A Priceless Find

  She couldn’t help but think of the future.

  A future with Sam.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHELSEA COULDN’T GET Sam off her mind as she drove away from the police station.

  He cared about her!

  And she was on cloud nine about that, but the rest of it didn’t make sense.

  None of what had been going on since All That Glitters and Shines was broken into made sense. There was no point in going back to the gallery now, she decided, as it was almost five. A light snow was falling, reminding her that it was nearly time to put up her Christmas tree and decorations.

  She loved Christmas.

  And she hoped that this year she’d be sharing it with Sam.

  Although she’d promised Paige she’d be at her house on Christmas Eve to celebrate with their friends and neighbors, and she’d spend Christmas Day with her parents, she still loved to make her own apartment as festive as possible.

  “Hey, Mindy. How was your day?” she asked when her cat padded over to greet her at the door. “How about an early dinner, huh?” she asked as she pulled off her boots and hung up her coat.

  She picked up Mindy and rubbed her ears, eliciting a satisfied purr. Carrying the cat to the kitchen, she plopped her down in front of her dish, filling it with kibble. Next, Chelsea fixed herself a large salad and poured Sprite over ice.

  Finished with her dinner, Mindy leaped onto the kitchen chair next to Chelsea’s. Shooting a hind leg up in the air, she began to bathe herself.

  While Chelsea ate, she kept turning her discussion with Sam over and over in her mind. She had to agree that the odds of a car just like Joel’s stopping at the warehouse seemed too coincidental. Who else, other than Mrs. Sinclair, could have keys to Joel’s car? She knew he occasionally lent his car to one of his friends, but that wasn’t plausible, either. If Joel had done that, he would’ve told Sam, when Sam had asked him. Besides, she was acquainted with most of his friends, and none of them would have any reason to be in the industrial part of town.

  But then the only explanation would be that Joel was lying and he’d gotten his friends to lie, too, on his behalf.

  That was implausible.

  No, none of it made sense.

  When Chelsea finished eating, she rinsed her dishes and put them in the dishwasher. She turned on the television and tried distracting herself, first with the news, then a sitcom. But her thoughts kept returning to Joel’s car, the warehouse and what any of it might have to do with the theft of the Babineux.

  The warehouse was integral to whatever was going on. That much she was sure of. Why else would someone have tried to run Sam down in front of the building?

  It was almost eight o’clock when Chelsea decided she couldn’t sit around idly or she’d go out of her mind. She’d take a drive to the warehouse. She had no idea what she’d do once she got there since she no longer had the keys, but she was too restless to stay home.

  She gave Mindy an apologetic rub and promised she’d be home within the hour.

  The snow had stopped and the roads were damp but clear. She still didn’t know what she planned to do as she turned onto the deserted street and drove by the warehouse to park a half a block away. To be on the safe side...

  Climbing out of her Honda, she leaned against the fender and contemplated her options. She glanced over at the building and noticed a dim light. Was it possible that someone was inside? There weren’t any other cars on the street, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t have parked at the back near the loading dock and accessed the building from there.

  The adrenaline rush made her heart knock against her rib cage. She thought about getting back in her car and driving away. She had no business being here. And what if the person who’d hit Sam came back? Or was inside? Then she could be in danger.

  Art theft was one thing. But someone nearly running Sam down had her protective instincts kicking into high gear.

  If she peeked inside, she might be able to see who it was—or at least get a description. Chances were it would be the person who’d hit Sam. The thought of Sam’s injury trumped any worries about her own safety.

  Still, she’d exercise reasonable caution. She’d take a quick look through one of the windows, being careful not to be seen.

  That was all she’d do.

  Chelsea stowed her large handbag in the trunk and locked it. She didn’t want it to encumber her if she had to hide or run. She also left the door to her car unlocked and pocketed her keys.

  Just in case...

  She looked both ways before she hurried past the entrance. The window was high, but holding on to the frame and standing on her tiptoes, she could peer inside.

  Although the light was dim, it was sufficient for her to see the space. With a clear view of the interior, she noticed the large crates immediately.

  The work space she’d seen before was still there but empty.

  No discernible movement. No indication of anyone being inside. She glanced toward the back room. She couldn’t see any light, so it was improbable that someone was inside.

  She turned her attention to the three crates in the middle of the room.

  They weren’t the same ones she’d seen before, as Mr. Hadley had inventoried those, and most of the pieces were now on display at the gallery. There’d been nothing remarkable or out of the ordinary about any of them. With the additional procedures they’d put in place since the Babineux fiasco, she trusted they were the originals.

  These crates must have been a new shipment. She hadn’t heard of another one coming in. Then again, there wasn’t anything unusual about that, either. This time of the year, they normally stocked up for Christmas gift buying. It was one of their busiest seasons.

  Since she still hadn’t seen any movement, she began to suspect there was no one inside.

