Scarlett

The next evening I took a sip of my fruity cocktail as Gabe leaned in over my shoulder.

“There are a lot more people here than I imagined,” he said.

I nodded. That morning, Gabe talked to Edgar and tried to convince him that I should attend the auction. It wasn’t easy. Thanks to the added media attention after the break-in, the owner of Cox Escort Services was starting to get cold feet about the entire undercover operation. Things were too risky, he had said, and I was too much of a wild card. It took a lot of work, but Gabe managed to convince him to let things continue for one more day. If nothing turned up at this auction, he’d cancel the undercover work and try to find the killer using alternative tactics.

Edgar reluctantly agreed and talked to Bridget. After several hours, word came back that I could attend as long as I followed a couple of rules. First, I wasn’t allowed to touch anything or bid on any of the items. Then, as soon as the auction was over, I was to leave. She had made it clear that this was a one-time invitation. I would not be allowed to her functions again in the future.

That was fine by me. After today, I had no intention of associating with Bridget ever again.

The party itself seemed rather casual. Bridget had dispensed with the ruffled costumes, opting instead for beach party décor similar to what was used at the party on opening night. All of the artwork had been moved upstairs, and the wide, open ballroom was transformed into an auction house. Waiters roamed the hardwood floors, serving coconut shrimp and piña coladas, as people I had never seen before examined the artwork on display. A big, burly man was examining the seascape, while another in a fedora spoke to him in hushed tones. Both of them seemed to scan the room at periodic intervals, as if they expected someone to jump out from behind the curtains and gun down the room. As I watched them talk, I wondered where Bridget had found these people. None of them seemed familiar, and quite a few of them gave me the creeps.

It wasn’t that any of them did anything wrong per se. They just seemed to have this presence. Let’s just say I didn’t want to meet any of them in a dark alley alone.

“I don’t believe it,” Gabe whispered. He placed his full cocktail glass on a nearby tray.

“What?”

“Over there, by the window. Do you see that guy talking to security?”

I fumbled with my clutch purse and glanced over to where an older gentleman in Bermuda shorts and a colorful, printed shirt spoke with two men in tuxedos. “Yeah.”

“That’s Carlos Pasquela.”

I frowned at Gabe. “Who?”

“He’s been connected to a few homicides upstate, but we couldn’t make anything stick. Likes to hire people to do his dirty work.” He gestured to a group of people on the other side of the room. “And there. That woman.”

I turned and saw a tall, voluptuous brunette laughing with a group of men.

“That’s Penelope Mantriz. She was just released from jail last month. She’d been convicted of insider trading.”

“Are you sure?”

“I worked on her case for a little bit. I’d know her anywhere.”

I didn’t want to think what “worked on her case” meant, especially considering his present circumstances.

“I need to call Sal. He’d want to know about this.”

I swept my gaze around the room. “Are all these people in here criminals?”

“I’m not sure, but many of them are.” He nodded to a side door. “If things go south, we may need backup. I’m going to step out and make a call. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He started to leave, but I put my hand on his arm, stopping him. “I want to go with you.”

He shook his head. “People might be watching us.”

“Then what should I do?”

“Keep looking around for some evidence.”

“Like what?”

He shrugged. “Anything that can confirm that these paintings are stolen. Something that can connect Bridget, Edgar, or Rocco to the robbery.” He glanced around and lowered his voice. “Once we have something concrete, we can shut this place down.”

“Okay.” Tightening my grip on my purse, I watched the muscles ripple in his back as he walked away and felt a little vulnerable. As much as I wanted to be able to do things on my own, I still felt a teeny bit out of my league. These people were criminals, not art enthusiasts. Art, in general, was really hard to steal. Even harder to sell on the black market. It wasn’t like cash or gold, and it could be easily tracked by the police. These people couldn’t possibly be thinking of turning these pieces around for a profit.

I glanced over the paintings and sculptures, wishing I knew more about older artwork. If I could authenticate these pieces, then Gabe would have the proof he needed to put Bridget and her crew out of business.

“Did you hear?” Someone asked as I walked by a painting of a landscape. “Bridget has a surprise piece she’ll be selling today.”

“A surprise piece?” the woman asked.

I slowed my steps and strained to hear their conversation.

The man nodded. “A contemporary piece.”

“Where is it? Can we see it?”

The man shook his head. “It’s under the blanket behind the stage.”

“I can hardly wait to see it . . .”

