Collection (23 page)

“Mr. Waverly! We've received the Davies. Thank you for acting so quickly to restore it.” He sounded better than the last time Cicero had spoken to him.

“I'm happy to help out, and I hope we can cooperate on further conservation projects. I'm afraid that makes what I have to say all the more difficult.”

“What is it?” Mr. Sebastien sounded a bit winded and Cicero hoped the man hadn't started hopping around his office again.

“During our restoration of the Davies, we encountered some irregularities with the painting.”

“What do you mean? My people say it looks great.” That familiar tinge of fear crept into Sebastien's voice.

“One of our conservators who has worked with several Davies' found the brushstrokes to be somewhat inconsistent with her previous experience.”

“I see.” Mr. Sebastien started to say something more, but stopped and cleared his throat instead. Cicero plunged ahead to seal the deal.

“Out of respect for your organization and the immaculate reputation of the Met and the National Museum, we have made no formal documentation of these findings. If you wish, we can look more closely at it. I didn't have access to the provenance of the piece, but perhaps it's worth another look.”

“Ahh. Ahh, no. You've done enough, we will take another look at it. I appreciate your bringing this to our attention. I am sure the National Museum will act accordingly if the piece is questionable.” Mr. Sebastien was angling for that tone of interested concern that would both reassure and discourage Cicero. The unspoken communication was successful. Instead of an outright accusation of forgery, Cicero had planted that single word, “questionable,” in Mr. Sebastien's mind. That was enough to spur the curator to act on the defensive. It was as much of a confrontation that the academic Sebastien could handle, but it was held in the language of his expertise; esoteric ambiguity.

“I am sure that you and your staff will sort out any problems with the painting. Please don't hesitate to call us again if you require our services. As you see, we are quick and discrete.” Cicero wouldn't wait by the phone for that call.

“Yes, of course Mr. Waverly. I appreciate your discretion. Thank you so much for the um…yes. Goodbye.”

Cicero hung up the phone. He was certain that the painting would find its way to a warehouse in London by the end of the week. This particular Davies had little provenance, but the signature was correct and the subject matter appropriate. It had come to the National Museum as part of a bequest from an Englishman who made his fortune in Argentina in the late 1800s. Nobody knew where he had picked it up. Upon delivery to the museum in 1920, their experts certified it as genuine and it had been on display ever since.

If a major conservation house, such as the Magnolia House, doubted that the Davies was real then the painting had problems. Since there wasn't solid provenance to prove that it was genuine, the painting was borderline genuine at best. That made it inappropriate for exhibition at the National Museum, the Met, or any other reputable museum. Rather than admit that they had verified a fake, they would bury it in a nondescript storage warehouse for the foreseeable future. Every painting in their inventory would require further scrutiny
if the painting was proven to be some nineteenth century imitation. If a respected museum was fickle enough to legitimize this particular painting, then what else hanging on the walls was fake?

The Davies was actually an old family friend. Cicero didn't remember much of his time in Argentina, but he could still dance a tango that was probably the most obscene thing you can do with your clothes on. The paintings his family sold never wandered far from their watchful eyes. When duplications were needed, it was easier to deal with a known object. Although it would be a terrible business move, they could cast doubt on many of their own previously-placed museum pieces through subtle maneuvering. Devaluing the art world wasn't on the agenda today, and one painting wouldn't raise much suspicion. It would probably find its way out into the open again in a few decades anyway.

With the National Museum disappearing their Davies, Mr. Alvarado would have no reason to doubt his own. It was often the case in elicit art dealing that where one painting left the public eye, another entered the private sphere. A shell game on a much larger scale, this technique reassured most buyers that “their” painting was the real deal. Alvarado would be confident in his purchase by the fact that his target painting was nowhere to be found. Thanks to the considerable skills of Cicero's forgers, his copy would bear up to the most detailed scrutiny.

This was how Cicero liked to work. Nobody lost. Nobody had the police banging on their door. Everybody went home happy. The museum believes they've dodged a bullet, Alvarado gets his Davies, and Cicero gets his money without going to jail. This time.

35

CICERO GRABBED THE LETTER
from Lucien's hand and read it again. It raised more questions than it answered, but there was no way to ask the writer for clarification because she was missing.

“Does anyone else know about this?”

“No, not yet.” Lucien lowered himself into the chair opposite Cicero in a sitting area by his bed. It was late, but he'd invited Cicero to his room upon returning from the chilling exchange with Raleigh. This discussion had to take place in private.

“You didn't tell Dani?”

“Not yet.” There was a distinct edge to his voice that Cicero hadn't heard in a long time. Lucien was annoyed.

“Do you think you should?”

“They're going to find out eventually. If I try to hide it from them, they'll only be more upset when they do find out.”

“Are you sure Franka didn't tell anyone else about him?”

“No. But, I think someone would have said something by now if they knew. Something along the lines of, ‘There's another invincible, immortal guy walking around and he may have disappeared with one of the few people who know everything about us?' Something like that?”

“Don't get pissy. You think it's true?”

“I don't know what to think. Franka is clever. She wouldn't have fallen for a scam. If what's in this letter is true, then we've got to rethink everything.”

Franka's letter. It had weighed heavily on Lucien's mind all the way back from Geneva to Atlanta. He had kept it in his pocket the
whole time with the intention of telling Cicero about it when he got back. Now that he had, he didn't know what to do next.

What he hadn't told the others in Geneva was that Franka had a very good reason to do what she did. She wanted money, that much was true, but not for herself. In heartbreaking longhand, Franka had revealed that she had gotten pregnant just as she was graduating from school. The father was graduating too, and was not interested in starting a family. Franka wanted to keep the child and raise her in the mainstream. She had to leave the family business behind and make a fresh start. It happened, not often, but it was not frowned upon as long as the family secrets were kept quiet. When Pippa told Lucien that Franka had wanted to be a schoolteacher, she was trying to forge a new life for herself and her child. When she had the baby, it was a boy.

