Chapter 14 Honey vs. Vinegar
Honey vs. Vinegar
Penelope groaned and massaged her temples, trying to ease the headache that had set up shop in her skull since the moment she’d opened her eyes.
After leaving Lucia’s, she had driven home in a daze and spent the night tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep. She’d half pummeled her pillow into submission—always a bad omen.
She rose and lumbered into the kitchen. Coffee first, coherent thoughts after.
She settled in her rocking chair on the patio with a cup of steaming coffee and gazed at her backyard—white and red azalea bushes, their flowers drooping, most of them already fallen.
The colors on the sweetgum trees that lined the back and acted as a natural privacy fence were more orange than green.
A squirrel chased another one up an oak tree, and round and round they went.
The mug warmed her fingers. The scent of roasted beans curled up to meet her like an old friend.
She closed her eyes, drawing in the earthy aroma and the faint crispness of fall that lingered under it, and a part of Penelope wished she could unknow what she had learned yesterday, even wishing she’d just kissed Lucia instead of asking the damned question that had unraveled everything.
She also wondered if she’d hit her head on the way there and forgotten, because what else could explain proposing a partnership with a criminal—a criminal collective. Whatever that meant.
Whenever she thought of Lucia as a criminal, her stomach dropped, and not in the most pleasant way like just before their almost-kiss. It didn’t feel right. Lucia didn’t fit the criminal mold.
Neither did Penelope’s father, though, and that hadn’t kept him out of prison. And he was innocent, unlike Lucia.
Penelope’s phone sat heavy in her pocket, and her laptop all but called her name.
Neglecting duty wasn’t in her vocabulary. Moreover, this had to count as an emergency, even on a Sunday.
She should call, no, text Lucia—tell her to forget about it; she should tell Montgomery about the forgeries; she should inform their head of provenance; she should distance herself from Lucia and never talk to her again; she should definitely reach out to her contact in D.C.
about the Santini and alert them of possible fraud.
Yet she did nothing but sit there, the storm raging inside her becoming even more grotesque against the serenity before her.
A breeze stirred the branches, scattering a few brittle leaves across the patio stones. She didn’t move. Her grip tightened on the mug until her knuckles blanched.
Penelope flinched when her phone rang, and she fumbled it out of her pocket.
An unknown number.
“Hello?”
“This is a collect call from Richard Blackwell, an inmate at the Federal Correctional Institution in Bastrop, Texas. To accept this call and the associated charges, press 1. To decline, press 2. This call may be monitored and recorded.”
“What?” She pressed one. “Dad? Are you there? Are you OK?”
“Yes, sweetheart, listen. I don’t have long. Your mom told me you asked her to send along my provenance research notes. I need you to back off. I know you’re hurting and that this is all unfair, but I made my bed. I should have known better.”
“But Dad—”
“No. Let this go. You’re not doing me any favors by putting yourself in danger.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I don’t doubt it. You might even think you can handle her, but believe me, honey, she will eat you alive.”
She closed her eyes. “I’m not really doing anything. I just… I research. You know that’s all I do.”
“Pen?”
“Yes?”
“Drop it.”
“I can’t, Dad.” Her voice broke. “I don’t know how. Please tell Mom to send me the notes. I promise I’ll—”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I won’t give up. With or without your help.”
Silence.
“Dad?”
“I heard you.” Richard sighed. “I have to go. Please be careful.”
“I will.”
“I love you, Pen.”
“I love you, too.”
The call ended.
Penelope covered her mouth with her hand as the backyard blurred and her heart stalled. The burn of held-back tears made her eyes sting. They hadn’t talked much since his incarceration two years ago—his choice—and at times it was like missing a limb.
She recalled his voice, and sometimes she’d listen to the few voice messages she had of him, but it never compared to talking to him in real time. Worse, he remained out of reach.
Her coffee had gone cold. The mug felt heavy now, an anchor in her lap.
~ ~ ~
At work the next day, Penelope struggled to concentrate. Tasks she could usually do in her sleep took forever, riddled with errors that only fueled the inferno in her gut.
Shortly before noon, the event coordinator of the Luminary Ball stuck her head into her office.
“Hey, Dr. Blackwell. Sorry to bother you, but I need an answer, and you might not have gotten my last email,” Emma said.
“What’s this about?”
“The VIP seating for the ball. You know how sensitive some of our donors are, and I was wondering if you…”
Penelope stared blankly, unable to compute this simple question. How can I care about this now? Get a grip, it’s your job!
“All right, um, Emma. Let’s see.” She’d not admit she missed the end of her question. “How about you check the seating arrangement from last year and see if there were any complaints? And if there have been, you adjust?”
“Oh, OK.”
“I trust your judgment.” Penelope forced a smile and exhaled a harsh breath when Emma beamed and wished her goodbye.
The rest of her workday went by in a much more orderly fashion, and right when Penelope was packing up her belongings, a messenger knocked on her door.
“Penelope Blackwell?” he asked.
“Yes?”
