Fifty
“This is a disaster, Cam.” Lamont Packard stood at the window, gazing out at the rolling hills of Schenley Park, fists stuffed deep in the pockets of his tuxedo’s trousers.
“But it doesn’t make sense. The painting passed every review, including mine.”
He turned, sighed, and lowered himself onto the edge of his desk. “Experts make mistakes all the time. You know what happened to Andromeda Chained to a Rock.”
She did. The painting owned by the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, supposedly by Van Dyck, had been attributed to him and then de-attributed so many times she didn’t think anyone believed what the title card read anymore, including the staff.
“But that was different,” she said. “That painting had a very sketchy provenance. Ball bought this one from an earl whose family had forgotten it had been stowed in their cellar for the last two hundred years. For God’s sake, they still have the bill of sale for eighteen guineas, eight shillings from when the first earl bought it from Van Dyck’s agent right after Van Dyck’s death. Can you let me see the letter?”
Ball shrugged, reached across his desk, and handed her a fragile sheath of vellum.
Her heart sunk. The writing was Van Dyck’s. She’d seen it enough times on paintings and letters to recognize his distinctive script anywhere.
“It’s Van Dyck’s.”
Packard nodded. “The paper fits the period as well.”
She unfolded the note carefully. It appeared to be a page torn out of a diary.
I have made the Decision to close my Studio for a fortnight.
Until the Fevre which rages in the city passes, I will take no more commissions.
’Tis a bitter potion, to be Sure, but my Luck this year has been Strong and, with the recent Commissions from His Majesty, I can easilee manage the pause in Income.
To pass the Tyme, I have given my Apprentices leave to practice under my Watchful Eye.
One, Albertus, a most skilled man of Mantua, has taken the opportunity to attempt a Portrait of his dear wyfe, Sarah.
Albertus’s lady will be pleased. Albertus’s ability to compose a Van Dyck countenance is most pronounced, and the ladye is more comely than even I could render, tho Albertus adds a Lamb and shepherds hook in a fit of Metaphore that is a distraction to my eye.
The ladye beres a Strong resemblance to the new bride of Baron Milton, which pleased Albertus when I tolde him, tho why I could not say. Albertus shall have the painting when—
The entry ended. Cam flipped the page over, but the other side was blank.
Ball tapped his finger. “‘Albertus shall have the painting when…’”
“‘I die’?” Cam said, seeing exactly where goddamn Van Dyck was heading.
“‘…he finishes’?” Ball suggested. “It almost doesn’t matter, because instead of Albertus giving it to his lady—”
“He keeps it until Van Dyck can no longer disclaim it and then sells it to Van Dyck’s agent as a real Van Dyck.”
“Who then turns around and sells it to Baron Milton.”
“Crap.” Cam felt an iron weight drop in her gut and sunk into a chair. “I guess Albertus wasn’t quite the romantic Van Dyck would have liked us to think.”
Packard gave her a weak smile. “Perhaps he used the money for a pair of diamond bobs.”
Cam tried to summon the painting in her head.
Much of her examination technique relied on intuition, intuition based on years of study and admiration.
She thought of the ringlets framing the woman’s forehead, the sharp, clear expression in her chestnut eyes, and the stippled fur tippet that hung over her shoulder.
It was a Van Dyck. She had absolutely no doubt—not then, not now.
Not that her certainty would carry much weight here, not when her career was the one that would benefit from the decision, which is why she’d taken such care to have others establish its authenticity too.
Packard took off his glasses and massaged his temple.
“We’re in trouble, Cam. Ball’s down there waiting to be honored for his generous gift.
The museum’s already issued the press release.
Hell, the gift’s going to be the cover story in the paper tomorrow.
No matter what we do at this point, it’s going to be a huge embarrassment to everyone involved. ”
Ever the gentleman, Packard made a point not to bring his eyes to rest on her, but Cam realized she was going to be sucked into the quicksand of this debacle as well.
In fact, her shoulders were going to be where everyone else would try to find a toehold.
She knew what she owed Packard. She knew what she owed the museum.
“I’ll tell Ball.” She held up a hand to stop Packard’s protest. “He’s a good guy. He’ll be disappointed, but he’ll understand. And,” she said sadly, “I’ll resign.”
Packard sighed, and she knew it was over.
“Hate to see it, Cam.”
You and me, both, pal. “Best thing, I think.” She fought back the waves of disappointment that seemed intent on drowning her tonight. “I’ll work the gala—er, unless you’d prefer I didn’t.”
He clapped her on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He stood to rebutton his jacket and gave her a sly grin. “Too bad, really. I was sort of looking forward to seating an executive director most of the world would have seen nude. Would have knocked the board biddies on their asses.”
“Ack! You saw the paintings?” She felt her face turn six shades of crimson.
“Of course. Ball called me for advice. Who do you think helped quash the story till Monday?”
“Gosh, thanks.” Not that the delay made much difference now.
“Of course, the price was an exclusive interview. Sam Arnofsky from the paper will be here Monday at nine for an in-depth interview. I left the contact info and a sheaf of photos he dropped off on your desk—Oh, and I also left a note Ball wrote on how he thinks they’re going to frame the story. He thought it might help.”
“Super. Appreciate it, boss.”
“Boss no more. Just an admirer. Tell you what, though. This Peter guy’s a hell of a painter.
Starkly postmodern, yet this undeniable reference to classical proportion and light.
And the scale… Jesus, it’s like walking into a room and finding yourself face-to-face with the Taj Mahal or the top of the Chrysler Building. ”
“Or the Jumbotron from Madonna’s Truth or Dare Tour.”
“Cam, it’s a helluva tribute. I don’t think the Taj Mahal is too far from the mark. Will I get to meet him?”
“Ah, yes, actually,” she said, feeling her heart skip. “He’s here tonight.”
“Interesting.” Packard nodded. “Then you’ll be…all right?” His country club green eyes had softened to a grassy gray. He meant without her job.
“Yeah,” she said quickly. “You know me. Sure. Absolutely.”
“That’s good. And you’ve got the book to work on, right?”
“Uh, no, actually.”
“What? You’ve canceled another one?”
“Yeah, um, the Lely thing didn’t pan out.”
“Are you kidding? What about the muse? The woman he raised from the streets? C’mon, Cam. Sex, drugs, and the King of England?”
“Um, you know me. I like to work with as clean a slate as possible. Turns out there’s more known about the woman than I realized. Facts, it seems, only complicate my stories.”
“Well, the next one, then?” He gave her an encouraging look.
“You bet.”
Cam stood too, dreading the thought of Ball’s face when she told him the news. She handed the page back to Packard. Then it struck her.
“Wait a second. I totally forgot to ask. Where did you get this?”
“It arrived this morning in the mail.” Packard pointed to an opened envelope on his desk. “No attached note. No return address. Strangest thing. It was almost as if Van Dyck mailed it in himself.”
Mailed it himself? Only one person could make it look like that.
“Cam? What is it?”
She ran for the door. “I need air.”