THE ART OF MURDER

Chicago attorney Izzy McNeil is ready to take a break from private investigation and focus on her career in criminal law. But as a favor, she agrees to work with Madeline Saga, a beautiful art gallery owner who fears that artwork she has sold is fake. Who in Madeline’s tight circle of artists and gallery owners is guilty of the forgeries?

When Madeline’s life is threatened, Izzy is suddenly asking a more troublesome question: Who wants the gallery owner dead?

As the case spins out of control, there’s only one person who makes Izzy feel safe—Detective Damon Vaughn. But getting close to her former nemesis is full of surprises. Astonishing truths about the glittering Chicago art scene will introduce Izzy to the deadliest art of deception.…

Praise for the novels of Laura Caldwell

“The latest magnificent McNeil legal thriller... With her father back in her life after years of not being there for her, last year’s Sam fiasco (see Red Hot Lies), and now the Theo incident; Izzy wonders whom do you trust when you cannot trust a loved one. This is a terrific twisting tale.”

—Mystery Gazette on Question of Trust

“Forget John Grisham; Laura Caldwell is the real deal.”

—Mystery Scene on Claim of Innocence

“Caldwell’s trial scenes, breezy but effective, are key to the unmasking of the real culprit. Izzy’s successful juggling of personal and professional roles should win her more fans.”

—Publishers Weekly on Claim of Innocence

“Smart dialogue, captivating images, realistic settings and sexy characters... The pieces of the puzzle come together to reveal the secrets between the sheets that lead Izzy to realize who the killer is.”

—BookReporter.com on Red Blooded Murder

“Red Blooded Murder aims for the sweet spot between tough and tender, between thrills and thought—and hits the bull’s-eye. A terrific novel.”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Lee Child

“Izzy is the whole package: feminine and sexy, but also smart, tough and resourceful. She’s no damsel-in-distress from a tawdry bodice ripper; she’s more than a fitting match for any bad guys foolish enough to take her on.”

—Chicago Sun-Times on Red Blooded Murder

“Told mainly from the heroine’s first-person point of view, this beautifully crafted and tightly written story is a fabulous read. It’s very difficult to put down—and the ending is terrific.”

—RT Book Reviews on Red Hot Lies

“Former trial lawyer Caldwell launches a mystery series that weaves the emotional appeal of her chick-lit titles with the blinding speed of her thrillers.”

—Publishers Weekly on Red Hot Lies

False Impressions
Laura Caldwell

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is dedicated to Katie Caldwell Kuhn, who knows nothing of false impressions, only of real love.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Watching Madeline Saga from outside her gallery had become an obsession. Just like Madeline also had an obsession—art.

Madeline was in her gallery all day. Then she would return at night, often wearing different clothes, more casual than her usual fare, her silky black hair pulled back loosely.

There was always a breath held for a moment, when Madeline opened the building’s door and disappeared. It only lasted for a minute. Likely Madeline was simply talking with one of the doormen, who were there twenty-four hours. Then, through the gallery’s glass walls, Madeline could be seen switching on lights and walking her gallery. She would pause to stare at the paintings and sculptures as if studying them for the first time.

She would disappear again—this time into the back room, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours. The torture of waiting could be exquisite. When she finally left, there was always the flattening of mood, the sadness that crept in.

But Madeline would be back. Madeline could be watched again. Soon.

1

“I need you on something, Izzy,” Mayburn said, looking serious, his brown eyebrows pushed together.

“Can’t,” I answered without asking what the assignment was. I leaned back to give the waiter room to place our plates.

Mayburn continued to talk as if he hadn’t heard me, as if the waiter wasn’t between us. “It’s a part-time gig. Just part-time.”

I waited until the waiter finished.

“That’s nice,” I said to Mayburn. “But since I have a full-time job now…” My friend Maggie Bristol, who was also my boss, was pregnant and due in nearly a month. She needed me to take more responsibility at the criminal defense firm of Bristol & Associates, so I had little or no time for a freelance private investigation gig.

