DE$IGNED TO DECEIVE

*******

Chapter One

 “'Masterpiece' - here today, ENOG MOTOROW
- Art that will cost you more than just SOWORR.

It hasn't been DISSEM 

But I can't SISTER

Calling attention to art that we 'ROBROW.'”

     As Ed Lear was about to leave the Pear And Mason art gallery, Kip Mason, one of the owners, stopped him abruptly before he reached the door. Kip held up a scrap of crumpled notebook paper for him to see. “What do you make of this?” he asked.

       He knew Ed had been an art rep for many years and would be more than a little interested in the cryptic message it contained.

“I found this note slipped under the front door when I came in this morning,” he said. “It's probably some sort of prank and means nothing but considering it refers to art and a masterpiece, it certainly caught my attention.”

Ed peered at the paper and was surprised to see a handwritten poem. He read it aloud so his cats could hear. Zen sat perched on his shoulder and little Zoe stood quietly beside him.

“This is some kind of puzzle,” Ed surmised. It looks as if unscrambling the words would give us a rhyme of some kind. Have you unscrambled it? I've no idea what to make of it.”

“I have and wish I hadn't,” Kip replied. “It's not a good message!”

Ed scanned it intently one more time. “Oh, oh – not good at all! Is anything missing from the gallery?”

“Not a thing,” Kip responded. “If there were, the rhyme would make more sense.”

“Is it all right if I hold on to this for a few days? Ed asked. “I've been reading about how art theft is exploding. It fails to garner the media play that other kinds of thievery do but one statistic I read reported that in dollar value, stolen art outstrips all other property crimes.”

“Is that right?” Kip asked.

“It sure is. While I was on the road, there were a number of times when I was approached by some distinctly unsavory characters hoping I would help them fence bogus art or pieces I suspected were stolen.

“If I were into that monkey business, the potential profits would have been tempting. I still get an occasional call from some so-called dealers that I believe have underworld connections but have managed to stay just this side of the law between business and money laundering. For whom I can only imagine. I saw just the tip of the iceberg as a small-time art salesman but had I taken the bait I could have been drawn into a world of brutal greed and millions of dollars in profits. In that world, there is no concern for beauty.

“The thieves only care about the bucks a painting can turn because the money could be used to fund everything from international banking to gun-running and even terrorist activities. The big guns in the illegal art trade from theft to forgery are willing to kill or risk being killed for the monies available by engaging in the undercover profession they chose.

“But this on the paper was obviously torn from a common lined notebook that any kid might carry in his backpack. It's probably just a prank, as you guessed.”

Ed and Kip had become friends over the years since Ed had guided many a buyer his way or had purchased a piece on his own to sell at a profit to one of his clients. It had happened so often that the gallery willingly provided him with either a discount on his purchases or a thank you commission in return.

In addition to handling only the supreme examples of art in their specialty, the owners of Pear And Mason were extensively knowledgeable art connoisseurs and maintained a huge, valuable collection of auction house records dating back years. They also kept special catalogs, which Ed had been given access to whenever he was researching the value of a piece of art that one of his clients required more information about.

Ed lived in Ringland, Florida, a lovely little town nestled along the Gulf coast. Over time, it became a retirement community favored by the rich, almost rich, famous and infamous. Many of them lived in multi-million dollar homes and condominiums overlooking the magnificent beach and the view westward across the turquoise water. A drive along Hermosa Key revealed the ultra high-dollar destination for those with unlimited resources. Those residents poured their money and imagination into creating one-of-a-kind, eye-catching mansions, determined to outdo whatever was built next to them.

Given Ed's specialty of representing artists and collectors of the unusual, it was the perfect place for him. As a modestly well-to-do, middle-aged art rep, now semi-retired, he enjoyed living there along with his two Siamese cats, a male named Zen and his sister, Zoe.

The town's most prominent citizen, Joseph “Moneybags” Ringland, spent his lifetime collecting fine art and antiquities, along with some that turned out to be not so fine but were considered valuable and cutting edge at the time he purchased them. When he died, he left his huge gulf side home and all that it contained to the city. It was truly a legacy that was highly valued.

He left not only his former residence, which sat in superb tree-lined surroundings but also dozens of sculptures that fit perfectly into the setting. And of course, he left his impressive collection of art. Over the years, the best of what he had purchased, thanks to the knowledgeable eyes of a number of eminent curators, blended well with a distinctive collection of well-chosen acquisitions after his demise. It had now become a world famous museum: The Ringland Collection Of Art And Antiquities.

In addition to Ringland's world famous museum, it's downtown area boasted an exceptional Gallery Row of commercial for-profit art galleries. They sat side-by-side except for a number of charming small restaurants, a quality jewelry store and a couple of interior design studios. An art lover could spend a day just walking from one gallery to the next, have a bite to eat to break the sequence and then continue on to view the ever-changing exhibits at the myriad of galleries.

Tourists, collectors and new residents who frequented the galleries intent on finding just the right piece of art for a new home, condo or office kept those places busy. Some specialized in unusual styles or genres, while others carried extremely varied extensions of the owners' individual tastes. Several specialized in art created during particular time periods, such as nothing after 1900.

