A Lasting Impression

tears renewed. “Our gallery’s main business was selling ‘originals . ’ ” She all but flinched at the word. “From European master artists. Which my mother and, later, I painted there in our gallery in New Orleans. Then my father would purchase forged certificates of authenticity and either sell them there or ship them to various galleries throughout the country. And sometimes overseas. My mother painted many artists in recent years, but her specialty—and mine—was François-Narcisse Brissaud.”
    Sutton angled his chair away from hers so he could watch her as she spoke. She told them in detail about the gallery, her parents, and when she’d first learned about what they did. Then she described her years at boarding school before she returned to work in the “family business.”
    “How many paintings did you personally forge, Miss Laurent?” Holbrook asked.
    Sutton could see her lips moving the way they always did when she counted to herself.
    “I’ve painted Jardins de Versailles five times, including this one. And maybe another twenty, perhaps twenty-five, canvases over the course of the last two years. That doesn’t count the paintings I copied for people who knew they were buying a copy.”
    “Did you ever sell these paintings yourself?” Sutton asked, hoping what her answer would be.
    “No, Papa always did that. And he made me leave the gallery when he was hosting those clients.”
    “So you never saw those patrons?” he followed up. “Or would be able to identify them?” Or they you , he thought.
    “No.”
    “So you forged paintings over the last two years?” Holbrook continued.
    “I started once my mother became ill, shortly after I finished boarding school.” She spoke of the closeness with her mother, and the absence of comment about her father spoke even louder. “The doctors’ fees and the medicine were expensive. I told Papa that I thought she would get better if we sent her to a sanitarium. He said those cost a lot of money, so I worked harder and painted faster. But . . .” She shook her head. “He refused to send her.”
    “And she died?” Mrs. Holbrook asked, her voice hesitant.
    Claire nodded. “Almost a year ago now.”
    “I’m so sorry, dear,” Mrs. Holbrook whispered. “You must still miss her very much.”
    “I do. But sometimes, when I hold a paintbrush, I feel her with me.”
    Mrs. Holbrook held out her right hand. “This was my mother’s wedding ring. I feel the very same about her when I wear it.”
    A semblance of a smile touched Claire’s lips but didn’t linger. “My mother gave me her locket watch before she died, but I lost it the first night I got to Nashville.” She sighed. “I went back to the shipping company some days later to find it, but . . . it was gone.”
    “Shipping company,” Holbrook said, his wiry brows arching.
    “Yes, sir,” Claire answered. “That was the afternoon you and I first saw each other. At Broderick Shipping and Freight.”
    “What?” Sutton leaned forward. “You saw her at—”
    Holbrook’s hand went up. “You may take me to task later, Mr. Monroe, for my choice to withhold that information from you. But after seeing how thoroughly enamored you were with Miss Laurent at the reception that night, I thought it best, and I still stand by my decision.”
    Sutton felt Claire look over at him, but he didn’t look back.
    “Now . . .” Holbrook returned to Claire. “I remember that afternoon well, Miss Laurent. But I had no idea you had a connection with that company.”
    “I didn’t—and don’t. I was simply there looking for my reticule. Mr. Broderick had made unwelcome advances my first night there, at which time I grabbed my satchel and left. It wasn’t until the next morning in church, where I met Sutton, that I even remembered I’d left my reticule behind.”
    Sutton had never met Samuel Broderick, but already he looked forward to throttling the man. “Claire . . . what were you doing there that first night? Why did you go there to begin with?”
    “Because that’s where my father and his business partner had arranged for me to stay when I first arrived in town.”
    Sutton exchanged a look with Holbrook. “Your father had a business partner?”
    “Yes.”
    “And what is this partner’s name, Miss Laurent?” Holbrook asked.
    “Antoine DePaul.”
    Sutton got a sinking feeling, and witnessed the same in Holbrook.
    “What is it?” Claire asked. “What’s wrong?”
    Sutton looked at