Blue Smoke and Murder

93

SEPTEMBER 18

2:00 P.M.

The conference room that the Golden Fleece had turned over to St. Kilda for the afternoon looked like an important high-end business center in L.A., Boston, Houston, or Manhattan. Gleaming table, automatic digital and sound recording, computers for everyone attending, pen and paper for those who felt more in control that way, and lush leather chairs for the comfort of the important high-end assets attending the meeting.

Twelve beautifully framed, unsigned landscape paintings stood on easels at the front of the room. Only Ramsey Worthington looked at them. Fascination and dismay fought for control of his expression.

Grace paused in the hallway outside the open door and asked Faroe in a soft voice, “Any word yet?”

“Incoming,” he murmured, tapping his Bluetooth earpiece.

“With or without?” she asked.

“With.”

Grace’s smile was the kind that made Faroe glad she was on his side. She stepped through the open door into the room, where impatience and importance seethed. The air-filtration system was having a hard time blanking out the smell of stale bourbon that Lee Dunstan sweated with every heartbeat. His face looked like he’d slept in it for a long time.

“I was just going to advise my clients to leave,” Carter Jenson said, looking at his ten-thousand-dollar watch.

“They would have regretted it,” Grace said.

She didn’t sit down. Instead she stood at the front of the table, dressed in a silk blouse, low heels, and well-cut slacks, a woman comfortable in her own power. She placed a folder within easy reach on the table.

Faroe leaned against the wall by the doorway with the relaxed readiness of a predator. He purely loved watching Grace downsize swollen egos.

“Do I need to summarize the events of yesterday?” Grace asked, looking around the table.

Caitlin Crawford’s suit was much more expensive than her husband’s, but she wasn’t nearly as relaxed. She was humming like a power line.

“I don’t see what yesterday has to do with my husband,” she said in a voice that was more clipped than gracious.

“My clients and I have been fully briefed about the altercation at the, uh, ranch,” Jenson said, slanting Caitlin a look.

“Bordello,” Grace corrected. “The word exists for a reason. The only thing that ‘ranch’ sold was sex.”

Caitlin’s mouth flattened.

“Is it still your clients’ position that none of them hired Harry ‘Score’ Glammis?” Grace asked Jenson.

“Yes,” the lawyer.

“Damn right,” Tal said. “Never heard of him until yesterday.”

“Same here,” Lee Dunstan said.

Worthington just shrugged and shook his head.

Grace raised one eyebrow, looked at the men, and said, “If that’s the way you want it.”

“That’s the way it is,” Jenson said.

With unpolished nails, Grace tapped on the folder. Then she removed several sheets of paper from the folder. “For fifteen months, Tal Crawford has been trying to reach an agreement with the IRS over a matter of illegal tax shelters.”

“Irrelevant,” Jenson snapped.

“This isn’t a courtroom, but I’m more than happy to provide relevance,” Grace said. “The amount to be paid is still being negotiated, but both parties agree that it will end up in the neighborhood of fifty to sixty million, including penalties.”

Caitlin gasped and stared at her husband.

He patted her shoulder absently.

“As I’m sure Mr. Crawford’s tax attorneys told him,” Grace said, “there are two ways to settle that debt. The first is simply to write a check. Unfortunately, Uncle Sam doesn’t like checks that bounce. Mr. Crawford’s would.”

Tal’s face set in tight lines.

“Because bankruptcy specifically excludes federal taxes owed,” Grace said, setting aside the sheets, “Mr. Crawford can’t use bankruptcy to get out from under Uncle Sam. He could attempt to sell assets, but once word went out that Crawford International was in a big cash bind, the financial vultures would descend and pick him clean to the marrow of his corporate bones. Ultimately the government would be paid, but Mr. Crawford would be penniless.”

Worthington shook his head, but not in disagreement. More in pity.

Caitlin’s hands clenched, peach nails cutting into her palms.