There was also a co-op gallery run by excellent local artists, who exhibited their paintings and took turns manning the gallery as part of their commitment to having a place to show and sell their work.

Ed was a frequent visitor to the museum and Gallery Row. He often took along one or both of his cats. Zoe had learned to walk on a leash. Zen, on the other hand, was not as compliant so Ed carried him underarm or more often the cat perched on his shoulder. Once inside a gallery where he knew the owners, and he knew most of them, he would put Zen on the floor to walk beside him so they could intently examine the art on the walls.

At times Ed lifted the cats up and held them close to the surface of a piece of art – close but out of paw's reach – so they could check out a detail as closely as he did. Some gallery-goers were amused as he pointed out to the cats what was of particular interest, just as if he were talking to a human companion. Ed and the cats themselves had become a subject of conversation and sometimes jest around the tables in the Gallery Row restaurants.

For the most part, the gallery owners were pleased about the talk surrounding the crazy art lover and his feline companions. It called attention to the art in their galleries, and those cat conversations often prompted potential customers to visit a particular art shop to examine a specific piece more carefully themselves. Once they pored over the art more meticulously and recalled what Ed had pointed out to Zen or Zoe, they often decided it was a piece worth owning.

Yes, Ed and his cats had become the talk of the town, especially after a story appeared in the Feature section of the local newspaper, Ringland's Daily Brush entitled When An Art Lover Kitties-up. The feline brother and sister were purchased from a cat breeder that cross-bred just enough Persian into her line to produce standard meezers. This type of cat featured a fluffy tail and the typical body type favored until recently when exaggerated angular bodies and long rat-like faces became the hot cats of their breed.

Zen, the larger of the two, had a darker silky coat and Zoe, tiny except for a tail that matched Zen's, was almost pure white with darker paws and muzzle, and a winsome kitten-like appearances. They were fine art in the cat world in the same way real masterpieces, exquisitely created and easy to live with, held their value. This in comparison to the new and far more expensive felines fancied and snapped up by those wealthy and prideful enough to claim they owned the very best of everything, even down to the pussy cats they showed off to their friends.

And their art was no different. These wealthy folks collected only cutting edge, over-priced examples of what they considered the future of art. This included over-sized paintings of pop bottles and soup spoons, motion picture sex symbols who had gone to glory in an overdose of awareness opening God- knows-what, as well as gaudy, derogatory images of everyone from Einstein to Mother Theresa and Jesus.

One of Ed's favorite places to frequently check out its art was Pear And Mason because of its exceptionally fine gallery. The gallery owners specialized in pre-20th-century works. In every way, it was extraordinary, not just for the art but also for the manner in which the works were displayed. The exquisite gold framing of a particular period suited the time when the art was created. This careful planning accented and focused a visitor's eye on the impeccably actualized paintings that the gallery was known to show.

Because of his years in the art trade, Ed found it easy to determine high caliber art and to a remarkable extent, so could Zen and Zoe. After all, the cats had lived around fine art all their lives. Ed and his felines avoided the aggrandized works and concentrated on what they recognized as phenomenal talent, even when a piece did not ride the crest of pent-up popularity.

The cats were not always as gentle when conveying their opinions of the utterly outrageous as their master might be. In one instance, Ed brought home a couple of photos of one piece of elegant new art and the genius who painted it. He then proceeded to lay the photos on the floor for the cats to observe. He was mystified when they circled the photos warily, sniffing and voicing what passed for growls from a couple of otherwise lovable kitties.

Ed then left the room to take an extended phone call from one of his clients who still contacted him before laying out any cash to find or learn about a piece of art or historical item that he was considering. When he returned to the room where he had left the cats with the photos on the floor, Ed was shocked to see that Zoe had clawed the photos of the art into scraps and Zen had carrird the photograph of the genius who painted it into the litter box that Ed kept filled with pine scented cat litter.

He sat down in his favorite overstuffed chair, and both cats jumped up for a pat. Zen leaped onto his shoulder, a marvelous spot from which to observe the tastefully decorated room. Zoe curled up in his lap, first looking up at his face and then back at what was left of the photos on the floor. Ed returned the glances and said aloud to ensure the cats understood: “My opinion exactly!”

When he looked down at Zoe, he could not help noticing his waistline, once a good deal slimmer, was beginning to show signs of the good life and great food he enjoyed since he was no longer on the road visiting clients and selling art.

One day as Ed and the cats were again browsing in Pear And Mason; he was especially drawn to a lovely painting of a young woman seated on a balcony. She was focusing intently on the embroidery she held on her lap. The exceptional work was the centerpiece of the current selection of art on display. Kip sauntered out of his office behind the showroom. He looked quite slim and handsome in his pin- striped, three-piece suit. His fashion sense vastly contrasted the rumpled, touristy attire of many of the gallery visitors. He immediately spotted Ed with the cats standing in front of the painting.

“A beautiful piece of work, isn't it?” Kip commented as he drew near them. “We just got it on consignment from the owner, who recently moved to Hermosa Key. Don't ask me his name. He wants no publicity even though this painting is one of the finest we have ever been privileged to handle.”

