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He caught her wry chuckle. “Seeing as I’m the one who rented it out to her—yes.” There was a pause. “My lunch break is in two hours. Can you meet me here at the museum? In the Japanese garden, near the fountain?”
Gary scribbled a note. “We can do that. And thank you, Lori.”
Another chuckle. “Thank you. With one phone call, you restored my belief in miracles.”
GARY ANDDan strolled into the Japanese garden. Here and there, people sat on benches, eating or drinking from plastic bottles or insulated mugs. Gary followed the sound of trickling water, and they found a small fountain, a bench to one side of it. As they drew closer, a woman, approximately in her midfifties, rose to greet them.
“Detective Mitchell?” She smiled. “I’m Lori Dettweiler.” Her shoulder-length blond hair was shot through with streaks of silver, and the contrast with her green eyes made her appearance striking.
Gary introduced Dan, and the three sat.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with us,” Gary began.
Lori waved her hand. “I come here every day.” She gave Dan a frank stare. “You’re the psychic who helped the police catch that serial killer this summer, aren’t you?”
Dan nodded. “And now I’m working with the police to solve cold cases.”
She arched her eyebrows. “And you’re investigating Cheryl’s death.” She straightened. “What do you want to know?”
Gary removed his notepad from his pocket. “When did you first meet Cheryl?”
“In 1982. She’d have been eighteen years old at the time, about to go to college.”
“So before she transitioned?” Dan asked.
“Yes. At that time, I worked as an art conservationist at the Boston Athenaeum, and Cheryl was a frequent visitor. She used to sit in front of the paintings for hours, studying the artist’s brushwork, use of color. She’d bring an easel sometimes and paint from them. It was obvious from the start she had enormous talent.” Lori frowned. “Then I didn’t see her for a few years. I thought she’d left Boston.” She bit her lip. “I have to admit I was shocked when she turned up one summer. It must have been… 1985, maybe? Yes, of course it was. That was the summer she started working at the Athenaeum. Anyway… gone was the gawky, awkward young man, and in his place?” Lori smiled. “She was growing her hair, and she wore a cream dress, a summery, flowing sort of garment. She wore a little makeup too, but to be honest, she could have gotten away without it. What a transformation.” Lori’s face glowed. “But it was the way she carried herself, the air of confidence that had been sadly lacking before, that made the biggest impression.”
“Did she resume her painting sessions at the Athenaeum?” Gary inquired.
“No, because by then she’d started painting portraits, and myGod, they were amazing. I was in awe of her talent. So young, so much promise….” She swallowed.
“Did you work together?” Dan asked.
Lori nodded. “We were in the same department. She was a joy to work with. Now and then we’d meet up during the lunch break, and she’d show me photos of what she was working on. She used to take Polaroids of all her paintings.” She paused. “Then one day in 1987—it was the summer, June, I think—she met up with me during the lunch break as usual, but something was different.” Lori smiled. “She was bubbling with excitement.”
Saturday, June 20, 1987
LORI COULDN’Thelp but smile. Cheryl’s effervescence was infectious. “What’s gotten into you? Have you finished that portrait you showed me last week?”
“I need a place to paint,” she blurted, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed.
Lori frowned. “But… youhavea place. Haven’t you been working at your dad’s cottage?”
Cheryl’s eyes widened. “No. I can’t do this there. Dad can’t know about this.”
“Know about what?” Lori placed her sandwich on the bench beside her and gave Cheryl her full attention. “Talk to me, please. You’re not making any sense.”
Cheryl took a deep breath, then fished a folded sheet out of her purse. She handed it to Lori, who opened it. It was a computer printout of a painting that she recognized instantly.
“Okay. It’s a Vermeer. Why has this got you so excited?” It was of a young woman seated at a virginal, her gaze fixed on the artist painting her.
That sparkle hadn’t left Cheryl’s eyes. “This belongs to a friend of mine.”
Lori blinked. “You have a friend who owns aVermeer? Girl, you are clearly moving in more exalted circles than I’d ever imagined.”
“That’s not the best part.” Cheryl’s face glowed. “He’s asked me to do a copy of it.”
Lori frowned. “This friend of yours…. How good a friend can he be if he’s asking you to do a forgery?”
