Chapter 28
Six police officers took care of the crime scene. Reginald Parker was handcuffed and escorted away, while forensics had already moved in to begin their work. Ethan kept an eye on it all while staying close to Livi. She was shaken but recovering, offering direction as officers arrived and talking to her superintendent on the phone while the sun rose.
When he determined the scene was secure and Livi gave him a weary smile, he nodded toward the door. Once outside, Livi inhaled deeply.
“Already morning? We’ve been up forever.”
“You feeling better?” He slipped his arm across her back, not caring who saw.
She nodded. “Fresh air helps. I think I need to take it in in gulps for a bit.”
“Do you mind if we walk?” he asked. “Down the street. I can’t imagine that my father would have found a way to keep the old house. It’s just up there.” He pointed to the two-story home three houses down. “Unless you want to climb in a patrol car and gather yourself?”
“No, I’m gathered. And yes, a walk will serve my aching muscles some good.” She squeezed his hand they walked down the sidewalk.
Three houses down, they stopped before his childhood home. It was no longer painted green but a rather boring beige, and it sported a “for sale” sign on the dead front yard.
“We could go inside and look around?” Livi suggested, but her tone was iffy.
Ethan nodded toward a man next door who was unpacking some boxes from the back of his station wagon. “Hello!”
The man nodded, holding a small box loaded with canned goods. “Was just packing up some things for the shelter. What’s the ruckus down the street?”
“Police business.” Olivia flashed her badge. “Nothing to worry about. An art crime.”
“What? Did someone draw a mustache on a Michelangelo?” The man laughed.
“Not even so exciting as that,” Olivia said. “Do you know the residents who live in the house for sale?”
The man shook his head.
Ethan jumped in. “We’re actually looking for someone who lived in that house a while ago. Christopher Maxwell.”
“Oh, yes, I remember the old man. Silver hair? Always going for walks?” He pointed over his shoulder. “The neighbor down the street mentions him once in a while. Fondly, of course.” He added an exaggerated wink after that.
“Fondly?” Livi smiled at Ethan, understanding exactly what the man was suggesting. “Which house?”
“The pink three-story. It’s a fine old house, and she’s getting on in her years, but she keeps the shrubs trimmed and puts out sparklers during the holidays. She’s up already. I’m heading over there in a bit to pick up some things to take to the shelter. Gwendolyn’s her name.”
“Thank you.” Ethan shook the man’s hand, and he and Livi made their way to the pink house. “Fondly, eh?”
“I think your father may have been quite the rascal, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“I would never deny that. But I do wonder how many more siblings will turn up in my life.”
“Oh, dear.” She squeezed his hand. “If any do, let’s cross our fingers that none has a twisted desire to emulate your father’s profession. And yours.”
“My former profession,” he emphasized. “It’s over, Livi. I don’t ever want to hurt another soul, directly or indirectly, because of a work I have created and thought worthy of a museum.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
They stopped at the end of the sidewalk that led up to the pink house. It was a picture-perfect yard, like a painting done by a TV artist like Bob Ross and featured on a cheap greeting card. Ethan smirked, then looked to Livi, who gave him wide, beaming eyes. She had survived the awful experience with Reginald. He loved her resilience.
She clasped his hand and squeezed. He pulled her to him and kissed her. Slowly, deeply. Meaningfully.
“Thank you,” he said. “For trusting me. And for forgiving my shortcomings.”
“You have no shortcomings.”
“I have many. And that you overlook them means much to me. I owe you an apology.”
“Ethan, you couldn’t have known Reginald would be waiting for me outside your apartment door. And you saved my life.”
“For The Lantern Bearers. I never considered how my works could affect others, beyond hanging on a museum wall. I should have taken a moment to consider it could ruin lives.”
“It was devastating. But now I have a job that I love. That is, if it’s still there when I get back to the office.”
“It will be. I’ll put in a good word for you. And if that bears no clout, I’ll ask my boss to do so.”
“You’re a sweetie, but it isn’t necessary. The case turned out to be much bigger than we’d thought. If nabbing a mad bomber doesn’t prove my worth, then nothing will.”
“Are you ready to go inside and follow yet another path your father left behind for you?”
“If this is legit. I can’t believe my father kept a secret studio and never told me about it. It’s remarkable. The things he never told me that have come back to haunt me. Makes me wonder how many more ghosts will rise in my life, eh?”
