THURSDAY, DECEMBER 31, 1925
Does this remind you of your homeland, Detective Caravello?”
Joe stuffed down a chuckle and smiled at Agnes DeVries. “Manhattan is my homeland, ma’am. Born and raised here. But this is nice. I like it.” At the rear of one of the Hotel Astor lobbies, The Palm Café was designed as an Italian garden. Twenty-two feet above them, the ceiling had been painted Mediterranean sky–blue, and it was partially obscured by vine-covered pergolas. Violet light spilled from hanging lamps.
“But where were yourpeoplefrom?” Mrs. DeVries pressed. Behind her, a fern basket dangled, and Italian landscape prints covered the walls.
“Union Square.” When he saw that wasn’t going to satisfy her, he smiled again and told her what she wanted to know. “My mother’s family is German. My father’s came from the north of Italy, long before immigration waves from poverty-stricken southern Italy and Sicily poured into New York. We’ve been here four generations.”
“Thenorthof Italy,” she repeated approvingly. “There’s so much culture there! Florence, Venice, Rome!”
Actually, Rome was in the middle of Italy, but Joe wasn’t about to correct her.
Lauren sent him a knowing smile as Mrs. DeVries launched intoa detailed account of who she’d seen over the holidays and what they wore. At the mention of clothes, Joe fought the urge to pull his collar away from his neck. He’d hoped that since he’d finally bought his own tuxedo, cut to his own measurements, he wouldn’t feel so confined. It was better than that borrowed penguin suit he’d been forced to wear for the gala but still uncomfortable.
Lauren, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease and stunning in a black-and-gold number that didn’t hide the fact that she had a waist, not to mention other curves. He couldn’t understand the current fad among young women these days. Why were dresses that looked like rectangles so popular?
He shouldn’t be thinking about Lauren’s figure right now, not with her father sitting right there beside her. Or how good she smelled. He definitely shouldn’t think of how comforting it had been to see her at the end of a long and terrible day. Or daydream about making that a permanent arrangement so that he wouldn’t need to leave her after saying good-night.
She caught him watching her and smiled before returning her attention to Mrs. DeVries, while Dr. DeVries monopolized the men’s side of the table.
Stifling a sigh, Joe added cream to his cup and stirred until his coffee was the right shade of brown.Be polite, he reminded himself, though he was nearly bored out of his mind.
Nearby, water rippled softly from an imported fountain. With his shoe, Joe nudged the box holding the fake horse and rider, deliberately bumping it into Lauren’s foot. He was here for answers, and so far, he wasn’t getting them.“Wait until after the meal,”Lauren had warned him upon his arrival,“or we’ll all have indigestion.”
“Look at what Daniel gave me for Christmas,” Mrs. DeVries was saying. Then she opened the locket she wore, revealing two small portraits, one of herself and one of her husband. “Would you believe he painted these himself?”
“But they’re so small!” Lauren gasped. “We have a collection ofminiatures like this at the Met. They’re astonishing, painted with one horsehair at a time.”
“That’s how I did it, too.” Dr. DeVries squared his shoulders. “It’s all about using the right tools to achieve the desired effect.”
“Here, Detective, you must take a look.” Her voice dripping with pride, Mrs. DeVries unclasped the locket and passed it across the table to him.
Joe almost couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “This detail is incredible,” he admitted. It looked as though a life-sized portrait was simply shrunk down to fit this locket, while retaining every brushstroke. He handed it back. “You’re very talented, Dr. DeVries.”
“Oh.” He shook his head a little. “I dabble.”
“He’s being modest.” Mrs. DeVries refastened the locket. “He’s a surgeon, and a right fine one, too. But sometimes I think he missed his calling, although his patients are better off for it.”
“So are you, dear,” he added.
Finally, this was getting interesting. “How’s that?” Joe prodded.
“Oh, let’s not get started on that old tale, shall we?” Lawrence said with a familiarity that attested to years of friendship. “We’ll bore the young people silly.”
“When we first met, he was an art student in Florence,” Mrs. DeVries said, ignoring Lawrence.
“And then I came to my senses, lucky for you, since my paintings would have never afforded you the lifestyle to which you’ve grown accustomed.”
“And how would you have known that way back then?” she asked.
“Let’s just say your ‘trappings’ while you were on your grand tour made an indelible impression.”
“It was the Gilded Age, after all,” Mrs. DeVries insisted. Diamonds sparkled in her hair combs. “Besides, it isn’t fair to place demands on art, anyhow, is it? Isn’t that what you always say? Art isn’t cranked out in a factory to pay the bills. We can’t all be Vermeer.”
“Not even Vermeer himself,” Lauren interjected. “That is, he was recognized as a master painter and the head of his painter’sguild, but his art was even more broadly celebrated and valued after his death.”
“And now the Met pays untold sums for his canvases.” Lawrence’s voice pitched higher. The look he directed at Lauren was that of one demanding a confirmation, even though she had nothing to do with European paintings. “Right?”
