NOR HAD either of them been at the place they were the next morning.
They both were tentative in dealing with “the morning after,” Amanda felt, though their good-morning kiss was languorous and passionate, and weakened her knees in remembered passion, it seemed a part of the relaxed friendship between them had been lost.
But there was nothing lost that couldn’t be recaptured, Amanda told herself. They had already gained so much else. A certain amount of readjusting was to be expected.
Neither spoke as they stumbled through breakfast.
So.Neither of us are morning people, Amanda thought glumly.
Why? Why? Why? Can’t we talk to each other?Amanda berated herself for her silence as puffed something-or-other overflowed the rim of her cereal bowl onto the countertop. Marc sleepily grinned and scooped the over-processed grain into his fist and popped it into his mouth, grinding nosily away.
He bent over and kissed her lightly on the cheek.Just like an old married couple.
Suddenly he jerked back and choked, as if he had put his mouth to a hot griddle, spraying cereal.
I know just how you feel; I’m just as screwed up as you are, Amanda grumbled to herself, sloshing milk into the bowl, rising the puffed whatevers over the top. Not even bothering to wipe the counter, she plunged a spoon into the mixture and began to chomp away.
Well, it looks like he’s not going to say anything. And it looks like I’m just as gutless. I guess it wasn’t as great as I thought.
She looked across at Marc, who in his shocked haze was contemplating how to put the toast and the knife and the lite cream cheese together to make it work for him. He glanced up.
Well, it’s not exactly “little boy lost.” More like big “stud not quite sure what to say the next morning to the bimbo he boffed.” Ha!She laughed out loud.
“What’s funny?” He rubbed his shadowed face.
God, how sexy he looks unshaven.
He sighed apologetically. “I don’t wake up quick.” His dark gray-blues fastened on her and began to clear as though an obscuring summer cloud had glided away to reveal infinite azure skies. “Last night… uh, this morning…” He bit his lip and his brow wrinkled. “…was great.” He swallowed, waiting.
She smiled, hopefully sexily, hopefully not putting him off. “This morning is great.” That part was true. Just to be with him was almost enough to still the rancorous calamity going on in her.
What? Where? Head? Heart? Lower regions?
She flicked a bit of cereal and milk his way from the end of her spoon. He laughed, grateful she had accepted his vocal offering and thankful she didn’t seem to be requiring more. He reached over and tousled her tangled hair in relief.
“Marc, I’ve got to know what’s going on. I’m obviously in the middle of whatever kind of ‘caper’ you’ve got going and you really make me nervous throwing around terms like ‘attempted murder,’ and ‘finish me off.’ I… I don’t want anybody to finish anybody off.” She finished off the cereal and, collecting his, threw the bowls in the sink with a clatter.
“Come with me to see David. I called the hospital and they said he could handle a visit. He’s awake. The doctor said a conversation would help clear his head. We can tell you everything you want to know. Okay?”
At the very least it would get them in the company of other people.
“Okay.”
DAVID’S COLOR was coming back. All his vital signs were good. Another twenty-four hours of observation and he should be able to leave the hospital, the nurse explained, but his condition needed to be monitored for the next several days. She indicated the doctor would prefer if they didn’t tax him too much this first visit.
Marc was going to the Met to report back to David how the mounting of the exhibition was progressing after he kept his appointment at the auction house to meet the insurance men.
Amanda waited patiently as they discussed the riot at the League and David’s impression of how things had gotten out of hand.
“What do you think, Ace? Was it just a fluky escalation of events or did someone trigger it? Was there a deliberate attempt to get David hurt?”
Amanda thought back. Christine’s actions appalled her; Nathan had been scarily detached, even in the middle of chaos; Mr. Wilde had tried to calm the class from the beginning. Professor Angeli had lost it completely, angry and vicious beyond all comprehension, but she couldn’t believe his actions sprang from anything other than spontaneous reaction to buried anger.
Was the instigator someone else in the class? Someone, perhaps, they had never even considered?