“It surely is a treasure!” Ed replied. “My guess is French, created by one of the talented women who studied under some of the prominent male painters of the day. They held such a tight grip on the Academy that it sparked the Impressionist rebellion when those masterworks were routinely turned down and never exhibited. Maybe a student of Bouguereau or one of the other popular traditional painters. They taught some exceptional women at a time when gender was as much a deterrent to popularity as it still is in some professions today.

Kip slipped a hand into his pocket and jingled some change.

“It's a pity,” Ed continued. “The teachers became the rich and famous in their day, then fell out of fashion until relatively recently when their art was rediscovered. Works they created are now selling for millions at auction. The paintings by their female students are still very much undervalued, but that's changing too. For instance, this picture showing such a lovely young lady should, with your help, find a ready buyer who would hold onto it for a few years and then sell it at a huge profit.”

“Ed, you're right on all counts,” Kip said. “It's so good that I'm tempted to buy it myself and do what you say. However, I suspect that the owner has a larger collection of great art and I'd like to sell this one for a lot more than I can afford to lay out. The commission would be substantial but it would be only a fraction of what might be available for the gallery if we could establish a relationship with this person. It is possible that he might allow us access to some of the other works I believe are in that mansion he just bought for millions - with cash as I understand it.”

“I see so little of your partner, Elmer Pear,” Ed noted. “He must be pleased as well.”

“Elmer is happy when I'm happy and vice versa,” Kip responded. “As you know, it's almost as if we operate two separate businesses. His specialty and primary interest lie in contemporary art, especially Russian and German avant-garde painters. Even though the market for art from that period is booming, I've never cared for it. Guess I'm a traditionalist but I have always appreciated the technical expertise necessary to create something as lovely as Young Woman on a Balcony.”

Kip moved toward the gallery's front counter and leaned casually on it. “Most of Elmer's sales, and he makes many of them, are carried out privately. He has acquired extensive contacts with specialized collectors and other galleries both here and abroad. That's another reason he's not in the gallery much because of the travel involved. He keeps an eye out for works that fit my specialty and has arranged consignment of some beautiful pieces that I sold through the gallery to my collectors.

“His family, which has been in this country since the overthrow of Tzar Nicholas, has maintained close ties across Europe. Elmer doesn't talk much about his family. I don't know all the details but I did learn they arrived in the U.S. with considerable wealth. When I met him, and we became friends, he already had a considerable collection of avant-garde art. In fact, it was mostly his investment that started this gallery.

“Really?” Ed asked.

“He and Carter Grimm, who just retired as director of the Ringland Collection Of Art And Antiquities and his Chief Conservator, Viviane Blaine, worked together closely,” Kip said nodding. “Elmer donated paintings to start a collection of contemporary art at the museum. Without any fanfare, the three of them managed to expand the collection through donations, purchases, and sales that Elmer was able to arrange.”

Ed hesitated a moment before leaving the gallery. As the cats stirred restlessly, he turned to them with a half smile and pointed to the handsomely framed painting of the young woman. “Are you sure this one is real?” he asked.

******

Chapter Two

Ed stepped out onto Sabal Avenue, and into the heat and sunshine, relieved just a bit by the shade from the palms that line the boulevard. He had the crumpled note paper Kip had given him in the breast pocket of his colorful golf shirt. As he walked back to the car, Zen and Zoe were unusually restless and vocal. They kept looking back at the gallery as if they knew something he didn't.

He could feel Zen's claws prickling his back, not the usual happy rider who considered his master's shoulder personal property and perched there quietly as often as possible. Ed was happy to get into the air-conditioned car and unload the cats into the back seat where the troubled meowing continued. As he brushed back short strands of light brown hair from his sweating forehead, he noticed in the rear view mirror that Zen had jumped onto the ledge next to the rear window. Ed turned the ignition and headed toward home, while the Zen continued to stare in the direction from which they had come.

When they arrived home, he fed the cats in their individual dishes, artful ceramics he had purchased at one of the interior design studios that he visited regularly. Each dish was shaped like a pussy cat's head so as Zen and Zoe lapped up their treat an artfully painted cat face stared up at them from the bottom of the bowl. He felt relieved that the strange behavior he had witnessed earlier had finally stopped.

“Whatever it was that upset these two is apparently now forgotten,” Ed assumed. “Nothing like a dish of tuna or a pretty bowl to eat it from to refocus their attention.”

A few days after that weekend, Ed discovered that he had received a recorded message from a new friend – one he just met because of Zen and Zoe. It was from Webster Lowe, the recently appointed executive director of The Ringland Collection Of Art And Antiquities.

Their meeting occurred during one of Ed's many visits to the museum when he had taken the cats.

He had walked nonchalantly into the building with Zoe on leash and Zen perched on his shoulder, as he had often done before. A blue-uniformed guard that Ed recognized and often chatted with stopped them just inside the front door.

“You can't bring those animals in here,” Bill cautioned, holding up his hand. “New director, you know,” he added courteously.

Ed was taken aback. He was a museum member, who had served on the museum board, and attended nearly every function and special exhibition it held. He and the cats were well known to the staff, including the pudgy guard. But that was before Webster was appointed to replace the retiring director, whom Ed had known for years.

“Bill, you know the cats have never caused the least bit of trouble and they enjoy the art as much as I do,” Ed said. “I can understand new rules can come with a new director but is there a chance that I could meet him, and introduce Zen and Zoe?”