  Despite her gloves, her fingers were getting numb hanging on to the windowsill in the cold, and she nearly lost her purchase. Dropping down to the soles of her feet, she considered her options again. Admittedly, they were limited. But the light got her thinking. Sam had described the incident when he was hit in a manner that implied he’d startled whoever had been inside. Seeing Sam, that person had fled, hitting Sam in the process. Was it possible the person hadn’t finished whatever he’d come to do last night?

  If he’d been frightened, he might not have remembered to turn the light off. And if he hadn’t thought of that...how about the door?

  Was there any chance that he’d left in such a hurry he’d neglected to turn off the lights, set the security alarm and lock the door?

  And if he’d been too scared to come back, maybe the warehouse was still unlocked.

  There was only one way to find out.

  She inched over to the door, feeling very much like a burglar. With that thought came guilt. So, not a burglar. Better to think of herself as a spy.

  Peering about surreptitiously, she closed her hand around the doorknob.

  She drew in a deep breath and twisted it. It turned, and with the slightest force the door swung open. She almost squealed with nerves and excitement. Doing a quick fist pump, she took one last look up and down the street before she slipped inside the building.

  Just as she had the time before, she closed the door behind her and locked it. Remembering the security system, she checked the panel. The light was green; no intrusion alarm had registered. The person obviously hadn’t set the alarm system.

  Chelsea tiptoed across the room toward the crates. Realizing that she was actually tiptoeing caused a moment’s misgiving about the rightness of what she was doing. But then she reminded herself that her motivations were honorable and on the side of the law. She worked for the gallery, this was gallery property and why shouldn’t she be here, if everything was aboveboard?

  Her caut
ionary measures were to protect her, if in fact there were bad guys to worry about.

  Yes. What she was doing was noble and good. Absolutely, she assured herself.

  The workstation was her priority.

  The countertop was completely empty. Pulling a tissue out of her pocket, she used it to open a couple of drawers and cupboards.

  As Sam had said, there were no art supplies. The only items were for packaging.

  Next, she moved over to the crates and examined them. The tools she needed to open the crates—a screwdriver, hammer and chisel—were in one of the drawers of the worktable. But she couldn’t open the crates while holding tissues. And if she looked inside the crates with bare hands, she’d leave fingerprints.

  She could explain all of that to Sam, but if she was already viewed by some as a suspect in the theft of the Babineux, and if the contents of these crates—whatever that was—pertained to the theft, would fingerprints incriminate her? She sighed.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, clichéd as that was.

  She opened the first crate.

  Dropping back on her heels, she scrutinized the painting. It was a duplicate of a piece they had on display at the gallery.

  She let out a huge breath.

  Forgery was the only explanation. And if so, it supported what they suspected had happened with the Babineux.

  Someone was copying the works of art. Even in the very dim light, if this was the forgery, not the one hanging in the gallery—something she couldn’t be sure of—it appeared that it was a darn good job.

  She turned toward the back room, which had been set up as a private exhibit space the first time she’d been in the warehouse. She narrowed her eyes. Maybe her initial thought about the space had been correct. It wasn’t intended for their regular customers. Rather it was used to show the original works to potential black-market buyers, with the forgeries displayed at the gallery.

  She scrambled to her feet.

  If that was what happened to the Babineux, how many other forgeries had she sold to unwitting customers who might not have taken the precautionary measures Mr. Anderson had? People who didn’t have their acquisitions appraised and authenticated themselves?

  If that was the case, someone at the gallery had to be involved. It couldn’t be an accident or a one-time occurrence. It was calculated and...nefarious.

  Looking down at the painting she’d uncrated, she was staring at proof.

  Could it be Mr. Hadley or Mrs. Sinclair?

  Or Joel? After all, it was his car that Sam believed he’d been hit by. Which meant she’d dated a criminal for over two years! How likely was that?

  Tina wouldn’t have done it. Deborah? No, she couldn’t see Deborah doing it, either.

  Who then?

  Could it be that whatever was going on here wasn’t related to the Babineux theft, and she was overreacting again? She knew that sometimes paintings were replicated without ill intent. Old paintings required precise climate control. Perhaps this was a new sideline of the gallery’s, replacing masterpieces for their owners to display without concern about damage, while they locked away the originals in climate-controlled safes.

  That made sense, except for why she wouldn’t have known about it. But it was a more plausible explanation than having discovered a major counterfeit operation associated with the Sinclair Gallery.

  And if something illegal was going on?

  There were two more crates she hadn’t opened. One was small...holding a little sculpture perhaps? The other was large enough to contain another painting.

  She checked her watch. She’d been inside the warehouse for nearly half an hour. What difference would another fifteen minutes make? She wanted to have a look at the contents of the other two crates.