To a certain extent, as Nathan had so snarlingly put it, David had brought the events on himself. She thought it best not to make that suggestion.
The nurse looked in to see how David was doing and indicated her patient would need to rest in a few minutes.
Between them, David and Marc began to explain the whole affair, barely giving each other a chance to finish sentences.
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Amanda stopped them a few minutes later. “Several years ago fake Michelangelo drawings started appearing on the international market?”
“No,” Marc corrected her. “They weren’t put on the market.”
“They’ve never been put on the market,” David added. “I thought we explained that.”
“No,” Amanda said evenly, “you didn’t. Why don’t you start at the beginning again, one at a time, and this time I’ll stop you if I get lost.”
The men looked at each other. “You first.” Marc tilted his head toward his disgruntled brother.
“As we said before,” David spoke deliberately, “Several years ago, three to be exact, Cambiare’s London branch came in possession of what their experts decided was an undocumented, genuine Michelangelo drawing.”
Amanda nodded, acknowledging she knew Cambiare’s was one of the most prestigious auction houses in the world. “But they didn’t put the drawing on the market,” she said.
“No,” Marc said. “They were led to believe that perhaps other such drawings might show up. They decided to accumulate as many as they could before offering them to the public.”
“Or the Queen,” David added pointedly, somewhat smugly. “A rather avid collector.”
“The discovery of a group of unknown, genuine Michelangelos would be a major coup in the art world,” Marc continued.
“But, what made Cambiare believe the drawing was genuine?” Amanda asked. “Surely by now, every stroke Michelangelo ever put to paper has been discovered and catalogued. It’s been almost 500 years.”
“Not necessarily.” David sat up with effort, eagerly, the complete art historian. “The great master made hundreds of drawings during his lifetime, finished works as well as preparatory sketches for various frescos, paintings and sculptures. Many of the drawings were destroyed when they had served their purpose and many he simply gave away as mementos to friends and acquaintances. He lived to a ripe old age, productive practically to the last.”
Marc caught up David’s eagerness. “And even though he was recognized as a genius during his lifetime, there were a lot of other great artists in Florence and Rome during the Renaissance. Probably having a Michelangelo wasn’t all that big a deal. A lot of stuff got stuck away and completely forgotten about for centuries.”
“Centuries?” Amanda said, wonderingly.
“Forgotten, and rediscovered during reconstructions or floods that drove people into parts of their palazzi they hadn’t been into for years,” David continued.
“Or wars,” Marc interrupted. “During the Second World War, the Nazis stole countless works of arts.”
“People were spiriting as much as they could out of the country or hiding it.”
“Behind walls, under floors, burying it!”
How exciting Marc looked. His whole body was alive, his eyes reflecting his eagerness. Amanda would have to run to keep up when he was enthused. She wondered if she had the energy or the courage.
“Tons of stuff was lost!” Marc’s blue eyes were wide. He paused, turned to his brother, shrugged and laughed. “So what we’re saying is, yes, it’s very possible for real, unknown Michelangelos to turn up after all these years.”
David settled back in the hospital bed. “Over the last three years Cambiare was able to accumulate five totally unknown drawings!”
“But they turned out to be fake, right?” Amanda disappointedly remembered the whole point of Marc and David’s enterprise- to catch a forger.
“Well, not exactly. You know, Ace, there’s a big difference between a fake and a forgery.”
“There’s nothing wrong with an artist creating a work in the style of another artist…”
“So long as he signs his own name to it.”
“Yes,” David said, as he nodded. “The problem occurs when a work is created for the express purpose of attributing it to another. That is against the law.”
“To put it mildly,” Marc noted. “The drawings had come to Cambiare unattributed. In addition to being from the right period they were also so unique, that Cambiare’s experts finally decided only Michelangelo himself could have conceived of them, much less executed them.
“On top of their artistic opinion, they ran every test. Chemical analysis, x-ray, carbon dating; everything checked out. But the larger the collection became, the more valuable it was. Cambiare had to be certain.”
