Cecile stopped, speechless before a group of paintings Ivy had placed in a prime location.
“These are my favorite artists,” Ivy said, pressing both hands to her chest. In college, she had conducted research and written papers on these women artists, among others. “They’re not as well known, but only because they were women. Just look at the artistry though.”
Touching the edges of the canvases and frames, Ivy spoke of each one in turn. The first was a sun-drenched landscape of vivid blues and greens. “Maria Caspar-Filser was a German painter who was inspired by Cézanne, Impressionism, and Expressionism. She infused her work with such wondrous light and color.”
Ivy moved beside a sketch and paused in reverence. “Here’s a sketch from Emy Roeder, a German sculptor, of a woman emerging from a bath. Much of her work was destroyed, and she suffered greatly for her art.”
A dark, unflinching face stared out at them. “This is a captivating portrait from Elfriede Lohse-Wächtler, who struggled with mental health issues. Her work was bold and unflinching. This might be a self-portrait.”
Moving on to the last one, a graceful portrait of a woman, Ivy added, “And this is from Russian-born Magda Nachman Acharya, who migrated first to Berlin and then lived out her life in India, where she became a well-respected artist. Her portraits of Indian dancers are exquisite.”
Against the incessant roar of the ocean, the small group gazed at the artworks in quiet admiration.
Shelly said, “Ivy’s right. I think these pieces, and the women’s stories, are among the most important to share because they’ve been buried so long. A new generation needs their inspiration.”
As Ivy contemplated the artwork, she thought about Amelia and wondered what she would think about this small gathering in her bedroom. She liked to think that Amelia would be relieved and satisfied that these pieces—under her stewardship for so many decades—would now be returned to their owners and shared with the world again. As these thoughts went through her mind, she had an inexplicable feeling that Amelia’s spirit was there with them and approving of their actions.
After they had all gazed their fill, Ivy said, “Glass of wine, anyone? I think we should open a bottle.”
They gathered in the kitchen, and Ivy opened a cabernet sauvignon from a Sonoma winery for her family. Cecile, Ari, and the chief politely declined.
“Maybe Gert and Gertie can offer us something to go with that,” Shelly said as she opened one of the turquoise refrigerators.
Alarm registered on Ari’s face. “Who are Gert and Gertie?” he demanded.
If Ari hadn’t gone on high alert, Ivy would have laughed. “That’s what we call our vintage refrigerators,” she said, trying to keep the humor out of her voice. “They’re real workhorses. Still running icy cold, too.”
“People name cars, so why not appliances?” Shelly brought out an assortment of cheeses and fruit and arranged it on a platter for their guests. She made coffee for those who were still on duty.
“So what do we do with the media camping on our doorstep?” Ivy asked.
“If you would like, I can talk with them—as mayor,” Bennett said. “Tell them we will have a press conference in a couple of days.”
Cecile nodded. “We’ll be finished by then.”
Bennett cast a reassuring smile toward Ivy. “That should take some of the heat off, but I can’t guarantee that the most tenacious souls won’t hang around.”
“I’ll move them off the property,” Chief Clarkson added. “No closer than the curb.”
“Thank you all,” Ivy said. She was grateful for each person in her kitchen and for the part they had played in assisting her in this unusual saga.
Shelly beamed and gestured. “You know, the media is right outside. If only we could announce the opening of our inn—”
“—iBnB,” Ivy and Bennett said, correcting her in unison. Bennett shook his head as though chagrined, though Ivy could tell he didn’t really mean it. She understood that he had to follow the city protocol.
Ivy sipped her wine and tried not to think about the media outside her door. The entire experience of finding the stolen art had been surreal, but then, everything about this house was, too. It was as if Amelia Erickson had been beckoning to her, knowing that her secret would be safe in Ivy’s hands. A shiver raced through her. What other secrets did this house contain?
Chapter 26
AS SOON AS Bennett stepped outside on the large front veranda, the media flicked on their lights and cameras. Shielding his eyes against the glare, he readied himself against an onslaught, though he was well accustomed to handling a barrage of questions.
A local writer from the Summer Beach Breeze that Bennett knew held out a mini-recorder. “Mayor Dylan, what can you tell us about the stolen art?”
A reporter holding a microphone with Los Angeles station call letters jostled the local reporter aside. Her cameraperson began to film. “Do you know who’s responsible for the theft?”
Bennett raised his hand. “Sorry, I have nothing for you tonight, folks. But I promise we’ll have a press conference in a couple of days. Let me have your cards, and I’ll make sure my office contacts each one of you and gives you an early crack at the story. Best I can do. How’s that?”
A few people grumbled, but they quickly produced their cards. He’d keep his word and make sure they all got their stories. Summer Beach was a small town news beat, so he could do that.
Behind him, one of Chief Clarkson’s officers was instructing them to move off the property and maintain a proper distance.
Summer Beach residents liked their small town atmosphere. As Bennett watched the media reporters leave, he shoved his hands into his pockets and wondered which one of their circle had divulged information on the paintings.
He didn’t
