Read Online Offerings by Richard Smolev - Free Book Online Page B

was faded to a burnt tan. Two windows on the second floor were framed by dark green shutters. Clay flowerpots on the balcony and boxes on the windows and the railing were filled with red azaleas. The building opened to a small square. Kate hadn’t slept much on the plane. She splashed some water on her face at the airport.
    A gentle tin bell announced her entrance. A small woman in a pale green dress greeted her with a smile and a Grüss Gott.
    Kate extended her hand and business card. “Hello. My name is Kate Brewster. I’m the woman who called and emailed about your records of sales of works by Gustave Courbet.”
    “Ah, yes. Gustave Courbet. The revolutionary.” The woman took Kate’s hand in return. “Chloe Marc. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Miss Brewster.” Chloe was in her mid-sixties. Her white hair was pulled back in a bun. Her voice was textured. She had the same small stature, the wrinkles around her eyes that Kate remembered in her mother.
    “Please, let me show you where your boxes are located,” Chloe said.
    Kate would have told her mother about the trip, maybe even asked her to throw some things in a bag and to come along. Her mother had always claimed she didn’t understand what Kate did all day long and yet always found the right thing to say, the right tone, a little touchstone of judgment. But looking at Chloe didn’t remind Kate of her mother as much as it reminded her how much she missed her.
    Chloe took Kate’s elbow. “If I may ask, Miss Brewster, I presume you’re attempting to authenticate a painting that has a gap in its provenance, is that correct? Such a terrible thing, what those Germans did. I hope you are able to find what you are looking for.”
    She showed Kate into a small office in the rear of the gallery. The walls were filled with textile art in a rainbow of colors. There was a white table in the middle of the room surrounded by four red chairs. Kate showed her a picture of the painting; Chloe said that as cameras didn’t exist at the time the painting was sold they had no copies in their records. She wished Kate well in her efforts.
    After some time (an hour? more? Kate seemed to be sleepwalking through the morning), Kate felt her BlackBerry vibrate in her bag. It was a message from Leslie Elliot.
     
     
    Kate: I just called your office and found out you’re in Europe. I feel awful I didn’t have time to get to this before you left, but this all came up so quickly and I was in Seattle until this morning. I went back through some old newspapers. Franklin’s father was a sergeant in Germany after the war. He was arrested for stealing some artifacts the Nazis had looted and the army was gathering up. I didn’t find any reference to a painting, but that could explain his reluctance to discuss its history. I’ll write this up in more detail so you’ll have it when you return. Have a safe trip.
     
     
    Kate shook her head. She rubbed her eyes and read the message a second time to be certain she hadn’t fallen asleep and dreamt the whole thing. How ridiculous it was to be sitting here only to read this report. How absurd.
    It wasn’t Leslie’s fault. She had other things to do and couldn’t have known Kate’s schedule. But the idea that Franklin’s father stole the painting meant it couldn’t possibly be used in the deal.
    Kate needed to stretch her back. She’d been fighting the time change, but Leslie’s message made her whole body sink into itself. She walked into the main portion of the gallery. There were two large rooms, bleached white walls and oak floors worn to the color of charcoal. They were so sloped and uneven they must have been original to the building, the very floors Courbet himself might have walked on.
    Both rooms were filled with Paul Klee watercolors, skeletal trees, leaves seen as if through an x-ray machine. A small sign read L’art ne reproduit pas le visible; il rend visible. Kate thought for a moment Klee was talking directly