St Kilda Consulting 04 - Blue Smoke and Murder

catalogue. “Someday he’ll be recognized as the great artist he is. Assuming galleries and collectors can get past a Chinese man painting the old West.”
    “That kind of bigotry is disgusting.”
    “So are a lot of things that are real. But don’t feel too bad—this canvas is expected to sell in the low six figures. Not bad for a dude who just turned forty.”
    Jill laughed softly.
    “Something funny?” he asked.
    “Just me,” she said. “I have a fine arts degree from one of the most prestigious colleges in the United States, yet many of these paintings are utterly new to me. I hadn’t realized how blatantly Eurocentric my fine arts education was. Most of my professors never got closerto America than Warhol’s Campbell soup can and Jackson Pollock’s premature ejaculations.”
    Zach made an odd sound. “I take it you’re not a Pollock fan.”
    “I could give you chapter and verse on Pollock’s importance to world art, his daring artistic vision, his slashing intellect, his blah blah blah. Yet his work never spoke to me on any level, including the intellectual. Neither did a lot of English pastoralists, but at least it was possible to admire their technique.”
    Zach started to say something, then sensed a person approaching behind them. He turned with startling swiftness and saw a tall, trim man with salt-and-pepper hair that brushed the collar of his dark blue blazer.
    Ramsey Worthington had risen to the bait.

35
    SNOWBIRD
SEPTEMBER 15
11:28 A.M.
    I ’m Ramsey Worthington, and you are…?” he asked.
    Jill turned to face Worthington. He looked more European than American West. His voice was refined, carefully modulated, with just enough of a British accent to suggest high culture as defined by PBS.
    He didn’t offer his hand.
    “Names aren’t important,” Zach drawled. “Isn’t that what dealers always say? ‘It’s the quality of the art, not the name of the artist’ that matters.”
    Worthington’s blue eyes narrowed. “What is this about?”
    “A Thomas Dunstan that was last in your custody before it was ‘lost,’ mutilated, and finally destroyed,” Zach said.
    Worthington’s eyebrows shot up in what looked like genuine surprise. “Mutilated? Destroyed? What on earth are—”
    “But the lost part doesn’t surprise you, does it?” Zach cut in.
    The door buzzer sounded.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Worthington said.
    Christa Moore opened the door. Several people walked in. Their clothes ranged from shabby casual to casual chic. All of them hadthe bearing that said they could afford anything that took their fancy.
    “I’ll be real happy to explain,” Zach said. “I’ll even use little words and a loud voice. You want that here or in your office?”
    Worthington looked at the newcomers. He knew them. High-level collectors giving a final review to some of the auction goods.
    The collectors were also high-level gossips.
    “My office,” he said curtly.
    The dealer’s office was a sharp contrast to the spacious, neat gallery. Painting after painting was stacked in ranks against the walls and inside specially made cubbyholes. Shelves were buried beneath bronzes and carved marble.
    Zach recognized an intricate Remington bronze of a cowboy astride a lunging horse. An original, numbered Remington was worth bragging about. The aged, bent cardboard tag attached to the statue by wire attested to the work’s authenticity.
    Jill’s hands itched to pull out paintings and look at them. A single glance at Zach’s face told her that wasn’t going to happen. Worthington didn’t look real outgoing, either.
    “Now, what’s this nonsense about a ruined Dunstan? All provenanced Dunstans are accounted for and in excellent condition.”
    Zach gave Jill a subtle signal.
    Showtime.
    “My great-aunt, Modesty Breck, sent out a canvas for appraisal. My adviser”—Jill nodded to Zach—“believes it found its way to you. The painting was reported as lost. Recently it was, ah, returned to me. In shreds.”
    Worthington frowned. “I remember the painting. Hillhouse sent it to me. I sent it back. I’m sure the receiving and shipping forms are filed, if it matters to you. As for the rest, it’s neither my affair nor my responsibility.”
    “Forms can be filled out and filed by anyone with a seventh-gradeeducation,” Zach said. “They’re worthless as proof of anything worth proving.”
    “You’ll have to excuse him,” Jill said earnestly to Worthington.