“You have to do it.” Mayburn bit into a lobster roll, then looked around the restaurant on North Sheffield. “When did all these damn fish places open in Chicago?”

“You don’t like your lobster roll?” I tasted my crab cake, which was delicious.

“It’s not that I don’t like the food.” He gestured around with his sandwich. “But when did every second bar start looking like a boathouse from northern Michigan?”

I glanced around. Kayaks, rowboats and oars hung from the ceiling, accented by netting and fishing poles.

“Anyway,” Mayburn said, putting his lobster roll on his plate. “This is an assignment only you can do.”

“Put Christopher on it,” I said. My dad worked occasionally for Mayburn, as well. Somehow the part-time private detective work that I did with them had become a family affair.

“I did get Christopher on it. Sort of. Research. But I need you at the front of the house.”

“What house? Does this have to do with Lucy?”

The love of Mayburn’s life, Lucy DeSanto, was a lovely woman, someone I admired for her kindness and her devotion to her family.

“It’s not Lucy,” he said.

“Then who’s the client?”

Mayburn pushed aside a bottle of hot sauce. There were two more still on the table. He lifted one—Mojo Hojo Caliente—then another—Crazy Billy’s Brain Damage. He pushed them away.

He looked at me. “It’s the Saga.”

“Madeline Saga?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. “From what you told me about her, I guess it’s good that you’re pushing away the hot sauce. Stay away from the heat.”

“Ha. Yeah.” According to Mayburn, he and Madeline had engaged in a very sexy and tumultuous relationship. Mayburn was the first to admit that the tumult was his own. He’d always feared she didn’t love him as much as he did her, that her true love was art and her gallery.

“Does she still have her own gallery?” I asked.

He nodded. “She moved it from Bucktown to Michigan Ave. But now she might lose it.”

“Why?”

He glanced around to see if anyone was listening. “She found out that some of the paintings she’s sold were forged. But they were not fakes when the gallery acquired them.”

I returned a bite of crab cake to my plate and sat back. “Whoa.” I didn’t know much about art, but that didn’t sound good. “What did the cops say?”

“She hasn’t contacted the cops.”

“Why? Something was stolen from her, right? The paintings would have to be stolen before they were replaced with fakes.”

“Right, but the CPD doesn’t have an art crime division. Almost no local police departments do. And it can take decades for a stolen piece to show up on the market again. Plus, Saga doesn’t want anyone to know this is happening. Reputation, for an art gallery owner, is everything.”

“What about security cameras? Did she have them?”

“Yes and no. She didn’t at the Bucktown gallery, but when she built out the new space, they were installed. I’ve analyzed the video for her. Nothing strange. Just Madeline in and out all the time, people she had working with her, customers.”

I continued eating my crab cake.

Mayburn looked deeply troubled. “The worst part,” he said, “is that whoever is stealing the paintings is trying to hurt her.”

“What do you mean? Was she attacked?”

“Not yet. But things have been weird—finding doors open at her house that she swore she’d closed and locked. Things that seem moved around in her office, although she can’t be sure. And then there’s the fact that anyone who knows Madeline knows that taking her paintings away would cause her great pain.”

I noticed he referred to the paintings as if they were her children. “Sounds complicated.”

“It is.”

I thought about it. “You know what’s interesting? A lot of jobs you’ve had me on have dealt with your love life.”

“What do you mean?”

“A lot of these cases have had to do, in one way or another, with Lucy or Madeline.”

“Look who’s talking!” He was clearly annoyed. “You came to me last year because of Sam, when he up and disappeared. And then last year? You had me on Theo’s case. Both involved were your boyfriends. One was your fiancé, if I remember correctly.”

Zing. That hurt. The relationship with the fiancé—Sam—was done, fault of no one. And the boyfriend—Theo—had taken off to Thailand.

Mayburn saw my look. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He picked up his sandwich and began eating again.

“It’s okay,” I said. I put my fork down. “So this thing with Madeline Saga, you really need me?”

