“Over here,” was all Frost said.
He swept an arm across his desk, clearing a space big enough for both paintings. Art and archaeology magazines and papers fell unnoticed to the floor.
Zack put the canvases on the desk.
“Get the rest of them,” Frost said without looking up from the paintings.
“I live to serve,” Zach muttered.
“I’ll help,” Jill said quickly.
“Clear a space over there,” Zack said, pointing to a library table littered with books. “I’ll bring the paintings.”
Frost ignored everything but the canvases in front of him. The intensity in his eyes was reflected in his silence. He didn’t look up until Zach put out two more paintings. Frost went to them, his footsteps silent on the Persian carpet. When some of the books Jill was rearranging slid off onto the floor, he didn’t notice.
Zach came back with another set of paintings.
Frost was looking at his own Dunstans. When Jill put the fifth and sixth canvases on the library table, he crossed quickly to them.
For the first time in her life, silence was driving Jill crazy. As Zach came back with numbers seven and eight, she lifted an eyebrow in silent question. He shook his head, closed the empty case, put it next to the others, and left.
Frost rearranged two of the canvases and said, “Light. The steel lamp near the potsherds.”
Since Jill was the only other person in the room, she assumed he was giving the order to her. She went to a table halfway across the great room, unplugged the lamp, and carried it over to Frost.
He dumped more books on the floor to make room for the lamp’s heavy base and long folding arm. Without being told, she plugged the cord into the nearest outlet.
If he treated Zach like this, it’s no wonder the two of them didn’t get along, she thought. But I assume Frost’s expertise equals his arrogance. If it didn’t, Zach wouldn’t have made the trip.
She cleared books and Zach brought more paintings until all twelve were on the library table and six empty aluminum cases were lined up behind the door. The last painting on the table was her favorite-the landscape with a woman in a red skirt.
Frost studied it very closely. Then he picked up each canvas and searched it front to sides to back.
“Unsigned,” Zach said. “All of them.”
“I have eyes,” Frost snapped.
The silence grew as he examined the last painting.
And grew.
Finally Frost looked up at Jill. “What horse’s ass said these aren’t Dunstans?”
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.