St Kilda Consulting 04 - Blue Smoke and Murder

enough to tame the wilderness. But lately…” Zach called up another file.
    Jill waited, sipped more stolen coffee, and watched the dry land race by beneath the airplane’s wings. She was having a hard time understanding that her wild-child grandmother’s life had intersected with that of a man who became an iconic artist of the West.
    A very expensive artist.
    Zach’s soft whistle came through the earphones, distracting her.
    “What?” she asked.
    He turned the computer screen so that she could see the record of Dunstan sales from the time of his death to the most recent sale a year ago.
    Five hundred thousand dollars in the late twentieth century.
    Four million dollars last year.
    One painting.
    Jill felt like the airplane had dropped out from under her. She swallowed hard. Then she turned to Zach, who was watching her with narrowed, intent eyes.
    “Four. Million. Dollars?” she asked, her voice rough.
    “Yes.”
    She shook her head sharply. “I’m having a tough time grabbing hold of this. I mean, I can’t believe our family has twelve Dunstans, much less that they’re wildly valuable.”
    “We don’t know that they’re Dunstans.”
    “Well, they sure got someone’s attention,” she said, thinking of her poor old car. And the slashed-to-ribbons painting. And Modesty Breck.
    Dead.

29
    SNOWBIRD, UTAH
SEPTEMBER 15
10:04 A.M.
    R amsey Worthington waited with concealed impatience while Cahill carefully, slowly, delicately opened a shipping container from the estate of a wealthy collector of Western art. The paintings were among the stars of the upcoming auction.
    As the owner of several galleries, and an auctioneer in high demand, Worthington knew that he wasn’t supposed to have a favorite artist. Or at the very least, he shouldn’t let anybody know that he did.
    Yet Cahill knew his boss was daffy about Nicolai Fechin’s paintings.
    The “Tartar” painter might have been born in Russia, but in the second quarter of the twentieth century he had painted the Native Americans of the Southwest with an impressionistic urgency and energy that was both personal and universal.
    More than half a century after Fechin’s death, his paintings were more valuable than ever, well over one hundred thousand dollars a canvas, and that was for the smaller works. Yet it wasn’t the potential hundreds of thousands or millions of dollars the Fechin oils represented that lifted Worthington’s pulse.
    Quite simply, he wanted to be in the presence of greatness.
    Worthington cleared his throat. He’d seen various representations of the Fechins in this dead collector’s collection, but he hadn’t seen them in the original.
    Cahill hid his smile. Perhaps it was petty to tease Worthington by dragging out the process of opening the shipping container, but it certainly was enjoyable. Intellectually and fiscally, Cahill understood the importance of Fechin’s portraits. Emotionally, they didn’t lift his pulse. Give him the sweep and radiant grandeur of a Thomas Moran landscape any day. Now that was an artist to bring a man to his knees.
    After a few more unnecessary flourishes, Cahill relented and removed a canvas from its carefully constructed nest.
    Worthington made a sound that was between a sigh and a moan.
    Cahill freed more paintings.
    More rapturous noises came from Worthington.
    “Stop it,” Cahill said. “You’re making me hard, and you have a luncheon appointment with your wife.”
    If Worthington heard, he didn’t comment.
    Cahill didn’t bother to hide his smile. Worthington’s relationship with his wife was a source of amusement to both men. She was clueless about her husband’s cheerful bisexuality.
    The phone rang in Worthington’s office. His private line, reserved for his best clients. Or his most useful ones.
    Worthington ignored the phone. He was lost in the vivid colors and insights of Nicolai Fechin.
    Cahill strode over and picked up the call. “Fine Western Art, Jack Cahill speaking. How may I assist you?”
    “This is Betty Dunstan. Is Ramsey available? It’s about the auction.”
    “Betty! It’s always good to hear from you.” Cahill rolled his eyes.He didn’t have to ask which auction. The one Worthington was overseeing in a few days was the most important thing on the Western art horizon. “How are you and Lee doing?”
    “We’re fine. Very anxious about the auction, of course. But I have some, um, concerns I’d like to talk about with Ramsey.”
    “Of course. Let me put