Sniffing the air, the faint but distinct smell of oil paints and turpentine filled her nostrils. Odd, since oil paints were rarely used these days. Checking the tubes, she found that most did contain oils. Her mind was spinning with possibilities, not the least of which was whether this could be the place where the Babineux had been duplicated. That would mean it had to be an inside job, as Sam had speculated.
Not possible, she told herself. Joel was loyal to his grandmother and he, personally, had no artistic skills to speak of.
Classes, maybe? Mr. Hadley had mentioned doing that as a possible extension of their school program, but why here instead of on school premises? And why wouldn’t she have been informed, since she ran the children’s programs? Everyone at the gallery knew she loved working with kids, and would’ve wanted to be part of it.
She had no appreciable talent, she reminded herself with chagrin.
Noticing another door at the back of the warehouse, leading to a protruding, fully enclosed area, she walked over to it. After pushing the door open, she fumbled around on the wall until she found the light switch. She wasn’t worried about the brightness of the lights attracting attention this time because the room had no windows.
It was a relatively small but elegantly decorated exhibit space. The lighting—warm and moderately bright like that at the gallery—was ideal for showing works to maximum effect. There were display stands and easels with velvet draping and a couple of comfortable upholstered chairs. The walls were covered in a rich brocade. The room, however, didn’t contain any art.
She ran her hand along a velvet settee.
Why would there be an exhibit space inside a warehouse? The Sinclair Gallery was known for pampering its patrons, especially those who were regular clients and tended to buy the most expensive pieces. Nice as this small room was, she couldn’t imagine bringing any of their discriminating patrons here.
No rational explanation for what she was seeing came to mind...unless it was connected to what had happened with the Babineux. She didn’t know how that could be or who was responsible, but she didn’t like what she was seeing.
She looked behind the wall drapings, to be sure she wasn’t missing anything. She found only unpainted drywall. Turning off the lights, she left the room.
It occurred to her to call Sam—but what did she really have to go on? The artist’s area could just as easily have been for touching up works of art when necessary, which would also explain the oils. Still, she was feeling more exposed, and thought about the footprints she’d left in the snow outside. Glancing out one of the high windows, she saw that the snow had intensified, and her footprints had probably been obscured. But her car was parked in front of the warehouse, and she had lights on inside the building. Dim as they were, they’d be noticeable from outside in the still, dark night.
She returned to the private exhibit space at the back of the room, and her eyes narrowed. Maybe the space wasn’t intended for their regular customers.
Was it possible that it was used to display original paintings to potential black-market buyers, and the Babineux wasn’t the only forgery shown at the gallery? If someone had gone to the trouble of setting all of this up, Chelsea suspected the Babineux wouldn’t have been an isolated incident!
No, there had to be a logical explanation. She couldn’t let her overactive imagination run amok and have her jumping to conclusions.
But if there was something illegal going on...
She looked furtively around. She did not want to get caught in here on her own. Mr. Hadley might be out of the country, but as urgent as it had sounded to her during his telephone conversation that the paintings be inventoried, it could be possible that Mrs. Sinclair would send someone else.
With potentially hundreds of thousands—if not millions—of dollars at stake, unsavory people might be involved.
No, she didn’t want to get caught in the warehouse.
She glanced at the crates again. Under the circumstances, her plan to do an inventory of the paintings would have to wait.
But she had to take a quick peek to see if there was anything unusual about the contents of those crates.
Having expected the customary wooden shipping crates used for transporting artwork, she’d had the foresight to bring along a screwdriver set, a small hammer and a chisel.
Excitement, anticipation and nerves coursed through her in equal measure.
She uncrated the first paintings she assumed were part of the shipment in question, then examined the contents of a couple of the other crates.
Dropping back on her heels, she released a huge breath.
Everything seemed to be in order. The contents appeared to be consistent with the bills of lading attached to the crates. There didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary here.
Overactive imagination. Overactive imagination, she chanted to herself.
She’d tell Sam what she’d found, but the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced there was nothing untoward going on. It all related to the operations of the gallery. Granted, she didn’t know all the uses for the warehouse. She’d been aware of its existence but she hadn’t had any reason to go inside, since it was seldom utilized.
Putting the paintings back, she secured the crates, leaving them the way she’d found them.
She slipped on her boots and was about to leave, when a thought occurred to her. She hurriedly pulled out her phone again and snapped pictures of the workstation. She’d show the pictures to Sam and let him draw his own conclusion.
Opening the entrance door slightly to look outside, she struck by how silent everything was. Large flakes of snow drifted gently down.
But there was a set of footprints on the ground.
Not hers, which the snow had covered, as she’d guessed. The prints stopped some distance away from the entrance and backtracked the way they’d come, disappearing around the street corner. Had the person stopped to peer into the warehouse through the barred window?
