9.
She couldn't respond, and after a few minutes he pulled back, looking at her in concern. Schell reached up, nervously pulling her hair back from her face with one hand, and staring out over the parking lot. She was still shaking.
"It's all right…" he murmured, reaching up to stroke a hand down her hair, watching the wind tease at the shorter hair of her bangs. "You just let me do the thinking." He smiled gently, and a little sadly as she looked up at him. "But we need to talk about this all right? We can either do it now on the yacht, or on the way to my hotel." He gave her the option.
She frowned a little, reaching up to run a hand over her face and sighed.
"No, not the yacht." she said quietly.
"All right, then let's head back to the car."
"No…" she said again and looked up at him, pleading.
He frowned. "Where then?"
"My studio." She turned, pointing towards the mini mart/bait shop. "It's over there."
"All right, that'll work," he said gently and slipped his arm around her shoulder. "I know you're scared, but try to relax a little, I won't let any harm come to you."
They started off across the parking lot towards the little store. Horatio scrutinized it as they approached. It was an old building, and he could now see that the entire upper floor was a large studio apartment. Access was gained by a flight of stairs on the side of the building that led to a small landing or patio before the door. Normally, he would have allowed her to proceed him, but he didn't this time.
"Let me check the door first," he murmured. She nodded silently and watched as he carefully scrutinized nearly every inch of the door.
"You really think someone could have tried to get in?" she couldn't help but ask, finally gaining control of the fear in her voice.
"Anything is possible," he replied, rising from where he had crouched to carefully examine the door and lock. He stood up then, apparently satisfied, then held his hand out for her keys.
Unlocking the door, he held it open for her as he took another look around before entering. Once inside he could see right away that it was a studio in the process of being shut down. In the short time that he had known her, he had seen that she was neat and organized. Along the windowless east wall in which the door was set, were more boxes, marked and stacked for moving along with a few empty bookshelves, a pair of empty easels and three large leather portfolio cases. Besides these was a refrigerator, a tabletop kitchen cabinet with an old porcelain sink, and a coffeepot with a can of Yuban, and a mug rack with three cups next to it. Dividing the room in two was a large dark blue couch, a coffee table with a folded stack of painter's tarps on it and an end table with a beige ginger jar lamp.
Beyond that was the true workshop. The other three walls; south, west and north, were a bank of windows, covered with vertical blinds, some opened, the rest closed. Along the south wall was another pair of easels supporting a white tarpaulin covered painting of enormous size, easily 12 feet in length and about five feet in height. Along the west wall, was another easel also holding a smaller, tarp-covered painting. The third easel sat in the northwest corner near a huge, expensive, draftsman's table, a stool, and a small folding table covered with the necessary items an artist used for painting, along with a CD player and some discs. On either side of the easels were two large freestanding Ott lights (the closest lights ever to actual sunlight.). Obviously these were what she used when it got too dark to see by natural light.
The room smelled vaguely of turpentine and paints but had recently been scrubbed with pine-sol cleaner, and a vanilla-scented air freshener was bravely holding its own in such a huge place. There was also the barest hint of coffee. Horatio realized as he took all this in, that he was standing in the heart of Schell's world.
"Stay here a moment," he said to her, keeping her by the door before he moved into the room. Acting casual, he slowly began to shut all the blinds, and fully understood why she would have picked the west facing windows to work by. The scenic vista of Puget Sound, the islands, Olympic Peninsula and the Olympic Mountains were captured there in a stunning view. Reluctantly, he closed the view off as he turned the stick to shut the vertical blinds. The room dimmed gradually as he made his way around. When he finished, his shoulders relaxed and he sighed a little, before glancing at her and smiling reassurance. He was standing by the sink.
"Coffee?" He asked.
"Um," she said uncertainly, looking about the room, then she smiled wanly. "Sure, let me make it." She approached him as he nudged back the sides of his jacket, putting his hands on his hips and still looking around the room. "Sorry for the mess. I've been packing for weeks."
Horatio was unconsciously rubbing his right wrist against his belt as if something was missing, before he turned his attention back to her. "Compared to some art studios I've seen, this is very nicely organized. You must enjoy the natural lighting as well," he said with warm conviction.
"Yeah, when it gets too dark I use the Ott lights there."
"What media do you normally use?" he asked.
"Acrylic, but I will do oils when requested. That big job over there…" she nodded towards the huge tarp covered painting, "That's an oil commission on behalf of the Thorpes for the Oregon Nautical History Society. It's in its final varnishing stages. Should be done in another week or so."
