Софи Келли - Faux Paw

“It sounds like our destinies were already set,” she said.

I laughed, remembering having this same conversation with Maggie and Ruby. “If our destinies are set in kindergarten, then my brother’s destiny is to burp for a living.”

“Burp?” Rena asked.

The edge of the plastic refused to tear. I reached over the counter and retrieved a pair of scissors for her.

“Ethan’s big accomplishment in kindergarten was learning to burp the entire alphabet.”

“You’re not really serious,” Rena said as she cut the plastic and then reached for one of the large pieces of cardboard that she’d brought with her.

“Give Ethan a big bottle of root beer and he can still do it.”

She laughed as she held up one sheet of cardboard, looking from it to the painting. She gave Marcus a sidelong glance. “What about you, Detective?” she asked. “What were you into in kindergarten?”

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “I was coatroom monitor.”

“What’s a coatroom monitor?” I asked.

He brushed something off the sleeve of his sport coat. “I made sure everyone hung up their coat and put their boots underneath their hook.”

I looked at Rena. “I think we may just have proved your theory.”

She laughed again. Rena was guarded, careful, but it seemed to me that she had relaxed, just a little.

I looked back over my shoulder. “The pond with the turtle is beautiful, but the mouse is my favorite,” I said. “The detail is incredible.”

Rena lifted the painting and slid the cardboard underneath. Marcus reached over and helped hold the frame, edging the scissors out of the way. “Thank you,” she said. “I did that one all from photographs.” She made a face. “It’s hard to get a mouse to pose for very long.”

“Is there really egg in egg tempera paint?” Marcus asked.

Rena nodded, shifting the placement of the painting a little to the left. “Yes. Egg yolk for the most part, along with the pigment and something to keep the mixture from drying out too quickly. Water usually, but not always. I think the final effect is more like watercolor. You don’t get the intense colors you would with, say, oil paint, but you can create some incredible detail.” She folded the cardboard along a line she’d already scored, bringing one side up over the front of the painting. “The technique goes back to the Egyptians.”

I remembered what Julian had said about having likely seen Devin at the gallery party. “You must be a fan of Antony Williams, then,” I said.

“I am.” She lifted her head and looked at me, surprised. “How do you know his work?”

“I used to live in Boston. My family is still there. His portrait of Queen Elizabeth was part of an exhibit marking her Diamond Jubilee.” I reached for the tape roller at her feet and handed it to her. “I was so taken with his work I came home and looked up his other paintings online.”

Rena folded the cardboard over the plastic-wrapped painting. “Do you have a favorite?” she asked.

“Eleanor on Her 87th Birthday,” I said. “He captured every line on her face, every single strand of her hair.”

“It’s even more incredible in person,” she said.

“Could I hold that?” I said, gesturing at the cardboard.

“Oh yeah, thanks,” Rena said. I held the folded cardboard in place as she secured it with several wide pieces of tape.

“So you were at the Weyman Gallery party, what, three years ago?” Marcus said.

“Uh, no,” Rena said. She glanced up at Marcus, frowning just a little. She was good. Her voice didn’t falter. Her hands didn’t so much as twitch. The only thing that gave her away was looking away just a fraction too soon.

“That painting is part of a private collection,” Marcus continued. “It’s only been shown in public once in the past thirty years. At that party.”

Rena recovered well. “I guess I must have been there, then,” she said with a small smile. “People give me tickets to things.” She looked at me and shrugged. “It’s like collecting a few sets of salt and pepper shakers. Suddenly everyone you know is bringing you a pair when they go on vacation.”

“A very valuable watercolor painting was stolen from that gallery the day after the party closed,” Marcus said. “The only thing the police found was part of a fingerprint that they weren’t able to identify.”

Rena smiled at him. “So you think that I went to the opening gala and did what? Hid in a bathroom stall for twenty-four hours so I could steal a painting?”

“Your name wasn’t on the guest list.”

Rena still wasn’t rattled. “Like I said, people give me tickets to things all the time.” She stressed the word “give.” “I’m not a thief. I’m a starving artist.”

Marcus took a pen out of his pocket. He hooked one of the handle loops of the scissors and held them up. “Then you won’t mind coming down to the police station with me.”

“For what?” she said. “You think I killed Margo Walsh? You’re crazy. Why would I do that?”

“Your real name is Devin Rossi.” I said the words as a statement, not a question.

Rena looked at me. “No. My real name is not Devin Rossi. And I didn’t kill Margo. Why would I?” She looked from me to Marcus. A shadow passed across her face and she sighed. “Look, talk to the insurance company,” she said, gesturing with both hands. “I didn’t kill Margo. She hired me to disable the security system and steal the Weston drawing.”

19

For a moment there was silence; then Marcus said, “Rena Adler, you have the right to remain silent. Do you understand?”

Rena set down the tape dispenser and folded her arms over her chest. “Yes.”

He continued reading her the rest of her rights. When he finished she nodded. “I understand, Detective. But I don’t need a lawyer. Go ahead and ask your questions.”

I touched her arm. “Rena, are you sure about that?” I asked.

“I’m sure,” she said. Her gaze never left Marcus’s face.

“What did you do with the artwork?” he asked.

“Nothing. When I got here the security system was already turned off and the drawing wasn’t in the display case.”

“Let me get this straight; Margo Walsh hired you to steal the Weston drawing, but when you broke in it was already gone?” Marcus didn’t try to hide the skepticism in his voice.

“Yes. She wanted to prove that the security system wasn’t enough to protect the artwork so the tour would be canceled.”

Rena turned her head to look at me then. “The first meeting we all had with Margo.” She pointed across the library to one of our meeting rooms. “You were there, Kathleen. You heard what she said about the pieces belonging in a museum.”

I glanced at Marcus and nodded. “Margo thought the artwork was too old and too fragile to be out of a controlled setting.” I turned to Rena. “I don’t understand; you said your name isn’t Devin Rossi.”

“My real name isn’t Devin Rossi,” she said. “My real name is Rena Adler, and, yes, it’s a variation on Irene Adler, but I’m guessing you already figured that out. My father was a mystery lover. I got the name Devin Rossi from a movie.”

So even though Rena’s name had made me think she might be Devin Rossi, I was wrong about which of her names was a fake.

“Can you prove Margo hired you to break in to the library?” Marcus asked Rena.

“You mean did I sign a contract or write a receipt? No.” There was nothing defensive in her body language, but there was an edge of sarcasm in her voice. If anything she looked . . . angry. “Talk to the insurance company. They were involved in this.”

“I already have talked to them. They didn’t say anything about some plan to test the security system.”