I glanced over at the stage and saw a large blanket covering something off to one side. If it were a contemporary piece, I had a better chance of authenticating it. By confirming it was stolen, I could give Gabe the evidence he needed.

I refreshed my cocktail glass and made my way over to the blanket. It was roped off from the rest of the area, and a small stand and card sat in front of it. The card read “Mystery Item” and the estimated worth was two million. I frowned and walked behind the piece, eager to see what it was.

After a quick glance around to confirm no one was watching I reached out to grab the edge of the blanket.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Rocco.” I straightened and plastered on a smile. “This is a surprise.”

“No peeking, Ms. Bishop. You’ll ruin the fun.”

I smiled and held up my glass. “I’m already having fun.” I stepped in closer and lowered my voice. “But I have to admit that I’m curious. I heard that this piece is much more modern than the rest of the art on sale tonight. Contemporary art is my area of expertise, you know.”

He winked back at me. “I know.”

“I’d love to see what piece she acquired. Was it from the States?”

“No.” He cleared his throat and glanced around as if unsure whether or not to continue. “Edgar and I had to travel quite a ways to get it for her.”

“Did you now?”

He nodded and grinned. “Bridget said it was our best piece. It should fetch us a lot of money at the auction.”

“Really? So she’s training you to be a dealer now?”

He straightened his jacket. “She says I have a good eye.”

I nodded. It sounded like Bridget. She had said similar things to me when she was my mentor. “She wants to make you a partner someday?”

“Oh, we already are. I provided the initial capital for many of the pieces in this auction.”

“And Edgar? How does he fit into all of this?”

“Edgar finds the . . . artists.” He cleared his throat once more and seemed very interested in a piece of lint on his arm.

“How long have you been working together?”

“Almost a year now.” He puffed out his chest. “This piece here is Edgar’s first purchase.”

“You must be proud of him.”

“I am.”

Now I was really curious. “Come on.” I tipped the edge of my glass against his arm. “Can’t you give me a little look behind the blanket?” I took a sip and winked at him. “It will be our little secret.”

He glanced around, then nodded. “Okay, but just a little peek, and only because I know how much you appreciate good art.” He lifted the edge of the blanket.

I stared at the piece in shock. Yeah, I appreciated the piece all right. I appreciated the piece enough to buy it. That painting was an abstract I had bought to showcase in my gallery in New York. It was by that up-and-coming Brazilian artist and close to my heart. I had worked hard to acquire that piece and was devastated when it was stolen from me. It was my secret project that was going to take my gallery to a new level. The artist was incredibly difficult to work with, and it had taken me months of wining and dining to get him to work with me and not some other dealer. It was one of my best achievements.

I had lost a lot of money because of that robbery, money that I couldn’t seem to recoup with my other, lesser-known pieces. Losing that painting triggered the downward spiral of my company that I had yet to recover from.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“Isn’t it?”

I stepped closer and checked the bottom of the painting. It had the same flowing signature of the artist, the same inkblot that had become a part of his famous brand over the years.

There was no doubt in my mind. This was a stolen painting. This was my stolen painting, damn it.

“Where did Edgar purchase it?” I asked as he lowered the blanket.

He held up his finger. “Eh, eh, eh. Bridget taught me to never give away trade secrets.” He raised his glass to someone over my shoulder. “I will see you at the auction?”

I forced myself to smile and raise my glass. “You can count on it.”

Time seemed to pass painfully slowly after that. As people mingled and talked art, I kept glancing at my watch and wondering when on earth Gabe was going to get back from his phone call. We had our proof. I just needed to inform him.

I don’t think Bridget knew the painting was mine. I suspected she just sold whatever Edgar and Rocco brought through her door. If she knew that she was selling one of my pieces, she’d probably look more worried than she did. Instead of being worried that I was standing next to stolen artwork, she acted normal, flitting from one guest to another in her usual fashion. Her wide grin and fake wave were getting on my nerves. If I had to tolerate her triumphant expression for much longer, I was going to poke my eyes out with the little plastic sword in my drink.

I placed my drink on a side table and forced myself to look at the other paintings. It stood to reason that if my painting had been stolen, then many of these other pieces had been stolen as well. I stopped in front of the boat on the ocean, the painting that had started it all.

If that really was Rembrandt’s The Storm on the Sea of Galilee, then it was stolen from that museum up in Boston. The FBI had been looking for that painting for years without success. To think it was right here, under our noses all the time. How long had they sat on this painting, waiting for the right time to sell it?