"And the other two?" he naturally asked. Schell filled the pot with water and poured it into the coffee maker before answering him.
"The one being worked on is another commission piece for the Thorpe's personal home. It's the wreck of the sail/steamship Santa Clara. She struck on an uncharted shoal near Coos Bay Oregon in November of 1915. That one is being done in acrylic. The other one," she said, pausing as she started the coffee brewing, she looked at Horatio carefully. "The other one is part of the reason why Paul was consulting with me regarding forgeries and fakes as compared to authentic works and reproductions."
She ran her hand through her hair again, sighing. Turning to the cups she pulled two free from the rack. "This is all beginning to feel so surreal." she murmured, then reached into the refrigerator for a pint of flavoured creamer.
"I understand," he said softly, watching her go about preparing her cup with a tiny amount of sugar and creamer. "What's the significance of that particular painting?"
Schell turned around, and leaned against the counter, marshalling her thoughts together. He turned his attention back to her as she pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. She looked as if she was in pain.
"Part of the bread and butter of most serious artists is their ability to produce high quality reproductions of classic works. A lot of us get hired by large companies to produce these reproductions…" she started to explain. "Some groups…" she said carefully, "think its unethical and merely copycatting. Others though will pay unbelievable amounts of money for quality reproductions. As an artist works on their own original works, they will supplement income by doing reproductions." She looked up at him, gripping her arms close. "Am I making sense?"
"Very much so," he said.
She smiled, slightly unsure of herself before continuing. "That piece over there is a reproduction I am working on for another commission. It's a repro of a painting by a Russian painter named Ivan Aivazovsky. It is also in its final stages of completion. Please understand that what you will be seeing is not a forgery. The difference, and it's very thin, is that a legitimate reproduction is signed and marked as such by the artist reproducing it."
"And the forgery is not." Horatio finished for her, she was pinching at the bridge of her nose again. He reached up and gently took her by the elbow suddenly remembering that she had only been released from the hospital just that morning. "Come sit," he murmured quietly, leading her to the couch. "That's got to be one hell of a headache you've got."
Graciously, he helped her out of her sweater and as he was sitting down on the coffee table directly in front of her, he was taken aback when he saw that she looked overwhelmed and was close to tears. Silently he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a clean white handkerchief which he handed to her.
Trying not to cry she laughed a little, feeling embarrassed as she took the cloth from him. "Are you always this nice?"
"Cub scout thing," he murmured, studying her as she struggled with herself. "And no, I'm not always nice." He gave her the faintest of rueful smiles, a decidedly lopsided one at that.
"I find that hard to believe," she said daubing at her nose with a sniff and wiping her eyes.
"You've only known me a few days," he pointed out gently, causing her to laugh a little past her tears. Hearing the sounds of the coffee finishing its cycle, he said, "You just collect yourself a moment. I'll get this," he rose and took a few moments to make both their cups before returning to his place in front of her, handing her a steaming cup.
"Thank you," she murmured, gratefully taking a careful sip. For a few moments they said nothing until she looked at him over her cup and asked. "Where should we start?"
"We'll start on the condition that if this gets to be too much for you to handle, and I'll notice it, we'll stop. You really have been pushing it today, and it's been a rough couple of days. All right?"
She nodded and he smiled his approval.
"All right, how about you tell me how you met Paul Hirsch and why he came to you about this case he's on?"
She paused, thinking carefully, then began, "When I came up here to interview with the Thorpes about this commission," She nodded her head towards the paintings behind her. "They arranged that first interview at SAM, that's what the locals call the Seattle Museum of Art. They had, through a junior curator brokering the deal, purchased a work of art to donate to the museum. They had invited me to the unveiling party. Making a long and really tedious story short, when I saw the painting and read the provenance on it, I realized they had been sold a fake, a forgery, and I told them that." She paused to sip her coffee.
"Needless to say they were appalled. And the suspicions regarding the forgery all fell on the junior curator, fella by the name of Dale Lewis, a professor of Arts. The painting was rejected by the museum, of course, and when Paul Hirsch was called in to investigate it, there was enough suspicion concerning Lewis that he was terminated from his job."
"But?" Horatio asked.
"They couldn't find proof that he knew it was forgery and he was never charged with a crime, but in turn it did lead Paul onto the trail of the folks involved in the making of the forgeries."
"How did you figure out it was forgery?"
"Would you believe me if I told you it was because of my grandpa?"
Horatio's brows rose as he looked at her. "You're grandfather?"