“I do. I need you to work as her assistant in the gallery.”

“I know absolutely nothing about the art world. You sure you want to throw me into this?”

“I need someone on the inside. We need to figure out who would have access to the paintings and any pertinent info on those paintings, plus we need ideas of anyone who might want to hurt Madeline.”

I thought about Maggie. I could talk to her. “How long would you want me?”

“Shit, I don’t know. Two weeks. Max.” He looked across the restaurant, past the net curtain festooned with shells. “God, it would just kill me if something happened to Madeline or her business.”

“Kill you?”

He shot me an irritated glance. “Hey, I might not be in love with the Saga anymore, but…” He took another bite of his lobster roll. He chewed, shrugged. “I just want her to be happy, okay? It’s like…I don’t know. This is hard to explain. But Madeline draws energy from everyone around her. Really. Everyone. And even though I don’t see her much, she’ll sense if I’m gone. She’s like that. And I want her to be content, settled, before I can totally move on to Lucy.”

“It still sounds complicated.”

“It is.” A pause. “Which is why I need you. For two weeks at the gallery. Cool?”

Because he was a friend now, because he had helped me out of more than one bind, I nodded.

2

If I was going to take a temporary gig with Mayburn, I had to talk to Maggie.

The next day, in a cab after visiting a new client (a prominent doctor accused of writing prescriptions for cash), I called Q. “Where is she?”

“Trial,” he said. “The Cortadero case.”

Q had been my assistant at Baltimore & Brown, the big civil firm where I’d formerly worked. We had long ago dropped the pleasantries and adapted the skill of being able to talk in shorthand. Now Q and I worked together at Bristol & Associates.

“Nice! Good for Maggie,” I said, smiling. Then I paused and frowned. How had I come to a point in my life and my law practice where I was praising my boss for trying a case on behalf of a Mexican drug cartel? Alleged cartel, I corrected myself.

“Closings today,” Q said.

“Nice!” I said again. Now, that was truly something to get excited about—a closing argument by one of the best lawyers I knew, who also happened to be my best friend. I leaned forward and asked the taxi to change directions and take me to 26th and Cal.

The epicenter of Chicago’s criminal/legal world was at 26th Street and California Avenue. It housed, in addition to a dozen jails, the busiest criminal courthouse in the country.

The cab driver, who was talking on his headset in a language I did not understand, said nothing in response to my request. Instead, he calmly swung the cab around in the middle of LaSalle Street, crossing three lanes of traffic. The move drew a few perfunctory honks from other drivers, but mostly everyone went on talking in their own earpieces or singing to the radio. Chicagoans didn’t get particularly aggrieved by poor or even aggressive driving. Everyone seemed to realize we were all just trying to get somewhere, that was all.

The driver headed west. Outside, the January sky was moody and heavy, but with teasing glimpses of a distant sun-lit blue sky. But as we approached 26th and Cal, the weather made up its mind—distinctly cold and smothered with gray.

I hurried up the steps when we reached the courthouse. Inside, I flashed my ID, calling, “Hey, Tommy!” to a sheriff I knew well by now. I hurried up to the fifth floor and found the grand courtroom where Q said Maggie would be.

Inside, it was quiet and still. The only inhabitants were Maggie, standing at the counsel’s table, and two guys who looked like state’s attorneys. (You could tell—it was something to do with the inherent cockiness they exuded, mixed with friendliness. And why shouldn’t they have such an attitude? The state won the vast percentage of criminal cases in Cook County.)

Maggie was eight months pregnant, but as I walked toward her, I noticed that she barely looked as if she was nearing childbirth. She had a round bump, but she was still tiny everywhere else.

“Great cross,” I heard Maggie say to one of the guys. “Really. And that shit you pulled with Officer Cooper? Hysterical.”

Maggie was complimenting the state’s attorneys, which could only mean one thing—the jury was out. I took a breath, waved and walked toward her.