  Opening the smaller one first, she was shocked to discover jewelry boxes. Flipping a couple of them open, she found necklaces, earrings and a heavy silver bracelet. She put everything back and resealed the crate. This one obviously didn’t belong to the gallery; it had to belong to All That Glitters and Shines. She knew Mrs. Sinclair let the Rochesters use the warehouse to store their surplus stock when required.

  She moved to the final crate and opened it.

  Perplexed, she stared at the painting. It wasn’t one she’d seen at the gallery, that was for sure. It was a seascape in the style of one of the old masters. But it seemed familiar. Jogged a memory.

  The painting depicted a group of men in a boat on a rough sea. Most of the men were preoccupied with keeping the craft afloat, but one gazed out of the canvas right at her.

  The style.

  The composition.

  It looked remarkably like a Rembrandt.

  But that was impossible, she chided herself, because Rembrandt didn’t paint seascapes.

  She’d take a picture and do an internet search when she got home to see if she could identify the painting.

  She wondered where she had put her handbag—then remembered she’d locked it in the trunk of her car. And her iPhone was in her bag.

  Lowering her head, she rubbed her temple with her fingers.

  Stupid. Stupid.

  Should she risk running to her car and getting her phone?

  The longer she stayed, the more nervous she became, and the greater the likelihood that she’d be discovered.

  No, she didn’t want to risk it.

  Then another idea occurred to her.

  She hurried back to the workstation and took a chisel and some of the brown wrapping paper from one of the drawers. She could, at least, take a small scraping from the painting. She’d be able to have the scraping tested, determine when the painting had been done, and consequently conclude whether it was an original or a replica.

  Carefully removing a very small scraping from the lower corner, she folded it inside the wrapping paper and stuck it in her pocket. As quickly as she could, she recrated the painting and, to the best of her recollection, left everything as she’d found it.

  There was nothing she could do about locking the door, since she didn’t have a key, but at least she closed it securely behind her.

  It was after ten when she got home to her apartment. Mindy showed her displeasure about Chelsea’s long absence in no uncertain terms. Chelsea had to coax her out from under her bed, lavish her with attention and bribe her with a few of her favorite treats. Finally satisfied that Mindy had forgiven her, she grabbed a bottle of water and her iPhone and sank down on the sofa.

  She did a quick search on her phone. “How about that?” she murmured. Rembrandt had painted a seascape, but only one. And that one—The Tempest on the Ocean—was among the priceless stolen pieces.

  She was horrified and glad at the same time that she’d taken a scraping from the painting. She’d done it as unobtrusively as she could—but imagine if she’d damaged the work of a great master, worth tens of millions of dollars! If, in fact, it was the original... On the other hand, it seemed unlikely that she’d happened upon a painting that had eluded the FBI for over a quarter of a century. Still, the scraping would determine when the seascape had been painted and whether it could truly be The Tempest on the Ocean.

  Remembering that she’d left the door to the warehouse unlocked, she almost decided to race back and take the painting... But how ridiculous to think it was the original, especially when the other painting she’d seen was evidence that works of art were being replicated. The Tempest on the Ocean had to be a replica, too. No question.

  If she went back and took it, she’d be stealing.

  No, it was best to leave things as they were. Too late to call Sam, anyway. If she did call him, he’d never believe that she might have found one of the missing paintings from the Thompson Museum. Particularly considering how things had turned out the last time she’d told him what she’d seen in the warehouse. br />
  She’d tell him in the morning.

  And face his anger about having entered the warehouse again without permission.

  But if there was even the slightest chance that she’d found the original The Tempest on the Ocean, Chelsea couldn’t ignore the enormity of it.

  She sprang up, prompting an irritated meow from Mindy, who’d been curled up asleep beside her.

  She put the folded piece of wrapping paper with the scraping in the bottom of her jewelry box for safe keeping.

  She’d studied the Thompson Museum heist in college. Thirteen priceless works of art had been stolen from the museum in ’90s, Rembrandt’s The Tempest on the Ocean being one of them. The other stolen pieces included four—no five—works by Old Masters.

  All priceless!

  The FBI had been searching for them ever since, with no luck.

  She took a deep breath.

  Sam would think she’d lost her mind. If the FBI hadn’t been able to find any of the missing works, how was it possible that she really had been looking at The Tempest on the Ocean?

  She paced the length of her living room and back again.

  Think. Think!

  She retrieved her laptop, sat down and checked her facts.

  Might as well go right to the source, she thought, and clicked on the link taking her to a page on the Thompson Museum website.

  Yes, the incident had occurred during the early-morning hours. Two thieves, dressed as police officers, had entered the museum and walked off with the artwork.

  They got in because the security guard on the door had let them in.

  Then, the two men had lured the guard away from his desk and the only panic alarm button on the premises. The first guard was told to summon the other guard on duty to the security desk, which he did. The thieves then handcuffed both guards and took them into the basement.

  A little over an hour. That was all it had taken from start to finish.

  Later that morning, the security guard who showed up to relieve the two night guards discovered that the museum had been robbed.