FanStory.com - Unfinished Brushstrokes

After leaving Eleanor's house, Craig and Matthew stopped at The Working Man's Bar for a cold beer and a chance to compare notes.

"What do you know about the couple from the gallery?" Donatelli tipped his beer back and took a long draw, sighing as he felt the cold liquid run down his parched throat. "Did it seem like the husband was in a big hurry to get out of there after Jenna mentioned auctioning one of Eleanor's paintings?"

"I'd never met them before, but Eleanor always spoke highly of the gallery. But about a week ago, she seemed upset."

"Upset? About what?"

"I don't know. But she'd been at the gallery earlier and then stopped at my office to sign some papers. She wasn't her usual perky self. When I asked, she said she didn't want to jump the gun, so she'd tell me about it later after she'd checked things out."

"She wasn't having second thoughts about giving them the money, was she?"

"I don't think it was that because she included them in the will to receive even more." Craig sipped his drink. "But she was upset about something."

"Maybe I'll visit the gallery and see what they have to say."
*****

Meanwhile, things were heating up inside the Mayfield's vehicle.

"Jackson! Slow down." Audrey gasped as her hands flew to the dashboard. "That was a stop sign."

"Sorry! I didn't see it." Beads of sweat formed on Jackson's forehead, his eyes focused straight ahead, not glancing side to side. Even when Audrey screamed, he didn't look at her.

"What's going on? Ever since that detective said Eleanor was murdered, you've been upset. Are you afraid someone will rescind the money?"

"Of course not! Eleanor or CJ Grey gave us that money, which was fair and square. It's all legit." Jackson's grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles turning white.

"Well, something has spooked you. Tell me what's bothering you."

Jackson sighed. "It's the painting."

"The painting? I don't understand. What painting? One of Eleanor's paintings?"

"Yes, the one where the man and woman are sitting on the grassy knoll staring out at the puffs of black clouds in the distance."

"Yes, I remember it. Is that what you and Eleanor were arguing about last week?"

"Yes. She noticed it wasn't hanging in its usual place and wanted to know where it was."

"That's simple. Did it get moved?" Audrey was still confused. "Did you put it in another part of the gallery?"

Jackson swallowed hard. He swerved the car, barely missing an oncoming vehicle.

"Jackson. What's wrong with you?" Audrey's voice quivered.

"Nothing!" He shook his head and glanced at his wife. "Everything!"

"You're not making sense. Just tell me what's wrong."

Jackson pulled the car over to the side of the road and put it in park, turning to face his wife. "I don't know where the picture is."

Audrey's eyes widened as she choked on her saliva. "You — don't — know."

"That's what I said."

"Jackson, is that what Eleanor was so angry about? She trusted us with her paintings, and we lost one. Why didn't you tell me? We've got to call the police."

"No! We can't do that." Jackson pounded his fist against the steering wheel. "No police. At least, not just yet."

"But Jackson, if we wait and someone else discovers it is missing, they'll think we took it."

"I did!"

"You — you took the painting." Audrey's heart was beating so hard she thought she'd throw up. "Jackson?"

"Remember the huge storm we had a few weeks ago. There was a leak in the roof, and the picture was damaged. I didn't want to tell Eleanor since she'd just told us about the donation, and I thought she'd change her mind."

"A leak in the roof?" Audrey's face twisted in confusion. "So, water dripped on the painting?"

"More than water. It was dark and rusty-looking. I took it down, thinking I could clean it off, but nothing I did helped. I sent it out for repair."

"That was a good idea, though I think Eleanor would have understood. She might have wanted to fix it herself."

"I didn't think of that."

"You might have mentioned all of this to me, Jackson. I am your wife and co-owner of the gallery. I don't understand why you were so secretive. Who is fixing it? Did you send it to Leonardo's or Pamela's shop?"

"Neither. Do you remember a few weeks ago when that guy stopped in with some paintings and said he could help us with repairs at half the cost of Leonardo's?"

"Yes, and I told him we were very satisfied with the people we do business with."

"Leonardo's said it would cost between $1000 and $1500."

"Wow! Why so expensive?"

"Someone had done something to the painting a long time ago, and now the mixtures of oils were different."

"Okay, that makes sense, I guess."

"Anyhow, we still had outstanding bills with both shops, and both wanted their money upfront. We didn't have it."

"Of course we do. The checking account has enough money to run the business for months. You just told me last week that —" Audrey stared at her husband's face as the color drained. "Jackson, we have money, right?"

He shook his head. "After fixing the roof, we are broke."

Audrey gasped, "Broke! We can't be."

"I'm afraid we are." Jackson stared out the windshield. "What's worse is I called that other guy. He sent a courier for the painting. When the story broke about CJ Grey, he called and demanded more money."

"That's robbery. We've got to tell the police, Jackson."

"No! If this story gets out to the press, it will ruin the gallery.

"So, what are you going to do?"

"Take the money from Eleanor's donation and pay the man."

"How much?"

Jackson closed his eyes and mumbled, "Three thousand dollars."

"Three thousand dollars!"

"It's either that or he keeps the picture and leaks the story to the press."

Tears streamed down Audrey's face. "Oh, Jackson, this is a mess!"

