St Kilda Consulting 04 - Blue Smoke and Murder

than talking to myself. And the rates are real low right now.” She punched a button, and said, “Hello?”
    “Jillian Breck?” The voice was oddly thick, like someone with a plugged nose.
    “Yes. Who are you?”
    “Blanchard. I’m a Western art dealer. I understand that you have some paintings I’d be interested in seeing. That true?”
    Jill frowned. She didn’t remember sending an e-mail to anyone called Blanchard. But he easily could be working for one of the galleries she’d sent messages to.
    “You have me at a disadvantage,” she said slowly. “Are you sure you’re calling the right number?”
    “I understand a relative of yours tried to sell a canvas near Salt Lake City. That true?”
    She shifted uneasily, remembering the sheriff’s warning: If you try to pass those paintings off as something they’re not, you could end up in real trouble. The criminal kind .
    “Mr. Blankford—”
    “Blanchard.”
    “Sorry. I think you’ve been misinformed.”
    “You don’t know about a dozen Western landscapes that have been in the Breck family for a long time?”
    Silently Jill absorbed that Blanchard knew more about the paintings than had been included in her e-mail to various galleries.
    What she didn’t know was if that was good or bad.
    “My great-aunt submitted a canvas that had been in the family for appraisal,” Jill said neutrally, “but I wasn’t aware that she’d spoken to anyone about paintings other than the one she sent to Park City, not Salt Lake City.”
    “The Western art world is small and real close.” The caller coughed hoarsely. “The canvas your relative sent made the rounds of a number of dealers. She hasn’t answered my follow-up letter, so I’m trying you.”
    Jill’s voice tightened. “Modesty Breck is dead.”
    “Huh. Sorry to hear it. Do you have the painting she sent out?”
    “It was lost.”
    Blanchard made a sound that could have been a laugh or a smoker’s cough or he could have been choking on something.
    He cleared his throat. “What about the other paintings? They lost, too?”
    Jill hesitated, then shrugged. She had put out lures in the shape of JPEGs, and someone had bitten.
    “Which gallery are you with?” she asked.
    “I work with several. Do you have any paintings like the first one your great-aunt sent out?”
    “The paintings have been in the family so long nobody knows much about them. My great-aunt believed they were quite valuable.”
    “Your great-aunt must have watched too much Antiques Road-show, ” Blanchard said, impatience giving an edge to his hoarse voice. “We run into that a lot in this business. People look at a show onpublic television and get the idea that an old family trinket has huge value.”
    “If the pictures aren’t valuable, why are you interested?”
    The man blew his nose. “’Scuse me. I’m just trying to save you some trouble. Any family paintings of yours might have historical value, maybe a few thousand dollars, but they’re not by some great artist. If there are other paintings, you should be very careful with them. Passing counterfeits off as original works is called fraud.”
    Jill felt a chill, then exhilaration, like the sensation she experienced when she pushed off into the maelstrom of a big rapid. As a river runner, she knew what she was doing, and there was always an element of risk.
    That’s why she did it.
    Blanchard, whoever and whatever he was, knew more about these paintings than she did.
    And Modesty was dead.
    “Funny thing,” Jill said. “This is the second time today somebody has warned me about the paintings.”
    “Maybe we know more about the situation than you do.”
    “That wouldn’t be hard,” she said dryly. “That’s why I’m asking questions of experts.”
    “You don’t seem to like the answers.”
    “What I really don’t like is the fact that the painting my great-aunt sent out is missing,” she said.
    “I heard something about that. Wasn’t sure it was true, though.”
    “As you mentioned, you’re a close community,” Jill said. As in closed. “Even people I don’t send JPEGs to hear about them.”
    He coughed again. “’Scuse. Getting over a cold. I’m interested enough in those paintings to want to see them in the flesh, rather than electronically. How many did you say there were?”
    “I didn’t.”
    “You’re a lot smarter than your great-aunt was. How about this?We’ll set up a meet in a public place,” Blanchard said. “You choose