Two
Carrick stepped away, buttoned his suit jacket and moved to the door of the conference room. He pulled it wide and stood aside to allow two women to enter the room. Sadie watched as the small blonde returned Carrick’s hug, conscious of the streaks of jealousy coursing through her body. Annoyed with herself—there was nothing to be jealous about; she and Carrick had shared their bodies, not their souls—she turned her attention onto the second woman casually dressed in black.
The woman was of Indian descent; Sadie could see that in her lovely, light brown skin and the shape of her luminous gray eyes. They were, Sadie decided, eyes that would change with her mood or with the color of her clothes, the gray-blue of Sisley’s fog or the green-gray of a Whistler sea. Her nose was perfectly straight and her cheekbones could cut glass.
Man, she was gorgeous.
Carrick ushered the women into the room and gestured to Sadie. “Keely, Joa, meet Dr. Sadie Slade. She’s the art detective we’ve employed to work on your painting. Sadie, Keely Mounton and Joa Jones.”
“Hi, Sadie, nice to meet you,” Keely—the blonde—said, shaking Sadie’s hand. She looked at Carrick, her smile small but infectious. “And it’s Ju-ah, not Jo-ah.” Keely dropped her bag on the conference table as Sadie and Joa shook hands. “She never corrects anyone, but I know it drives her mad when people mispronounce her name.”
“I am standing right here, Keels,” Joa replied with a wry smile. “Sorry, Keely has been bossing me around for half my life and I don’t see her stopping anytime soon.”
Joa’s smile took her from stunning to exquisite. Sadie darted a glance at Carrick, expecting his tongue to be on the floor, but his expression was inscrutable and he looked completely unaffected.
Well...huh.
After exchanging small talk—mutual acquaintances and the horrible winter weather—Carrick gestured for them to take a seat. When they did, Sadie took the seat opposite his clients.
Sliding his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, Carrick looked every inch the corporate CEO of an international company. “Sadie, Isabel Mounton-Matthews was a valued and important client of Murphy’s. I think she bought her first painting from us over forty years ago. She and my stepmom, Raeni, were great friends and she passed away about—” he raised his eyebrows at Keely “—a year ago?”
Keely nodded. “Fourteen months to be precise.”
“Keely and Joa jointly inherited her estate,” Carrick continued.
Lucky, lucky girls. Gorgeous and wealthy and now owners of one of the best art collections in the country.
“Keely and Joa have decided to sell the bulk of the collection through Murphy International and donate the proceeds to Isabel’s foundation, which supports various charities on the east coast. Her collection will be the sale of the decade. If you want a comparison, think of the Rockefeller collection that was sold a few years back. Isabel’s collection more than competes. She collected masterpieces, porcelain, jewelry, Native American art, Asian art, silver, furniture, textiles.”
“My aunt was a magpie with a lot of money,” Keely cheerfully agreed.
“My brother Finn is cataloging the collection, which is extensive, but he doesn’t have time to delve into the mystery of your paintings, ladies. And that’s why I hired Sadie,” Carrick said. “And Sadie has already determined that two of the three paintings are Homer copies.”
Keely pulled a face and Joa sighed. “I’m not that surprised. I’m sure I recall Iz mentioning that she wasn’t fully convinced they were all by Homer. She had a gut instinct for art and a fabulous eye. And pedigree wasn’t important to her, she liked what she liked,” Keely said, resting her forearms on the table. She turned to Sadie. “So what makes you think the two paintings are copies?”
Carrick looked at Sadie, and she explained. “While the paintings are by an artist with talent, the execution simply isn’t good enough to be a Homer. They lack his energy and verve. The signature is wrong and the colors are off. They simply aren’t accomplished enough to be a Winslow Homer. But the third painting is exceptional.”
“Are we talking about the one that’s unsigned?” Joa quietly asked. When Sadie nodded, Joa continued. “If it is by Homer, shouldn’t it be signed? Isn’t that what artists do?”
“Not necessarily. There are lots of reasons an artist didn’t sign their works. Sometimes they thought the work wasn’t good enough. Sometimes they never completed it. Sometimes they simply forgot.” Sadie divided her glance between Keely and Joa. “How emotionally invested are you in this being a Homer?”
A small frown pulled Keely’s dark eyebrows together and those deep brown eyes reflected her confusion. “I’m not sure what you mean?”
“Was the painting one of your aunt’s favorites? Is it a favorite of yours? How disappointed will you be if it’s not a Homer?”
Keely exchanged a quick look with Joa, who simply shrugged. Keely answered her question.
“The unsigned painting always hung in the small sitting room at Mounton House, adjacent to what was Isabel’s bedroom. All her favorite paintings hung there so I know she liked it. She obviously had her doubts about the other two because I found them in her cupboard in her bedroom when I was up there doing inventory with Mr. Snooty Pants—” Keely glared at Joa “—and you owe me for doing that, by the way.”
“Mr. Snooty Pants?” Joa asked, puzzled.
“Wilfred Seymour.” Keely uttered the name as if poor Wilfred was an all-powerful wizard who shouldn’t be named.
“Are you talking about Dare?” Carrick asked. When Keely nodded, he released a low chuckle.
“He’s the least snooty guy I know,” Carrick stated.
Sadie didn’t know Keely, but she instantly recognized the woman’s stubborn expression. Possibly because she’d seen it on her own face a time or two.