I shook my head. “Do you like working for her?”
“For the both of them, you mean. I wouldn’t have stayed for so long if I didn’t. They’re good people.”
Good people. Good people who occasionally did bad things. Wasn’t that me as well?
Emmy was right—I did have a lot of thinking to do.
CHAPTER 18 - BETHANY
DELIVER THE PAINTING and then go back to work, Emerson had said. Forget today ever happened.
How? How was I supposed to do that?
The fact that I’d handled stolen goods preyed on my mind for the rest of Wednesday and most of Thursday, and I found myself scrutinising every painting in the gallery, wondering about their provenances. When I took Hugo his morning tea, I’d barely been able to look him in the eye. He was busy touching up a landscape with a tiny paintbrush. Who owned it? Where did it come from?
I’d breathed a sigh of relief when he’d locked and alarmed his workroom at lunchtime on Thursday and headed out for an appointment. At least I could avoid facing him for another day. And at three o’clock, Henrietta tapped me on the shoulder.
“Hugo just called. He’s been delayed at the hospital, so he won’t be back until late.”
“The hospital?”
“I think it’s some routine scan. I saw a letter on his desk the other day. Anyhow, he wants one of us to lock up, but he also asked me to run an errand, so that means you.”
An errand? I’d bet Chaucer’s last bag of carrots that Henrietta’s “errand” involved a hot yoga class followed by happy hour with her equally obnoxious friends, but I honestly didn’t care because it meant I wouldn’t have to put up with her for the remainder of the afternoon.
“Sure, I can lock up.”
“Get Gemma to help you. Although I’m not sure where she’s gone.”
Neither was I. I recalled her “popping out to pick up a salad” at lunchtime, but I hadn’t seen her come back. I typed out a quick text message.
Me: Hey, are you okay? Henrietta’s gone out, and I was wondering if you could help me lock up?
Five minutes later, I got a reply.
Gemma: Sorry, I had a headache, and Hugo said I could go home.
Me: Is there anything I can do? Want me to pick up some paracetamol and bring it over when I finish?
Gemma: Ry’s looking after me, but thanks for the offer.
Ry. The boyfriend. A bulky man who towered over me and bore a passing resemblance to The Rock, but with more hair. I’d only met him once—Ry, not The Rock—when he came to pick Gemma up after work one day, and he’d rubbed me up the wrong way. The man was too slick, too charming, and while Gemma spoke about him in glowing terms, I worried that things were happening too fast between them. She’d changed since he came onto the scene. When I first met her, she’d been sweet, bubbly, a bit ditzy, but always friendly. Now she was quieter. Meeker. She’d lost weight too, half a stone or so, and she’d been slim in the first place.
But what could I do? She claimed to be happy, and if Ry was spending his evening taking care of her, perhaps I was anxious over nothing.
Me: Hope you feel better soon! See you tomorrow x
The gallery was quiet, and with Henrietta out of the way, I sat myself at the front desk where I could see the door and began hunting through recruitment websites. I’d come in early this morning and updated my CV, but it was still woefully inadequate. Everywhere wanted experience, experience, experience even for an entry-level position, and I didn’t know how to use a franking machine or set up databases or navigate the latest CRM systems. Plus explaining the total absence of gainful employment throughout my twenties and the fact that I’d lasted less than six months at my last job promised to be awkward, and that was if I even made it to the interview stage. I sent off half a dozen applications for roles I didn’t particularly want, then turned to YouTube.
Dammit, Beth, stop wasting your time on horse videos.
I should be doing something constructive instead. Something work-related since Hugo was paying me. Like…checking the art theft database for stolen paintings. Would that count for the “IT skills” section of my CV? My hands hovered over the keyboard. No, I really didn’t want to look at that list, but once I’d had the idea, I couldn’t shake it.
With no customers around, I tried searching, only to find there were in fact a bunch of databases and most of them required registration. Well, no wonder so much stolen art slipped through the cracks. The FBI’s database was open to the public, so I clicked through the paintings, both sad and horrified that so many masterpieces had been lost. Then guilty when I saw Red After Dark’s entry.
What had happened at the hotel after I left? I wished I’d thought to get Alaric’s number so I could ask. Yes, I had Emerson’s card, but quite frankly, she scared me, so I figured I’d just keep checking the papers for news instead.
And there was The Girl with the Emerald Ring, still stunning even on a computer screen. I hoped whoever had her was treating her well. It would be sacrilegious to roll up a painting like that and stuff it into a closet, but I’d heard of that happening.
Then I saw it. A small still life, a plate of fruit and a deer skull, nothing particularly special on the surface except it was an early Pieter Claesz and it had been stolen three years ago, estimated value $150,000. And soon after I began working at the Pemberton gallery, I’d seen a remarkably similar painting in Hugo’s studio.
I clicked frantically through the list, breathing a sigh of relief each time I reached the bottom of the page without seeing another piece I recognised from upstairs. And then my heart stuttered. There, front and centre, was an oil-on-canvas of a Venetian bridge, and Hugo had been working on one just like it last month.
“What are you looking at?”
At the sound of the voice, I jumped out of my skin and knocked over my coffee cup. The contents sloshed across my keyboard, and the laptop began making a horrible whirring noise before the screen went dark.
Shit!
“H-h-Hugo, I’m so sorry. I thought you were at the hospital.”
“They made me wait for two hours, then cancelled the appointment. Damn bureaucrats.” He dropped his handkerchief onto the rapidly spreading puddle while I rummaged in my handbag for the packet of tissues I knew was in there. They didn’t help much either, and I ran to the bathroom for paper towels. When I got back, Hugo was still staring at my blank screen.
“What were you looking at?” he asked again.
“Oh, nothing important.”
“The Stolen Art File?”
“I-i-it’s important to remain diligent.”
“Yes it is, and I see from your flustered demeanour that you think you recognised a painting?”
“Uh, that Francesco Guardi did look similar to one you were working on last month.”
“Not the same painting at all. The one upstairs was in for assessment, but it proved to be a reproduction. A worthless copy. The workmanship was sloppy, and the pigments…” He shook his head and tutted. “Far too modern. I prepared a report for the auction house saying so.”
I should have been relieved, but Hugo’s explanation seemed too smooth, almost as if he’d prepared the spiel in advance just in case. Was he telling the truth? I wanted to believe him, but I wasn’t sure I did.