“And, unfortunately,” David interjected, “even though the art work had come from various sources, odd circumstances began to arise that unsettled them.”
“They hired investigators to check into the provenances of the drawings, and to make a long story short, all were traced back to one gallery here in the States, in the Village.”
“Which, even more coincidentally,” David finished, somewhat chagrined, “four of my students had had dealings with.”
“Four?” Amanda ticked them off. “Mr. Wilde, Professor Angeli, Nathan and… Christine?”
“Bingo. It was decided that David or one of those four must have something to do with what began to look more and more like forgery on a grand scale.”
Amanda stopped them. “But why would the fact that some of your students had used the same gallery implicate you?”
“Well, as a matter of fact,” David began to rub his temples, “it didn’t really. The investigators were clutching at straws, but it was such an extraordinary coincidence they felt there must be some connection somewhere.” He closed his eyes and lay back on the pillows.
The nurse entered with medication and suggested they end their visit.
Marc gave Amanda a sharp look. “Of course David had nothing to do with the drawings. That would have been insane on his part and they realized it soon enough. But it was possible that one of his students might. They decided to enlist his help in catching the perpetrator.”
“If indeed there is a perpetrator,” David added with a wry smile. “There is, of course, the remote possibility the drawings are genuine.”
The thought of such a phenomenal prospect suddenly brought the group to silence.
After a moment’s pause, Amanda continued. “So I became a suspect simply by being in David’s class, not necessarily because I had shown any particular inclination for faking.”
“In a way, yes,” Mark said. “Nobody could figure exactly what was going on, they just wanted David to keep his eyes open. That’s when they called me in to see if I might have any ideas.”
David downed the pills presented by the nurse. She indicated it was time for Amanda and Marc to leave.
“I’m sorry,” David said, his eyes beginning to droop. “My head is starting to pound. How are we doing, Miss Emerson?” He turned to her with a brave smile. “Amanda,” he amended, responding to a look from Marc. “Is our little charade making any more sense?”
Amanda gave the exhausted man a kiss on the cheek, an action that startled him, and after a moment, to which he responded with a wan smile.
“That’s why you two came up with the idea of turning Marc into a Michelangelo model? Thinking the forger might be so excited he might let the cat out of the bag?”
“Yes, exactly. It does seem somewhat far-fetched, but I remembered the class hounding me to find a really superb model, ‘like the great masters might have used.’ Christine was always pushing for better looking men to draw,” he added, slightly embarrassed. “I think I had better beg off any more explanation before I implicate someone unfairly.”
“Thank you, David.” Amanda turned back at the door. “I don’t mean to be so meddlesome but now that I know what’s going on, maybe I can help by keeping my eyes and ears open, too.”
“That would be splendid,” the exhausted man said drowsily, his eyes closing. “Perhaps I’ll see you later this aft…” He was asleep.
Marc and Amanda moved quietly into the hospital hallway.
“Has anybody checked out the Village gallery?” Her mind was racing. “That seems to be the finger in the dike. Suspect art students go in, fake Michelangelos come out.”
“Not yet. Once you alert the gallery they’ve been implicated, the door slams shut, so we were hoping we might hit the nail on the head with this model stuff. Who knows what they might destroy in panic.”
He looked at her sharply. “Amanda. What’s going on in that sneaky little head of yours? Don’t do anything foolish.”
She was annoyed at his tone. “What does that mean? I’m incapable of being clever like the big boys?”
He looked hurt. “You know I didn’t mean that.” He also looked worried. “I’ve got a lot to do today. I don’t need to know you’re off getting into trouble.”
She kissed him on the cheek.
She had just gotten a brilliant idea of how to slip through that gallery door before it had a chance to slam shut. Marc wasn’t the only one who could be someone he was not.
“CISSY, I need your help.”
