Ivy reached out to touch the painting to make sure it was real, and yet, even as her fingers neared the crackled oil paint, she drew back, unable to touch the revered work. Her heart pounded, and she pressed a hand against her chest.
She slid out another painting. A towering charge of three—no, maybe four—vibrant cobalt blue horses seemed to come alive on the canvas. The fine hairs on her arms bristled as she recalled a lecture one of her professors had once given. Could this be the painting they had studied? Franz Marc was the artist, she recalled. But there was something else about it…something important…
Trying not to hyperventilate, she found her voice and called out. “Shelly, come quickly. You need to see this.”
Dusting her hands on her jeans, Shelly made her way through the canvas-covered furnishings. “What is it?”
Awe-stricken, Ivy stepped back from the painting. “I think these are the paintings Amelia was concerned about. Look at this one…expressionism, that one, Fauvism, and here—” She touched the edge of another one. “An abstract.”
Suddenly, Ivy remembered what her professor had said. The painting had disappeared.
“These must be worth a fortune,” Shelly said with awe.
“No, priceless.” Ivy’s head swam as details of the story came back to her.
“What do you think we could get for these?”
“No, you don’t understand.” As it dawned on Ivy why these paintings might be here, Ivy felt sick to her stomach. She pointed to the horses. “That one was stolen during the Second World War.” She pointed to the first one she’d uncovered. “And that one, too, I think. Maybe all of them.”
Shelly let out a whistle. “Then what are they doing here?”
“Amelia Erickson was an art collector,” Ivy said, although that didn’t really explain anything.
“We have to find out more about this art,” Shelly said. “Wasn’t there a movie about something like this?”
“Monuments Men. That was based on actual events.” Glancing around, Ivy noticed another crate. “A group of American and British museum directors, art historians, and curators were organized into a special force to find and save art treasures after WWII.”
“Why not Monuments Women?”
Ivy let out a sigh. “Actually, there were hundreds of men and women involved in the effort. They still have an organization.” She touched Shelly’s arm. “This is serious. The provenance of all these must be established.”
“There must be fifty paintings here.” Shelly lifted a canvas from another painting. “These are remarkable. Could they be forgeries?”
“It’s possible,” Ivy said. “I’m no expert on forgeries, but the artists—or artist—behind these works was a master.” She spied another old cabinet nearby. “Look. A flat file case.”
She slid open each drawer one at a time. Inside were unframed canvases. Her head was spinning at the thought of what this artwork represented.
“Something doesn’t make sense,” Ivy said, frowning. “Maybe Amelia Erickson was safeguarding these from the threat of war here.”
Shelly’s lips curved into a smirk. “Or maybe she had a greedy, avaricious appetite for art—wherever it came from—and a disregard for ownership.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. We have to sort this out.” Ivy chewed her lip, thinking about the letter they’d found. “These might be the paintings Amelia was so worried about.”
With solemn faces, Ivy and Shelly covered the magnificent paintings and returned them to their original resting places.
Ivy looked up at the gaping opening at the top of the stair. “We have to secure this room.”
“Mitch offered last night,” Shelly said. “Seems the fewer people who know about this right now, the better.”
“Good idea. Give him a call.”
“Do we need to report this to the police?”
“I think we have to. But dispatch might think it was a prank call.” Ivy slid a hand over her forehead. “I’ll ask Bennett. As mayor, he must know the chief of police.” Bennett would be the most direct conduit.
After lunch, Mitch showed up at the front door with a toolkit at his side and supplies in his truck. Ivy held the door open for him.
“Shelly called. Said you need help with that gaping hole.”
“Sure appreciate it. How much do you think it might be?” He doesn’t waste any time, Ivy thought. She liked that.
“No charge.” He grinned and ran a hand over his spiky, sun-bleached hair.
“At least let me pay for supplies.”
He just shook his head. “Is Shelly around?”
“She was working in the yard when I left.” Maybe that was the reason he was refusing to take any money, but he seemed like a good guy. Quite a bit younger than Shelly, though. She hoped he wouldn’t break his heart—or Shelly’s—when he found out how much older she was. Realizing how hopeful he seemed, Ivy added, “I’ll find her.”
She didn’t have to look, though. Shelly trotted around the corner of the house.
“Hi, Mitch. Saw your truck.”
A smile that Ivy hadn’t seen on Shelly’s face in a long time lit her eyes. With her long hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing a T-shirt and cut-offs, her sister could easily pass for Mitch’s age.
Looking self-conscious, Mitch shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked on his feet. “Came by to help you clean up that mess in the kitchen. Did you guys go through the stuff downstairs?”
“A lot of it,” Shelly said. “There’s so much. It will take time to—”
Ivy shook her head and interrupted with a little wave to get Shelly’s attention, which was focused on Mitch. “I’m going to take care of that business with Bennett. See you later.”
Ivy left them and made her way to the Jeep. As she turned the ignition and steered toward City Hall, conflicted feelings swirled within her. She knew what she must do. And then there was Bennett to contend with, although last night he’d acted differently.
After arriving at City Hall, she walked inside.
Nan popped up from the reception desk. Her face flushed when she saw Ivy.
“W-welcome,” Nan stammered.
“Hi, Nan. Is Bennett—the mayor—available? I’d like to have a word with him.”
“I’ll check. Do you
