Scarlett

The Storm on the Sea of Galilee. It was the most famous stolen artwork from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston. The FBI had been searching for years for the work, without success. I recognized the ship from my studies. I had focused on researching it during the little time I had back at the hotel. I was convinced that examining this painting was my best bet for confirming whether these works were stolen or excellent fakes.

I frowned at the painting. This was, in fact, an oil-on-canvas, same as the original. There was the ship, along with Jesus and several disciples. Rembrandt was said to have painted himself among the disciples, and it certainly looked as if he were standing next to Jesus on the ship.

“It’s a tough call,” I said as I moved to the bottom right corner. “There’s no signature, but Rembrandt didn’t sign all of his work. He only painted one seascape, so I can’t really say that the water carries the typical markings of the painter.”

“We need to be sure,” Gabe said. “I can’t go and start making accusations if we’re wrong.”

“I know.” I leaned in closer and examined the left-hand corner of the painting. “Oh my God.”

“What? What is it?” Gabe leaned in closer and peered over my shoulder.

“Right here.” I pointed to the edge of the canvas, where it met the frame. “It’s been ripped.”

“Ripped?”

I nodded and ran my gaze along the bottom of the artwork. “The tear spreads across the edges of the painting.” Excitement filled my chest as I moved to another painting. Sure enough, similar tears were present along the edge of the frame. If I wasn’t looking for them, I would have missed them. “Do you know what this means?”

He shook his head. “What?”

“The paintings from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston were cut out of their frames.” I turned back to the painting and grinned. “The empty frames still sit in the museum, waiting to hold the paintings once more.”

“So?”

“So, don’t you see?” I pointed at the seascape. “This painting looks as if it has been cut out of one frame and placed into another.”

“Do you think it’s the same one?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“We’d need an expert to have a look at it, but . . .” I turned to Gabe. “Yes, I’m sure. I mean, why else would there be a tear along the perimeter? This is a stolen painting. I’d bet my reputation on it.”

Footsteps echoed in the hall outside the room. Gabe motioned for me to stay quiet and walked to the doorway. Low voices rose up from the hall, but they were too muffled to make out any words. After peeking around the corner, he motioned for me to stay put while he went to investigate.

I rubbed my arms and shifted from foot to foot as the seconds passed. Where was he? Soon, the voices from the hallway started to get louder. I glanced around for a place to hide.

“Hey—You there.”

I turned to see two figures standing in the doorway. One of them flicked on the light switch.

“Scarlett, what are you doing here?”

I stared at Bridget and Edgar Cox in horror. I knew I had to run, but my feet refused to move. My brain was screaming at me, but my limbs weren’t moving.

Bridget clapped her hands together. “Security!”

Her loud voice unstuck my legs. I ran for the far door as several footsteps echoed on the stone floor behind me.

Shit. Where was Gabe when I needed him? I stumbled over a small bump in the doorsill, where faux stone floors gave way to hardwood, and I felt a large hand wrap around my elbow.

“Easy now.”

I turned and saw an armed guard stare down at me with cold, hard eyes.

“Please. This isn’t what it seems.”

My words fell on deaf ears. The man hauled me back into the room, and I felt my cheeks heat as Bridget hurried over to me.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I looked up at her and knew that I should have felt embarrassment, but instead, all I could feel was rage.

“You stole these paintings,” I said.

“What?”

I waved my free hand at the Rembrandt. “These paintings belong in a museum. In Boston—”

“Call the police.” Bridget straightened to her full height and looked down her nose at me. “I want this woman arrested.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The guard pulled my arms behind my back and pushed me toward the exit.

“You won’t get away with this,” I yelled at Bridget as I passed her. “What you are doing is illegal.”

Bridget waved her hand in dismissal. “These aren’t authentic, they’re excellent forgeries. I’ve only hired the best artists to re-create the work of the masters for the general public.”

“If that’s true, then how do you explain the tears?”

Her features hardened, and I knew I had her. Now all I needed to do was to convince everyone else that I was right.

“Take her away,” Bridget said.

The guard dragged me upstairs and led me toward the front doors. With each step I complained, then begged, to get someone with real expertise to look at the artwork in the basement. All of the protests fell on deaf ears, however. By the time we got outside, several police cruisers were waiting in the driveway. I wondered how the cops had managed to get here so fast. It was almost as if Bridget had kept the entire Miami police force on speed dial.