“The only way Mr. Crawford can pay the government is to lower his bottom line,” Grace continued. “Wonder of wonders, a senator from the great state of Nevada attached a rider to a popular bill, permitting individuals who met certain criteria to swap regional art for outstanding federal tax debt.”

“Perfectly legal,” Jenson said impatiently. “It’s done all the time.”

“It’s called pork-barrel politics, and yes, it’s done all the time,” Grace said. “No one at this table will be surprised to find out that Mr. Crawford just happens to fit the criteria on the special rider on the popular bill that passed into law six months ago.”

Worthington relaxed. It looked like his favorite cash cow was going to survive.

Crawford just looked irritated.

Dunstan’s expression was bewildered. Or perhaps it was just his hangover muddling his brain.

“Mr. Crawford owns several pieces of modern art that would have more than paid his debt,” Grace said, “but various banks are keeping those paintings in their vaults as collateral on various loans.”

“Again, perfectly legal,” Jenson said.

Faroe shifted just enough to make the lawyer give him a wary look. Unlike Grace, Faroe hadn’t dressed up for the meeting. His dark T-shirt, jeans, and weapon harness were almost as intimidating as his eyes. If anyone asked, he was guarding the paintings.

No one had asked.

“Mr. Crawford has a large collection of Western art.” Grace reached into the folder and drew out more papers as she spoke. “But even the mostly friendly art appraiser wouldn’t rate it at enough to cover his taxes.”

She glanced at Worthington.

He didn’t disagree.

“Auctions are notorious for yielding fat prices for the art involved,” Grace said. “They call it auction fever for a reason.”

“Again, nothing illegal,” Jenson said.

Faroe wondered if a tape recording couldn’t replace the lawyer.

“Without the Thomas Dunstan paintings,” Grace said, “Crawford’s Western art collection might raise twelve million dollars if sold quietly over a period of time. If word of a pending bankruptcy got out, the collection would go at fire-sale prices.”

The lawyer looked at Worthington, who didn’t disagree.

Grace set more papers on the table. “Which brings us to Thomas Dunstan.”

“An iconic, very valuable Western artist,” Worthington said promptly.

“Yes,” she said, picking up another piece of paper. “Mr. Crawford bought one of Dunstan’s paintings last year for four million dollars. Lee Dunstan sold it to him, then donated a share of another Dunstan to Carson City’s new museum to offset the taxes.”

“A bargain,” Tal drawled. “It was one of Dunstan’s best, and biggest.”

Grace lifted a dark eyebrow. “Bargain or not, it raised the value of the rest of your large Dunstans by millions of dollars. But one sale of one painting wasn’t enough to convince the IRS that your entire art collection was adequate compensation for your outstanding tax bill. I believe the figure they required was eight million per Dunstan.”

“Dunstans are worth it,” Tal said.

“That remains to be proved in the marketplace,” Grace said.

“It will be proved tomorrow,” Tal retorted.

“If you believe the buzz,” Grace agreed. “Or if the auction is rigged. That, Mr. Jenson, is not legal.”

Worthington started an indignant defense of the auction.

“Save it for the reporters,” Grace said in a clear, cutting voice. “My question to you, Mr. Worthington, is what would happen if twelve previously unknown Dunstans came on the market at the same time?”

Dunstan started ranting about “lying Breck bitches.”

Jenson leaned over and said something in Dunstan’s ear that cut off the rant in midword.

Tal said, “The only new Dunstan I heard about lately was an out-and-out fraud. Some old lady running a con. Lee set her straight.”

“I have a copy of a letter telling Modesty Breck that her painting was essentially worthless,” Grace said, “and by the way, lost in the mail. Convenient.”

“I object to that characterization,” Jenson said quickly.

Grace ignored him. “A few weeks after Modesty received the letter, she died in a fire that the county coroner-an elected rather than a medical position, by the way-said was caused when she tried to refuel a hot stove.”

Worthington winced.

“Her great-niece, Jillian Breck, inherited,” Grace said.