Ah, the sweet, sweet—sweet—time between when a jury is sent to deliberate and when they return with a verdict. The law, which has names for nearly everything—voir dire, res ipsa loquitur and so forth—has no name for this odd bit of time. It’s not exactly purgatory. It’s not limbo, either. It’s something much more…hopeful. When a jury is out to consider the verdict—to mentally duke it out in an airless back room when the attorneys’ jobs are over—anything is possible.

Which meant it was a good time to ask my boss for time to work a new job. I couldn’t really explain too much. Mayburn had a strict policy that I not talk to anyone about my private investigative jobs with him. I’d been forced to tell Maggie once before. But now, I planned to simply mention I had a gig with Mayburn, say little else and hope for the best.

If I thought Maggie would have an issue with my time out of the office, I was wrong.

“Oh, thank God.” She clapped. We were seated at her counsel’s table now, the state’s attorneys having gone to their lair in the other part of the building. “I’d love for you to work outside the firm for a bit.”

“Really? You told me I needed to take more responsibility, and I know we don’t have a lot of time to spare....”

“No, we do!” Maggie said. “What I meant when we talked was that eventually—like, when I go into labor—you’ll need to take more responsibility, but in the meantime, have at it. Enjoy yourself.”

“Really?” This was the second time in the last year that one of my lawyer friends had suggested enjoying my professional life. Not everyone in the law enjoyed it, not even close, so I liked the reminder.

“Absolutely,” Maggie said. “I need you to take time off and do whatever you want because when I have this baby—” she gestured toward her belly “—I need you to essentially manage the firm. Marty is going to come in for a while.” Marty was Martin Bristol, Maggie’s partner and grandfather. “But he’s pretty much retired, and you know more about our cases now than he does.”

I nodded fast and swallowed hard now that she was getting specific about my upcoming responsibilities. A mood passed over me, almost a sense of dread.

“You’re nervous,” Maggie said.

“I guess I’m overwhelmed by the thought of managing a firm. One that I didn’t even work at a year ago. Not to mention the fact that I haven’t been practicing criminal law even a year.” I heard the anxious tone in my voice. “But I want to help, too. In any way. So I’m in.” Maggie and I had been there for each other since we met in law school.

“You have been contributing,” Maggie said. “You’ve been great.”

“But since I’m not a mom myself, there’s no advice I can give you.” Truth was, I still didn’t know if having kids would ever be for me.

Maggie rolled her eyes again. “Thank God. Because I am so sick of mommy advice. It’s overwhelming.” She put her hand on her pregnant belly, draped in an empire-waist black dress. “But it’s reassuring to know you’re going to be at the office when I’m not.”

“Are you just trying to make me feel better?”

“Hell, no. I would be a nut job if it weren’t for you.” She paused, her eyes looked directly into mine. “So take the time you need. Now.”

“Okay, good,” I said. “Thanks.” I nodded at the bench. “How was your judge for the case?”

“Good. But if we lose we are so screwed. You know what they call him?”

“What?”

“Father Time.”

“Long sentences if there’s a guilty verdict?”

“Yep. Looonnnng.” She sighed. “So, since you’re not going to be at the firm much in the meantime, where are you going to be?”

“Michigan Avenue. That’s about all I can tell you.”

“When do you start?”

“Tonight, if it’s cool with you.”

“Go get ’em, Iz.”

3

Much had been made of typography, but Madeline Saga had always viewed such art from a bit of a distance, never able to get too attached to an image comprised of letters or words. She usually felt that either the words selected or the final images were weak. She recalled a piece she’d seen in a Chelsea gallery, where one word appeared across the top of the canvas—FIRE. Throughout the rest of the canvas, the same word was turned over and over, sometimes right side up, other times facing backward. The repeated word formed a bloodred rose. Madeline supposed she understood the juxtaposition between the vaguely alarming word and the sweet flower. A rose was sometimes a sign of love, and love could be very electric and volatile—like fire. Madeline knew that well enough. But still, the result was too feeble for her. She’d often thought that maybe she wasn’t a literary person, maybe words just weren’t her thing.

