“Too long,” Oriana agreed. “Thank goodness you were close by. You’re the master when it comes to this.”
Monica wagged her eyebrows. “Another forgery?”
“I don’t know,” Oriana said. “I’m hoping you can tell me that.”
Oriana used her key to unlock the warehouse and haul the sealed door up and out. Turning on the light, she explained the strange dynamic she had with Larry and how much she was reminded of Chris Spellman’s story from 2002. “Something about Larry’s arrogance makes me feel gross. And that’s coming from someone who’s dealt with incredibly arrogant artists over the years. Manhattan artists. London artists. You name it, I’ve heard it. Till now,” she confessed, cupping her elbows. “And I’m sure you’ve heard about his wife’s disappearance?”
“Nobody around here knows what happened to her?” Monica asked, setting a pair of spectacles on the bridge of her nose.
Oriana shook her head. “Not that I know of. And it feels like gossip like that would have gotten out. If someone had helped her escape? Someone would have said something by now. Right?”
“I agree.” Monica put on a pair of plastic gloves and bent down to unwrap the linen from the first of Larry’s new paintings. “I hate the idea of him getting away with something, even so many years after the fact.”
Oriana remained silent as Monica peeled the linen wrappings from the paintings and set them out in a line before them.
“I spent all day yesterday studying Larry’s famous paintings,” Monica explained quietly. “I studied the brushwork. I studied the color palettes. I studied the tone.” She unfurled printouts of the paintings that Oriana had already sold, including that first one of the girl on the mountaintop.
“Something about these new ones confuses me,” Oriana admitted. “Something about them feels off.”
“I know what you mean,” Monica breathed, crouching down in front of the first in the series.
Oriana thought of her other favorite artists across centuries: men and women who’d gone through many eras of their own artistry, who’d experimented with color and line and tone, who’d fought to find “truth” within themselves throughout their careers. It was certainly possible that Larry Calvin Johannes’s newest paintings were just brand-new takes on style and experimentation. It was possible that Monica would take one look at these, shrug, and say that Larry himself did them.
Monica was quiet for a long time. Oriana knew better than to interrupt her train of thought. She needed Monica to be sure about this.
If Monica said they were Larry’s paintings, Oriana wasn’t sure what she’d do. Perhaps she’d give up Larry as a client and pass this mess on to someone else. She didn’t need this tainted money so badly. She didn’t need all this chaos.
Monica turned to look up at Oriana, still crouched. Her eyes were fiery.
“These paintings were not done by the same hand,” she said firmly.
Oriana felt her heart explode with questions and fears. “You’re sure?”
Monica straightened up and put her hands on her hips. “Any art expert would say the same. Everything about the two sets of paintings is different. I mean, they’re from two very different artistic sensibilities. The paintings you’ve already sold are the works of a genius, I believe. And the paintings we see before us now? They were made by an amateur.”
Oriana felt as though she couldn’t breathe. “You’re saying the works I’ve already sold were done by someone else? Someone who isn’t Larry Calvin?”
Monica raised her shoulders. “Yes,” she said finally. “Larry Calvin Johannes is a fraud. You heard it here first from me.”
That evening, Monica, Oriana, and Reese had dinner together in the hotel room, where they could talk freely about Larry without being overheard. They ordered nearly everything off the room service menu, and Oriana and Monica poured champagne freely and excitedly. They couldn’t believe they’d caught another art fraud! Now, they had to plan what they’d do next.
“You have to be delicate with this story,” Monica warned Oriana. “You don’t want what happened to Chris to happen toyou. You have to be open and honest about what you knew and what you didn’t.”
Oriana bowed her head. “A part of me wishes I’d never seen that painting.”
“Somebody else would have bought it and brought Larry to fame,” Monica promised. “But it had to be you, because you’re the only one who’s going to bring the enormity of this story to light. I mean, come on! His wife was pregnant and went missing? He forged a number of paintings decades later. This all points to the same conclusion, doesn’t it?”
Oriana had been thinking the same, but had been too terrified to say it aloud.
“You think Henrietta painted the works Oriana has already sold,” Reese said.
Monica snapped her fingers. “It must be that, right? Think about it. Larry had his big-time art show in Boulder during the summer of 1975—right when Henrietta learned she was pregnant. Maybe she used his art show as an excuse to get away from him. Maybe she fled.”
“But why would she let her husband take her paintings and pretend that they’re his?” Reese asked.
“Plenty of men have gotten away with so much worse through the years,” Monica said, counting out the stories on her fingers. “F. Scott Fitzgerald stole his wife Zelda’s writing. Edward Hopper stole from his wife. It was the same old story, over and over again. My guess is that Henrietta didn’t know how to stop Larry from hurting her, or using her, or manipulating her. But she couldn’t stand to let him parent her child.”
Oriana’s chest felt heavy with the immensity of this story. “I hope you’re right,” she said. “I hope she really did get away.”