Her first inclination was to follow the footprints to see where they led. Feeling a tingle on the back of her neck, she thought better of it. Slipping out the door, she locked it and hurried to her car.
The footprints—and the possibility of someone having seen her inside the warehouse and maybe recognizing her car—made her rethink once more what she’d found and what it might mean.
She needed to talk to Sam, she decided, with a mixture of excitement at the prospect of seeing him and hurt that he’d so effortlessly shut her out.
He’d made her promise to contact him if she thought of anything that might pertain to the investigation. Well, she’d be following his instruction.
Chelsea took a final look at the front of the warehouse before buckling her seat belt and driving away. She’d tell Sam what she’d discovered and get his take on it. She might as well mention Mr. Hadley’s sister’s condition in response to his question about family illnesses. She was certain it was unrelated to the switching of the Babineux, but he had asked.
Regardless of what it might mean to her career aspirations at the gallery, she had to do what she considered right.
According to the clock on her dash, it was almost eight.
She had no idea if Sam was working the evening shift or not. That saddened her because it reminded her of the distance that had grown between them—and what she’d hoped they’d have together.
As to whether he was on shift, there was one way to find out and that was to call the station. She didn’t feel right using his cell number in case he was off duty. Since it was after normal work hours, it wasn’t Marla who answered the phone. The person who did insisted on knowing who was calling before she’d tell Chelsea if Sam was in or not. That meant Sam would know she’d called. She supposed it was better than showing up unannounced. Fortunately, he was working and at the station
rather than out in the field.
Traffic flowed smoothly, although slower than normal because of the steadily falling snow. Twenty-five minutes later, she parked in a visitor spot behind the Camden Falls police station. Despite everything, she felt a sense of anticipation about seeing Sam. Flipping down the visor to access the little mirror, she fluffed her hair and ran a finger under her eyes to wipe away a bit of smeared mascara. Noticing that she’d managed to chew off most of her lipstick while she was in the warehouse, she applied a fresh coat of her trademark red.
Once inside the station, she checked in with the receptionist at the front desk. The woman looked at her assessingly, then called Sam to let him know she was there.
A few minutes later, Sam entered the vestibule where she was waiting. When she saw him, all she could think of was what it would feel like to step into his arms.
“How are you?” he asked, dragging Chelsea out of her musings. He reached out and brushed at her shoulder. Her heart did a little skip and she tried her best to ignore it. When she could only stare at him, he explained, “Snow. You had snow on your coat.”
“Oh. Oh, thanks. Sam...I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s something I need to discuss with you.”
“No bother.” His voice turned businesslike. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. No... I don’t know.” She ran her hand over her hair, feeling the dampness from the melted snow. “If you’re not too busy, could we talk somewhere?”
“Absolutely. Kim, the admin meeting room is available, isn’t it?”
Kim tapped a few strokes on her keyboard. “Yes.”
“Thanks. Let’s go,” he said to Chelsea.
“Okay,” she replied, and followed him through the security door.
* * *
SAM LED CHELSEA to the administrative area of the station and into a small meeting room. He’d missed her, being with her, talking to her, laughing with her, but the impact of seeing her again—the feelings it evoked—astonished him. “Uh, can I get you anything?” he asked as he pulled a chair out for her.
“Water would be great. Thanks,” she added as he placed a paper cup he’d filled from a cooler in front of her.
She fidgeted with the cup instead of drinking from it, which fueled his curiosity about this impromptu visit. He wasn’t going to rush her, because he was enjoying her presence far too much.
He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of simply looking at her. She wasn’t what he’d call conventionally beautiful. Her looks were more...exotic. Striking. Had he noticed before how clear and expressive her eyes or how soft and full her lips were? When she scraped her teeth over her lower lip, he almost groaned.
He wanted to kiss her, to touch her, but knew it would be out of line. After all, he’d been the one to put the distance between them, and he had no right to arbitrarily renege on that now.
She finally took a sip of water and turned her gaze to his. Those bright green eyes were troubled. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t easy for her, either.
“Thanks for making time for me,” she began.
“No problem.”
She exhaled heavily. “So, today I was at work. And Mr. Hadley left for England. He’s originally from London.”
Sam nodded.
“Anyway, he was on the phone. I happened to listen. That doesn’t sound right. It sounds as if I was eavesdropping. There was no one else there. So I stopped outside his office and...listened.” She paused to take a breath. “Well, I suppose I was eavesdropping, but—”
Sam placed a hand on her wrist. “Chelsea, slow down. I’m having trouble keeping up.”
“Yeah, okay.” She slowed her pace considerably. “Like I said, Mr. Hadley left for England today to visit his sister. First off, you’d asked if I was aware whether anyone associated with the gallery has a family member who’s ill. From what I understand, Mr. Hadley’s sister is seriously ill. She had a stroke recently and there’ve been complications. Other than her son, she has no immediate family in England.”