Franka wrote in the letter that it had been devastating to her. After losing her mother, she wanted the child to be a way of remembering her kindness and self-sacrifice. Two brothers before Franka had died, but her mother had kept trying. Franka owed her existence to her mother's resiliency and pain. When the baby was born a boy, Franka was stunned. Since she first discovered her pregnancy, she believed her baby would be a daughter. She now knew that her little boy would die.

Franka had seen it first hand several years earlier when a close cousin had a son. She knew about the sleepless nights and growing dread. Her cousin's son died several days after his third birthday, and it was something that Franka never forgot. The family gathered and tried to console the mother, but she was permanently affected. Franka didn't want to look into a mirror and see the same hollow eyes that she saw whenever she looked at her cousin. She made the decision to put the child up for adoption.

When Lucien read this the first time, he struggled to contain his emotions. While being a member of the family was difficult at times, they took care of their own. They had never cast aside a child. While the loss was extreme, it was their responsibility to care for their sons until they died. What Franka admitted to was heinous in Lucien's eyes. She had abandoned her son with no assurance that he would be properly cared for and loved until he died. If he were raised in the family, she would have the support of everyone in it. They understood
the emotional toll, and wouldn't judge her if she couldn't handle it on her own. Franka wrote in all honesty that she didn't want to see her child die. She would sacrifice knowing him if she could avoid losing him.

A week after the boy was born, Franka arranged to place him with an adoption agency in London. They said they had an immediate placement, but she insisted on knowing nothing about the family. She dropped him off along with a bag of pink clothes she had bought in anticipation of her daughter. The woman who took him looked at the boy and then looked at the clothes, and frowned at Franka. She had assumed that Franka was giving up the child because he was not what she wanted, a little girl. Franka let her think that, and left without looking back.

She spent a few months at a house on the outskirts of Lyon that she had inherited when her mother died. She felt empty. The fullness she felt when she was pregnant was gone, and replaced with nothing. Her insides felt loose and when she laid in her bed, she felt like her body would float away. She cried the first few days, but after that, she resolved to numb herself. The image of her son was burned into her memory, but she built mental walls to contain the picture of her puffy pink infant. She buried the memories of him, and tried to act as she did before she became pregnant. When she returned to the family, she asked for the hardest job they had: being a runner.

In the years that followed she threw herself into her job in an effort to forget her son, and to punish herself for doing what she had done. In time, she was able to view those months being pregnant and days with her son as a story of someone else's life. It wasn't her, and it never would be again. The last time she allowed herself to cry was three years to the day after giving birth. She knew that her son was dead. Maybe not on that exact day, but he was dead.

Franka worked hard and dedicated herself to the family. She rose in the ranks by her sheer determination and selflessness. She didn't live unless she was working on paintings, or generating new business, or administering the Geneva house with an iron fist. Her reputation was harsh, and her standards were nearly impossible to achieve. She kept her family at a distance, but nobody questioned her commitment. Franka had become the daughter her mother always wanted. Raising
her son would have destroyed her and made her useless to the rest of the family. She was able to convince herself that she had done the right thing for the greater good. Until a year ago, she was able to forget about her son.

A man had called indicating that he had a painting that was in dire need of conservation intervention. It had hung in the family home and the varnish was discolored from generations of tobacco smoke. He introduced himself as Lionel Sykes, and said that he was eager for her to take a look at it and would meet her at any time in the next few days. The conservation would probably cost more that what the painting was worth, but he insisted that it should be preserved. He invited her to visit his house on Lake Como, and she came a few days later.

When he greeted her at the door, she saw that he was much younger than she expected. On the phone he had spoken with assurance and directness beyond his years. In person, he looked to be about twenty-five years old. He demonstrated a physical presence of a much older man as they walked to the library where the painting was hanging. She could see that it was an ancestral portrait of a married couple. The man and woman were wearing formal attire and traditionally posed. The artist was not very notable, however.

“These are my great-great-great grandparents. You won't see much of a family resemblance, I'm afraid. I'm adopted.”

Franka had looked at him and fleetingly wondered if her son could have enjoyed a fine home like this one and loving parents before he died. She approached the painting to examine the varnish layer to see if it was salvageable.

He stayed positioned behind her and continued to speak as she made her initial assessment. “I'm in financial straights, actually. My parents recently died and there has been some trouble with the probate courts. They had a large family, and not everyone believes that an adopted heir is the best person to inherit the largess of several generations.”

Franka had heard this story more than once. The elegant contents of an entire household could be emptied in a few days once the inheritor took possession. Despite his legal row, this young man was wasting no time.

“Do you wish to sell the painting?” Franka asked. “It won't bring in much in this condition. I'm afraid you're correct about the cost of the restoration, it will cost more to fix than it's worth.”

The young man stepped forward until he was just behind her shoulder.

“Actually, I was hoping my birth mother could help me out.”

Franka froze with her eyes gazing at the stodgy couple on the canvas. Their severe faces stared back at her.

“Really? And why is it that you've contacted me in this matter?”

“Because you are my mother.” He stated it as plain fact, without acrimony or accusation. “I'm sorry to lure you here this way, but I didn't think you'd give me the time to explain myself if I approached you anywhere else.”

This young man was confused. If he thought she was his mother, then he was off by a good fifteen years. Her son, if he had lived, would be much older. The adoption agency must have mixed up their records. He could make her life very difficult if he pursued this line of action. The family would discover her actions, so many years past. She had to be honest with him in a way that she had never been honest with her family. Franka turned to face him.