He handed her a medium-sized envelope before holding out his handheld scanner. “Please sign this.”
She did, not even noticing him leave again.
For a moment, excitement slithered through her—expecting her father’s notes—but then she realized that not only would that have been way too fast but also that the envelope was too small and thin. Not to mention, her mother wouldn’t send it to the Meridian.
When she flipped the envelope over, she froze at the red wax insignia—stylized initials pressed into a perfect oval. The two V’s almost looked like a W.
She grabbed her letter opener and sliced through the seam without ceremony, bracing herself. The missive contained a newspaper clipping and a handwritten note. She unfolded the clipping and ground her jaw upon seeing the headline.
Former Metropolitan Museum of Art Head of Provenance Indicted in High-Value Forgery Case
Her stomach twisted. The paper crackled faintly as her hands trembled.
The article included a photo of La Donna Addormentata, a painting now widely discredited as a forgery—one her father had authenticated just months before the scandal broke.
She glanced at the accompanying note, fearing she’d have to see her dentist soon if she kept grinding her teeth like that.
The past always has a way of bleeding into the present, doesn’t it?
Some legacies endure. Others…unravel.
—V
“That bitch,” Penelope ground out. As if she needed Valentina to remind her how the past still bled into everything.
Fury rising, she snatched her purse and headed out of the office.
Her drive home seemed to take forever. Traffic crawled, her fraying nerves made every minute stretch. She couldn’t count the times she resisted the urge to slam her horn to wake up the drivers ahead of her as they must have fallen asleep.
The steering wheel creaked under her grip. Her jaw ached from clenching.
By the time she entered her house, she was more than ready to wash the day off, but first, she needed to give a certain someone a piece of her mind.
Penelope dialed the number before placing down her purse.
Valentina answered on the second ring. “Hello, darling. I’ve been expecting your call. Did you like my letter?”
“What do you want?”
“Control. Certainty. And the assurance that inconvenient truths stay buried.”
“You already get more from me than I ever agreed to. Don’t confuse proximity with loyalty, Valentina. Besides, if you need my help, why would you antagonize me? Haven’t you learned that flies are easier caught with honey?”
“Are they, though? A solution of vinegar and dish soap actually does wonders.”
Penelope rolled her eyes. “You need to back off. I didn’t agree to help you bury anything. I agreed to listen. To wait. That’s all. There are bigger fish to fry.”
“Oh, are you trying to provoke me by implying that I’m low on the food chain, Dr. Blackwell?”
“Who says I’m implying anything?” Her pulse hammered behind her temples.
Valentina let out a silky laugh. “My little warning was a courtesy to you. Believe it or not, I actually quite liked your father.”
“Really? Then I don’t want to know what happens to people you don’t like.”
“Hmm, no. You don’t.”
“So, you just sent this message because…” She gestured, then let her hand fall uselessly to her side. “You felt the need to annoy me?”
“Please, darling. No. Of course not. Be on the lookout for another letter. One that suggests a more…fruitful association.”
“So, you first throw a toy at someone’s head and then ask them to play with you?”
Valentina laughed—a genuine, warm sound that left Penelope speechless for a moment.
“You truly are a wonder, Penelope. I hope to be seeing more of you. Our previous collaborations have impressed me. A more official association could do wonders for your career.”
Penelope curled her hand into a fist. Valentina’s help was poison. “If that’s what’s in the letter, you could have saved your ink, paper, and postage. I have zero interest in officially signing on. I’ve seen where that ends, so that will be a hard pass.”
“But you don’t know what I’m offering yet.”
“Something worth more than my freedom? I doubt it.”
“We shall see. Goodbye, Dr. Blackwell.” Valentina ended the call.
“Such an obnoxious piece of work,” Penelope muttered, bending down to pet Fuller.
The cat rubbed against her leg with a soft purr, grounding her for a moment.
“What are we going to do, girl?”
Penelope couldn’t help but compare Valentina and Lucia—how one chilled her and the other…left behind a warmth in her chest she didn’t know how to deal with.
She also thought of Lucia’s Italian friend, wondering if the woman was anything like Valentina. Were they competitors?
The more she dug, the more she couldn’t shake the feeling that Valentina’s grip on the Madonna was even less airtight than it appeared. The forged provenance was good, but not perfect. If someone at the Meridian noticed, it wouldn’t just expose a forgery, it could unravel everything.
Perhaps Penelope needed Lucia’s Collective more than she realized, considering such a snare could hobble her, too.
She decided to take a shower, eat something, and go to bed. Maybe sleep would offer her a solution.
When her alarm went off the next morning, she groaned as memories of the last few days rushed to the forefront.
“Damn it,” she groused, rising and heading for the bathroom. Once she was done and had finished her breakfast, she pulled out her phone. She didn’t know if she’d regret it, but she’d told her father the truth: she couldn’t let it go.
Her finger poised over the message for a beat.
Have you spoken to your Italian friend? I’d like to meet her.
Then she pressed send.