“You’ve handled them well. Why not dive in and handle this one?”
“Onward, then.” He strode up the walk and knocked on the door.
An elderly woman wearing a pink jumpsuit and holding a white cat answered the door. She took one look at Ethan and beamed. “Ethan Maxwell!”
Ethan and Livi exchanged looks. He did not know this woman, nor remember her from his childhood. Though he vaguely recalled this pink house. He must have rode his bicycle past here.
“Come in!” She turned and toddled down a hallway with the cat peering over her shoulder. “You’ve finally come for your father’s things?” She stopped at the bottom of a stairway and turned to face him. “My, you look just like Christopher. Such a handsome man he was.” She winked.
“Uh, we’ve never met, have we?”
“I don’t believe so. I’m Gwendolyn Price. Your father and I were lovers.”
Ethan caught a swallow in his throat.
“Oh, we’re all adults, aren’t we, ducks?” She looked to Livi, taking her in from head to hips. “You’re a lovely girl. Are the two of you lovers?”
Ethan cleared his throat, while Livi introduced herself as Constable Lawson. “We understand Ethan’s father may have kept a private studio here at this house?”
“Of course he did! He made me promise to keep it intact because one day his son would come for his things. It’s just at the top of the stairs. Go ahead! Take a look! I’ve been gathering some boxes for the neighbor down the street, but I’ll take a break from that and make some tea.”
“Thank you.” Ethan took the stairs two at a time and stopped before the plain white door. He turned to Livi, who grimaced as she climbed the staircase. “You okay?”
“Still a little creaky after sitting so long. And exhausted. I need a hot bath and a nap.”
“I should take you home.”
“Are you kidding me? Not with the big secret just beyond that door. So are you going to open it?”
“Very well.” He turned the knob and pushed the door inside. A cool gush of air kissed his cheeks. “You first.”
Livi stepped inside and rubbed her arms. “Cold in here. Oh, there’s so many paintings.”
Ethan entered the attic loft, which was about the size of three generous living areas. The ceiling slanted down on two sides. Paintings were stacked against the two end walls. A worn sofa draped with a patchwork blanket sat in the middle of the room. An empty easel and paints were nestled near the window. It was an idyllic refuge for a painter to get lost in paints and canvas. And, apparently, add yet another notch to his freewheeling, “love-’em-and-leave-’em” belt.
He didn’t need to ask why his father would return to his old neighborhood. Because there had been a woman. Yet another one.
Ethan could only chuckle. Oh, Christopher, such the ladies’ man.
An old wooden box record player sat before a stack of vinyl albums. Ethan walked over and picked up the top one.
“Bowie.” He turned over the time-worn album cover to read the song titles. “Christopher loved the Thin White Duke.”
“Do you mind if I look through the paintings?” Livi asked.
“Go ahead. I’ll start over here.”
With a heavy sigh of resignation, Ethan eyed the paintings. The first row was covered with a white cloth that showed little sign of dust. Had his father used this loft as a studio? He hadn’t painted for years before his death, as far as Ethan knew. But what did he know about Christopher Maxwell? Apparently, not as much as he’d thought.
He pulled aside the cloth and gasped. The painting underneath was Rossetti’s Beata Beatrix from the Wexler gallery. It was the one that his father had forged, and had hung in the gallery for three years before Reginald had gotten to it and blow it to pieces.
Or had he?
Ethan lifted the painting and inspected the crackled surface. He eyed the frame, then turned it over to check the provenance. None of it was necessary. He knew immediately that this was the original work.
So his father had taken the original from the gallery—or pulled a switch en route to the gallery—and then had kept the original? That wasn’t his MO. He always passed the original works along to his fence, who sold them. At least that is what he’d led Ethan to believe.
Whistling, Ethan turned the painting toward Livi.
She squinted in the dull light, then gaped. “Is that—”
He nodded. “The original.”
“But? Hadn’t your father…?”
“Apparently Christopher decided to hang on to this one.”
“Then we can return it to the gallery. Ethan, that’s wonderful.”
“Appears so.” He glanced down. The work that had been behind the Rossetti was very familiar as well. An original Renoir. And behind that one was the Byam Shaw. The Byam Shaw. “Another original. Livi, come here.”
She joined him with an eagerness he felt bubble through the air and tickle against his skin. “Now Is The Pilgrim Year Fair Autumn’s Charge,” she said.