But now, sitting in her office behind the gallery, it was different.

She looked at her computer screen, at her own gallery’s website and an image she had placed there—a photo of Dudlin’s Eight Days, a sketch she’d sold after she moved to this new gallery space.

Eight Days was displayed on the gallery’s Past Works page. She liked to visit all the works she’d once owned, liked to see the comments below them, to behold what the world was saying about the pieces she’d sold or collected.

But not now. She’d read these particular comments too many times.

The words blurred until she forced herself to slow the panicked movement of her eyes and read one word at a time—each word, in black, appearing in a separate horizontal row. They were just words, just comments, but they struck her as a kind of typographic art. Perhaps she finally understood the power of that type of work.

Madeline dialed up the brightness on her computer, alternately gazing at the image of Eight Days and the comments under it, the white spaces littered with terrifying insinuations. Some targeted the artist, and those angered her. But what scared her were the ones pointed toward her.

The computer screen seemed to pulse as she stared at it. The screen seemed to gain heat. Finally, she hit the print button and waited for the two pages to come out of the printer—one showing the Dudlin piece that she’d sold, the other the comments beneath it.

She stared cautiously, suspiciously, at the printer. Recently, she’d come into her office in the morning and found pages waiting in the printer tray. Always they were pages she’d viewed before—art from some of the artists she’d worked with, pieces sold by other galleries—and yet she didn’t recall printing them.

Startled. Haunted. That was how she felt when she saw the pages waiting for her. She’d mentioned this to a few people, who’d suggested perhaps she’d had a glass of wine too many or smoked too much pot. But although Madeline did drink and sometimes smoked, she never did so to excess. Spirits and drugs didn’t ignite her like they did other people.

Now, not wanting to think about the mystery of finding those pages, needing to get away from her office, she took the pages she’d printed and walked into the main space of the gallery. On a far wall hung a massive canvas, depicting a woman at two different times of the day and in two different eras.

The first was a morning image harkening back to the early 1900s. The background was painted the pink-grapefruit color of morning and showed the woman in a cream-colored nightgown, thick and comforting. The second image was of a blue-black contemporary evening, the woman now wearing a white negligee, her skin golden against the sheer white fabric, her nipples black beneath it.

In front of the painting, far back enough to gain perspective, Madeline had placed a navy-colored chaise lounge, made to resemble the one in the evening part of the painting.

She sat on the chaise now and glanced at the print-out depicting Eight Days, which was a charcoal sketch of four street images. The sketch had been glazed with resin, giving it a vivid, sparkling finish that seemed to awaken the street images, seemed to call them to life.

Madeline flipped her long black hair over her shoulder and switched the sheets of paper in her hands so she could read the page with the comments.

Since some art aficionados thought Sir Arthur Dudlin had been lazy in using simple charcoal and then “tossing” glaze on it, Madeline hadn’t been surprised when she’d read the first comment months before. Dudlin, it said, gentleman though he was, faced the greatest challenge to an artist—age. And he did not fare well.

“Poor Dudlin,” she had said when she first saw that note, then scoffed. She had known the artist well at the end of his life, had an immense respect for him. She’d even been the muse for another one of his sparkling charcoals. She had been irritated at how discourteous that comment had been.

But it was the more recent comment that plagued her. As she read it, she felt something roil through her stomach—something hot, something angry. One hand held the pages, the other was on the navy chaise longue as if to brace herself for another reading, hoping she had been too hasty and judgmental the first few times around.

The comment was from someone else, who posted anonymously under the name ArtManners.

Dudlin, it read, not only aged at the end of his life, he went into a different profession—that of manager. He didn’t create art any longer. He issued directives to his assistants, who replicated his glazed charcoal pieces, then allowed the master to pass them off as his own.

She braced herself for the next few lines. Check your Dudlin if you have one. Especially if you bought it from this gallery.

There were two more lines, but she couldn’t bring herself to read them again.

