A Priceless Find

  She took a sip of her wine. “Oh, I loved to paint from the time I was old enough to hold a brush.”

  He smiled, picturing her as a child with a brush in her hand and paint smeared on her face.

  “Before you get too caught up in that fantasy, I have to say I had no talent.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” His opinion of her was that she could probably do anything she set her mind to.

  She laughed, and the joyous, carefree sound touched something deep inside him that had been dormant too long.

  “Okay, maybe no talent is a bit harsh. But little talent is as generous as it can get.”

  “Then why did you choose to work in the field?”

  “Ah, well. I may not have the talent to execute, but I developed a strong love of art. My parents supported and encouraged me, so I took art history and other related courses in college. Just about anything to do with art, without actually having to do art.”

  There was that determination he respected about her. “You discovered something you loved and you found a way to make it work for you.” Her eyes widened and her mouth softened. “I admire that sort of resolve and perseverance.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “My turn to ask you a question. Are you originally from Camden Falls?”

  “No.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  He didn’t have to think about it. He could give her the answer, almost to the day. “Just over six years.”

  “Where did you live before?”

  “Boston.”

  “What made you decide to move here?”

  “That’s more than one question,” Sam said, wanting to buy time. He drank some of his beer, and thought about Katherine and Nicolas and tried not to show the grief, which still had the power to debilitate him. He could see she was waiting for an answer, so he gave her part of the truth. “The small-town aspect of Camden Falls appealed to me, and there was a job opening with the police department at the time.” He could tell that she was puzzled by his curt response to what was essentially a simple question, but she had no idea what lay beneath it.

  He realized she was just trying to get to know him, but the answer—what had precipitated the move, and Katherine and Nicolas—was too painful for him. It was a part of his history he wasn’t prepared to discuss with her. At least not yet.

  And if he decided against pursuing a relationship with her, maybe never.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WINTER MIGHT HAVE been just around the corner, but the early-morning sunshine slanting through the blinds and spilling across Chelsea’s bed felt warm and comforting.

  She stretched before snuggling back under the blanket in a happy and contented state, thinking of her evening with Sam.

  That thought had her bolting up. It was a workday!

  She wasn’t sure if it was the sun or Mindy’s plaintive meows that had awakened her, but both were indications that she’d overslept.

  And that meant she was late for work.

  She pushed off the covers, got out of bed and picked up Mindy as she headed out of her bedroom. She fed the cat and made a toasted bagel and coffee for herself, while she left a voice mail for Tina, explaining she’d be a little late...due to unforeseen circumstances.

  Ten minutes later, she was on her way to work. Despite her shorter-than-normal sleep, the hurried start to her morning and the regrettable fact that she’d be late for work, Chelsea had to acknowledge that she felt refreshed, relaxed and happy.

  And her date with Sam was the reason for it.

  After they’d finished their drinks, Sam had suggested they have dinner together. Not the most romantic of invitations, but it worked for her.

  They had a leisurely meal, and despite the lateness of the hour when Chelsea got home, she’d called her mother to let her know she’d met someone she was interested in.

  Yes, it was early stages yet, but her mother was always encouraging her to get out more. Chelsea knew she longed for her only child to get married and have children. She’d been happy and excited, and had wanted to share it with her mother.

  Chelsea almost danced into the showroom.

  “Chelsea,” Tina called from the back office.

  Immediately feeling guilty again about being late, Chelsea hurried over to Tina. “I’m so sorry. Thanks for covering for me. I’ll make it up to you. I promise. If Mr. Hadley’s okay with it, I’ll stay late today so you can leave early.”

  Tina waved that away. “Don’t worry about it. Mr. Hadley is out. So is Joel. No one knows you got here late except us. It’s not a big deal. But I do need to speak with you. Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure. Let me hang my coat up first.”

  The look on Tina’s face suggested that whatever she wanted to talk about wasn’t good news. When Chelsea returned, Tina was sitting at the meeting table in the open area of their office, a white envelope in front of her.

  “We got the authentication report back from Hartfield’s for the Babineux painting,” she said as soon as Chelsea slid into the seat across from her.

  She’d believed that Mr. Anderson’s consultant had made a mistake. But looking at Tina...she wasn’t so sure anymore. Chelsea’s heart thumped heavily against her ribs. “And?”

  “You better read it yourself,” Tina said, pulling the document out of the envelope and handing it to Chelsea.

  After a rapid perusal, Chelsea lowered the papers. “This can’t be right.”

  “Oh, it is. I called Harry Stein,” she said, referring to one of Hartfield’s most respected and senior experts. “There’s no mistake. The Babineux we sold Mr. Anderson is not the original.”

  “It’s a forgery?”

  “That’s the upshot.”

  “How is that possible? We have strict procedures in place to authenticate every piece we acquire to avoid a situation like this. We weren’t careless with the Babineux. How could this happen?” she repeated.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Tina replied.

