Free Finding the Forger by Libby Sternberg Page A

later—after Neville gave me a tour and filled me in on this “quite rich” scoop.

Chapter Nine

    F AWN DEXTER DRONED on about the humor and “whimsy” in the Japanese prints, Neville told me about the museum’s scandal. I already knew most of it, but somehow it sounded fresh when told in a British accent. I kept saying “really?” and “wow” to each revelation, then had to remind myself I already knew that juicy bit of info. He told me about the “stolen” art, the fakes, the alarm, and how it was all “hush-hush” because the museum didn’t want a scandal that would rock the confidence of patrons and contributors in the middle of a fundraising drive. He even mentioned how “some Mexican guard” was a prime suspect for the mess. The only new information I got out of Neville was who was at the other end of Fawn Dexter’s flirty-voiced conversations. Turned out that Fawn and Bertrand—Neville’s father—were an item.
    “My sister Connie’s on the case,” I whispered to him. “She’s a private investigator. I help her sometimes.”
    This elicited a broad grin from the dashing Master Witherspoon that had me headed into swoon territory once again.
    He was a talented mimic and he sprinkled his story with occasional lampoons of Miss Dexter as we observed the various prints from well behind the crowd.
    “Doesn’t this white space just speak to you?” He pointed to the background on one of the prints. “It’s decadent yet spare, shrill yet muted, hopeless yet imbued with sunny optimism,” he said, imitating the quick highs and lows of Miss Dexter’s voice.
    “Stop it, Neville. You’re wicked!” I laughed. Wicked? Since when did I use the word “wicked” in conversation? Being around a Brit must have done that to me.
    By this time, people were throwing us occasional looks that said our witty conversation was disturbing them, so I turned to a more serious topic.
    “Who do you think is doing it and why?” I asked. “The phony art, I mean. Are they selling the originals?” And a more troubling thought occurred to me—what was Hector’s role in all this? I saw him a few times as we made our way through the museum. And though Sarah liked him, I wondered if he wasn’t taking advantage of her good nature, of her sympathy for the underdog. To me, Hector looked kind of shifty, with small squinty eyes and big, gangster-like shoulders.
    “Selling them is hard to do, but not impossible. You could make a pretty penny if you knew the right markets. No, my guess is it’s some frustrated artist effecting his own form of twisted revenge on an institution that has ignored his talents.” He suddenly pointed to Hector, who stood with hands clasped in front of him in the corner of the room. “Did you know he’s secretly an artist? Does wonderful watercolors that a couple centuries ago would have made him the toast of the town. Not so today. It’s enough to drive a man to desperate measures.”
    “How do you know that?” I asked. A long shiver curled from my heels to the tip of my now-perfect hair. Even Neville suspected Hector! I glanced at Hector again and studied him. Darn it, hecould be getting Sarah into trouble. It wasn’t fair. Sarah was too sweet. She needed to be protected.
    “My father told me,” Neville said, “and he heard it from Fawn.”
    The crowd started to move forward and Neville extended his arm once again.
    “Would you do me the honor, Mademoiselle?” he asked.
    Remembering my Honors French, I said, “Mais oui, Monsieur,” which is about all I could say without sounding like I had a mouth full of marbles. It must have been enough, though, because he took and patted my hand and looped it over his arm, bending his head toward me as if we shared a secret.
    “Don’t look now, m’dear, but I think Hector is eyeing you rather suspiciously. You didn’t, by any chance, slip a painting into your brassiere?” Then he looked at me with a wolf-like gaze that made me tremble and