Madeline put the pages at the foot of the chaise and scooted back until she was reclining, far away from the comments.

Thankfully, no one was in the gallery.

Thankfully, John Mayburn was sending Isabel McNeil.

4

“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking the hand of Madeline Saga. She was, as Mayburn had described her to me, a tiny, luminous Japanese woman with skin that seemed almost pearly. Her intent brown eyes were strangely bright, almost as if they could actually feel, as if they had senses other than sight.

“Lovely to meet you, too,” she said in a quiet yet strong voice.

I looked around the gallery. It was almost triangular in shape, housed in a corner of the Wrigley Building on Michigan Avenue. Inside, the space had blond wood floors, white walls and white columns.

“This is wonderful,” I said.

“Thank you. Very much.” She looked around the room as if appreciating it herself. “Let me show you around.”

With every step, the gallery was a surprise. First, she showed me a miniature stamp, decorated in an Indian sort of pattern, surrounded by a matte a thousand times bigger than it was, taking up half of a wall. Next, she pointed out a sculpture that looked like ice cubes with silvery insides, next to an ice bucket with real ice inside. “An installation,” Madeline said.

“Interesting,” I said, looking at it.

“What strikes you?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. I guess it’s the combination of the real and the not real.”

“But do we ever know?” Madeline asked in a musing voice. Then she added, “Nearly anything can be art. Most art simply shows different ways of looking at life, or a part of it.”

Next was something more traditional and I adored it on sight. It showed a woman in side-by-side panels. It was clearly the same person, but the woman was portrayed in two different time periods. She was living two lives. I had felt very much the same over the last year and a half.

“And then that piece of furniture?” I asked Madeline. I pointed again.

“Ah, the chaise?” Madeline asked, her voice sounding lighter. “What do you think of it?”

Her questions made me feel unsure. Aside from an art history class in college and visiting the Chicago museums every once in a while, I knew nothing about art or technique. And now here I was with a woman who had two master’s degrees, one in studio art, the other in art management, both from prestigious New York schools. She owned an art gallery, and according Mayburn, “lived for art and sex.”

And yet Madeline looked at my face expectantly, with an eager expression.

“The chaise looks exactly like the one in the painting with the woman in the negligee.” I pointed at it.

“Yes.” Madeline wore a small smile. “I had the chaise made just as soon as the artist and I reached a deal for him to sell. He loved the idea. It’s an honor for me to be able to contribute.”

“I know very little about art,” I said, “but I was thinking that your gallery is full of wonderful surprises—the matte that’s so much bigger than the stamp, the real ice cubes that you must have to refresh, the exact piece of furniture from the painting.”

“Isabel,” she said, gently interrupting me. Although I’d told her to called me Izzy, she hadn’t taken to the name. And Isabel sounded wonderful coming from her lush mouth, ripe with a purplish gloss. “Isabel, you say you do not know art. But you know love. I can tell that.”

I paused, about to ask her what she meant. But then I let the answer float up. “Yes,” I said. “I know love.”

“Well, then.” She softly grasped my upper arm. “You know art.”

I didn’t know precisely what to say. Or to think. I could only notice that even through my suit coat, I felt something electric. Or was it just what Mayburn had said about the Saga drawing energy?

We walked around the gallery some more, often in silence as Madeline gave me time to look at each piece. Sometimes, she asked my opinion (“or just your feeling”).

Once, when we reached a sculpture, she said, “An Italian designer. What do you think of it?”

The piece was about two feet tall by two feet wide, a delicate iron tree painted in a shiny black, its leaves green jewels.

“I think it’s stunning.”

She smiled, gave a single nod.

Madeline kept showing me around the gallery, and I watched as she talked about the art. As she spoke, her face seemed to acquire a peach glow and her eyes brightened. She was, I thought, an incredibly sexy woman. I could see why Mayburn had been mad for her.

But then suddenly she stopped. “May I show you something?” There was a different tone to her voice now.

