Blue Smoke and Murder

42

SEPTEMBER 15

6:40 P.M.

The answer to that is complicated,” Zach said. “One of the dealers was shut down hard by Lee Dunstan himself.”

“When it comes to art, Lee doesn’t know his butt from a warm rock,” Frost said.

“Two words. Droit moral.”

Frost’s lips twisted in a sour line. “Like there’s a gene for art that always gets passed on to the next generation.”

Zach shrugged. “In the absence of provenance, the son has a lock on determining what is and isn’t a Dunstan.”

“Horseshit.” Frost made an impatient gesture. “Yes, I know, that’s the way it is. It’s one of the reasons I got out of the art trade. Too many idiots.” He turned to Jill. “So Lee Dunstan refused to certify your paintings?”

“I haven’t sent him any. But if what he said to Jo Waverly-Benet is any sample, I’ll save the postage.”

“Which painting did he see?”

“The one that’s now in rags,” Jill said, gesturing to her belly bag across the room.

“Son of a bitch. Are you telling me that an unknown Dunstan actually has been destroyed?”

“All I know,” she said carefully, “is that my great-aunt sent out the smallest of the thirteen paintings to be appraised. Now all I have are twelve paintings and a handful of rags.”

Without a word Frost strode across the room, unzipped her belly bag, and dumped the contents on the sofa. When he saw the pieces of canvas, he began cursing under his breath, ugly words that he ordinarily wouldn’t have spoken in a woman’s presence.

He left everything on the sofa and turned away.

“Some days I despair for humanity,” Frost said as he walked back to Jill. “This is one of those days.”

“I despair on a more regular basis,” Zach muttered.

Frost ignored him and asked Jill, “Who else didn’t like the paintings?”

“Nobody but you and Zach has actually seen them. I sent JPEGs of three other paintings to various gallery owners in the West.”

“Including Ramsey Worthington,” Zach drawled.

“And?” Frost demanded impatiently.

“Worthington as good as told me I could be arrested for fraud,” Jill said.

Frost’s eyes narrowed. “Show me those JPEGs.”

Zach went to his duffel, pulled out his computer, and booted up. He got the JPEGs on screen and handed it over to Frost.

The older man spent much less time with the JPEGs than he had on the canvases themselves. “No one even asked to see the paintings?”

“Only someone called Blanchard,” Jill said, “after a fashion.”

“Who doesn’t exist under that name,” Zach added.

“What did Blanchard say about the art?” Frost demanded.

“Not much. When he didn’t find the paintings in Jill’s car, he trashed it and left a death threat.”

“And a ruined painting,” Jill added.

“After our trip to Snowbird, I knew I wouldn’t get anywhere inside the Western art circuit,” Zach said. “That’s when I called your part-time cook and housekeeper, and told her that we’d be here for dinner.”

“Well, that explains the quantity of food Lupita made,” Frost said. “She always thought the sun shined out your backside.”

“Smart woman,” Zach said blandly.

Jill snickered.

“We needed an honest opinion of the paintings,” Zach said. “I came to you.”

Frost’s mouth softened into something close to a smile. “Well, at least you trust me that much.”

“So give us your opinion,” Zach said.

“If those paintings aren’t by Thomas Dunstan, I’ll eat my whole collection of Anasazi pots. But I don’t have droit moral. I don’t have Ramsey Worthington’s stature in Western art circles. With my opinion and four hundred dollars, you could frame a small painting.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” Zach said. “Your kind of reputation doesn’t disappear, it becomes legendary.”

Frost looked at Zach the way he’d looked at the Dunstans. Then he nodded abruptly. “What can I do to help you?”

Jill sensed rather than saw the long breath Zach let out.

“Thank you,” Zach said. “St. Kilda will be glad to pay for your-”

“Don’t insult me,” Frost interrupted curtly. “Get the ladder out of the garage and take down my Dunstans.”

Zach started to bridle at the orders, then smiled slightly. “Yessir.”

Frost looked surprised, then almost smiled, too.

“I’ll get the ladder,” Jill said quickly.

“Never mind,” Zach said. “I’ve played monkey for this man more times than either of us wants to remember.”

“So stop yapping and get the ladder,” Frost said. “I want those Dunstans side by side.”

“Yours are bigger than mine,” Jill said to Frost.

“No matter what a teenage boy tells you, bigger ain’t better,” Frost retorted.

Jill blinked, then laughed. Garland Frost wasn’t an easy person, but she liked him in the same way that she preferred rapids to lazy, sweeping river curves.

Without a word, Frost disappeared into another room. Jill could see just enough of it to know that it was a library.

Zach reappeared, carrying a big aluminum ladder. He set it up beneath the two Dunstans and started climbing. He handed the first painting down to Jill.

“Get a good grip,” he said. “It’s heavier than it looks.”