I sipped my cocktail and scanned the crowd for Gabe as several pieces of art were brought up on stage and sold to the highest bidder. The prices people were willing to pay were exhorbanant, and I could easily see how someone like Bridget could make a fortune off of this auction alone. With each passing moment I became more and more worried. Where could he possibly be?

“Ms. Bishop?”

I turned to face the tall, thin waiter. “Yes?”

“Are you Ms. Bishop, the art dealer?”

I furrowed my brow. “Yes, that’s me.”

He handed me a small napkin. “Someone wanted me to give this to you.”

I hesitated, then took the napkin from his fingers. “Thank you.” Glancing around, I tried to find Gabe, but he was nowhere in sight. Neither was Bridget, Edgar, or Rocco, for that matter. I wondered if one of them might be the killer. It was possible. Art inspired passion in people, and passion led to crazy things. Throw in the fact that there was several million dollars’ worth of art in this room, and . . . I just couldn’t help but feel that we were missing something, one last piece of the puzzle.

Frowning, I finished my cocktail and put it on a passing tray. Perhaps the note was from Gabe, telling me what to do next. I moved over to the side of the room as my stolen painting was brought out on stage.

“And here we have lot 646 a painting from the . . .”

I opened the napkin to find small, tight script. “Meet me in the library as soon as you can.–G.”

I crumpled the napkin and threw it in the trash. This was ridiculous. The auction was out here, in the ballroom. If we hung out in the library, then we’d miss everything.

As I made my way across the floor, I considered the fact that he might have already caught the killer, and was holding him in the library until the authorities could arrive. As soon as I considered the idea, I dismissed it. No, Gabe was the one who said we needed proof of some kind. He wouldn’t make a move on anyone until we knew for sure who was behind all of this and why.

“Gabe?” I asked as I opened the door to the library. “Gabe, are you here? It’s me.” I stepped into the large room and closed the door behind me.

“Your boyfriend isn’t here.”

I turned and saw Bridget standing by the wall with a lamp in her hand.

“Bridget.” I took a step back. “Where is he?”

“My men are taking care of him. Just like I’m going to take care of you in a moment.” She quickly came toward me and swung the lamp. I ducked and turned, then took several steps farther into the room.

“What are you doing?” I dropped my purse and held up my hands, as if by sheer force of will I could keep her away from me.

“I’m fixing a little problem,” she said. “We can’t have you and your little cop boyfriend ruining all of our hard work.” She swung again and missed.

I ran over to the window. “Wait—What are you talking about?”

“You always were slow, weren’t you, Scarlett?” She closed the distance between us. “The auction.” She swung a third time, knocking over a sculpture and several books. “I knew it was a bad idea to hold one so close to Mystique. You just couldn’t help nosing around, could you? You probably want a piece of the money.”

“No, of course not. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“All of your nosy questions.” She advanced, the electrical cord dragging behind her like a tail. “You just couldn’t let things be, could you, Scarlett?”

“Wait—Let what be?”

“As if you didn’t know. Edgar had hoped to scare you off by attacking you at the convenion, but that only made you more interested, didn’t it?”

“Wait—Edgar was the one who attacked me?”

“No one had connected his company to the art world until your little cop boyfriend came along. I told Edgar that having an undercover cop nose around was a bad idea, but he told me his hands were tied. He had to keep up appearances. He had assured me that he’d keep things separate, that your boyfriend would never work with anyone in the art world and would eventually give up.” She swung the lamp, missing me. “But then you just had to hire him for Rocco’s party, didn’t you?” She charged at me, forcing me back behind an arm chair. “I tried to distract him with my charm, but he only had eyes for you. After that, I realized it was only a matter of time before you both figured out what we were doing.”

“What you were doing?” I dodged her swing once more and tried to clear the panic from my head.

“Stop playing dumb with me. Edgar had assured me that he could handle it, but clearly he couldn’t. Things were getting too risky. I wanted to call the entire auction off, but Rocco insisted that we hold it. His connections had paid good money to attend and it would be difficult to get everyone together again in the near future. He didn’t want to hide the art in his house any longer than he had to.”

I widened my eyes. “So those paintings are stolen.”

“Those paintings are real, yes. And they were expensive to acquire. Not quite as expensive as it will be to clean up the mess you made of things. All of these cops. All of these questions.” She swung again and again, narrowly missing each time. “Ugh. Just die, will you?” She threw the lamp at my head. I ducked, but not in time. The base of the lamp hit my temple, and I crumbled to the floor in a heap.