Schell smiled sadly. "He was everything to me. An expert antiques dealer who guided his granddaughter into the world of art and painting. Mom was too much of a free spirit so I ended up being raised by my grandparents. And grandpa? He was my hero. He taught me and my cousins from a very early age what to look for in antiques and how to tell the treasures from the fakes because he used to haul us all to flea markets and bazaars looking for purchases for the shop. I was the quiet one though, I preferred to stay with him in the shop doing my little doodles and drawings while he restored things. His workshop was my early training ground. He was a very wise man, he guided me along when he saw I had a talent for painting. That's when he began explaining to me how the old masters used to make their pigments. He told me the things to look for when examining paintings and he used to take us to museums and such to show us the differences. When he died, he bequeathed enough money for us to go to college, and he specifically told me to pursue Brandywine Institute. I can't tell you how much I miss that old guy sometimes." She looked away from the compassion on Horatio's face, using the coffee in her hands as a feeble shield.
"I'm sorry, I'm rambling off the point."
"You don't have to apologize," he said. "My mother was my hero, and I lost herunder difficult circumstances. There are times when I miss her as well." Schell nodded, glancing back at him to see a fleeting glimpse of that particular pain in his past. Wisely she didn't ask.
"When I got up close to examine the painting?" She continued, "I knew something was wrong with the varnish. In old paintings, the varnish was also hand made, and over the years it yellows and forms a specific type of crackling. I could see that the varnish on this painting wasn't aged as much as it should have been and I said that to the Thorpes. They had it tested and it was a forgery. Only it was a rather extraordinary forgery as whoever painted it went through the trouble of recreating all the old, hand made pigments and varnishes. Only problem was that varnish, somehow that got rushed."
"Rushed how?"
"Sometimes the crackling can be faked by modern techniques, but it takes time, lots of time, to do it well enough to fool the experts. This one wasn't given the right amount of time."
Horatio nodded.
"How did Lewis respond to all this?"
"He was furious. So much so I ended up getting a restraining order against him."
"A restraining order?" Horatio asked, looking at her intently.
"Very publicly he threatened to knife me and all my paintings and went out of his way to prevent me from gaining commissions. Thankfully, the Thorpes ignored him and now here I am."
"So Dale Lewis could potentially be the one behind the bomb on your boat…" Horatio pondered out loud.
"Turned out he was just all hot air. He landed a tenured post at Cornish here in Seattle among the anarchists, and dissatisfied, and wannabes. He has his little loyal followers, and that particular atmosphere I find so counterproductive to good painting that I simply refuse to blend into the stereotype of the 'tortured' artist." She smiled wryly for a brief moment. "Places like Cornish seem to breed more falsity and anarchy then anything else. The really good, hardworking artists generally complete their degrees and get the hell away from places like that."
"Smart move." Horatio commented.
"They are the ones who generally succeed in their field." She sighed. "As for Professor Lewis, as long as he has students who will fawn all over him for 'expertise', he has pretty much left me in peace."
"Yet, you were scared enough of him to get a restraining order and he knows it was you who exposed a fraud that made him look bad. Plus he knows Paul Hirsch is a detective. What makes you think he would have changed his mind?" Horatio pointed out gently. "That all adds up to motive, making him a potential suspect."
Schell didn't respond, but Horatio could see she was absorbing what he was saying.
"So tell me what it was you were doing for Paul? My understanding is that he is an expert in art forgery himself."
"He is, especially in the crowd dedicated to helping Jewish Concentration camp survivors regain pieces of art stolen from them by the Germans in WWII. This forgery ring he was onto wasn't so much involved in the Jewish side of the issue as that they could have ties to the ring that stole Edvard Munch's "The Scream" from the Munch Museum in Norway."
"I heard about that," Horatio said, "Stolen in broad daylight."
"That and his 'Madonna' painting. Some 20 million dollars worth of work." Schell replied.
"And 20 million dollars is a lot of reason for a motive to kill." Horatio pointed out. "How sure was Paul in thinking that this ring was part of that group?"
"Reasonably so… they were just a fringe group, used to create fakes to replace originals in more subtle thefts. Thefts that aren't noticed for days until it's way too late." Schell said. "Then they sell the originals at almost inhuman amounts of money to the really obsessed collectors. The type of collectors who never show their purchases to anyone."
"Just knowing they have the real thing is enough to keep them going." Horatio commented. Schell nodded her head in agreement.
"What Paul was onto was peanuts compared to them. This was more a ring involved here along the West Coast as opposed to the world-wide scene. Still he did have suspicions and he wanted someone he could consult to help fill in the gaps of his knowledge concerning old paintings."
