A Fine Imitation Read Online Free PDF Page B

Where would she like it delivered?”
    Vera glanced at the painting again, then started for the door back to the gallery. “Thank you for showing me. I’ll tell her I saw it.”
    He blocked her path. “But what did you think?”
    “Excuse me?”
    Fleming looked at her over his glasses. “I need to know if she wants to buy. This is a very special piece. I have a number of potential buyers lined up. If she wants the painting, she’ll have to jump.”
    She shook her head. “I have to say no. I don’t think my mother will be buying. Sorry to have wasted your time.”
    “But why not?”
    Vera cleared her throat, unwilling to have this discussion. “Surely you know.”
    “I promise you, Mrs. Bellington, my consultant in Paris would know if this wasn’t the real McCoy. He’s an expert.” Fleming extended a hand back toward the front room. “Would you like to see the letter from the gentleman who sold it to me? The Duke of Aarschot, he has such a good eye. Fascinating man. Knows more about Vermeer than Vermeer’s wife did, I’d wager.”
    She smiled, cold and tight. “And I can assure you, I know a few things myself. So sorry, I really must go. I’m late for an engagement.”
    He made a few false starts, then let out a sigh of genuine pain. “Okay. But she’s missing out.”
    “I’m sure one of your other buyers will be delighted to take her place.” Vera turned for the door. “Good-bye, Mr. Fleming.”
    When she walked out onto the sidewalk, she found her car idling at the curb. The driver held the door open for her, and she got in, relieved to have left without seeing Fleming’s secretary again. She pushed the woman from her mind to concentrate on what had bothered her about the painting.
    Once she was alone with her thoughts, the error was immediately clear. Though almost every detail was immaculate, down to the choice of scene and subtle flecks of color in the shadows, the blue was wrong. Vermeer’s blues were deep and bold, and had a quality that could be detected even after centuries of fading or mishandling. This blue was too high, too light. A robin’s-egg blue, not cobalt, and it could not be attributed to anything natural like sun damage. The painting had been aged to perfection, so it did not look new, and the difference was subtle enough to fool a less trained eye. Most of Fleming’s customers likely only cared that the art they bought matched the drapes in the sitting room and sounded impressive. And the forgery was pristine, done by someone with deep knowledge. Even a gallery owner could be forgiven for missing the error, especially since Vermeer himself was such a mystery. She would be hard-pressed to prove the painting was a forgery, so the thought of reporting it to anyone made no sense. Someone would no doubt be made very happy by the painting, no matter what its origin.
    Once she had settled the matter of the painting, the face of the woman at the desk intruded on Vera’s thoughts once more. She recognized her instantly, of course, as she had the other times she had spotted her around the city. Once at a museum, once at a restaurant. Most recently she had been at an auction, clinging to the arm of a well-dressed gentleman twice her age. The brief conversation in the gallery had been the first time she and Vera had so much as acknowledged each other in all those coincidental meetings, however. Their polite back-and-forth at Fleming’s had finally allowed Vera to get a good look, to see that her hair was still as black as Vera’s, her eyes still a vibrant blue. But some of the pink had faded from her cheeks, and time had chilled her warm demeanor.
    Vera had honestly not expected to have any occasion to exchange words with her again. Not with Bea Stillman. Not after the heartbreak that had passed between them on that cold November weekend so many years ago.

Vera crossed the quad, the early fall air tempting her nose with the smell of leaves and smoke. She mentally rehearsed the terms