“Let me give the office a call to see if he's available.” Bill immediately picked up the phone on his desk and a short conversation ensued. When he hung up, he turned toward Ed and smiled.

“He's on the way down and is anxious to meet you,” he declared.

Webster had heard about the cats from his secretary, Janice, a middle-aged but still good looking lady. She knew off the top of her head nearly as much about the museum as her old boss, Carter. Ed had often chatted with her, even flirted a little; nothing risque but just enough to let her know he considered her attractive.

When the elevator door opened, a nattily dressed gentleman about Ed's age walked out. He spotted Ed and the cats immediately, and with a broad smile, advanced toward them.

“I'm Web Lowe and I'm glad to meet you, and Zen and Zoe,” he said extending a hand. “You can bet I've heard plenty about you from all levels of the staff. Didn't believe it at first but I see no one was exaggerating,” he added eying Zen resting comfortably on Ed's shoulder. “Come on up to the office so we can become better acquainted.”

As they stepped into the elevator, Webster continued. “I know a little of your background because I read the feature article, When Art Buyers Kitty-Up in The Daily Brush. That article gave me a good chuckle, as you and the cats have done for many a visitor to Gallery Row from what I've heard. My secretary, Janice, seems to know you well too, and likes both you and the cats,” he said as they walked down a short hall.

“I guess we have acquired a bit of a reputation,” Ed said. “Glad it's a good one!”

“I've been so busy since arriving here,” the dark-haired director said. “I learned all I could about this magnificent museum, met with the staff and reviewed the upcoming exhibition schedules. Because of all that, I haven't had an opportunity to get to one of the Friday Night Gallery Walks on Sabal Avenue. I especially hope to get to know all of the gallery owners.

“When things calm down around here, perhaps we can have dinner and you can show me the ropes on Gallery Row some Friday evening,” he said waving toward an open door. “Come into the office and let's spend a little time getting better acquainted.”

After almost an hour of friendly conversation in Webster's plush office, Ed excused himself. “I've taken far too much of your valuable time from what must still be an overly busy schedule.” He turned to leave but Webster Lowe was not ready to finish the conversation. As they had chatted Web noted how anxious Ed was to see a new exhibition called Designed To Deceive: Forgeries And Fakes In The World Of Art.

“Did you know that Carter booked the show before I came here?” Webster asked. “I was the organizer of the exhibition, and arranged with other museums and individual owners of forgeries to borrow what you'll be seeing downstairs?

“This is an aspect of the art scene that holds particular interest for me. I've actually studied the works of most of the famous forgers and major museum thefts. I also worked with top professional art restorers and learned how they spot fakes, how canvas and even the wooden stretchers can look as if they're aged. Just fascinating!”

“I've read about that sort of thing myself,” Ed noted with interest. “ I think I've been offered some fakes to sell when I was traveling as an art rep.”

“When the board chose me as director, I asked for the privilege of bringing a professional restorer on board that I met during a trip to Russia. I know this person well and he's a perfect candidate to replace Carter's long-time restorer, who will soon retire. They agreed, so I now have the ideal successor ready to step into her shoes.

“Many of the best forgers were exceptional artists but never received the recognition that they felt deserved for their own works. I consider myself somewhat of an expert and have often been called to testify about the authenticity or lack of it, in a number of instances.

“Some of the curators I met while putting the show together were from museums where art had been stolen - sometimes misappropriated by employees looking to supplement their incomes.”

“From what I've learned,” Ed noted,” there's big money to be made by those who sell forged or stolen art.”

“For sure,” Webster replied running his fingers through his thick black hair. “It's a nasty business but it happens and many museums tend to keep smaller losses to themselves. They hope that a work of art or an artifact of some kind was simply misfiled or placed incorrectly in storage. Most institutions of this kind, including here in Ringland, have more valuables put away at any one time than there are on public display.”

Webster then asked about Ed's interest in the arts, so he told him about his many years as an art rep on the road. He also related how he met some seedy characters from time to time. While the two men talked, Zen and Zoe rambled around the office stopping and staring at each of the artworks on the office walls.

Then Web, a short form of his name that he preferred to be called, stood and grasped Ed's hand firmly.”

“It's been great getting to know you, Ed,” he said. “And the cats are just beautiful!” Nice meeting you too,” he replied. “I'm sure we'll run into each other often.”

As they walked toward the elevator Web said, “I owned a meezer myself some time ago but I've never seen that variety with the fluffy tails. Mine was a sweet cat but I had to have her put down before moving to Ringland.”

Upon hearing the words put down, Zen and Zoe ran straight to Ed and nestled behind his legs, almost tripping him.

“Don't worry about the cats,” Web assured. “I know their history from the staff, each of whom vouched for their good behavior and what sounds like an astonishing interest in art. I'll let Bill and the other doorkeepers know it's all right for you to bring Zen and Zoe with you when you visit. But mind, this is a special exception for you. For others, should there be any, the No Pets rule still stands. We do allow guide dogs but since this is a museum, we don't get many blind folks visiting anyway.”

