25. Interview
Booth waved his spoon at the sprinkle-covered heaps of ice cream in Bonnie's bowl. "You really are feeling down."
Bonnie dug glumly into her extra-large serving, and excavated a huge spoonful. "The consolations of Heavenly Hash." She popped the mound into her mouth, and swallowed cold comfort. "Still, it wasn't a complete loss. At least, the pentimento backs up your theory, Gramps. Not," she hastened to add, "that I ever doubted you."
"But you didn't feel strongly enough about it to share the theory with what's-his-name."
"Dr. Baer," Bonnie supplied. "No, it's only speculation at this point, and, well, given his personal history, it'd be pretty tactless to bring up an unhappy love affair just on a hunch."
"On account of the short marriage and nasty divorce." Booth nodded, impressed. "Full points for sensitivity, Bonbon."
"I try." For a time, they savored their desserts in companionable silence, and then Bonnie said, "Thing is, I really don't know how to go on from here. You're an experienced investigator, Gramps. Any suggestions as to where I should start?"
He gave the question serious consideration. "You say the male figure that was painted-over is looking at the female adoringly?"
"That's right."
"And you're thinking the painter is expressing his own personal feelings on the canvas, so… That would make the male figure a stand-in for him, and, by extension, the female figure the woman he loved."
"His model!" Bonnie cried out, following her grandfather's logic. "Gramps, that's brilliant! There's a long history of artists using their lovers, mistresses, even wives as their models." She thought of the many nude portraits of Madame Vincent scattered the world over. As a hypothesis, her grandfather's deduction had obvious merit, but attempting to put a name to that face was a daunting proposition. "It'll be quite a challenge identifying her, though."
"If it were me, I'd start by looking back over his earlier paintings, see if that profile, or something resembling it, appears in any of them. If you find her in other pictures, that could open up a lead."
Bonnie regarded her grandfather with sincere admiration. "You've still got it, Gramps! Sharp as a tack! I'll check out the Institute archives first chance I get."
The next morning, she had set aside her cleaning sponge and was about to take her coffee break down in the departmental library when she was summoned to a meeting; not, as she had every reason to expect, with Dr. Baer but with none other than Dr. Cummings himself. Her stomach suddenly aflutter with a host of butterflies, she made her way up to the administrative floor of the building, wondering with each step if Dr. Cummings was planning to inform her of his decision regarding La Coupe d'amour himself, and if his wanting to do so, personally and in private, was a good sign or bad. She found the heavy wooden door along the silent corridor without difficulty, and, steeling herself, rapped firmly three times.
"Come in!"
Dr. Cummings stood at her entrance and smiled with such cordiality that Bonnie immediately felt more at ease. Of somewhat less than average height, slight of build, with a full head of silver-gray hair, and twinkling ultramarine eyes, Dr. Cummings was not so much handsome in looks as appealing. From his infrequent visits to the workroom, Bonnie knew him as a dapper man, always impeccably groomed, fresh-scented, and nattily dressed in suit coat, pocket square and tie. His office, with its cherrywood paneling, substantial desk, deep leather armchairs and tastefully scattered objets d'art, was a perfect reflection of his neat, patrician style. "Miss Booth-Hodgins." He gestured her to a chair, and resumed his own. "That's quite the mouthful of a last name. Would you mind if I called you Bonnie?"
Bonnie answered smile for smile. "Not at all, sir. I'd prefer it." She smoothed her lab coat behind her knees, and settled on the edge of her seat. Hands folded in her lap, she waited respectfully for Dr. Cummings to broach the reason for his summons, but he merely sat considering her, a somewhat intent, if benign, expression on his face. Bonnie was beginning to feel the first stirrings of alarm when he started, as if suddenly conscious of staring. "I do apologize," he said, with charming contrition. "It only occurred to me, just now, how much you resemble your grandmother. Not, of course, as she looked when I knew her, but as she appeared in the dust jacket photos of her early novels."
"You knew my grandmother?" As Bonnie had pegged Dr. Cummings' age as early fifties, she was forced to conclude that the man was either extremely well-preserved or had been something of a wunderkind, not an unusual trait among Jeffersonian employees.
Dr. Cummings inclined his head. "I had the pleasure of working a case with Dr. Brennan, her last case, I believe. It was my first year here at the Jeff. I was fresh out of grad school, and low man on the conservation department totem pole. So, when the forensics lab caught the case of a murdered art dealer who traded in high-end forgeries, my services were volunteered to help with the examination of the victim's remaining inventory. I'd like to say my contributions were of critical importance in bringing the killer to justice, but, sadly, that would be inaccurate. Still, it was an unforgettable experience, and a memory I treasure. Your grandmother was a remarkable woman."
"Yes, she was." Bonnie managed a small smile in gratitude for the sympathy in Dr. Cummings' kind eyes. She found consolation, too, in the reminder that Grammy T had touched uncounted lives, and was widely remembered with respect and veneration. That was an immortality of sorts.
"But enough of the Dark Ages!" Dr. Cummings sat forward, his manner skewing all at once more bluff and businesslike. "I understand we're on the cusp of a very exciting next few months. Always granted, of course, that the Lebrun painting proves authentic, which, I tend to agree, given the discovery of the pentimento, seems likely. But not conclusive by any means! It's truly amazing the lengths some forgers will go to bamboozle clients. I've known museum curators, experts in their fields, who've been taken in. The last thing we want here at the Jeff is to wind up with egg on our faces, so we're going to proceed, for now, with extreme caution and extreme secrecy. If the chemical analysis of the paint doesn't raise any red flags, we'll call in the Lebrun scholars, but until then, we don't want any word of our suspicions getting out."