Chelsea’s pace had picked up again, and he could see that she’d noticed and moderated it once more.
“I know you asked about that to see if anyone was in dire financial straits. His sister’s son is a lawyer. Successful from what I understand, so I don’t think it’s a matter of needing money for her care.”
“Okay.” He sensed that wasn’t all. He couldn’t see her getting agitated over that bit of information, nor did he think she’d come to see him to deliver it. But, since she had, it made him realize again how much he’d missed her. “Was that it?” he prompted.
“No. As Mr. Hadley was getting ready to go, I overheard him talking on the phone, probably to Mrs. Sinclair, about an important shipment that needed to be checked, but he had no time to take care of it until he returned. I’m acting as the curator while he’s away.” She smiled at him hesitantly.
He couldn’t help feeling proud of her, because he remembered how much she longed to be the next curator. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” She glanced down. “Anyway, I thought I’d do something extra to prove myself...” She went on to explain how she’d gone to the warehouse and what she’d discovered. “I really don’t want to believe there’s anything illegal going on, but when I was driving over here, I tried to come up with another explanation.” She threw up her hands. “I just couldn’t.”
Sam considered everything Chelsea had said. She’d been excited at first and her words had tumbled over each other, but she’d calmed down as she explained her suspicions to him. He didn’t know what to make of her far-fetched idea. He was aware of her excitable nature and vivid imagination. They were aspects of her character that he found fascinating and so much a part of who she was. But especially in view of those character traits, he was dubious of what she suspected. Even considering what had happened with the Babineux, what were the odds of her having unearthed a possible counterfeit art operation in premises leased by the Sinclair Gallery?
Still, implausible as her suspicions seemed, he respected her shrewd mind and quick wit. It wasn’t just because he’d been falling in love with her that he couldn’t categorically dismiss her claim.
Falling in love with her?
The realization stunned him but not in an unpleasant way.
He looked back at her and suddenly he was seeing her differently.
But he couldn’t think of her in those terms. At least not while the investigation was ongoing. With no plausible suspects but all indications suggesting it was an inside job, he couldn’t eliminate her despite what his gut told him.
He forced himself to focus on what she was doing.
She had her iPhone in her hand and was tapping and swiping the screen.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“I just remembered I took some pictures of the work space with the paints and other things.” She looked up briefly with a self-deprecating smile. “Foolish of me not to have shown you the pictures. Okay, here’s my photo gallery. Scroll through them and see what you think.” She handed him her phone. Handed wasn’t the right word, he thought; it was more like shoving it at him. That made him smile.
He glanced at the phone, scrolled through a couple of pictures and gave her a questioning look.
“What?” she asked.
He held the phone out to her.
She grabbed it back and studied the pictures herself. Dropping the phone in her lap, she raised her eyes to his. “The last time I’d taken some pictures, it was through a window and I’d turned off the flash to avoid getting a reflection. I must’ve forgotten to reset the camera to auto-flash,” she mumbled, dejection evident in her tone and in her features. “That’s why the pictures are all dark. The lighting in the warehouse was very low.” She propped her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands. “I’m sorry I w
asted your time.”
The tenderness Sam felt for her was uncharacteristic and potent. He held out his hand. “Let me have your phone for a couple of minutes. I’ll download the photos and have our IT people brighten them.” He saw her hesitate and wondered with amusement what other pictures she might have on her phone. “Are those the only photos you took today?”
She nodded.
“I’ll just download those.” He smiled reassuringly. “I promise.”
Returning a few minutes later, he handed her phone back to her.
“Now what?” she asked.
“It’s quite late. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? You’ve had an eventful day. I bet you haven’t had dinner.”
“No, I haven’t. But...”
“Chelsea, there isn’t enough evidence for a search warrant,” he explained. “Even if we’re able to brighten the photos, I don’t think it would give us enough for a warrant. Some painting materials in space leased by the gallery wouldn’t be sufficient to justify it. Right now, for me to inspect the inside of the warehouse, I’d have to have someone with authority provide access.”
“I can give you access!” she insisted. “I’m acting curator this week.”
“Chelsea, be careful, please. Unless you have explicit permission to enter that warehouse, not only can you not give me access, you shouldn’t go back in.”
“But—”
“You might have the key, but it’s not part of your normal work space. I’d hate to have to charge you with trespassing if we receive a complaint from the owner.”
“But Mrs. Sinclair wants the matter of the Babineux solved more than anyone, because it’s her gallery and her reputation!”
Her expression showed her dismay, and her shoulders had drooped, too. He understood he was disappointing her by not doing anything about the warehouse and what she suspected. The urge to gather her in his arms was powerful.
“Chelsea, go home. Have something to eat and get some sleep,” he repeated. “We’ll have clearer images from your phone tomorrow. We can talk about it then.”