acquaintance, and I knew they’d often shared confidences. “Speaking of treasures, you remember my little casket, the one Samuel gave me on my birthday?”
“Of course. You played with it so many times.”
“Samuel once said it was part of my inheritance. But I’ve gotten to thinking. Is there anything else? Did he talk to you about my parents? Are there any photos I didn’t see? Letters? Anything like that?”
“There is nothing else.”
“It’s just, I’ve started to question … to wonder about my past in Turkey.”
In what seemed like an unconscious gesture, she rubbed her hand over her heart. “When I first came to this country I told myself, ‘You have a new chance. If you keep remembering bad things about the past they will become like demons flying around inside you. Forget them.’ That’s what I did. Don’t bring trouble to yourself by asking about these things, John. It will not help you.” She’d kept her eyes averted from me as she spoke, which was quite unlike her. Perhaps another time, if there was anything to reveal, I’d find her more forthcoming.
We talked for a while longer but she started to fade. I got her settled in for the night, dismayed to see the little huffs of breath she let out with the pain of moving off her wheelchair and getting into bed. I gave her a kiss on the forehead and said goodnight.
A few days later we visited Samuel’s grave together. The balance had shifted. The appeal of the bad-boy image had faded for me, and Samuel’s saintly aura had been modified by the very real repercussions of the disaster he’d set in motion. I was thankful for this reunion with him and for the restoration of good memories, untarnished by guilt.
I rented a small apartment in Astoria and tried to revive my business. I had limited success because the aftermath of the accident still clung to me. Once innuendo stakes out its territory, it isn’t readily vanquished by facts. Commissions dribbled in, but not fast enough. So much of the business is social. Hosting gatherings, lunches at good restaurants, dressing the part. My career looked unsalvageable unless I could magically produce some cash.
One incident gave me a ray of hope. Among my large backlog of mail was a letter I’d received from a London solicitor at a prestigious Lincoln’s Inn Fields address. It came in a plain manila envelope; curious, I tore it open. Out fell an auction house catalog and a letter addressed to me on crisp white bond from the solicitor—Arthur S. Newhouse. He’d written at the behest of his client, who wanted me to represent him at a Sherrod’s auction on October 13 to bid on a seventeenth-century manuscript. When I saw the commission— 25 percent of a purchase price estimated to reach at least a hundred and fifty thousand pounds—my jaw dropped. And an advance would be given to cover expenses.
But there was a hitch. There always was with good things coming my way it seemed. Once I’d successfully bid on the manuscript, I was on no account to attempt to read it. “Apparently the document has a repellent history,” Newhouse wrote. “This requirement is for your own protection.”
The commission would put me back on my feet, no question, but I’d learned not to trust offers until I actually saw some green. Just as I was picking up my phone to contact the London office, a call came through. Corinne on the other end. And what she had to tell me drove all thoughts about strange seventeenth-century manuscripts from my mind.
Thirty-nine
The new information Corinne had gathered sent me into a frenzy of activity. All the time not spent getting my life up and running again I devoted to this new pursuit.
My endeavors bore fruit and reached their zenith on the evening of Wednesday, September 10. I walked through the doors at 8:30 P.M., a little early for the meeting I’d arranged. The gallery was empty, but I heard a rustling sound from the office adjacent to the showroom. Soon enough Phillip Anthony emerged, shutting the door behind him.
It amused me to see his shocked expression after he set eyes on me. His mouth flapped open and shut like a barn door in a spring storm. It took him a minute to find his voice.
“Why, John,” he finally got out, “how charming to see you. This is unexpected.” He snapped out of his momentary nervousness and peered at me through his thick glasses. “What’s happened to your face? It looks like you’ve been losing at boxing matches, you poor fellow.”
“I’ve been traveling a lot, Phillip, over some rough terrain.”
“Pick up any goodies? I’m always in the market, as you know.”
“Nothing that would interest you.”
He feigned disappointment. “The rumor mill suggests you’ve met with some hard times. This business can be flighty, like women. You think you have things in hand and they end up deserting you.” He paused to give me time to fully appreciate his wit.
“I’ll manage. Thanks for your sympathy anyway.”
“I know this is a delicate matter, but if you’re inclined to dispose of anything from Samuel’s collection, I’d like to be helpful.”
“Actually I’m doing everything possible to keep his collection intact. That’s what Samuel would have wanted.”
He mistook my words. “Ah, the entire body of work. Well, we’d have to consider a lower sum for that kind of volume.”
“Phillip, I have no intention of selling it.”
With an exaggerated flourish he stretched out his thin arm to look at his watch. His shirt cuff rode up, exposing liver spots and gray hairs sprouting on fish belly–white skin. “I’d love to have a good long chat, but I’m expecting a client. He’ll be arriving any minute.”
“I’m your client, Phillip.”
A frown creased his brows and high, shiny forehead. “I thought you just turned me down.”
“What I meant was, I arranged the meeting. The name was Bernard White, I believe.”
“He’s supposed to authenticate an object for a buyer. How do you know that? Are you representing the buyer?”
“There is no Bernard White. A bit of witchcraft on my part. I made the whole thing up.”
He dropped the phony patter. “You bastard. I delayed two other bidders because I thought your phantom client would give us a better price. You’ve wasted my valuable time. Get out of here.” I suppose that was the moment my impression of the man underwent a permanent change. A kind of instant shift, the way the sun at dawn will suddenly pop over the horizon, revealing the landscape as it really is. The dilettante disappeared; inside lurked another personality. I recognized him in a few of the wealthiest collectors who’d crossed my path. Men, always. A ruthlessness at their core.
I started walking toward his office. “Why don’t we go into your office for that long chat?”
“I see no need for that.” With undignified haste he hurried toward the door and stood in front of me, arms folded, like a bull terrier guarding its bone.
“I know she’s in there, Phillip. I’ve been waiting across the street for over an hour. I saw her come in.”
“That’s none of your business, John.”
The door creaked open. Phillip glanced anxiously behind him then stepped aside. Laurel entered the room. “Don’t be silly, Phillip. He obviously knows.” There was a hint of tension around her eyes, but that was the only sign of stress. She’d dropped her hippie look and now resembled an Upper East Side matron—expensive fitted jacket, pencil skirt that stopped just short of her knees, Christian Louboutin pumps. A choker of opals and small rose-cut diamonds hugged her throat.
A burst of rage at seeing her nearly got the best of me, but I held it in and tried to concentrate on my end goal.
“Who would have thought, Laurel, your new career choice would be major crime?”
Phillip, ever the gallant, jumped in to defend her. “I don’t think sarcasm is called for. You can leave now.”