  Several thoughts ran through Chelsea’s mind, from how she was going to make up the lost commission she’d already spent, to—more important—the impact this could have on the Sinclair Gallery. “Does Mr. Anderson know?”

  “No. I wanted to tell you first. Mr. Hadley doesn’t know, either. He’s got meetings this morning, then he’s having lunch with Mrs. Sinclair.” Tina winced. “I can only imagine how they’ll take the news.”

  Yes, Chelsea could picture that conversation, too. “Okay. Thanks,” she said to Tina and rose to go back to her own office.

  They now had independent verification that Mr. Anderson’s authenticator was correct. They’d have to get back to Ridley’s, the company that had done the original authentication. How was it possible that they’d made such a major error?

  Technology had advanced to the point that it was virtually impossible to conceive of an error like that by even the most inexperienced person.

  And if it wasn’t an error, then what?

  Chelsea sat down at her desk and stared out the window.

  Was it possible that the painting had been stolen and replaced with a forgery? Could Mr. Anderson have had it replicated and exchanged the forgery for the original? No, that was impossible. He wouldn’t have had enough time.

  “Stop letting your imagination run away with you,” she hissed to herself. But if not Mr. Anderson, who could have switched it? When and how?

  She was jumping to silly conclusions.

  First, she had to break the news to Mr. Hadley, then call Mr. Anderson. She didn’t relish the thought of either conversation.

  Minutes later, Chelsea reached Mr. Hadley on his cell phone. He was outraged by the news and said he’d cancel the rest of his meetings, go see Mrs. Sinclair right away and be back at the galler
y as soon as possible to help with damage control.

  How she handled the discussion with Mr. Anderson could have a serious impact. She worried that the gallery would lose one of its best clients; however, the call with him wasn’t as challenging as she’d expected. He took the news reasonably well. Better than Mr. Hadley.

  Chelsea supposed it had to do with the fact that he’d had time to become accustomed to the idea. Since he trusted the company he used for authentication, he’d already accepted that the painting he’d purchased wasn’t the original. He declined the offer of a private showing to choose another piece to replace the Babineux. Chelsea hoped that, eventually, he’d come around.

  Her duty done, she turned her mind to what could have happened to the painting. Regardless of how she tried to rationalize it, she kept coming back to the idea that someone had intentionally switched the paintings.

  If that was the case, that meant the original had been stolen.

  And that brought Sam to mind. He’d be able to help her sort through it.

  Or did they need to formally report a theft?

  Chelsea thought that would probably be the next step, but it would be Mr. Hadley and Mrs. Sinclair’s decision, not hers.

  Right now, she wanted to talk to Sam and get his take on it, informally if possible. As she was about to call his cell, Tina stuck her head in the door.

  “Chels, I thought you might want to know that Mr. Hadley called. He and Mrs. Sinclair have talked and they’re on their way to meet with the insurance adjustor. They wanted to discuss the situation with him, to see if they’re covered for the loss.”

  “Thanks for telling me.” Chelsea assumed that taking that step meant they’d be reporting the situation to the police, too, probably after their meeting. It made her even more anxious to talk to Sam.

  His cell phone went to voice mail. She called his number at the police station next. When it went to voice mail, too, she pressed zero to reach an admin person, and was told he was at the station but in a meeting.

  Chelsea had no idea where Joel was, but Deborah had arrived for her shift, and she and Tina could handle any walk-ins. She grabbed her handbag from her bottom drawer, then pulled the file containing the various authentication reports and appraisals for the Babineux. She made copies, put on her coat and rushed out.

  The police station was only a fifteen-minute drive from the gallery. Chelsea parked in a visitor’s spot and entered through the front door. She’d never been in a police station before. Having always respected and appreciated the dedication and sacrifices of law enforcement personnel, she was a little awed to be there.

  “May I help you?” a young woman with long auburn hair asked from behind a reception counter. There was a glass partition separating her from the entrance vestibule.

  Chelsea stepped up to the opening and returned her smile. “Yes, please. I’d like to see Detective Eldridge, if he’s available.”

  Her smile brightened. “You’re the person who called a short while ago. Chelsea Owens, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told Sam to expect you.” She glanced surreptitiously behind her. “I shouldn’t be sharing this with you, but when I told him you’d called and would be stopping by to see him, he got a bit frazzled.” She leaned closer to the opening. “I haven’t seen that before with steady-as-he-goes Sam!”

  “Um...okay.” Chelsea might say that kind of thing to a total stranger, but she didn’t encounter too many other people who were quite that open. Marla, as the receptionist’s name plate identified her, was someone she could get to like.

  “I’ll let him know you’re here,” Marla said.

  “Great. Thanks.”

  While she waited, Chelsea looked around. There were photographs of honored officers on the walls and even some of police service dogs. Her smile faded and she felt a tightness in her chest when she noticed that a couple of the photographs were in memoriam. Camden Falls might be a small town but, sadly, bad things happened everywhere. She said silent thanks to the men and women who dedicated their lives to law enforcement as she read the plaques under a few more pictures on the walls.

