The Art Whisperer (An Alix London Mystery) Read Online Free PDF

didn’t especially like his paintings, and she’d never worked on one of them. So what could she possibly “see” in Untitle d ? That worried her, made her uncertain.
    “Listen, Alix,” Clark said more seriously, “are you planning to bring this up at the staff meeting?”
    “No, I don’t think so. I want to give it some more thought before I say anything to Mrs. B. I probably shouldn’t have said anything to you yet either, but you sort of caught me thinking out loud.”
    “I’m glad to hear you say that. This painting is her pride and joy, Alix. Between you and me, I don’t think it’s one of his best works, but it’s terribly dear to her. I know she comes off as a tough old bird, but behind those hawk-like eyes she’s a pretty vulnerable old woman, and something like this would just . . . well, it’d be a hell of a blow.”
    “I know, but . . . well, don’t you think I have an obligation—”
    “I’m not sure if I see it as an obligation, but I understand where you’re coming from, and you have to do what you see as the right thing. Look, how about this: You keep thinking about it, see if you can figure out what it is that’s bothering you, and in the meantime I’ll gather up the materials we have on the painting—provenance, evaluations, forensic testing, and so on. It’s pretty weighty stuff, you’ll see. Then let’s meet again . . . today is Thursday, so give it a few days, and let’s say, oh, Tuesday, first thing in the morning, and compare notes. After that, if you still feel that Mrs. B needs to hear, then be my guest. You have my blessing.”
    “That’s fair enough. I’d like to have more to go on too before I say anything.”
    “Good. And now we’d better be off to the meeting.”
    “Hey, Alix,” Jerry called after them as they started across the room.
    He stood glowering at her from behind those big glasses, with his arms sternly crossed. “Where’s my nickel?”

    “Wait, hold up a second, would you, Clark?” she asked as they went by a wall of drawings.
    “A second’s about all we have. What is it?”
    “These two drawings,” Alix said, pointing. They were displayed one above the other, in simple wooden frames, each about ten inches by twelve. One was of a basket of pears, the other was of a mountain, both done in pencil, rather roughly; more than sketches but less than serious studies. They were both by the early twentieth-century American artist Marsden Hartley.
    “Uh-huh, what about them?”
    “I understand they’ll both be in the auction.”
    “Yes, yes, that’s right. Come on, we’d better get moving.”
    “Jerry told me yesterday they’d be sold as a single lot and the estimate would be fifty to seventy thousand,” she said as he hustled her off. “And I was thinking: I have a friend—a collector—who might be interested in bidding on a couple of Hartleys. Would there be any problem with her coming down and looking at them here, before the official viewing at the gallery in San Francisco? She’s got the time right now, but I don’t know about—”
    “Not a problem at all. If she likes them enough”—and the gleaming killer smile flashed—“she could make us an offer I couldn’t refuse right on the spot and not have to bid against anybody later on. She could take them home with her. But it’d have to be in the next day or two, before the catalogue’s mailed out.”
    “Seriously? She could do that? Is that legal?”
    It seemed impossible, but his eyes crinkled up even more. “Surely you’re not suggesting that I would propose anything extra-legal? No, seriously, yes, of course it’s legal. These—”
    His cell phone buzzed before he could finish. “I see,” he said into it. “I understand. Certainly.” He snapped it closed. “Mrs. B’s gotten held up. Meeting’s postponed until eleven fifteen. All in a day’s work. I’ll see you then. Be there.” A convivial wink, and he was gone.

T he thick, poured-concrete walls of the