“A right tongue-twister of a title, eh? What do you think?”
“I didn’t destroy the original. Oh, mercy.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “Why would he keep them?”
“I have no earthly idea. It’s not as though he intended to hold them for later sale. Or maybe he did. I can’t know. It’s a feather in your cap, eh?”
“It truly is. My boss will be over the moon to know we’ve discovered these stolen works. And the Tate Britain will be as well. But you have to see what I’ve found over here.”
He followed her across the room. Livi pulled out a painting that he didn’t immediately recognize, because the light didn’t bleed into this half of the loft. When she turned toward the window, the light glanced across the surface of the painting.
“The Millais.” Ethan took the painting of Lorenzo and Isabella from her and walked over to the window to study it. It felt…familiar. As if reunited with an old friend. The feeling didn’t make sense.
“I think this one is yours,” she offered over his shoulder. “The original really does sit in the forensics lab at Scotland Yard.”
He glanced over his shoulder, confused.
She shrugged. “Only you can know the truth for sure. Or why your father would not make the switch, when you believed he had.”
Ethan turned over the painting and looked at the inside of the upper right part of the canvas. And there it was. The tiny red X, smaller than a mite. His signature mark.
Why had Christopher not made the switch? It made little sense to him. And yet… Now he could not be implicated in the suspected forgery at the National Gallery.
Livi hugged him, leaning her head onto his shoulder. Ethan exhaled, settling against her warmth.
“I should not question. In fact, I won’t. My father is gone. With him he takes many secrets.” He cast a glance around at the paintings. All originals? Even the forgeries? “We’ll need to take inventory of the attic. But I’d prefer to do it before Scotland Yard steps in.”
“I can give you a few hours,” she said. “It won’t be long before they catch on that we’re down here, though.”
He nodded. “I can work with a few hours. But you should stay as well. Someone to record everything I find and ensure I don’t fudge things.”
“I think it best if I send in a third party. Someone who isn’t sleeping with you.”
“Perhaps so. How about Howard Leeds?”
“Perfect. I’ll go pull him out of the Parker house.
“Do you want to talk about this?”
“I do. But…later. When we’re alone and naked in bed.”
“I look forward to it. But. After a good long nap.” She kissed him, then pulled out her phone to call Scotland Yard.
“You saved my ass, Christopher.” Ethan set down the painting he had made years earlier. He’d have to notify the ECU as well. They’d send in a checker. Which he welcomed. He wanted everything on the up-and-up. He tapped his earbud and filled in Chester.
The ECU would send in a liaison to work with Scotland Yard and ensure the paintings in the attic were handled correctly, inventoried, and ultimately returned to the museums or galleries from where they’d been stolen. Of course, this evidence would lend to an investigation into who had actually forged the works and why they were in the attic of an elderly woman from the East Side.
Whether Reginald’s actions were tied to the forgery ring Ethan had been investigating over the past year was another issue. Only with questioning could he learn more.
Ethan was confident the ECU would handle the investigation with discretion.
His phone rang, and the name was Lucinda Marx. “I don’t know how you’re involved,” he said before touching the screen to answer. “But if I think about it too much…”
He smirked then, realizing he might never know the vast reach of his father’s love affairs, and deciding he didn’t need to know any more.
* * * *
Olivia’s flat smelled like macaroni cheese, but Ethan had insisted she not cook for them. Instead, he had stopped for take-out on their way home from the crime scene. It was after dark, and they were both exhausted. But Olivia had managed an early-morning nap. Of course, she’d been too wound up after finding the treasures in Gwendolyn’s attic and hadn’t been able to sleep more than a few hours.
They both sat with their feet up on the ottoman, talking about what they had found in the attic.
Livi’s phone buzzed. She tugged it from her pocket and smiled at the screen. Eyeing him, she tapped her lower lip.
“Don’t tell me,” Ethan said.
“Then I won’t.”
“He’s not your type” He swiped at her phone, but she snatched it out of his reach.
“You’re right. And I don’t need this anymore.” She tapped her phone a couple times. “Date Faces is now gone. Because you’re my type.”
“I am?”
“Oh, please, you know that you are.”
He beamed with the unexpected pleasure of knowing the woman liked him. Maybe even more than liked him. He had no intention of ending what they’d started. And he didn’t have to. There were no dating rules in the ECU. Not that he was aware of.