Web not only walked Ed to the elevator, but he also rode down with him and pointed the way to the newly opened Designed To Deceive exhibition. In the entryway beyond the elevator of Joseph Richland's huge former home, a portrait of the man dominated the area so anyone entering could not help seeing it. He was stylishly dressed in a dark 1920's suit with the first ever Florida golf course in the background. His left hand was slipped casually into his trouser's pocket. When his wife, Maybelle, first saw the portrait, she was overheard making a telling comment. “That isn't like Joseph at all,” she said. “He has his hand in his own pocket.”

At the entrance, the new director turned to Ed. “Today, as you know, is the first day of the public showing and you can see there's already a crowd, thanks to the publicity it received.”

Then hesitating he added, “I just had a bright idea. Today is Thursday and tomorrow at 9 am, I will be presenting a talk to the museum docents. They'll be guiding visitors around and pointing out the special features of the examples of art they describe during the tours they lead. We're expecting a huge crowd on the first weekend and I want them to be well prepared.

“Why don't you come to the talk, Ed? I know you'll enjoy it. Not only that, I saw in The Daily Brush events section that tomorrow night is going to be this month's Friday Night Gallery Walk along Sabal Avenue. Why don't you let me take you to dinner and then you can give me a guided tour along Gallery Row? I'm sure you know most of the owners who will be there for the event and you can introduce me to a group of people who I need to know?”

“You have a done deal, Web!” exclaimed a very pleased Ed.

“We can have a bite to eat at one of the excellent restaurants on the row. How about 6 pm? I'll meet you in front of Pear and Mason, which is right in the middle of the first block and the restaurant is just two doors down.”

The two men shook hands one more time as the director added another unexpected revelation. “If you come to the docent meeting in the morning, you'll also get to meet the feature writer from

The Brush – the one who did the funny kitty story about you, Zen and Zoe. She'll be there to gather information for a major story on the exhibit you're about to see. I know you'll like her. Her name is Candace Topping and she has worked for the paper for about 15 years. She's not just a good writer but a real knockout as well! But a word of warning: don't call her Candy!”

The Designed To Deceive exhibition was all that Ed expected and more. Even the cats displayed an unusual degree of interest in each of the works of art. Before he headed home with his feline pals, he was already eagerly anticipating the morning lecture and demonstration for the docents by an acknowledged expert on the subject.

He had checked to ensure that Zen and Zoe would be allowed to attend. That would not be a problem, he learned, because most of the docents knew Ed and the cats from his previous visits. Most of them had become friends with the pussies as their master made the rounds of the huge building many times over a period of several years. In the beginning, they were just kittens.

The next morning, all three sat in the front row near the lectern and a table where there were samples of various papers, a few old canvases and several trays filled with liquid. Webster opened his remarks by noting that the worldwide legitimate art market topped tens of billions of dollars annually. It was that market, he noted, that stimulated the underworld trade in stolen and fraudulent art, which soon outstripped all other property crimes.

Web was at his best as he gave the background on selected paintings, real works by well-known artists and their forgeries. He pointed out subtle differences between the look-alikes and talked about the remarkable skill of the famous forgers represented by their works: Hans van Meegreren, Elmyr de Hoy, Eric Hebborn, John Myatt, and Mark Landis.

The audience, Ed and the cats were riveted by every word he spoke. Then Web moved to the table with the papers, canvases and trays on it.

“At this point,” he said, “I'm going to turn our meeting over to another member of the museum staff that many of you already know. Viviane Blaine is our chief conservator and expert on restoration. She will show you some of the methods these masters of deception use to age the materials they employ to give the proper appearance to forgeries. They then foist the fakes on collectors who spend millions to acquire works that they believe are genuine.”

Web noted that although he was the new boy on the block at Ringland, he had known Viviane for a number of years.

“Before coming here, I borrowed her from Carter, your former director, on several occasions because of her admirable reputation. Her exceptional ability to repair and restore priceless works of art is well known to curators across the country. Several years ago when I was organizing an exhibition of marvelous works of art by women painted before the 19th century, there were a number of paintings that needed cleaning and in several instances, repairs -not unusual for works of that age.

“Viviane's expertise and eminence in the art world are well known. She was my first choice for preparing works for that exhibition before it began a two-year circuit of museums here and abroad. As I watched and learned from her, the idea for this show, Designed to Deceive, was born. If I am the Papa, Viv is the Mama, and much of the credit for its excellence should go to her, not to me.”

At that point, Viviane, who had been sitting quietly at the rear of the room, came forward to the applause of the docents, Web and all of the others present. A slightly built woman with short-cropped gray-streaked hair - almost boyish looking - made her way to the podium. The white smock she wore made her look remarkably like a doctor, which she was, in fact, as she worked on the art in the museum's collection.

Viviane could have been in her 50's, but many in the room knew she had been at her job at Ringland for more than a few of decades. She began working there after she received a Master's degree qualifying her for the position. Many also knew that when Carter retired, she planned to stop working as well. When Carter left, she gave notice that she would leave in a few months time.

For the next hour, Viviane dipped swatches of paper into the trays, which contained simple ingredients such as instant coffee, black tea, and orange juice. She left them in the liquid for varying periods of time and kept track of them with a stopwatch. She then laid the papers out to dry. While answering questions about what she was demonstrating, her manner was straightforward. In fact, she seemed a bit curt, almost as if she expected those wko were asking them to possess an expanded grasp of the subject.

