SEPTEMBER 15
11:28 A.M.
I’m Ramsey Worthington, and you are…?” he asked.
Jill turned to face Worthington. He looked more European than American West. His voice was refined, carefully modulated, with just enough of a British accent to suggest high culture as defined by PBS.
He didn’t offer his hand.
“Names aren’t important,” Zach drawled. “Isn’t that what dealers always say? ‘It’s the quality of the art, not the name of the artist’ that matters.”
Worthington’s blue eyes narrowed. “What is this about?”
“A Thomas Dunstan that was last in your custody before it was ‘lost,’ mutilated, and finally destroyed,” Zach said.
Worthington’s eyebrows shot up in what looked like genuine surprise. “Mutilated? Destroyed? What on earth are-”
“But the lost part doesn’t surprise you, does it?” Zach cut in.
The door buzzer sounded.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Worthington said.
Christa Moore opened the door. Several people walked in. Their clothes ranged from shabby casual to casual chic. All of them had the bearing that said they could afford anything that took their fancy.
“I’ll be real happy to explain,” Zach said. “I’ll even use little words and a loud voice. You want that here or in your office?”
Worthington looked at the newcomers. He knew them. High-level collectors giving a final review to some of the auction goods.
The collectors were also high-level gossips.
“My office,” he said curtly.
The dealer’s office was a sharp contrast to the spacious, neat gallery. Painting after painting was stacked in ranks against the walls and inside specially made cubbyholes. Shelves were buried beneath bronzes and carved marble.
Zach recognized an intricate Remington bronze of a cowboy astride a lunging horse. An original, numbered Remington was worth bragging about. The aged, bent cardboard tag attached to the statue by wire attested to the work’s authenticity.
Jill’s hands itched to pull out paintings and look at them. A single glance at Zach’s face told her that wasn’t going to happen. Worthington didn’t look real outgoing, either.
“Now, what’s this nonsense about a ruined Dunstan? All provenanced Dunstans are accounted for and in excellent condition.”
Zach gave Jill a subtle signal.
Showtime.
“My great-aunt, Modesty Breck, sent out a canvas for appraisal. My adviser”-Jill nodded to Zach-“believes it found its way to you. The painting was reported as lost. Recently it was, ah, returned to me. In shreds.”
Worthington frowned. “I remember the painting. Hillhouse sent it to me. I sent it back. I’m sure the receiving and shipping forms are filed, if it matters to you. As for the rest, it’s neither my affair nor my responsibility.”
“Forms can be filled out and filed by anyone with a seventh-grade education,” Zach said. “They’re worthless as proof of anything worth proving.”
“You’ll have to excuse him,” Jill said earnestly to Worthington. “The destruction of the canvas really angered him.”
Worthington gave Zach a wary glance.
Zach gave him two rows of hard white teeth.
“I came here because I wanted to know what you thought of the painting,” Jill said.
“It’s not my practice to discuss privately held paintings with anyone except the owner.”
“No problem,” Zach said. “Modesty Breck is dead. You’re talking to her grandniece.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Worthington said automatically. “But that doesn’t answer the question of ownership.”
“I’m her heir,” Jill said. “Would you like a letter from my lawyer? A death certificate from the coroner? Testimonial from an elder in-”
Zach spoke over her, “I know it upsets you to talk about it.” He squeezed her shoulder-hard-and turned back to Worthington. “So what did you think of the painting?”
“Surprisingly good,” Worthington said. “Reminiscent in many ways of Thomas Dunstan’s work. But the lack of signature, plus other issues, made the painting an unlikely Dunstan. Very unlikely.”
“Issues, huh?” Zach said. “Such as?”
Jill’s smile asked Worthington to be more polite than Zach was being.
“Just how are you ‘advising’ Modesty Breck’s heir?” Worthington asked.
“Any old way she wants it,” Zach drawled. “She’s real upset by her loss. You’re real busy with your auction. The quickest way to get rid of us is to answer our questions.”
It took Worthington about four seconds to come to the same conclusion.
“The historical record is the first issue,” he said. “By comparison to other artists, Thomas Dunstan painted remarkably few works. So far as we know, every single one of those paintings has been authenticated and accounted for. His heirs have been very jealous of his reputation. They guard his heritage very closely.”
“And make money doing it,” Zach said.
“There is nothing unusual about paying for expertise.”
“Since when has being someone’s heir made the heir expert on anything?” Zach asked.
“It’s called droit moral, and I have no time to explain it to you,” Worthington said impatiently. “The second issue is that the subject of the painting is unlike anything in Dunstan’s catalogue raisonné.”
“More French words,” Zach said.
“If you aren’t familiar with them, you have no business advising anyone on fine art,” Worthington said in a clipped voice.
“I understand French just fine,” Jill said, hoping her anger wasn’t coming through. “But the painting was a landscape, which is well within Dunstan’s oeuvre.”
Zach wanted to laugh, but it would have spoiled his bad-boy sex-toy act. He stroked her arm instead, fiddling with the silky edges of her sleeve.
“Dunstan seldom painted human figures into his work,” Worthington said to Jill, ignoring Zach entirely. “Less than four percent of Dunstan’s paintings had human figures. The figures were invariably male. Dunstan had an uncanny ability to paint landscapes that conveyed enormous masculine strength measured against the power of a raw, untamed land.”
“I thought it was pretty well tamed by the time Dunstan was painting,” Jill said.
“That’s why Dunstan’s work has always been so sought after by the very men who subdued the West,” Worthington said, glancing at his watch. “His paintings were a tribute to the brute male power it took to survive in, much less to tame, the West.”
Zach wondered how he would defuse the coming explosion. Jill wasn’t about to take that kind of chauvinism without giving feedback. A lot of it. He squeezed her arm, reminding her that she was supposed to be the good cop in this duo.
Her muscles were tight.
He wondered if prayer would help.
Jill didn’t give him time to find out.
“Are you saying that women didn’t exhibit strength and courage in the old West?” she asked, wide-eyed. “I’d think that kind of bigotry would get you bounced from the national association of politically correct art critics tout de suite, mon ami.”
“You make my point for me,” Worthington said, smiling without warmth. “Western art has been politically incorrect from its inception. For better and for worse, Western art is an almost exclusively male domain. Dunstan not only knew that, he celebrated it. His homage to male strength is the very core of his iconic status.”
“Gee, and here I thought art was universal,” Jill said, shaking her head. “Goes to show you what a college education is worth. Guess that’s why I need an adviser.”
And if that adviser doesn’t stop petting me, I’m going to bite him.