“I amstill upset with you, Amanda Emerson, for making me worry myselfsick about you not returning home last night. If I hadn’t thought to call Christine…”
“Yes, yes, I know. I’m sorry, blah, blah, blah. C’mon Cissy, you’ve got really great clothes and really great taste. I need you to turn me into a stunning, fashionable, wealthy, art dealer.” That wasn’t exactly accurate, but maybe it would tweak her interest.
It did. She was silent. Amanda could almost hear the wheels grinding at the other end of the phone line and see both their wardrobes being scattered about the apartment for appraisal.
“Jimmy said you were taking the day off. Which I canmore than understand after having learned what happened last night fromChristine.” She was waiting to be begged.
“You’ve been talking to Jimmy? My stalwart, young assistant at the office in whom I entrusted my professional corporate career this day?”
Cissy purred. “He called me. He asked me to lunch. I think he wanted to show off a bit. He is a nice man, but…”
“Cissy, he’s a great guy and you know it. You’ve just been fighting it ever since I got you two together when he first came to work for me, that’s all. God knows you’ve given the rest of New York bachelorhood a shot since then. Give Jimmy a chance. You know he’s always thought you were fantastic.” Another pause.
Cissy ruminated. It didn’t take a lot to side-track her.
Amanda hurried on. Cissy could think about her failed relationships later. “I need to convince someone I’ve got more money than sense and I need to do it right away. Challenge? You’ve been wanting to get your hands on me.” That did it.
Two hours later the two young women studied their handiwork.
“You lookscrumptious.” Cissy was delighted with her efforts. “VeryEuropean. Rich European.”
Amanda had to admit, she looked pretty spiffy. “I’d think I had a bundle if I had to deal with me.” The skirt of the pale mauve raw silk suit was a bit short for her tastes, but it made her thighs look great. She didn’t think she had ever had a pair of Ferragamos on her feet and they were startlingly high, but they did do amazing things to her ankles and calves.
Cissy had sculpted her hair into a no-nonsense French twist and dusted her face with a make-up so subtle that it could barely be discerned behind the huge dark glasses, though, to Amanda’s eyes, it changed her features so radically it rendered her practically incognito.
A pale green drape of silk flowing from the murky mocha Garbo hat fluttered past her hemline as an eccentric artistic affectation, and a Mark Cross rip-off briefcase slung over her shoulders stamped her as certainly not of the New York little black suit brigade.
Amanda looked slightly exotic, dripping with accustomed wealth. She had a mind, and taste, of her own. She looked like a million bucks.
Now all she had to do was convince the right person that was the amount she had to spend.
“Here.” Cissy slipped a yellow emerald ring on Amanda’s finger. Amanda gasped.
“Cissy, is this real?”
Her satisfied roommate shrugged. “It’s insured.”
A million and a half.
PINKS WAS an odd little place, located in an old building on a twisting street south of Houston Street. SoHo. She had expected the modern renovation of industrial space to be scoured clean of any character and blasted blindingly white in order the better to show off some obscure and difficult to comprehend artist from whom the gallery owner had probably extracted a dreadful fee to show his or her suspect wares.
Instead, this place was quaint, slightly musty, and looked as if the reproductions of famous paintings in its small showcase window had been gathering dust for years.
She swept in imperiously. A young girl who looked as if she would be more at home behind a computer screen filled with arcane programming notations appeared out of the gloom.
“This is not as I had expected.” Amanda grandly removed the dark glasses from her face and speared them onto the crown of her Garbo hat.
Her voice, she hoped, sounded somewhat foreign, gleaned from the remembered accents of parents and grandparents and newly-arrived cousins back in the Italian-Polish Pittsburgh neighborhood of her childhood.
The young woman looked startled to see her.
Probably the way she always looks.Amanda noticed she had an art book in one hand and a watercolor brush in the other.Ah, a budding copyist, perhaps. Maybe she was on the right track.
“Can I help you? Oh, excuse me…” The young woman hurried toward the back of the cluttered gallery to put her book and brush away. She turned the canvas on which she had been working to the wall.