Afterward, she used shoddily painted pictures on old canvases, which had been bought at various flea markets, to explain the cracklature that comes with age. She also described how forgers duplicated various effects on the works they had created and what could be discovered using blue light fluorescence to tell aged paint from that which was newly applied.

Ed was entirely rapt by the demonstration, as were his two cats who uttered not a single Meow through the whole demonstration. Even though he was already familiar with much of what was discussed and shown, he could hardly turn his eyes away. However, there were times when he couldn't resist surreptitiously glancing toward the other end of the row of seats where Candace Topping was sitting. She seemed to be studiously taking notes for the Feature article she planned to write for The Daily Brush.

He could not help thinking that Web's description of her as a knockout was a vast understatement. As she turned a page in her notebook, she brushed a strawberry blonde curl away from her eyes. And to Ed's delight, her short black skirt had ridden part way up her thighs. He quickly realized that her legs were every bit as shapely as those of the TV anchorwomen on the cable channels where great legs seemed to be a prerequisite for employment.

The lecture took just under two hours, after which the docents received written outlines and notes about each of the paintings they would point out when they guided visitors through the exhibition. Before the group left, Zen and Zoe both jumped onto the demonstration table to carefully sniff each example of paper and canvas that Viviane had used. That is before Web escorted Candace across the floor to meet a nervous but excited Ed.

******

Chapter Three

Those men still in the room who had been so fascinated by the lecture instinctively shifted their attention to the lady on Web's arm as he walked her over to meet Ed. Every head turned as the stunning woman with the spectacular legs greeted him with an extended hand.

“I feel as if I already know you,” Candace said warmly. The gallery owners had nothing but nice things to says about you and the cats when I interviewed them for the funny little story on you, Zen and Zoe,” she added in a sweet, soft-spoken voice.

Each word sounded like music to Ed's ears.

“I'm sorry we didn't meet then,” she continued. “I had wanted to interview you too and write a longer story, but the Feature editor had other ideas and an assignment he wanted me to cover right way. That was a story on the local garden club meeting, which was not the most interesting item to cover. As a matter of fact, I loathe having to do it, but I seem to get stuck with that type of story far too often. She paused for a brief second and added, “The boss is the boss, you know.”

Ed felt a sudden flush of warmth move up his neck and into his face but tried to sound nonchalant. “I can certainly understand that,” he replied smiling like a young schoolboy with his first crush.

“Now,” Candace said, “the editor wants a major color-illustrated article on Web as the new executive director, as well as his role as the originator and organizer of the Designed to Deceive exhibition. The story will note that the exhibition is going to travel to other leading museums after its run here. I would like to include you, Zen and Zoe in the article. I believe it could add some much needed additional warmth and interest to the piece, assuming it's all right with you and we get to know one another better.”

She still held Ed's hand as she spoke and he was fully conscious of its most pleasant effect on him – or was that the same burning feeling that seemed to extend not only up his neck but also well beyond the palm of his hand? Either way, he found it electrifying but tried to exhibit an air of aloofness.

“You do know you have a famous name, don't you?” Candace asked. “Edward Lear was the originator of the limerick – those five-line poems, often a little naughty. I think the contrast between the namesake of a poet who wrote nonsense rhymes and a serious art lover who takes his cats to art shows could only add to an already good story.”

“Sounds like a stretch to me,” Ed replied. “If you get beyond Mary Had a Little Lamb, I'm in over my head when it comes to poetry.”

“Come on Ed; it's noon. Let's talk about it over lunch,” she suggested. “I'm buying, and the paper is paying.”

“Well,” Ed laughed, “when you put it that way, how could I resist? I might be easy but don't get the idea that I'm willing to be part of the story you plan to write.”

“Oh, we'll see about that! Candace said flashing a dazzling smile and winking at him. Had he blown his cover? He wondered.

“I'm willing but just because I'm taking you to lunch,” she said, “don't get the idea I'm easy. Why don't we discuss it over some juicy lamb chops? I know just the place.”

The pair said their goodbyes to Web and left arm in arm. Ed was sure he could almost feel the jealousy oozing from the other men in the room as they made their way to the door.

Ed and Candace hit it off immediately. He could not keep from letting his guard down because she was as easy to talk to as she was to look at. The cats took an immediate liking to Ed's new lady friend too. They both curled up in her lap as Ed followed her directions to the restaurant, which was just blocks away.

“The cats must sense something special about her,” he thought as he drove. “They're usually not as at ease with women as they are sometimes with men. Even though Zen and Zoe paid attention to the art in Web's office, they virtually ignored him when he said he owned a Siamese at one time. But they seem to like Kip at Pear and Mason. They even let him pet them and came when he called. They never did that with Web.

“Somehow cats appear to have a unique sense about people,” Ed thought. “Zen and Zoe certainly seem to have a sixth sense about good art. I could swear they acted differently when looking at the genuine art in the show we just saw and actually bristled in front of some of the fakes.”

He smiled at Candace, who was busy petting the cats, much to their delight. It was then that Ed remembered the scrap of paper Kip had given to him. It was still in his wallet, so he decided to show it to Candace when they had lunch. He remembered it was five lines of scrawled verse. “That surely makes it a limerick,” he thought.