“When I went to Scotland Yard after lunch, my boss congratulated me on discovering the originals,” Livi said. “Superintendent Wellbrute said I didn’t have to worry about my job. For now.”
“For now?”
“The Arts and Antiquities Unit is always under a black cloud. I’m just thankful that currently the skies are blue.”
“You shouldn’t be. You should seek a more secure employment. One that does not demand you constantly prove yourself in order to keep your job.”
“Are you suggesting I join your little cadre?”
“Not at all. You are not an ex-con. Nor would you enjoy being chipped and kept under a magnifying lens. Perhaps you should start a private investigation service? Art crimes could use all the help it can get. I could consult.”
“That is something to consider. I’m happy with Scotland Yard for now. I may even get to work with you again on future cases.”
“Most certainly. But that doesn’t mean we have to be strangers in between cases.”
“I should hope not. But I didn’t tell you everything.”
“What’s everything?”
“Superintendent Wellbrute said I deserved a promotion to detective constable.”
“Livi, that’s great. It’s exactly what you wanted.”
“It is. I’m pleased. And that I got it without implicating you is the cherry on top. Ethan, I don’t want us to end.”
“We won’t. I’ll make sure of it.”
* * * *
When Livi woke up the next morning, she didn’t open her eyes. She liked to linger tucked between the sheets with the warmth of her blankets cozy around her. But she smelled something…familiar. The scent was very distinct. When she stretched a hand across the bed, she didn’t feel Ethan’s body. The sheets next to her were cool.
She blinked her eyes open. Ethan sat on top of the ladder she’d borrowed from the building supervisor. Paintbrush in hand, he dabbed white on the ceiling. He’d painted a white marble column at the upper corner of the wall. Flowing onto the ceiling were vines and flowers and even a bird. It was a lovely depiction of a Greek scene that reminded her of Sir Frederick Leighton’s lush, colorful works.
“Oh…” She sighed.
Her voice startled Ethan, and he wobbled. “Sorry if I woke you. I’ve been up for hours. Couldn’t stop myself. I, uh…hope you don’t mind?”
“Ethan, it’s gorgeous. Will you do the whole ceiling?”
“Depends on how well you can keep a secret from my employers.”
She smiled and laid back on the pillow. “I won’t tell if you don’t. I feel like a Greek goddess lying beneath the flower-laden portcullis with the heavens overhead.”
“You are my muse, Livi.”
She tugged down the sheet to expose her naked body.
“You want me to put some cherubs amidst the flowers? I would like to paint your breasts. They are exquisite.”
“You said you were never going to lift the brush again. What happened in less than a day to change your mind?”
He held the brush before him and inhaled deeply. “It is like a drug, Livi. But I meant it about never putting out work in public again. And I won’t ever recreate a master work. I promise.” He crossed his heart. “All originals from now on. Because this is my love letter to you. I don’t know any other way to express my feelings.”
She closed her eyes. The man was a dream. He possessed a talent that she felt pretty sure he’d never use again. But maybe he needed someone to look after that addiction and keep him on course. She could do that. Because she didn’t want Ethan Maxwell to stray too far from her bed.
Reaching over to the nightstand, she grabbed her phone to check the time. Nine in the morning? She really had been exhausted from yesterday. Before setting the phone back, she scrolled through the recent photos she’d taken. There were eight pictures of The Death of the Gravedigger hanging on Ethan’s wall. Each taken from a different angle, and two showing the back of the canvas, with a close-up of the provenance stamp.
Tapping the phone screen a few times, she sighed heavily, then followed her heart. She moved all eight photos to the trash. The Tate Britain believed the original hung on their walls. And…she was okay with that. For now.
Glancing up, she followed Ethan’s flexing back muscles as his strokes moved the paint across the ceiling. “No size 36 DDs on the cherubs,” she said, laughing.
“Aww…. Really? Very well. That’s more Rubens’s style anyway.”
“What is Ethan Maxwell’s style?”
“I’m not sure. Shall we find out?”
Olivia tossed the phone aside, then stretched out her arms and tilted her hip. She arched her back, lifting her breasts, and fluttered her lashes. “Paint me, lover.”
The End
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed The Forger, the second in the Elite Crimes Unit series. If you haven’t read The Thief, do check that one out as it matches two jewel thieves against one another on the glamorous streets of Paris. And watch for The Chameleon in December 2017.
Thank you,
Michele