As he paused and fixed Bonnie with a steady look, she felt compelled to say, "Yes, sir. I understand."
"You haven't mentioned the find to anyone?"
"My grandfather Booth knows, but he won't tell anyone." Once she asked him not to.
Dr. Cummings nodded, satisfied. "I believe we can trust Mr. Booth's discretion. Now, going forward… I will be collaborating with Baer on the plan for the painting's treatment, and he will have charge of executing that plan in any way he deems fit. I would, personally, prefer that he undertake all aspects of the treatment himself, but he appears to believe there are numerous tasks that could be entrusted to less experienced hands, always, of course, under the closest supervision.
"Take, for example, the next order of business: preparing paint samples for chemical analysis. I've been assured that chips can be taken from the edges of the canvas with little risk of damage to the painting. Preparing the resin medium, embedding the samples, slicing the cross-sections — none of that involves the painting in any way, and could certainly be delegated to an intern.
"All this is to say, Bonnie, that Baer has argued, persuasively I may add, that you should be allowed to continue to work on the painting, as his assistant, if you will. He has a very high opinion of your skills, and is confident you'll be a valuable addition to the team."
In her astonishment, Bonnie blurted out, "He said that? Dr. Baer? About me?" She felt her cheeks redden at this unprofessional outburst, and pursed her lips, too late.
Dr. Cummings regarded her wryly, a glint of humor in his eyes. "That comes as a surprise, does it?" He shook his head, rueful and resigned. "That's Baer, all right: stingy with praise to your face, but complimentary, if you deserve it, behind your back. Not the best management style, I tell him, but what can you do? Old dog and all that. Anyway, take it from me, he spoke of you in glowing terms."
Bonnie tried to keep her spreading grin in check, but she suspected she was less than entirely successful. "That's very good to know, sir. Thank you."
"Not at all, not at all. So…" He drew the vowel out, and sat still a long moment, his gaze on her in an assessing sort of way. Finally, he gave a curt nod, and, slapping his hands palm down on the desk top, said, "Right, then. Very good. You'll report to Baer as usual, and he will make all decisions as to what aspects of the treatment you're equipped to handle." He rose to his feet, and buttoned himself back into his suit coat. "I hope you appreciate, Bonnie, that very few interns are afforded an opportunity such as this. We're reposing a great deal of trust in you."
Bonnie stood in her turn, and faced him across the desk. "I'm very grateful, sir, truly. I promise you won't have any cause to regret your decision."
He smiled at such assurance, and extended a hand for her to shake. "You know, Bonnie," he said, warmly, "I don't believe I will."
Bonnie's heart was so light, her spirits so high, she might easily have been walking on air as flooring on her return to the workroom. She did not, after all, have to give up her work on La Coupe d'amour, and she might yet have a fairly large role to play in its treatment! It would all depend on Dr. Baer, who, it was abundantly clear, had already gone to bat for her and secured her the opportunity. When she thought back to their first meeting and her subsequent determination to make him eat crow for doubting her, she could scarcely credit the change four months could bring. He had so far overcome his initial prejudice as to be firmly in her corner now, and, as for herself, she took not the least vindictive pleasure in having proved her abilities. She felt only satisfaction in having earned his approval, and gratitude for his having taken her side.
On her way down the hall, she noticed his door standing open, and could not resist sharing the news. He was working at his desk, his eyes trained on his computer screen with an occasional glance down to the notes he was jotting on a pad. He caught the movement of her approach before she could announce herself. "Miss Booth-Hodgins," he said neutrally, sparing only a brief look in her direction. "What can I do for you?"
Bonnie ventured over the threshold. "I've just had a meeting with Dr. Cummings."
"I see." He entered what appeared to be numbers in a column, and returned his gaze to the display. "How did the interview go?"
"Interview?" She had thought it a debriefing, but, in retrospect, she could see that Dr. Cummings had been evaluating her. "It went well. I'm to keep working on La Coupe d'amour, as your assistant."
"That's settled, then. Good." His eyes moved back and forth over the screen, his features ghostly pale in the bright light from the monitor. He bent down to his pad again, scrawled a few more lines, and then raising his head, resumed his reading. "Was there something else?"
"Yes." Bonnie decided she would not let Dr. Baer's manner deter her. "I want to thank you for vouching for me with Dr. Cummings. He made it plain you swayed him in my favor with the positive things you said about me."
He set down his pen, and, turning toward her, studied her face carefully. "I don't know exactly what Dr. Cummings told you about our conversation," he began, cooly, "but, as to what I said about you, I recommend you take anything he repeated with a grain of salt. I may have exaggerated some of your strong points. That's fairly standard practice when you're making a case for someone."
Bonnie met and held his unwavering gaze. "You… exaggerated my strong points," she repeated, with barely-veiled skepticism.
"I believe that's what I said." He held her eye stubbornly a moment longer, but then his gaze faltered, and he looked away. Grabbing up his pen, he swiveled back to his screen, grumbling, "Don't you have some cleaning to do?"
She did not allow her smile to break until she was well out the door. Stingy with praise to your face, complimentary behind your back. Yes, indeed. Dr. Baer, she thought happily, I am on to you.