Then his rambling mind recalled what a special day it had been and would continue to be. First the show and fascinating talk for the docents. Now he was heading for lunch with the most charming woman he remembered meeting for - he could not remember when. And tonight, another fine meal with a new friend with whom he felt he could form a bond given their mutual interest in art and finally, the Friday Night Gallery Walk along Sabal Avenue.

“Could any day be better?” he mused.

Ed found the luncheon delightful. The tender, succulent baby lamb chops that Candace recommended were the best he'd eaten. Even more he savored the casual conversation he had with Candace, who told him more about her work at the newspaper. As they waited for desert, he pulled out the little poem that had been slipped under Kip's door. He handed it to his companion and proceeded to explain how it had come into his hands, as well as the gallery owner's troubled comments.

Candace read it aloud again, which caused the cats' ears to perk up. Then they both let out low, raspy growls. She had scarcely faltered, unscrambling the final words in each line as she read.

 “'Masterpiece' - here today, gone tomorrow
Art that will cost you more than just sorrow.

It hasn't been missed 

But I can't resist

Calling attention to art that we 'borrow.'”

 “I don't think,” she said, “that this is something Kip should take lightly. It sounds to me as if whoever wrote it has gained some degree of knowledge about art theft and is taunting him to see if anything in his gallery is missing. Not only that, it's a limerick and you, the namesake of the Limerick originator, were given it by a suspicious gallery owner who knows you have helped clients learn what is real and has value, and what does not.”

“That thought,” answered Ed, “has crossed my mind too. Kip was emphatic that the owner of a unique piece of art we both particularly liked wanted no publicity or any sort of mention about who owned it, except to potential buyers. It could just be some weird joke. Kip is sure nothing is missing from the exhibition.

“On the other hand, if it refers to something at the gallery, it could cost them not only their reputation, but a relationship with the patron Kip believes has an exceptional collection. If that were to happen, the gallery stands to lose a whole lot more. They would prefer to help the unnamed person find suitable buyers, which would mean a healthy cut for the gallery.

“Whatever you do,” Ed cautioned, “don't even think of mentioning it, whatever you write.” “Not to worry, Ed. I'm very good at keeping secrets.”

Ed drove Candace back to her car in the Ringland parking lot but not before asking if it would be all right to call her and return the invitation for a meal together. After just a few hours, they parted almost as if they were old friends. “Almost,” Ed thought until he regained control of his far too vivid imagination. On the way home, he chatted with the cats because he had some questions for them as if they could actually answer.

“You liked her, didn't you? Would you like to see her again? Did you learn anything at the lecture and the show?”

The cats responded with meows that Ed imagined were happy responses, so he tried a couple more questions.

“Did you like the art in Web's office? Did you like Web? He seemed to like you.”

Stoney silence and no meows. Zen was back on the shelf at the rear window staring at the Ringland museum as it faded in the distance.

Ed and the cats took a short nap and then headed downtown shortly before 6 pm. As soon as he parked on a side street and headed for Gallery Row, the cats perked up as if anticipating another walk, and visits to places they were familiar with and enjoyed. When they rounded the corner, Ed spotted Web already standing in front of the brightly lit Pear And Mason gallery. He was dressed more casually than before but still quite stylish in khaki pants and a sports shirt.

The two men greeted each other, shook hands and began chatting amiably as they walked to the restaurant. There was no problem bringing the cats inside. Ed and his felines were well known to the owner, and thankfully, they once again behaved correctly, with perfect pussycat decorum. Zoe snuggled up on Ed's lap and Zen, after lapping up some water from a saucer the waitress had thoughtfully placed before him, sat quietly on the floor beside his chair.

After another fine meal, Web picked up the check, and they meandered down Gallery Row, which was already bustling with people out for an evening of art and socializing. The Gallery Walks had become a regular event, so all of the studios were well illuminated. Most of the owners put out trays of snacks, including candies or cookies for patrons to enjoy. A few even set up tables with wine and glasses where they offered samples provided by willing wine merchants. They were available to anyone who wished a taste and to hear wine company reps offer a short mouth-watering description of their products. Some of them compared the quality of their wines with the art and sculptures that could be found in the galleries. Both Ed and Web sampled. To the wine rep's surprise, Ed placed his glass, still containing a tiny bit of the white wine he had chosen on the floor by the cats. Zen and Zoe sniffed the glass then lapped a little of the liquid before looking up at Ed.

“I think they're smiling,” Ed said, as he handed the empty glass back to the incredulous rep.

Art sellers did not use Gallery Walk nights to lay a hard sell on anyone who expressed an interest in a particular piece of art. However, occasional sales were made on the spur of the moment. The gallery owners knew these occasions often brought serious buyers back to look more closely and knew that they might return a day or so later to make a purchase. Many owners waited for the walk days to mount new shows or to rearrange their exhibitions to feature their best work for the easiest viewing.

Virtually every owner was in his or her gallery that night, and as soon as Ed and the cats entered, they were spotted and welcomed. That familiarity helped him to easily introduce Web, which was exactly what he wanted, to form close personal ties with members of the local art community. Many gallery owners supported the Ringland museum in a variety of ways, so they ensured that members of the public knew about their efforts and support for public events that were held there.

