Софи Келли - Faux Paw

“Rebecca, do you think either one of them could have been involved in what happened at the library?” I said.

She sighed softly. “I hate to think it, Kathleen,” she said. “But, yes, it’s possible. Clara told me that both Marshall and Diana are having some—as she put it—cash-flow problems.”

“They’re broke,” I said, stretching sideways and snagging the handle of the coffeepot with two fingers.

“As the proverbial church mouse,” Rebecca countered. “The business and the foundation are doing quite well, but both children have been living way beyond their means for some time.”

“I just have one more question,” I said. “Did your friend happen to mention who did the appraisal of the Weston drawing?” Mentally, I crossed my fingers, remembering Lise’s comment about Edward Mato and the Weston drawing: “I think he actually might have appraised it at some point.”

“I think she said his last name was Mato. I’m sorry. I don’t remember his first name. I’m not sure Clara even said.”

I did a little fist pump in the air. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Thank you for doing all this for me.”

“Oh, my dear, you’re very welcome,” Rebecca said. “I quite enjoyed it. I think I would have made a very good spy.”

I laughed. “I think you would, too. I’m glad we’re on the same side.”

Rebecca laughed and promised she’d be over soon for tea, and we said good-bye.

I got up and stretched. I didn’t have anything I could really share with Marcus, but I felt confident I was on the right track.

I looked at my watch. Lise should be in her office in Boston. I punched in her number.

“Hey, Kath, what’s up?” she said when she answered.

“I need your help with something,” I said.

“Name it. It’s yours.”

“Your friend, Edward Mato. Do you think he’d talk to me?”

“I don’t see why not,” she said. “Are you looking for more information about that missing drawing?”

“I have a couple of questions about its history,” I said.

“Let me call him and see what he says. Is it okay if I give him your number?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll see if I can track him down.”

“I owe you,” I said.

“Umm, I know,” she said with a laugh. “I’ll put it on your tab.”

I knew it could be hours or days before I heard from Edward Mato, if he even agreed at all to talk to me about the Weston drawing, so I was surprised when my phone rang about ten minutes later and it was him.

Edward Mato had a smooth, deep voice and a slightly formal manner of speaking.

“Lise told me it was your library that Below the Falls was stolen from,” he said.

“ Below the Falls , that’s the name of the Weston drawing?” I said. I hadn’t heard the drawing called by that name.

“That’s the title the artist gave it, yes.”

“Mr. Mato, you appraised that drawing for Charles Holmes before he died. If it turns out that it was actually the work of his first wife, what would that do to its value?”

“Please, call me Edward,” he said.

“I will,” I said. “If you’ll call me Kathleen.”

“You’ve heard the rumors about the drawing’s origins, then, Kathleen,” Edward Mato said, phrasing the sentence as a statement, not a question.

“Yes, I have. And I know it’s not the only piece by Weston that’s in question.”

“You do your homework.” I thought I heard a note of approval in his voice.

“I like to know what I’m talking about, where I can,” I said.

“Even without incontrovertible proof, a collector could conceivably be willing to pay two, two and a half million dollars for Below the Falls .”

Two and a half million dollars. Two and a half million reasons to steal the drawing and replace it with a fake. Two and a half million reasons to kill Margo Walsh.

“You told Charles Holmes that you believed his drawing hadn’t been done by Sam Weston.”

“That’s correct. Based on my knowledge of Native American art and techniques from that time period as well as what I know about Weston’s work, I told Mr. Holmes I believed Below the Falls was created by his first wife, not Weston himself.”

“You said Below the Falls is the title the artist gave the drawing. You meant Stands Sacred,” I said.

“Very good,” he said. I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Would your appraisal be enough for a court to give the drawing to the Dakota Sioux people? I know they’ve returned land and other property based on treaty agreements.”

“It’s possible,” he said. “I’ve been an expert witness twice in legal actions.”

So if someone was going to sell Below the Falls to a collector, now was the time.

I thanked Edward Mato for his time and ended the call.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said. There were no cats around and I felt a little silly just talking to myself.

So if Marshall and Diana Holmes were both having financial problems and they were co-owners of a drawing worth more than two million dollars, did it mean that one of them was involved in Margo’s murder?

I walked outside and sat on the steps, hoping that somehow the fresh air would clear my head. I saw movement at the edge of the grass where my yard joined Rebecca’s. Owen came stalking across the lawn. He climbed the steps and sat down beside me. There was a scrap of newspaper hanging cock-eyed from one of his ears.

I snagged the bit of paper and held it up. “Stay out of Rebecca’s recycling bin,” I said, glaring at him.

“Murp,” Owen said.

“You think I don’t know you’re over there all the time,” I said, setting the corner of newsprint on my leg and smoothing it flat with a finger. “You pretend you’re over there to do rodent patrol when really you’re just nosy. It’s classic misdirection.”

He looked at me unblinkingly. Then he lifted a paw and nonchalantly began washing his face.

“Misdirection,” I repeated slowly. Maybe it was the fresh air. Or Owen’s penchant for rooting around in Rebecca’s recycling bin. Or maybe my little gray cells had finally put the pieces together.

22

I called Maggie, and when I explained what I was thinking, she gave me Rena’s phone number. It was looking like she would be able to make a plea deal with respect to the charges against her.

I wasn’t even sure Rena would answer her phone when she saw it was me calling—after all, I had been part of that ambush at the library—but she did pick up on the fifth ring.

“I have one question I’m hoping you’ll answer for me,” I said.

“I’ve already answered a lot more than that for the police,” she said.

I wasn’t exactly surprised by her reaction. She had no reason to help me. “Fair enough,” I said. “I still have your paintings in my office. I can give them to Maggie if that’s better for you.”

There was silence for a moment; then she said, “If I answer your question, will it help catch the person who killed Margo?”

“It might.”

“What is it?”

“Did you and Margo ever talk face-to-face about stealing the drawing?”

“No,” Rena said. “We were never alone face-to-face. All of our conversations were either by e-mail or cell phone. She called herself Madame X.”

“How did you know it was Margo, then?”

“I didn’t at first. But I knew her voice sounded familiar the first time we all met at the library; that and the last-minute invitation to be part of the exhibit are what twigged for me.”

I was on the right track. “Thank you,” I said.

“That’s it?” Rena asked. “That’s going to help somehow?”