Read Online City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) by Kelli Stanley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kelli Stanley
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six giggling art students. Miranda’s eyes followed him before they caught at an older man, tall and thin with sloping shoulders in a rounded hunch. He wore a white glove on his left hand.
Dr. Jasper.
Six
He was dressed in a brown worsted vest and coat and buttoned trousers, buff-colored shirt and pale gold paisley tie, all a few years out of date. A watch chain hung from a vest pocket.
Quintessential costume for the conservative academic.
She wove her way between patrons. The crowds were thinning; her watch read 10:27. Not much time.
Jasper quickly positioned himself in front of two of Picasso’s most recent works, the Girl with Dark Hair and the Girl with Light Hair. He stood at a distance, tilting his head and gazing back and forth between the paintings.
She moved in close, stooping to read the information cards. Oil on wood, they’d been painted a day apart, on March 28th and 29th of last year. The blond version was lent by Rosenberg and Helft, Ltd., the companion piece from an unspecified private collection. Jasper focused on the latter, walking to within a few inches of the painting, peering over thick glasses at the brushstrokes, then backing up again.
The man with the sandy goatee she’d noticed at the registration desk made a noise of recognition, clapped his hands, and glided toward Jasper. Miranda turned her back, pretending to study a larger oil, Portrait of a Lady from 1937.
The light glinted off the bearded man’s spectacles. He clapped his hands again before grabbing Jasper’s right and pumping it up and down.
“Dr. Jasper, I’m delighted to see you again! It’s been far too long since you’ve honored my … little shop. Tell me, are you still in the market for”—he dropped his voice to a playfully conspiratorial stage whisper, eyes dancing with the excitement of a sales pitch—“‘ Entartete Kunst’ ? As you can see, Rosenberg has managed to weather the storm quite well. You know what Jews are. But he is far from the only source, my dear Doctor, and—”
Jasper interrupted him brusquely. Miranda froze, not daring to turn around.
“Not here, Wardon, and certainly not tonight. As you know, I am in the market, but only for very specific pieces…”
The voices were receding. She glanced to her left. The two men were bunched together near a large canvas she didn’t recognize and whose title she couldn’t make out. The bearded dealer was stiff, clearly uncomfortable. Jasper’s hand was on his wrist. Jasper was bent over the smaller man, and the dealer, growing more uncomfortable, withdrew his display handkerchief and mopped his face. Miranda thought she heard “Kirchner” and “Warsaw,” words rising high from Jasper’s throat before he subdued his voice again.
The dealer finally smoothed his thin sandy hair against his bony skull and bowed briefly, trying to smile. Jasper’s white-gloved hand was still clutching the other man’s arm as if he’d forgotten it was there. He nodded dismissively, dropped his hand to his waist. The dealer backed away, smile still plastered, and beat a path to the exit.
The gallery was finally quiet and almost deserted. She circled Jasper in a wide arc and headed for the exit, passing the registration desk and the heavyset woman in black, who raised her one thick eyebrow in farewell.
Miranda peered once more through the wrought-iron railings of the staircase. Jasper was staring at The Acrobat, narrow head moving back and forth as if he were listening to a symphony.
* * *
Miranda strode through the lobby, waving hurriedly to Gladys who was helping a distinguished-looking party in a bowler and tweed vest with a selection of pipe tobacco. The Monadnock crowd was thinning out. Even the Tascone’s jukebox was quiet.
Entartete Kunst. She’d heard it before, couldn’t remember where. Her gloved finger pressed the button and she checked her watch and the clock above the crate. 10:58. No time to think about art or Jasper or the
Dr. Jasper.
Six
He was dressed in a brown worsted vest and coat and buttoned trousers, buff-colored shirt and pale gold paisley tie, all a few years out of date. A watch chain hung from a vest pocket.
Quintessential costume for the conservative academic.
She wove her way between patrons. The crowds were thinning; her watch read 10:27. Not much time.
Jasper quickly positioned himself in front of two of Picasso’s most recent works, the Girl with Dark Hair and the Girl with Light Hair. He stood at a distance, tilting his head and gazing back and forth between the paintings.
She moved in close, stooping to read the information cards. Oil on wood, they’d been painted a day apart, on March 28th and 29th of last year. The blond version was lent by Rosenberg and Helft, Ltd., the companion piece from an unspecified private collection. Jasper focused on the latter, walking to within a few inches of the painting, peering over thick glasses at the brushstrokes, then backing up again.
The man with the sandy goatee she’d noticed at the registration desk made a noise of recognition, clapped his hands, and glided toward Jasper. Miranda turned her back, pretending to study a larger oil, Portrait of a Lady from 1937.
The light glinted off the bearded man’s spectacles. He clapped his hands again before grabbing Jasper’s right and pumping it up and down.
“Dr. Jasper, I’m delighted to see you again! It’s been far too long since you’ve honored my … little shop. Tell me, are you still in the market for”—he dropped his voice to a playfully conspiratorial stage whisper, eyes dancing with the excitement of a sales pitch—“‘ Entartete Kunst’ ? As you can see, Rosenberg has managed to weather the storm quite well. You know what Jews are. But he is far from the only source, my dear Doctor, and—”
Jasper interrupted him brusquely. Miranda froze, not daring to turn around.
“Not here, Wardon, and certainly not tonight. As you know, I am in the market, but only for very specific pieces…”
The voices were receding. She glanced to her left. The two men were bunched together near a large canvas she didn’t recognize and whose title she couldn’t make out. The bearded dealer was stiff, clearly uncomfortable. Jasper’s hand was on his wrist. Jasper was bent over the smaller man, and the dealer, growing more uncomfortable, withdrew his display handkerchief and mopped his face. Miranda thought she heard “Kirchner” and “Warsaw,” words rising high from Jasper’s throat before he subdued his voice again.
The dealer finally smoothed his thin sandy hair against his bony skull and bowed briefly, trying to smile. Jasper’s white-gloved hand was still clutching the other man’s arm as if he’d forgotten it was there. He nodded dismissively, dropped his hand to his waist. The dealer backed away, smile still plastered, and beat a path to the exit.
The gallery was finally quiet and almost deserted. She circled Jasper in a wide arc and headed for the exit, passing the registration desk and the heavyset woman in black, who raised her one thick eyebrow in farewell.
Miranda peered once more through the wrought-iron railings of the staircase. Jasper was staring at The Acrobat, narrow head moving back and forth as if he were listening to a symphony.
* * *
Miranda strode through the lobby, waving hurriedly to Gladys who was helping a distinguished-looking party in a bowler and tweed vest with a selection of pipe tobacco. The Monadnock crowd was thinning out. Even the Tascone’s jukebox was quiet.
Entartete Kunst. She’d heard it before, couldn’t remember where. Her gloved finger pressed the button and she checked her watch and the clock above the crate. 10:58. No time to think about art or Jasper or the
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