“Of course.” I looked around the gallery, wondering what surprise was in store next.

But Madeline turned and began walking toward the back. She wore high, nude-colored patent heels that made only the lightest tap, tap, tap on the floor. I followed her, noticing that my own heels seemed to clump, clump, clump compared to hers.

The space behind the gallery, like that in front, had high ceilings and white walls. But where the front had been spacious, back here it was tidily packed. Slotted shelves held framed paintings and stretched canvases. Undisplayed, the artworks seemed diminished, whereas out front the art was allowed to breathe, to be surrounded by space and light, letting it shine, letting its viewer see it in many different ways.

In front, the sculptures might sit atop a pedestal, as the jeweled tree had done, lit perfectly. Here, a small sculpture made of bronze bricks sat on a file cabinet. Another sculpture was on top of the refrigerator.

Off to the side was a small office. On a table in the center of the room was a white laptop. We sat and Madeline pulled her chair close to mine, her laptop in front of us. She pulled up a website.

“It’s your gallery site,” I said.

“Yes,” Madeline said. “I have photos of nearly all our artwork on the site. I like to make it as interactive as possible. One of the features is the ability to comment freely on any piece of art.”

She clicked to a page of tiny images, all showing various artwork. She clicked on one—gray on a white canvas, depicting four sketches of some urban landscape, the whole thing glossed to a high sheen.

“It’s a very interesting piece by Sir Arthur Dudlin,” Madeline said. “I can tell you more about it later. But this is what I want to show you. The comments I received.”

I read the first one—something about the artist getting older but not better.

I stopped reading and looked at Madeline. “Do you have approval on the comments, so you can authorize them before they appear?’

She shook her head. “I despise censorship. I feel with deep conviction that response to art is as important as the art itself.”

Madeline showed me the next comment. Dudlin not only aged at the end of his life…. Check your Dudlin if you have one. Especially if you bought it from this gallery.

I stopped reading and pointed at the sentence about checking a Dudlin artwork. “Is this the first indication you had that something might have been forged?”

“The first public one,” Madeline said, her voice thin. “But it’s the last few lines that disturb me most.”

I looked at the last two lines. Madeline Saga makes everything she touches rotten. She obliterates.

“Obliterates,” Madeline said. “Obliterates. I don’t understand that. I try to bring things to life. I bring art to the world.”

“Do you have any idea what they mean in context with you?”

“No.” She sounded bereft. I wanted to comfort her, but I had no idea how one would do that with Madeline Saga.

I looked at the comment again, then at Madeline. “I think it’s time to enable your approval settings on these comments.”

Madeline’s face was distressed.

“Let me run it by Mayburn.” I texted him what I wanted to do, and he agreed.

But Madeline didn’t move when I told her that.

“Do you want me to handle it?” I asked.

Finally, Madeline nodded, gave me her passwords and watched in silence as I adjusted the controls of her website comment section and deleted those about the Dudlin.

I was just about done when the sound of a bell startled me.

“That’s the front door,” Madeline said softly. But she still gazed at the space on the screen where the comments had been; she was staring into it as if it were a long tunnel, one where she could somehow see many things. And those things—whatever they were—were deeply disturbing to her.

“Let me go see who it is,” I said, since Madeline wasn’t moving. I was glad to have something official to do for my new job.

She looked at me. “Thank you,” she said earnestly, as if someone hadn’t helped her with anything for a long time. “But no, I’ll come with you. And Isabel, I don’t mean to be difficult but…Mayburn has suggested that you’ve had a lively few years.”

I looked at her, unsure where she was going with this.

“I was wondering if we could give you an alias. Perhaps we call you Isabel or Izzy Smith. I wouldn’t want anyone to search you on the internet and find out you’re really a lawyer and not an art dealer. It might raise more questions than I can answer right now.”

“Of course. I should have already thought of that.” I stood and began to follow her out the door.

But, one more time, she looked back to the computer screen, and somehow I could tell that she was pondering that one word—obliterates.

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