She took the weight without staggering. Rowing rivers was a great way to build upper-body strength. “I have it. You can let go now.”

“Lean it against the desk pedestal,” Zach said.

Carefully she placed the painting by the desk and went back for the second one. By the time she put it next to the other one, Zach was beside her, looking at the paintings.

“One of them has a figure in it,” she said. “Very small, but still there.”

“Male,” he said, examining the painting closely.

“Maybe. And maybe it’s a woman in jeans. Women did wear pants back then. Working on a ranch, long skirts are worse than useless.”

“The great icon of the masculine West painting a woman in or out of pants?” Zach asked dryly. “Worthington would dump a brick at the idea.”

“I’d like to dump a brick on him.”

“Frost’s paintings are signed,” Zach said.

“Lucky him.” She hesitated. “Do you really think my twelve paintings are by Thomas Dunstan?”

“I’d bet a lot more on it now than I would have two hours ago.”

“Frost is that good?”

“Yes. And he knows it.”

“Does Ramsey Worthington?” Jill asked.

“Yeah.” Zach grinned like a pirate. “Should be an interesting pissing contest.”

Frost appeared with a large, rather thin book. He set it on the desk and opened it to a previously marked page.

“These are my Dunstans,” he said. “Canyon Dawn and Before the Storm.”

Jill looked at the plates of the paintings, then at the front of the book. “Dunstan’s catalogue raisonné. When did it come out?”

“Tal Crawford commissioned it eighteen months ago,” Frost said, “about the time Dunstan’s paintings started to soar in value. And I mean soar.”

“Who is Crawford?” Jill asked.

“A major collector,” Frost said. “I made a lot of money off him when I was in the gallery business. Heard he’s been bidding on every Dunstan that comes on the market. He’s been angling after my two paintings for years.”

“Why?” Jill asked. “I mean, sure, I love Dunstan’s paintings, but I don’t feel a need to own every available one.”

“You’re not a collector,” Frost and Zach said together.

“Different breed entirely,” Frost continued.

“Amen,” Zach said. “Like river rats.”

“Gotcha,” Jill said, smiling. “Crazy within predictable parameters.”

Frost looked at her. “Thank god Zach’s taste in women has improved.”

“I’m a client,” Jill reminded him.

Frost smiled. “You keep telling yourself that.”

Zach changed the subject. “If anything, Jill’s paintings are in better shape than yours. Brighter. More vivid.”

“They were kept in a trunk in the attic,” she said.

Frost winced. “Well, that’s better than being stored in a barn. Have you hit them with the black light?”

“No,” Zach said.

“Why not?”

“No black light,” Zach said. “No time.”

“Make time,” Frost said. “Get mine. Second drawer, right side of the desk. Check the female figures in Jill’s paintings. They could have been over-painted, added later, whatever.”

Zach went to the desk and returned with what looked like a hand-held work light, except that the bulb was black rather than clear and it was battery operated. Jill watched over his shoulder as he turned on the light and aimed it at the first canvas. A purple glow spread across the landscape.

“Ultraviolet light,” Zach said.

“Goth kids used them in raves,” Jill said.

“I can’t see you at a rave.”

“Funny, I don’t have that problem with you.”

Zach’s teeth flashed eerily in the backwash of the light. “When I’m not raving, I use UV to detect repairs or over-painting on canvases.”

Jill looked at Frost. “Is that what you think happened? The female figures were added later?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” he said. “Was your great-aunt an artist?”

“No, but my grandmother was. From what my mother told me, Justine Breck did portraits of children and flowers.”

“Female things,” Frost said.

Jill bit her tongue.

Zach used the black light on each of the canvases in turn, paying particular attention to the female figures in the pictures.

“Anything?” Frost asked impatiently.

“No. The figure is integral to each painting. Same for the gas station in Indian Springs. All painted at the same time as the landscape, and all necessary to the balance of the painting as a whole.”

“I could have told you that,” Jill said under her breath.

Frost ignored her. With easy expertise, he popped one of his paintings out of its frame and set the canvas among her paintings. He did the same with the second.

A chill prickled over Jill’s skin. Without the frames, the signed Dunstans fit very well with the unsigned canvases. Speechless, she looked at Frost.

“Thank you,” Frost said, but he was looking at Zach. “I haven’t seen anything like these paintings in twenty years.”

The two men faced each other for a long moment, each trying to say something that stuck between their minds and their tongues.

“You’re welcome,” Zach said finally. “I knew you would give an honest opinion, whether it was the one I wanted or not.”

“Is it?” Frost asked.

“The one I wanted?”

Frost nodded.

“Part of me is doing backflips of delight,” Zach said.

“And the rest of you?” Frost said.

“The rest of me is going to call St. Kilda and tell them that this assignment has just morphed into a grenade with the pin halfway out.”