"Where you come in."
"Yeah," she confirmed. "He got himself connected to these folks somehow and he would, very discreetly, bring me over to examine works to see what I could tell him regarding fakes and repros. He was always very careful to make sure nobody else was around."
"Where did he take you?"
"An old warehouse over off Marginal Way South."
"Did you ever see anyone around this place?"
"No… Paul would make sure no one was around, and he always had to pick the lock to get into the place. What was strange about the whole thing was the last time we were in there, the replicas he was showing me weren't replicas, they were originals and I told him they were."
"Really?" Horatio's brows rose in thought then he asked, "Can you remember an address?" and reached into his inside lapel pocket. He pulled out a small notebook and a pen.
"Not specifically, but I can give you the area." She said and watched as he jotted down what she told him. "Is it important?"
"It can be, and with Paul Hirsch missing, it's possible he may have got himself caught there." Horatio replied. Schell grew silent again as the reality of her situation settled back upon her like a mantle. She studied Horatio a moment, the fear lurking in her dark eyes, with a sigh, she set her cup down and stood up.
"Let me show you these," she said at the look of curiosity on his face. Hesitantly, she set a hand on his shoulder, then walked towards her work in process. He followed her to the drafting table, upon which sat an enormous sketch book.
"This is where I start the process of setting up a new painting. It's a lot of sketching, a lot of research and a lot of work." She flipped through several pages of different variations of the subject to be painted. Horatio stood a little behind her and put his hands on his hips, as she explained how the sketch was finalized. She went on to explain the more mundane task of building the frame for the canvas, stretching it, then priming the canvas with Gesso in order to seal the canvas for painting.
She then turned to the easel holding the piece she was still working on. Horatio noticed a dowel device clamped vertically to the right side of the frame, and properly deduced it was an armrest. On the canvas itself was a ship from another era, an early model steamship which sported two masts and a funnel. The ship had grounded near a headland on a rocky coast, and was slowly being pulverized to death by the breakers. As he studied the nearly completed picture it slowly dawned on him that there was an enormous amount of detail in it.
Hesitantly, Schell stepped to one side, watching his reaction as he looked. His head had tilted over a little as he took in the subtle colours of the breaking waves, the dark greens and sepias of the trees on the headland, the infinite detail of the water draining from the sands on the beach, and the reflections on the water. And that wasn't the focus of the painting. He studied the ship, noting the minute attention to the detail of the rigging, the equipment and the dangerous list as the ship seemed to ground further on the rocks before his eyes.
"You…" he said quietly. "Certainly deserve to have a place amongst the truly talented artists."
Schell dropped her head, scrunched her shoulders (obviously not used to compliments) and blushed. "Thank you…" she murmured, quietly. He looked at her, smiled and nodded at the other paintings.
"This is the reproduction I told you about," she said walking to the smaller canvas covered painting. "It won't look anything like that one." She tugged the tarp off and Horatio nearly did a double take. She wasn't kidding. Before his eyes sat a painting from another age, done in beautiful pastel colours; mostly palest greens, yellow and pink. A wave was crashing in the near center of the picture, caught by the sun and glowing with an unearthly green. The sky was a stormy grey and pink as the diffused yellowed sun set. In the forefront was the broken mast of a sailing ship, partially submerged, upon which six castaways clung for life.
"It's a reproduction for a Russian group here in Seattle. The painter was Ivan Aivazovsky, who died in 1900, and it's titled 'Ninth Wave'. The thing here is that the group wanted it as authentic as possible so I literally have had to hand make all the pigments." Schell reached around behind the painting and took out a fifteen by twelve manila envelope. As she pulled out a series of highly detailed photographs from the original painting, she added, "He painted it in 1853, and he is largely famous for his nautical work." She handed the photos to Horatio.
"The original is seven and a half feet high and ten feet long. This repro is scaled back to five by eight. And does not have the signature of the master." She pointed to the right bottom corner. "It's marked as a reproduction. Those are the two main staples of not getting classified as a forger." He could see her 'signature' plus the tiny words 'reproduction' and the year.
Horatio scanned through the pictures slowly, often comparing them to the work before him. Schell hadn't missed a detail.
"How much is something like this worth?" he asked after a while as he slipped the photos back into the envelope. When she told him he looked at her closely for a moment.
"There's another powerful reason for motive."
"That's nothing compared to that one." She said as she put the envelope back and nodded at the larger painting. She reached down for the tarp and as she did a sudden wave of vertigo sent her stumbling sideways with a low groan escaping her lips.
Horatio was instantly in motion.