Free The Mistaken Masterpiece by Michael D. Beil

dear,” he says. “And I’d say you’re doing a fine job of it, too. That was quite a thorough cross-examination.”
    Elizabeth squints at him. “If these lovely girls weren’t here,
sweetness
, I think I would conk you on the head with this teapot.”
    “Well then, it’s a good thing you girls are here. All right, let’s get down to work. You mentioned that you’re working on a case. For Father Julian, is that right? He’s a nice young man.”
    “Yep,” I say. “Kind of an archaeology project. You know how scientists can look at things and figure out how old they are? Well, you’re going to teach us how to do that.”
    “I am? I mean, yes. Yes, I am.”
    Margaret gives him a quick version of the story of the painting. At the first mention of the name Pommeroy, Elizabeth, whose walls are littered with paintings by modern masters such as Matisse, Picasso, and Warhol, sits up straight.
    “Father Julian owns a Pommeroy? I would love to see it. I’ve been trying to add one to my collection for years. I met him once, with my father, at a downtown gallery—I forget the name. They had a show of his later work. Such a tragic story.”
    “I’m sure Father Julian would be happy to show it to you,” I say. “It’s over in the rectory. And you know, speaking of art galleries, Becca and I had a strange experience Saturday morning. Tell them about it, Becca.”
    “Why don’t you tell it?”
    “Duh. Because I didn’t actually
see
anything.”
    “Oh, fine.”
    She finishes telling the story, then adds, “This Gus guy can really
paint
. Soph, remember all those still lifes we saw on the wall? They’re all his, and so are the big, dark, swirly ones. Elizabeth, I think one of those would look really good in here.”
    “Well, thank you, Rebecca. I may just have to go have a look for myself,” she says. “I’m always in the market for things that make me feel good.”
    Margaret opens the shoe box full of photos and sets it on the coffee table in front of Malcolm. “All right. Time to get to work.”
    Malcolm pulls a pair of reading glasses out of a case and slips them on. “So your theory is that if you can accurately date one of these pictures that shows the painting, you’ll have proof that the painting was done prior to 1961, right?”
    “Theoretically,”
Margaret answers. “This is a pictureof Father Julian’s great-grandparents in their house in the Bronx, near Yankee Stadium. If you look on the wall behind them, you can see the top right-hand corner of the painting.”
    Malcolm sets the shoe box on his lap and starts to take a closer look at a few of the pictures. “Well, the good news is that most of these pictures were taken with a good camera—probably an old range finder. Look how clear the image is, all the way to the edges. Wait here a moment while I find a loupe,” Malcolm says, heading for the study that once belonged to Elizabeth’s father, himself a well-known archaeologist and professor.
    “A what?” Leigh Ann asks.
    “A loupe. Kind of a fancy magnifying glass—looks like a camera lens,” Margaret explains. “I guess archaeologists use them, too.”
    He returns a few seconds later, polishing the lens with a cotton handkerchief. Then he moves a lamp from a side table to the coffee table. “There. Now let’s have a proper look.”
    He sets the loupe on the corner of the painting in the photograph and squints into it. “Yep, it’s a painting all right.”
    “Yay!” I say, getting into the spirit of things. “Let’s call Father Julian and tell him we cracked the case.”
    “
You’re
cracked,” Rebecca says, poking me with a pointy elbow.
    “What else do you see?” Margaret asks. “Anything on the table? On those bookshelves?”
    “Some books, a glass vase, a decanter. A couple of picture frames—hard to see what’s in them because of the reflections. Some souvenirs and knickknacks. The usual suspects. Here, Margaret, you take a look. Your young eyes are much better