’t seem to be the same intensity as your work,” William says. The bartender moves to the other side of the bar. It may take a while to get drinks.
I don’t see Vinnie anywhere. I text him.
“We forgot to check out the alcove,” I say. “Let’s take a look, and then I’ll call him. And then we can get a drink.”
We head toward the alcove, still holding hands. It’s crowded in there, and I can’t see any of the artwork yet.
“Did you paint today?”
“Yes. You’ve now got a painting named after you. W 2:30.”
“What colors did you use?”
The group of people in front of the painting on the far wall suddenly moves on to the next, allowing us to see the piece. I stop short and grip William’s hand—hard.
“That’s my painting—copied.”
“Where?”
I point to the wall at the far corner.
I am hyperventilating. That’s a forged copy of Playing Around 1:30. I stride toward it.
William grabs me, stopping me. “What are you doing?”
“I am taking that down.”
“Think, Miranda, think.” His hands are on my shoulders. “This is a trap. Someone did this on purpose—to get a rise out of you.”
“They succeeded.” My voice breaks.
He pulls me to his chest and holds me tightly. “Let’s call Johnson and tell him. Can he seize it as a forgery?”
I peer out over his shoulder at the copy of my painting. My eyes water. Who is doing this? Why do they hate me this much?
William rubs my back. “I promise you we’ll take it down if that doesn’t work.”
I say, “Let’s take a picture of it. In case something happens and he can’t get it. I want proof that we saw it.”
Signs every five feet announce No Photos.
“I’ll create a diversion. I’ll drop a glass by the bar over there. When everyone looks at me, you take a picture.” He squeezes my hand. “Unless you have a better suggestion?”
“No. You’ll really do that?”
“Don’t you think it will work?”
“It totally will. Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Okay,” he says. “But let’s call Officer Johnson first.”
I call. Thankfully, Officer Johnson picks up and I explain the situation. He’s on it. He’s on his way, and his colleague will call the owner of the gallery to see who funded the party.
I show the message to William. “Edmund again.”
“All right, let’s take a picture,” William says. “Get ready.” He winks.
I’ve corrupted William.
I take out my phone and swipe to my camera, but pretend I am texting.
I stare at the painting. The brushstroke has a similar intensity and weight to mine, but more tentative. I tilt my head. The colors are a little off, and where they overlap is more jarring than joyful.
Objectively, ironically, it makes me see the skill in my own work.
William stands by the bar, waiting to order. A woman approaches him and looks like she is chatting him up. Her hand reaches out to touch his arm. We don’t have all day, and he’s so polite. He’s nodding. C’mon, where’s the cool cucumber brush-off that you used to give me? What’s the point of having that ability if you’re not going to use it in dire circumstances?
I’m supposed to be working on not getting jealous.
I am a cool cucumber. I am a cool cucumber.
I imagine the taste of a cucumber and the refreshing feeling of cucumber slices on my face.
William receives two drinks from the bartender and leaves the woman as he turns to go to the corner of the room.
I swipe back to my camera app, focusing on the painting, waiting for the glass to drop.
Crash!The sound of a glass breaking cuts through the conversations. Dead silence flattens the room. I focus and click a picture. I take two more photos to be safe.
People are still looking over to the corner where William dropped the glass.
I hesitate for a moment. I still want to grab the painting and run. I will stick to the plan.
I pocket my phone and stride toward the gallery exit, head high, grabbing my raincoat and my umbrella on the way out. I walk down the cobblestoned street to the corner to wait for William and Officer Johnson. The wind inverts my umbrella so it’s inside out. Pointed into the wind, the umbrella flips back. I email Officer Johnson the photos.
And I think back to John’s fundraising party and my remark: “Forgeries are the worst. They’re literally taking your creativity, blood, sweat, and tears and passing them off as their own.”
It’s back to Edmund as the prime suspect.
The cobblestones are soaked, and it smells like fresh rain. I feel better now. This is an actual clue. This is a breakthrough. And it confirms that it’s personal.
But they don’t know me as well as they think they know me. I am determined to crack this case and find my painting. I may be emotional, but I don’t always let emotions cloud my judgment.
William emerges onto the street. He puts up his umbrella and hastens over to me. Our glances meet, and it’s as if he asks me if I’m okay. Even from a distance of six feet, I know he’s worried.
“Did you get a photo?” he asks.
“I did.” I show it to him.
He pulls me into a hug. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s good. This is another clue. We may actually find my painting.”
A police car pulls up, and Officer Johnson gets out. William and I separate.
“How’d you get invited to this opening?” he asks. His partner joins him on the sidewalk.
“Vinnie. But he just texted that Edmund recommended the show. Vinnie told me the dealer might be interested in showing my paintings—that the dealer showcased paintings similar in style.”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Johnson’s partner rests her hand on her waist.
“Have you talked to the dealer?” Officer Johnson asks.
“No. I thought I should look at the paintings before talking to the dealer so I’d have something to talk about.”
Officer Johnson nods. “All right. We’ll seize the painting as a forgery. Do you want to wait out here?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s see who’s behind this.” Officer Johnson turns to walk into the art gallery. William and I follow, stopping to watch through the windows. The crowd looks shocked to see the two policemen enter. A purple-haired woman in a tux comes up to them.
Officer Johnson stands, feet hip-distance apart, rocking back on his heels. His chin is up as if he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. He nods to his partner and heads to the back where the painting is. His partner and the purple-haired woman follow.
My phone buzzes.
I show William the text. “I should go, right?” I buzz with adrenaline.
“I think so. I still think the paintings went out of Tony and Takashi’s apartment via them. You saw the carts they used to bring the food into my apartment. You could easily fit paintings in there.”
“They’re both really good actors then.” I text Miju back to confirm I will be there.
Officer Johnson comes out of the gallery, the painting tucked under his arm, his partner holding the umbrella over it. “She gave us a name of Howard Holbrooke as the guy who paid for the showing and who insisted that this painting be displayed. Recognize that name? She never met Holbrooke in person. He rented the space and asked that certain paintings be shown from his collection. The paintings were delivered by courier.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t recognize the name, but I’ll think about it.” I tell Officer Johnson and William about my forgery remark at John’s party.
The other officer puts the painting in the trunk.
I say to Officer Johnson, “We’re going to meet the catering waitstaff, Miju and Lena, for drinks.”
“Lena was nervous when we talked to her,” Officer Johnson says. “But she said that this police interrogation was great practice for her role in the To Catch a Thief play. She didn’t seem to be telling the complete truth. We drilled down on the movement of the carts, and I felt like she’d memorized that. She didn’t even pause to think about it.”
“What did she say?”
“That Kimberly took back the first cart. Lena took out the second cart and wheeled it to where the car was parked, which was several blocks away. Maybe you’ll get more out of her over drinks.”
He gets into the passenger seat of the police sedan. The car pulls away, its red taillights shining brightly in the dark. My phone beeps.
I crumple. We ran out of time.
“What’s wrong?” William asks. I show him the message. I hug myself. Rain splatters my face. I take a deep breath.
“Let’s go meet Lena and Miju,” I say.
“Are you sure you’re up for it?” William asks. We hurry to the subway to go uptown to Times Square.
“I still want to find the paintings.”