  “Chelsea. Hi. What brought you here?”

  She could see amusement—and was it pleasure?—on Sam’s face. She could also see over his shoulder that Marla was watching them intently. “There’s something I’d appreciate your opinion on,” she said in a subdued voice.

  “Okay,” he said with a quizzical look, and led her through the door to the back and into his office.

  “Do you remember me showing you the Babineux painting the evening you were at the gallery?” she asked once they were seated.

  “I remember you showing me a lot of paintings,” he said with a laugh. “I couldn’t tell you which one was the Babineux.”

  “It was one of the first ones I showed you. Anyway, one of our best patrons bought it.” She frowned. “Or it might be more accurate to say he used to be one of our best patrons. Well, he admired the painting at the gala—”

  “Now I remember the painting,” Sam interrupted. “And the guy who bought it is the one Joel Sinclair made such a big deal out of leaving without seeing you?”

  “Yes.” Chelsea nodded rapidly. “Anyway, he came back and bought the painting. Because of the value, his insurance company wanted an independent appraisal done. As part of the appraisal process, they authenticate the work to ensure it’s the original.” She went on to give Sam the details, then pulled the photocopies from her handbag. She placed everything in front of him and watched as he flipped through the pages.

  He had strong, capable hands. Long fingers. She wondered what it would be like to link her fingers with his.

  She shifted in her chair.

  He glanced up, and when his eyes met hers, there was a warmth in them that caused a pleasant tingling along her spine. When he focused on the papers again, she took the opportunity to study him further, the chiseled jaw, dark brows and firm mouth that had just drawn into a frown.

  When he looked up again, the warmth was gone from his eyes.

  “Is it possible that Ridley’s was mistaken in their authentication?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Anything’s possible, but it’s highly unlikely. Authentication of paintings has come a long way in recent years. It used to be an art, but with current-day technology it’s more of a science. Authentication may be a year or two off, if we’re talking about old masters, but not centuries. The composition of paints is so dramatically different, I can’t see how an error like that could be made. It would be beyond incompetence. Regardless, we’ll have Ridley’s reauthenticate the painting.”

  Sam nodded thoughtfully while he stacked up the papers and handed them back to her. “When do you expect the results?”

  “They’ll be concerned. Understandably. It’s their reputation as much as ours. I expect they’ll make it a top priority. We should have the results in a day or two.”

  Sam nodded again. “What do you think happened?”

  Chelsea tried to ignore the fact that Sam was all business now. She laughed to calm her nerves. “You’re asking me?” She pointed to herself. “That’s why I came to see you!”

  He settled back in his chair. “I don’t have sufficient information to come up with a hypothesis. How easy is it to replicate a painting like that and make it convincing enough to fool industry experts?”

  “It would take considerable skill and time, but there are plenty of talented artists out there who aren’t making money from their painting. There’s a lot of money at stake. It’s doable.”

  “And timewise?”

  Chelsea thought back to how long they’d had the painting. “That would be more challenging. We only had the painting for a couple of weeks before we sold it. Its first showing was at the exhibit you attended. I suppose it could be done, but it would take a l
ot of focus.”

  “Could Anderson have switched it? Taken the original home, brought the forged one back?”

  “It’s plausible from the perspective that it was under his control, but I don’t see how he could’ve done it in the available time. He would’ve had to know that we had the painting and somehow managed to get a replica produced in advance. And we didn’t publicize that we’d acquired it. I’m quite certain that seeing it the night of the gala wasn’t something he expected.”

  “Okay. How did the gallery acquire the painting and is there any chance it could’ve been duplicated before you had it?”

  “We acquired it through auction. Prior to that, it was in the private collection of a Russian billionaire. But that’s a valid question. Although working from the original would be preferable, a good forger wouldn’t necessarily require it. A high-resolution photograph, zoomed in, would show the brushstrokes, for example.”

  “Can I assume that even with the gallery’s security system and guards, it would be easier for someone to break into the gallery than a Russian billionaire’s home...or palace, whatever his accommodation would be called?”

  “Yes, this particular billionaire lives in a palace and, yes, I suppose you’re correct. There’s another possibility, though. The gallery owns a warehouse space. It’s seldom used, but I believe the Babineux might have been part of a shipment that was stored there before we put it on display.”

  “How secure is the warehouse?”

  “I’ve never been there.” She thought back to the time she’d heard Joel talk about it. “It has a security system with motion sensors throughout. I imagine the security system would have to be a good one, if Mrs. Sinclair and Mr. Hadley felt comfortable leaving expensive pieces there. It would have to be at least as secure as the gallery. The advantage, if someone wanted to get in, is that it’s not in a high-traffic area, especially after normal business hours.”

  “That’s a good thought. Do you want me to open a case file?”