Page 2 of Disarming Caine

“I was doing some early scouting of listings which open soon and got a little carried away in the search.” Rhonda swiveled her monitor to show me the realty listing for a fairly expensive residence in Brenton. My phone buzzed with a link she’d sent me to the realty site. “But what really interested me was a photo of the master bedroom, where I glimpsed a rather fascinating painting. Loose brushwork, soft visuals, English countryside, late 18th century. The photo didn’t capture the entire piece, but I zoomed in. From what I could see of the signature, I’m sure it was a John Constable.”

I tapped the link on my phone and scrolled through photos until I was on the master bedroom.

“One of my high-end sales art clients had expressed interest in purchasing a Constable. I dropped by the house yesterday to ask if I could see it. If I was right, I’d test the waters in case they might want to sell. But they claimed I was mistaken. No such painting in the house, they said.”

Flipping through the bedroom photos, nothing stood out. I leaned toward her monitor. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“It was hanging behind their bedroom door. Not in a place of prominence, but in the shadows.”

I scanned the room in the realty photo. King-size bed, simple frame, chair by a large window, and a dresser with mirrors on top. The mirrors reflected the photographer standing in the doorway and a foot-wide slice of a painting peeking out from behind the door. Odd place to hang something as prestigious as a Constable.

“I’m not new to the art business, Samantha. I know what this is.”

“So why call me?”

“As much as I suspect things aren’t on the up-and-up based on their reaction, I have nothing concrete. The police wouldn’t listen to me. But after your performance at the auction and with the fake Chagall this summer, you can do something about it.”

“Possibly.” More like ‘Damn right.’ My stomach was already doing cartwheels while my brain ran through possibilities. Why would they chase her off instead of just clearing things up? Forgery? Stolen property? If there was one illicit painting, were there others?

I hadn’t had a good art crime to sink my teeth into since I visited Antonio in Naples three months ago. We’d caught a trio responsible for stealing relics from Pompeii. But with only two of the four items recovered, we were left with more questions than answers afterward. Where did the other pieces disappear to? Who transported the pieces out of the city? With no solid leads, it hadn’t amounted to anything.

“They didn’t let you in at all?”

She shook her head.

I’d have to look at it myself. Get some photos. Compare it against the stolen artwork databases. I returned my focus to the listing on my phone, holding it up in front of me, and took a few screenshots. Zoomed in and took more.

Rhonda hummed quietly. “Should I be offering congratulations?”

I lowered the phone to look at her. “For what?”

“You certainly did not have that ring when you were here in August.”

I turned over my left hand, which held the phone, and the diamonds in the white gold band sparkled, diving over and under the other white gold and black ceramic bands of the trinity ring. “No congratulations. It’s just a promise ring.”

The memory of Antonio surprising me with a ring exchange before I left Naples returned warmth into my chest. But I was working. Not focusing on him or his rare show of insecurity when he opened the box with a ring for each of us. ‘Hopeless romantic,’ he’d called himself.

“Quite the promise.” She leaned closer, peering over her red glasses. “Let me guess… If I recall, Dr. Ferraro the younger seemed to have his eye—”

“Do you have a name?” The ring had started a lot of conversations since I got home—not to mention the blow up from my sister and family—but I put an end to every one of them. My private life was private, no matter who I chose to be with, nor how blatantly he liked to wear his heart on his sleeve.

“For?”

“The house owner.”

She sat up straighter, a grin spreading across her face, likely accepting that I wasn’t about to spill romantic stories. “No. The woman was polite, but her boyfriend was a jackass, even when I told him they could be sitting on a gold mine.”

“The house sale doesn’t open until January third.” I put my phone away and drummed my fingers on the chair’s armrest. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

“I had a feeling.” She stood and held out a hand to shake. “Let me know if I’m right.”

“Definitely.” I collected my things and walked out through the gallery with her.

She pointed out a few new paintings as we went and I nodded politely at each. We rounded the dividing wall into the front room and one caught my eye.

I paused, taking it in. A broad sweep of black paint swirling around the top, flecked with pastel drops which reminded me of stars. Below, a field of dark blue sliced through with pale green like the crest of a wave. It brought back memories of Naples—of the view of Vesuvius at night above the bay from the restaurant balcony where Antonio and I had…

A car slowed on the street outside the tall front windows. Not pulling over, just slowing.

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