She walked into the room where he did his framing. Classical music played through speakers in the ceiling. There were numerous frame samples stuck by Velcro to fabric-covered walls. A wide, square worktable filled the room’s center. Did the fact that the music was on mean that Fernando would be back soon?
After a few moments, she cut behind the framing table and walked down a short hallway. She stopped in front of the heavy door to what he always referred to as his inner sanctum. She knew that the door was made of steel; it was alarmed and triple locked because of the valuable works in his studio. There was an intercom off to the side; she pressed the buzzer and waited.
It took so long, she was beginning to think that in spite of his van being in the driveway, he wasn’t there. She thought about Maeve, and panic filled her chest—she needed answers. She was about to leave, when the heavy door finally opened.
“Kate,” Fernando said. “Didn’t you get my email? I haven’t started working on the painting yet. But come in.” He stood aside to let her pass.
“That’s not why I’m here,” she said. “I called and texted you—”
“Sorry, I’ve been in a meeting and had my phone off. What’s up?”
“You said that Maeve dropped off the painting,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “I have it in back.”
“Are you sure it was Maeve?”
He looked confused. “Of course. Who else would it be?”
“Fernando—have you met her before?”
“No,” he said. “This was the first time. I knew that other assistant of yours, a couple years back. I forget her name ...”
“What did the woman who dropped it off today look like?” Kate asked.
“Dark-blond hair, blue eyes. Blue—kind of turquoise—nail polish,” he said.
“Suzanne,” Kate said, feeling a chill ripple across her skin. “That was Suzanne. It wasn’t Maeve.”
“Who is Suzanne?” Fernando asked.
Kate was shaking. “I need to see the painting.”
Fernando nodded. He gestured for her to follow him through a library with shelves overflowing with art books, into the intimate chamber where he did his restoration work. He took very few clients, so the space was small. It was filled with the tools and paints he needed to do his meticulous repairs. He stored finished work in archival boxes, but the ones yet to be restored were upright in racks in a large walk-in closet.
There were no windows, which kept the overall light dim, to not damage fragile works on paper, using only a spotlight to focus on torn or stained canvases. Kate’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark, and she felt startled to see a man standing in the shadows. When he stepped forward, she saw who it was—Crispin Adams, her friend and one of her biggest collectors.
“Good to see you, Kate,” he said.
“Crispin, hello,” she said.
“I’m here to drop a painting with our esteemed friend,” Crispin said, smiling toward Fernando. “I have an Allen Butler Talcott landscape—a beauty of a crescent moon setting over the Connecticut River—that was apparently stored in a barn. The canvas is mildewed.”
“The damage isn’t too terrible,” Fernando began.
“But I couldn’t help hearing you asking about Maeve,” Crispin said, talking over Fernando. “I know that Lincoln is very concerned about her. Any word?”
“No, not at all. I was hoping she was the one to deliverFoggy Nightto Fernando, but it was someone else.”
“How odd,” Crispin said.
“Fernando, you were going to show me the painting,” Kate said.
Fernando went into the storage closet and came back with the James Suydam oil. He laidFoggy Nightcarefully on the oak table in the room’s center. Kate looked at the heartbreakingly broken gilt frame, the ragged tear in the canvas.
At first glance, the painting looked as it had right after the incident at the rehearsal dinner. But when she leaned closer, she saw that someone had scratched a crude circle into the paint, ringing the moon just above the lighthouse.
“That wasn’t there,” she said, pointing at the circle.
