Blue Smoke and Murder

32

SEPTEMBER 15

11:07 A.M.

Zach watched the woman as she walked up to him. She wore a cashmere sweater that showed discreet cleavage, painfully stylish high heels, and the kind of black wool slacks that cost more than most people made in a week. Her black pearl earrings and elegantly simple gold-and-pearl pin looked real, and really expensive.

“Hello, I’m Jo. I see you’re admiring our Russian Impressionists. Their technique is-”

“Well known to dealers and consultants,” Zach cut in, smiling to soften the words. “I’m here with Ms. Jillian Breck in regard to the unsigned Thomas Dunstan painting that you may have seen last month, and the JPEGs of unsigned paintings that were e-mailed to you recently.”

At Dunstan’s name, the woman’s eyes widened and her hand went to her throat.

Zach saw the reaction for what it was-an involuntary effort to hide a strong emotional reaction. Fear, most likely.

Adrenaline slid sweetly into his veins.

It’s about time someone noticed us.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, his expression and body language concerned.

“Wrong?” Waverly-Benet’s voice was too high. She cleared her throat and lowered both her voice and her hand. “No. I just wish I’d never seen that particular canvas. I suspect it cost me a considerable commission, and tested the goodwill of people who are very important in the Western art market.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Zach said gently. “Professional jealousies are an unfortunate fact of life in the art business.”

“So is fraud,” she said in a flat voice.

Jill moved sharply.

Zach’s casual stroke down her arm kept her quiet.

“I sent that painting to the definitive Dunstan expert,” Waverly-Benet said, her body tight. “He sent me back the nastiest letter I have ever received. He called me ‘obviously incompetent’ for even considering that the painting might be a genuine Dunstan.”

Zach whistled. “That’s harsh, even in a business noted for its prima donnas. I saw that painting. It was a superior canvas, one that no one should be insulted for appreciating.”

Ms. Waverly-Benet relaxed, warmed by Zach’s understanding. “I thought so. Later I found out that the expert advised a prominent Western art collector not to place one of his canvases in my gallery for resale because I was an idiot.”

Zach shook his head. “That sounds much more like a personal opinion than a professional one. In fact, it sounds legally actionable. I’m sorry you had to suffer it.”

Jill tried not to stare at the gentle, reasonable, supportive, sympathetic alien who had taken over Zach’s body.

“Unfortunately, this expert’s opinion is the only one that really counts,” Waverly-Benet said bitterly. “It came from Olympus, so to speak.”

“Are we talking about Lee Dunstan, the artist’s son?” Zach asked.

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“It’s a shame the son isn’t an artist,” Zach said, “either by training or inclination.”

Waverly-Benet sighed. “I agree. But Lee Dunstan controls the Dunstan droit moral, and that’s that.”

Jill frowned. “I know that it’s common, especially in Europe, for a dead artist’s family to retain the moral right to designate that artist’s works as authentic. Without the family’s stamp of approval, a work can be deemed a fake or, worse, a fraud.”

Waverly-Benet flinched.

“Picasso’s heirs have made a great living from droit moral,” Zach said. “But it’s much more rare in American art.”

“Not lately,” Waverly-Benet said, her body tight again. “The more famous the artist, the more likely you are to encounter some moral authority with the power of life and death over questioned pieces. If not a family member, then an academic or a curator or a critic who has made a lifetime study of an artist and produced that artist’s catalogue raisonné.”

“Ah, yes,” Jill said. “Gathering piles and setting fire to them.”

Zach fought a smile.

Waverly-Benet didn’t have a smile to fight. Underneath the sleek exterior, she was angry and afraid. She pinned Jill with a dark glance and said, “If you’re still trying to sell the painting I sent back to Hillhouse, you should be aware that you’ll be courting serious legal problems.”

“Modesty Breck sent the canvas out for appraisal, nothing more,” Jill said. “The word ‘sale’ was never suggested.”

“That so-called Dunstan was appraised and found wanting,” Waverly-Benet said. “If that’s what you came to me about, you’re wasting my time and possibly harming my reputation.”

“But you thought enough of the painting to-” Jill began.

“Obviously I was wrong,” Waverly-Benet cut in. “I’ve had enough trouble over that canvas. I don’t want anything more to do with it. Unless you have something else to talk about, please leave.”

Jill started to say something.

Zach’s hand settled over her forearm. And squeezed.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said to Waverly-Benet. “We won’t take any more of your time.”

Jill allowed herself to be herded outside and into the SUV.

As soon as Zach started the engine, she said, “That was one scared woman.”

“She’s sitting on millions of dollars in inventory, her ski-resort rent would support a small third world country, and her reputation within art circles just took a hell of a hit. Damn straight she’s scared.”

“Still, she has no right to-”

“You should be scared, too,” Zach continued relentlessly. “It’s not your livelihood being threatened, it’s your life.”