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“Yes. Sacred art in particular.”
“Then he should take a look at the triptych in my office. I bought it in Greece a few years ago. The dealer swore it’s antique, but Julianne has her doubts.”
“Is Daniel also in the medical field?” Julianne asked.
“No,” said Maura.
There was a conversational pause, during which it would have been natural for her to fill in the blank, to answer Julianne’s unspoken question, a question she always dreaded hearing:What is Daniel’s job?The truth was too complicated and it invariably raised eyebrows, so she deftly pivoted toward the glass-fronted cabinet of violins.
“Tell me the story about these instruments, Mike,” she said. “How did you end up with five violins?”
“The truth?” Antrim laughed. “I keep buying them because I think one of these days I’llfinallyfind one that makes me sound like Heifetz. Instead I sound equally bad on all of them.”
“At least you can play an instrument,” said Julianne. “I can’t even read music.” She looked around at their guests. “All these talented doctors! I feel like an underachiever in this room.”
Antrim wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist. “Ah, but you cook like an angel.”
“If angels could cook.”
“That’s how we met, did you know that? Julianne managed the little café across from the hospital. I used to drop in there every day, to order lunch and to chat up this pretty gal.”
“Turkey-and-bacon sandwich with a double cappuccino,” said Julianne. “He ordered the same lunch every day.”
“You see?” Antrim laughed. “How could I resist a woman who knows her way to a man’s stomach?”
“Speaking of which, we should refill those trays. I’ve got more crab cakes warming in the oven.”
As the Antrims headed off to the kitchen, Maura looked around for Daniel, and when she didn’t see him, she crossed the room to the painting where he and Amy had last been standing. She could see why he’d been so interested in it. It was a cubist image of Madonna and child, rendered in blocky oranges and reds. A stark departure from the sacred paintings Daniel was so fond of, even if it featured the same beloved icons.
Faintly she heard his voice and she followed the sound into the hallway, where he and Amy were standing before a black-and-white photograph.
“Maura, come look at this,” said Daniel. “It’s the Piazza San Marco as most people have never seen it. Deserted!”
“I woke up at foura.m.to take that shot,” said Amy. “It was the only time tourists weren’t mobbing it.”
“You took the photo, Amy?” asked Maura.
“We were in Venice for my sixteenth birthday.” She smiled at the image. “That’s the trip that made me love art history. I can’t wait to go back to Italy. Dad says next time, we’ll visit the Uffizi Gallery. I wrote my senior thesis about a painting there, and I’ve never seen it in person.”
“Your dad said there’s a triptych in his study that Daniel might like to see.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea. Mom thinks it’s a fake. Maybe Daniel can tell if it’s real or not.”
Amy led them down the hallway and flicked on the light. It took only a glance to see that this study belonged to a doctor. The bookcase was filled with many of the same medical texts that Maura had in her own home office: Harrison’s and Schwartz, Sabiston and Zollinger. The volumes flanked a framed photo of Mike and Julianne in their wedding finery, with little Amy standing between them. She looked about ten years old, a fairy princess with a crown of roses on her short black hair.
“Here’s the notorious triptych,” said Amy, pointing to the painting on the wall. “Mom thinks Dad got ripped off, but the antique dealer in Athens swore it’s a hundred years old. What do you think, Daniel?”
“I’m not expert enough to speak to its age or authenticity,” said Daniel, bending in close to examine it. “But I can identify these saints. They’re iconic figures in the Greek Orthodox church. The female at the center is Theotokos, whom we know as Mary, mother of Jesus. On the left panel, that’s clearly John the Baptist. And on the right panel, based on the design of his robe and collar, it would have to be Saint Nicholas.”
“The Bishop of Myra,” said Amy.
Daniel smiled. “Not everyone knows that the real Santa Claus was Turkish.” He pointed to the bottom corner. “There’s a fragment of text here. Maura, come take a look. You know a little Greek, maybe you can read this.”
Maura moved in for a closer look. “It’s so small. I need a magnifying glass.”
“My dad has one here somewhere,” said Amy, and she turned to the desk. “I think he keeps it in the top—”
Maura heard a loud gasp and turned. Amy stood frozen, her hand pressed to her mouth, staring through the window.
