Софи Келли - Faux Paw

“He’s also interested in native art,” Lise had said. “He’s very knowledgeable. About a month ago we bumped into each other at a cocktail party and I was telling him about the exhibit coming to your library. He’s the one who told me there’s some controversy about who the real creator of that drawing is. I think he actually might have appraised it at some point.”

After I’d talked to Lise I’d pulled out my computer to see what I could find out about Sam Weston and his art. It was a fascinating story.

Sam Weston had been a graduate of West Point and a mapmaker and artist for the United States Army. He’d spent three years at Fort Snelling, which was located near where Minneapolis is today. Weston had learned the language of the Sioux people and created detailed sketches and paintings of their lives. And he had married fifteen-year-old Wakaninajiinwin, or Stands Sacred, leaving her and their daughter behind when he was reassigned two years later.

Weston kept very detailed sketchbooks during his time at Fort Snelling, I learned, but there was also a portfolio of individual sketches and watercolors from that time. That’s where the controversy began. There was a school of thought that believed some of the drawings in that portfolio, including the village scene missing from the exhibit, weren’t done by Weston, but by Stands Sacred, his teenage first wife.

“If there was any kind of proof that those disputed drawings weren’t done by Sam Weston, they could be worth a fortune to collectors of Native American art, not to mention the historical value to the Dakota Sioux people,” I’d said to Hercules, who’d been “helping” me with my research. “Which could explain why someone wanted to steal the drawing.”

The cat had murped his agreement.

If Stands Sacred was the real artist, the drawing would be one of the few intact pieces of native art from that period. And it could call into question the provenance of every other Weston drawing from that time.

I’d told Marcus what I’d learned about the drawing. Now I wondered if Margo had known how potentially valuable the drawing was. Was that why she had had reservations about the exhibit?

Gavin touched my shoulder and I jumped. “Sorry,” he said. “I called your name but you didn’t hear me. Where were you?”

“I got a little distracted,” I said. “Are you ready to leave?”

He nodded. “Big Jule is meeting us at the restaurant.” He glanced at his watch. “And we should get going.”

The Rose and Gray restaurant was on the bottom floor of a restored brick building close to the river in downtown Minneapolis. Inside there was wide plank flooring and high windows overlooking the waterfront. We were shown to a round table in the middle of the room. The ponytailed waiter dressed all in black held out my chair for me. “Would you like coffee?” he asked.

“Please,” I said.

Gavin nodded his agreement and sat down as the waiter headed to the far side of the room. “Big Jule should be here in a couple of minutes,” he said. “He likes to make an entrance.”

The waiter returned with our coffee and I was just taking my first sip when Julian McCrea entered the restaurant.

He was a large man, tall and round in a double-breasted pinstripe suit with a white shirt and a white tie with navy polka dots. His black wingtips gleamed and he was carrying a charcoal fedora. He did make me think of the character from Guys and Dolls , but he could just as easily have been a fashion-forward businessman.

Gavin got to his feet as McCrea approached the table, and I did the same.

“Gavin, it’s been too long,” the big man said, shaking the hand offered. I saw a glint of gold cuff links at the cuffs of the crisp white shirt.

“It’s good to see you,” Gavin replied with what sounded to me like a touch of deference in his voice. “This is my friend Kathleen Paulson.” He gestured to me. “Kathleen, I’d like you to meet Julian McCrea.”

McCrea smiled and took the hand I held out in both of his. “It’s truly a pleasure to meet you, Miss Paulson,” he said. I caught a hint of an accent in his cultured voice—not British or Australian; maybe South African.

“Thank you for making time to talk to us,” I said.

“Gavin told me what happened at your library,” he said. “I don’t know if I can be of any help, but I’m happy to answer your questions.”

We took our seats again. McCrea set his fedora on the empty chair between him and Gavin and turned his attention to me. “Tell me a little more about the exhibit. I didn’t get a lot of details.”

I gave him a brief background on how the library had come to be one of the stops on the exhibit of mid-nineteenth-century artwork and explained how Margo had convinced the museum to include a contemporary local segment of artwork at each stop on the tour. Gavin sat silently, nodding on occasion but letting me do all the talking.

“I met Margo several times, socially,” McCrea said. “The art world—at least here—is a very small world. I was sorry to hear what happened.” He reached for his menu, which had appeared at his elbow along with a cup of tea about thirty seconds after he’d sat down. Our waiter had to have been watching and waiting for his cue.

“Do you like fish, Miss Paulson?” he asked.

“Yes, I do,” I said.

“Then I suggest the fish cakes with lemon dill sauce.”

“They sound delicious.” I closed my menu and set it back on the table.

The waiter appeared at McCrea’s elbow again, almost as though the big man had given some kind of signal. He took our orders, refilled my and Gavin’s cups and headed for the kitchen.

McCrea talked in general terms about the art scene in Minneapolis while we waited for our food. He was well spoken and clearly knowledgeable about his subject. The man was charming but in a different way from Gavin. Gavin’s charm was all about pulling you in. Julian McCrea’s was all about keeping you at arm’s length. I didn’t think I was going to get any information from him unless I could find a way to bring that wall down.

The fish cakes were delicious, a mix of catfish and salmon, with a thin, crispy bread-crumb coating. “These are excellent,” I said, raising my fork in acknowledgment to the art dealer. “The last time I had fish cakes this good was in a little roadside diner just outside of Rockport, Maine, when my parents were doing Noises Off .”

“Your parents were involved in community theater?” McCrea asked.

I shook my head. “Summer stock. They’re both actors, although they also teach at a private school and my mother has been doing more directing lately.”

His blue eyes focused in on me. “May I ask their names? I’m wondering if I may have seen either of them on stage.”

“John and Thea Paulson,” I said. “If you’re a Shakespeare fan at all and you’ve seen any theater at all on the East Coast, it’s possible you’ve seen them.”

Julian McCrea’s eyes widened and a smile stretched across his face. “Thea Paulson is your mother?” he exclaimed.

It wasn’t the first time my mom’s name had gotten that kind of reaction. She’d just recently wrapped up her third visit to the daytime drama The Wild and the Wonderful . My father liked to tease that they couldn’t go anywhere without at least one young woman coming up to tell her she rocked.

“And men half my age stare at her,” Dad had said, laughing and shaking his head. “And the kind of looks they give her aren’t because they’re looking at her like she’s a mother figure.”

“Yes, she is,” I said in answer to McCrea’s question.

His smile grew wider. “I saw her maybe a dozen years ago as Portia in The Merchant of Venice , and two years ago as Ella in Last Love , in Boston. She’s very talented.”