“I have heard of you, of course.” Amanda strode around the gallery, peering at the paintings. “But I have not had the time when I have been in your country before. Today, I said, I will go see this…Pinks.” She gave a slight shrug at the odd name. Glancing around, she spoke quietly to the girl. “Do you have drawings.”
“Yes. Of course. What period?”
“May I see… anything…” Amanda’s hands flew apart in an expansive gesture. “If I do not find anything of interest, I will ask to see more. Agreed?”
“Sure. I mean, yes. Sure.” The young woman pulled several large portfolios from behind a counter. She cleared a space on a large table. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”
Amanda smiled enigmatically. “I will know when I see. I will know.” She nodded her head mysteriously up and down.
She flipped through the drawings with a look of disdain on her face. “I understood you had more…singular works of art than these feeble attempts. I see I have been misled.” She turned to go.
Would I really know a decent fake if I saw one?
“No, wait. I’ll go get Mr. Pinks. Please. You should talk to him.” The wide-eyed, young woman hurried into a back room.
Amanda peered more closely at one of the contemporary drawings.I could swear that’s one of Nathan’s. He showed me pretentious stuff like this when he first came looking for a job.
Count Dracula appeared at her side. She jumped. “You are very silent. I am not amused. You are the Mr. Pinks?” She looked dubiously at his dark, sharp features.
“There is no Mr. Pinks. I am the owner. It pleases my employees to refer to me by that name. What do you want?” His voice was cold.
Amanda’s was colder. “Decent reproductions. I have come a great distance. Your young person showed me this.” She tapped the drawings with the back of her hand, dismissing them.
His sharp features began to soften. He looked Amanda over carefully. “My employee is inexperienced. Ordinarily I am made aware of special clients who may be coming to view what I have to offer. Please, this way.”
He led her to the back of the shop, waving the young woman away and indicating a chair for Amanda. With a small bow he disappeared and in moments returned with a folder which he untied with great ceremony. He spread the drawings on a table before her.
Her eyes glittered. The freshly-polished nails moved quickly from one piece of ancient vellum to the next, the emerald on her finger making streaks of gold lightning. At one particular drawing, she stopped, her hand to her breast, breathing deeply. She bent to observe the drawing more closely, stroking the edge of the paper lovingly, her eyes devouring the delicate pencil rendering of a female nude.
My God. It could be an Ingres.
She spoke quietly, intensely. “It is a foolish game I play. Hoping to find…” She caught herself and reassumed her imperious attitude. “Something that strikes my fancy. This is charming. How much?”
“Two-hundred thousand.”
Amanda smiled slyly and met his direct gaze. “American Express Gold?”
He laughed (she was sure she saw sharpened eye teeth) and held out his hand. “Who are you? Your taste is exquisite. Surely we have run across each other in our wanderings?”
She offered him a dead fish which he brought to his lips.
“Put this away now,” she commanded. “I will return, with…” She searched for the appropriate medium of exchange, “…dollars. And then perhaps we will… negotiate?”
He seemed to undergo a moment of conscience. It created frightening changes in his countenance. “You do know this cannot be… authentic.”
Her smile was deadly. “I know that is what you believe. Put it away… now. It will take a few hours.” She made a small chuckle of satisfaction. “Truly, I never expected… even when I was led to believe…”
The delighted Count Dracula slipped the drawing into an acid-free folder. “If Madam would allow me. There are others coming. At least one more. A- dare I say?- a Michelangelo. Would that be of interest? Are you in the city for a while?”
Amanda pressed her fingers tightly to her lips as if to seal in a cry. His eyes were glued to the emerald. “When?” The word barely escaped her lips.
His face clouded momentarily and then he spoke with determination. “Within the week. I will see to it.” He smiled his frightening smile. “It will be of the highest quality. Madam will not be displeased.”
Her breath came in short gasps. “I will see what I can arrange. In the meantime…” She pointed to the selected art work he held. “With your life…”
He smiled and bowed and she strode toward the front of the shop.
The large scowling man that she and Marc had come to know so well was entering the door.