“I don’t.” She sighed. “These things are complicated, and we always only know our own version, our own motivations.”
“It’s pretty clear-cut. Either he helped you, you forced him, or you played him.”
“I do not need to force people, Dr.Blackwell. You’re just looking for a reason to forgive him because you believe we’ve been in—what’s the word—cahoots, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Even if I told you he helped me—no force, no tricks—you’d still be missing the most important piece.”
“And that is?”
“Motivation! Isn’t that what’s needed to solve a crime? If not, Agatha Christie has steered me wrong.”
Penelope pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t see how that changes anything.”
“Oh, my darling, it changeseverything. But perhaps you’re too young to understand, or life has treated you too kindly for you to grasp the truth.”
“I won’t get a straight answer, will I?”
“You’re not talking to the right person. Have a wonderful day, my friend.”
The line went dead.
“I’m not your friend,” Penelope muttered, drumming her fingers against her thigh.
She hadn’t gotten the truth about her father, not really, but she was certain of one thing: Valentina knew.
And now Penelope had to decide how to best warn Francesca.
First things first—instead of risking heat stroke by going on another run, she went back to her usual method of distraction: research.
This time, she combed through donation records both from The Met and Belgrave’s own PR material for the time frame of her father’s tenure.
After half an hour of a big, fat nothing, she spotted a familiar name: Barry Whitfield. Apparently, he wasn’t just a registrar but also acted as a consultant on theBone Harp, a painting that was later quietly deaccessioned.
“Why would they pull it from the museum catalog without announcement?”
It happened sometimes, but usually with smaller, less recognizable pieces—so as to not upset donors—a scenario currently playing out at the Meridian with theMadonnaand Ms.Lewis.
Back to INTERMUSE, and no,The Bone Harpwasn’t a forgery—the style, materials, and technique matched other verified works by Eliza Greer.
Still, the provenance of the painting looked questionable, although that might just mean it was stolen and traded on the arts black market at some point.
The issue she stumbled on an hour later? The donor was a shell company tied indirectly to Belgrave. When she leafed through her father’s notes, she found some of his more cryptic entries, and next to one, in a faded pencil script, it read:Lewis pushing too soon. Not ready.
Her fingers tightened around the page. Nausea clawed at her stomach, and she forced herself to take several long, deep breaths.
She flipped the page. On the back was a number—just that. No label, no explanation. She picked up her phone and dialed it before she could second-guess the impulse.
Disconnected.
Of course.
She sat back in her chair, the folder still open on her lap, and closed her eyes.
Maybe she wasn’t out. Not entirely. Not if this led somewhere.
Not if it could hurt Lucia.