“You set me up,” I said as Bridget came to the door. Edgar came up behind her and crossed his arms.

“I think you’ve caused enough trouble for one day,” he said.

“Does Rocco know about this?” I asked him.

Edgar shook his head. “My boyfriend has better things to do than to deal with jealous rivals.”

Jealous rival? “But—”

“Officer, I caught this woman in our basement,” Bridget said. “She was trying to steal a painting.”

“I’m not the one who stole the painting, you are!” I would have pointed at her if the guard didn’t have my hands secured behind my back.

“That’s ridiculous.” Bridget crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “This woman is jealous of my success. She wanted to steal the artwork I had rightfully acquired and claim it for herself.”

“You’re insane.” I turned to face the officer. “Just go into the basement and have a look for yourself. It’s filled with stolen artwork.”

“Replicas,” Cox said. “They are all replicas of more famous pieces.”

“No.” I tugged my arms and tried to break free of the bindings. “You’re both lying. I saw for myself—”

“An excellent fake, to be sure, but still a fake. Like I said, I only hire the best art students to re-create the work of the masters.” Bridget waved her hand in the air. “Take her away, please. I don’t want this riffraff around me anymore.”

“Wait a minute.” I dug my heels into the ground as the police officer took my arm. I scanned the area quickly, trying to find a familiar face. “Where is he?”

“Where is who?”

I blinked up at the officer. “No one.” There was no point in dragging Gabe into this, although I was quite mad at him for leaving me in this mess. Part of me wanted to tell the police that this was all his idea, but I knew that blaming him would only make me sound like more of a lunatic.

“Please, just go downstairs and have a look around. I swear those paintings—”

“Oh, don’t you worry, we’ll have a look around. We want to make sure you didn’t take anything valuable from Ms. Simpson.”

“But—”

“Come on, let’s get into the car.” The officer put his hand on my head as he eased me into the backseat. As I sat down, I caught a glimpse of something moving in the bushes off to my right.

“Gabe?” I leaned closer to the window and tried to peer through the branches, but saw nothing.

I fisted my hands and tried to hold back my anger as a shadowy figure ran off through the trees. He was leaving me. Oh my God, the man was leaving me! I didn’t even want to go on this crazy mission. I was doing this for him, and he was just going to let them cart me off to jail.

The officer closed the car door and went back to talk to Bridget and Cox. As they talked, I leaned back on the seat and closed my eyes.

What a mess. I thought I had bad publicity before when Henri broke up with me. That was nothing compared to this. No one was going to want to work with someone who had a criminal record, especially if it included trying to steal priceless artwork.

I didn’t believe for a second that those paintings in the basement were fake. I had spent enough time with Bridget as an apprentice to know her tells. She always lifted her chin, as if daring someone to call her a liar. She also refused to look at anyone in the eye.

I was such a fool. The more I thought about the events of the past few days, the more I realized that I had been manipulated. First I was manipulated by Henri into molding my business into an organization that catered to his every need. Then I was manipulated by Bridget, who started a smear campaign against me before Henri’s dead body had gotten cold. Now, with me out of the way, she could safely conduct her shady business without anyone snooping around.

Then there was Gabe, who manipulated my feelings for him to get information to close his case. Thanks to him, I was now sitting in the back of this police car, waiting to be taken off to jail. Everyone had managed to get what they wanted from the situation. Everyone but me.

The officer got into the car and started driving back down the driveway.

“I’m going to go to jail, aren’t I?” I asked.

“For now, yes,” he answered.

“Do I at least get a phone call?”

He pulled out into the street and headed toward the station. “Yes, but just one.” He hesitated a moment before adding. “I hope you have a good lawyer on retainer.”

No, but I had someone better. After we pulled into the station and I was processed, I demanded my one phone call. A different officer led me to a small hallway where I could use a pay phone for a few minutes before he dragged me off to my cell.

After glancing over my shoulder to make sure I had some privacy, I picked up the receiver and dialed the only person left in my life that I could count on in a crisis.

“Splash of Scarlett, Violet speaking.”

Tears filled my eyes, and I blinked them back. I knew I didn’t have more than a few minutes, and I didn’t want to waste this moment with emotion. There would be plenty of time later for losing my shit.

“Violet, thank God.” I cleared my throat and tried to keep my voice steady. “I need you to come down to the police station.”

“The police station?” she asked. “Why?”

“I seem to have run into a little problem . . .”