Jackson laid his head against the steering wheel. "And it gets worse."

"Worse? What do you mean?"

"I thought I could reason with the guy. Maybe give him half now and the other half in a few weeks. I drove over to the address on his business card. The storefront had a for lease sign. It was empty."

Jackson shifted the car into gear and pulled back into traffic while Audrey leaned her head against the door, sobbing.

*****

Thousands of miles away in Southampton, England, two men were also discussing the painting. A renowned artist, Charles Weldon, sat in his wheelchair, staring at the half-finished painting of the woman he loved. His nephew and protege, Dylan, stood nearby, admiring his uncle's collection. Their recent discussion hung heavy in the air as they awaited their guest.

The last notes of Beethoven's Ode to Joy filled the interior of the silver Jaguar as the Inspector drove onto the Weldon Estate. The manor made a massive impression with its high-pitched gables, ivy-covered brick, and double oak doors. Inspector Charlie Morgan climbed out, inhaled the fresh country air, and approached the front door with confidence.

Dylan opened the door, hesitating as if expecting someone else to arrive. Charlie Morgan smiled and extended her hand. "I'm Inspector Morgan from the Metropolitan Police. I believe you were expecting me."

Dylan looked sheepish. "My apologies. I thought you —"

"Were a man." Charlie laughed. "It happens all the time. My birth name is Charlotte, but Charlie suits me just fine."

"I'm Dylan." As he closed the door, he couldn't help but admire the car in the driveway. "That's quite a ride."

"It belonged to my father when he was the Inspector. He passed it along to me when he retired. It attracts some attention, doesn't it?"

"It's beautiful."

"I enjoyed the ride here while listening to classical music. Couldn't do that in one of those modern compacts, now, could you?"

"Charles would love it." Dylan smiled. "Speaking of my uncle, he's impatiently waiting in the solarium. Please come with me."

As they entered the solarium, Charlie couldn't help but notice all the paintings, especially the one nearest Charles. It was a portrait of a woman, her eyes filled with a haunting sadness, her lips curved in a bittersweet smile. "She's beautiful,"

"Thank you. Her sparkling eyes and soft lips greet me every morning."

"Oh, is it a picture of your wife?"

A sadness filled Charles's eyes before he spoke. "No, just an old memory."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Weldon. I didn't mean to pry."

"Not at all. Life often serves up cherries, only to leave us with the pits." Charles motioned to a chair. "Please sit down."

"Yes, we do have some business to discuss." She directed her next question to Dylan. On the phone, you mentioned you saw one of your uncle's paintings in Germany. It was being shown under a different name. Is that correct?"

"That's right. It was unmistakably my uncle's work, but it was credited to someone else. I thought it was an isolated case until I saw this." He handed the Inspector the local art newspaper, pointing to the article about CJ Grey's donation to a local gallery in the States.

"It's a monetary donation. Artists do it all the time, don't they?"

"It's not the donation that caught my attention. Look at the picture in the background. There's a painting that resembles my uncle's style."

"The picture's a little blurry. But you believe the painting might be part of an art theft ring?"

"It's too much of a coincidence," Dylan said, pointing to another picture hanging on the wall. "When he convalesced in France during the war, my uncle painted that," Dylan said.

"It does have a lot of similarities, especially the grassy knoll and the clouds."

"My uncle's paintings have been stolen before, and now they're showing up in different countries under various names, selling at very high prices. Charles and I believe it merits an investigation.

Inspector Morgan stared at the news bulletin and the picture on the wall. "I agree." She opened the folder she'd brought and spread several photographs on a nearby table. "Here are some images from recent theft reports in some prominent galleries. Look and see if you recognize any of these as your uncle's work."

Charles rolled his wheelchair closer to the table. His eyes were drawn to one painting. Dylan peered over his uncle's shoulder. "That one! It's definitely your painting, Charles."

Charles nodded and then turned away, his eyes misting over.

"He painted it years ago." Dylan pointed at the painting the Inspector had admired when she arrived. "It's her — looking forlornly out the window."

"This confirms our suspicions. We need to start with the gallery in the U.S. I can contact my counterparts."

"I'm planning to travel to the U.S. to investigate."

"That's unnecessary. I know people with the FBI who are investigating international theft rings. They can do all the work for you."

For the first time since her arrival, Charles spoke, "No! I want Dylan to represent me since I'm unable to travel. He knows my work and will spot a forgery or if someone represents my work as theirs."

"Of course, sir. I meant no disrespect."

"None taken, Inspector. Please notify your people in the U.S. and ensure they know of my arrival."

"Of course. Meanwhile, gather any documentation Charles has on his artwork—receipts, photographs, anything that can help us prove their origin. These people are smart and will have their bases covered."

"We understand."

Charlie extended her hand to Charles. "As art theft is a serious crime, we will ensure that those responsible are brought to justice."

After shaking Dylan's hand, she added, "Let me know your flight plans, and I'll have someone meet you at the airport."

"Thank you. I'll see you out."

"No need. I'll be fine."

As she left the room, Charles looked at his nephew with a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. "I have faith in you. Bring them back, Dylan. Bring my paintings back."

Dylan hugged his uncle and whispered, "I will. I promise."