The Investigator Asked Before He Touched My Work Table

I let Elias Mercer into the shop but kept the painting behind the counter.

"May I put this here?" he asked, pointing to a clean patch of table.

I nodded.

He set down the envelope. He was thirty-six, with a close beard, tired eyes, and rain darkening the shoulders of his coat. He showed me his insurance company identification and left it where I could read it.

"You can call the public number and ask for me," he said.

I did. He waited without filling the silence.

When the call checked out, he opened his envelope.

The photograph showed The Orchard Steps in a different frame. Beside it lay a collection card numbered twelve.

"Where did you get this?" I asked.

"The owner's claim file. The Merrow House collection belonged to two sisters, Ada and Florence Bell. Twelve paintings disappeared from a truck eighteen years ago."

"My book says they burned."

"A warehouse burned the following year. Someone later printed that the paintings had been inside. We never received proof. Our file still lists them as missing."

He worked for Alder Basin Mutual, the company that had paid the sisters' theft claim. Their estate and the insurer were working together to find the pictures. He showed me the estate's signed letter.

"Why come here?"

"A recent sale packet included a frame treatment invoice with your shop's name. I hoped you had seen the picture."

I showed him Conrad's work order, keeping my hand on the original.

"You can read this. No pictures yet."

"Understood."

He didn't reach for it.

I explained the loose lining. Then I turned my monitor so he could see the stamp.

He leaned forward, stopped, and asked, "May I come closer?"

For the first time that day, I let my shoulders drop.

"Yes."

He looked at the full photograph before the close view. He asked about the ruler, the file number, and who had been present.

"Only me. The edge was loose when it arrived. I haven't touched the lining."

"Please keep it that way. A painting specialist can examine it under proper authority."

"Does that mean you take it?"

"I don't have that power. I can report what you've shown me and ask the owners and police to act."

I liked that answer more than I wanted to.

He gave me a receipt for copies of four photographs. I kept the backing, the painting, and every original record. He wrote down exactly what he had received.

Outside, the early dark pressed against the windows.

"Conrad owes me $8,400," I said. "He's holding it until I throw that board away."

Elias wrote that down too.

"I can't promise to recover your invoice," he said. "But don't sign anything new without reading it."

The next morning, the gallery director called.

Mara Pike spoke fast when she wanted you to feel slow.

"Conrad says you made an alarming claim about his property."

"I recorded a label."

"Your lease comes up in March, doesn't it? You need steady clients."

I looked at the brook below my window. Rain had turned it the color of weak coffee.

"Please put any complaint in writing," I said.

She hung up.

By lunch, two gallery customers had paused their orders. One left a message asking if my shop was under investigation.

I had $1,730 in the business account and rent of $1,150 due in nine days.

I wrote those numbers on a scrap of paper. Then I put the scrap away. Panic was useful for finding a fire exit. It was poor help with records.

Elias called late that afternoon.

"Someone submitted a new claim on the orchard painting," he said. "A lender had it insured for $76,000. The claim says a contractor destroyed the original backing and damaged the canvas."

"The canvas is untouched."

"I know what you showed me. I'm sending the document through a secure link. May I stay on the phone while you open it?"

The claim named me.

Below my shop address sat a statement saying I had removed all old marks at the owner's request. A signature at the bottom looked almost like mine.

Almost.

My real signature ended in a short line. This one looped back under Rivera.

"That's copied from my printed invoice logo," I said. "I drew that logo when I was twenty-one."

Elias went quiet.

"There is an attachment," he said.

I opened it.

The heading read Certificate Of Disposal. Under my copied name, someone had certified that the Merrow label and all related photographs had been destroyed.