“What does that have to do with us wasting our time here in-” Jenson began.

“When Jill sent JPEGs of three of her paintings to various art houses,” Grace said over Jenson, “she didn’t receive any responses. Then someone called ‘Blanchard’ phoned her and offered to buy the paintings. In the end, he didn’t buy anything, but he returned the missing painting to her as slashed-up rags, along with a note that told her to go away or die.”

Everyone except Jenson shifted uneasily, carefully not looking at each other.

“Jill went to Garland Frost, a very well known expert on Western art,” Grace said. “While she was at Frost’s house, Harry ‘Score’ Glammis shot Frost and burned the shipping crates he thought contained twelve unsigned Dunstan paintings.”

“What the hell?” Tal muttered.

Caitlin shut her eyes. Her nails cut deeper into her palm.

“The paintings weren’t burned that time, either,” Grace said. “Jill discovered that her paintings and Frost’s two signed, authenticated Dunstans all had the same thumbprint along the lower edge of the stretcher.”

Worthington sat up straighter and looked at the twelve paintings with a combination of lust and horror.

“Jill went to Canyon County to search for a set of Dunstan’s fingerprints. She found it. She also found that the thumbprint on her paintings and Frost’s wasn’t Thomas Dunstan’s.”

“Told you so,” Lee said fiercely. “Lying bitch was-”

“Jill Breck has all of you by the hair your barber doesn’t cut,” Grace interrupted coldly. “I suggest you shut up and listen.”

Lee’s jaw sagged open.

Faroe smothered a smile.

“The thumbprint belonged to Jill’s grandmother, Justine Breck, who was also an artist,” Grace continued smoothly. “Along with the thumbprints on the arrest cards, Jill found a letter in which Justine told Thomas Dunstan that she was through living a lie.”

Lee started ranting again, but it was under his breath.

Faroe stepped from the doorway long enough to let Jill and Zach in. Zach stayed with Faroe, leaning against the wall, wearing pretty much the same clothes as his boss, right down to the weapon harness.

Jenson, who had been taking notes, shoved the tablet away. “All the thumbprints prove is that Justine was with Dunstan when the canvases were painted, a fact that is already well known. She was his muse. He didn’t paint without her.”

Zach grimaced. The lawyer had been well briefed.

“Dunstan didn’t paint without Justine,” Jill said, “but she painted without him. I can prove it. Just as I can prove that Thomas Dunstan signed my grandmother’s paintings in order to sell them into the macho world of Western art.”

“Preposterous,” Jenson said flatly.

Grace’s smile was as cold as her husband’s. She pulled a final piece of paper from the folder. “This is a sworn deposition from Garland Frost, stating that it is his opinion the twelve unsigned canvases were painted by the same artist who produced the known, signed Thomas Dunstans.”

“Even if that proves to be correct,” Worthington said, “it hardly proves that the artist was a woman!”

Zach straightened, walked to the canvases at the front of the room, and picked up Indian Springs. He took it to Worthington.

“It’s unusual for Dunstan to-” Worthington began after barely a glance at the canvas.

“-paint buildings into the landscape,” Zach finished curtly. “But he did paint a few and you know it.”

Reluctantly Worthington nodded.

“Is there anything else about the canvas that makes you question that it’s a Dunstan?” Zach asked.

With an uneasy glance at Tal and Lee, Worthington cleared his throat. “I’d have to study it for-”

“Blah blah blah,” Zach cut ruthlessly. “We’re not in court. If someone walked in and plopped this on your desk, which artist would you immediately think of?”

Worthington sighed and gave in. He had his own reputation to consider. Anyone but an idiot could see what was in front of his face. “Thomas Dunstan, of course. The brushwork, the unflinching evocation of the land, the raking light…” He shrugged. “Dunstan.”

“When Indian Springs was painted, the gas station had just been built,” Jill said, putting a faded photograph next to the canvas. “And Thomas Dunstan had been dead for five years.”