At just before 9 pm, Web and Ed had visited most of the galleries and then wound up at Pear And Mason, leaving the best for last. Many walkers had already headed home, just as Ed had planned. He wanted Web to take his time viewing the quality of art on display and of course, meet Kip. With no other distractions, they would have more time to talk and hopefully, set a foundation for a lasting relationship that could benefit both of them.

As soon as they entered, Web headed straight toward the painting of the young lady on the balcony that had caught Ed's eye previously. As expected, Kip walked over to greet his friend and companion.

“This piece of art is truly outstanding!” Web enthusiastically exclaimed. “It's worthy of being shown at The Ringland. I not only recognize the style and period, I also know who painted it. This very painting was in my possession for eight weeks when I was curator of a collection in Dallas. I was the initial sponsor for the show, and it opened at my venue. The Dallas gallery was hosting the works of French female genre artists. The collection made the rounds of the venues, and after that, this painting simply disappeared from public view.”

Web told Ed that although he was at the top of the curator ladder, he sought the next logical step up in the arts field. “I wanted to become a museum director,” he said. “The Dallas show and my knowledge of the period were the main reason for my growing reputation in the art world. I'm sure it also played a significant role in The Ringland board's decision to hire me as the museum's director.”

He also explained that he became an expert on art from the period when the woman on the balcony was painted.

“It is by Marie-Denise Villers and in my opinion, one of the best she ever created! It's as exceptional as her Young Woman Sketching, which was accepted for an exhibition at the Academy in Paris in 1801. Now it hangs in the Metropolitan Museum.”

As soon as they had formally met, Web asked Kip where he got the painting. But before he could answer, Web added that he could practically recite it's provenance from memory up until it vanished from unknown reasons.

“I was sure it must have been purchased privately after the collection of art by these women broke up. I assumed that after the showings, all the pieces returned to the museums or individuals who had loaned them. It had to be bought by someone who really knew and appreciated fine art, and now you have it!

“Compared to the last time I saw this painting, it looks even better and more finely executed than I remember. In fact, I actually handled it when I helped organize the show with help from Viviane Blaine, who was already with Ringland as it's chief restorer. She will be thrilled when she learns it is here.”

“Perhaps she could stop by to see it,” Kip suggested.

“I wish I knew who made the purchase but private sales are seldom public knowledge,” Web continued. “It literally glows with the artist's talent. I'm more taken with its perfection now than I was then. Just seeing it has made this delightful evening worthwhile!”

Kip could not help glowing, as he heard this acknowledged art expert rave about the painting's beauty.“You certainly have a keen eye and excellent insight into what constitutes a great work of art,” he said.

When Ed finally parted company with Web that night, The Ringland director was still ecstatic. “This has been more than I ever expected and I have you to thank for taking me on this Gallery

Walk,” he told Ed. “It has been wonderful to have the opportunity to see such an extraordinary work of art. You can bet I will be back to examine it even more closely again. I'll have to check to see what Kip might sell it for and find out if we have dollars in our acquisition budget to purchase it for The Ringland Collection. I know just where I'd hang it, if we can manage a buy!”

******

Chapter Four

Over the next few days, Ed would realize that both Candace and Web were true to their words. The story on the Designed to Deceive exhibition made the full front page of the Feature section of The Daily Brush. The article extended for another half page on B-2 of the top circulation Sunday edition.

Candace had lost no time after her lunch with Ed on Friday. She worked far into the night writing a top quality story covering all aspects of what was truly big news for anyone with an interest in art. The Feature article was eye-catching with fullcolor photos of Web and the art in the exhibition. It also included an outline of the Ringland museum's search for a top-flight director to replace Carter and an extensive recitation of Web's background as a curator and director. As well, it cited his expertise, not just in administration but also as a recognized national expert on art theft and forgeries.

There was an amusing sidebar on the second page about Ed, Zen, and Zoe, calling attention to their reputation as regulars in the local arts scene. The sidebar included information on Ed's past as a successful art rep having sold many fine pieces not only to individuals but also to art professionals in the design and gallery fields. As well, he was hailed as a knowledgeable art expert.

Ed and Candace had spoken over the phone several times early on the previous Saturday so that she could write such a phenomenal item on them. She had peppered him with questions about his profession before retirement, where and how he acquired Zen and Zoe, and how he noticed their uncanny and un-cat-like love for art. When she finished writing the sidebar, she made a point of calling Ed to read her copy to him before putting the piece to bed.

She accomplished this well before the Sunday publishing deadline, and she kept a most important promise. She did not include a word about the strange limerick, any details on the owner of the spectacular piece of art or even a hint of possible missing art at Pear And Mason.

Ed was pleased to learn during a call from Web that he had returned to Pear and Mason and was negotiating a deal to purchase the art that they both had deemed magnificent. Within two weeks, Web and Kip had drawn up a contract whereby The Ringland Collection of Art and Antiquities could buy and display the painting of the Young Woman on a Balcony.

Web had authenticated it as a painting by Marie-Denise Villers. Little was known about her other than the fact that she lived from 1714 to 1821 and was an exceptionally gifted pupil of Girodet.

To Kip's delight, he earned a generous commission on the sale. If that were not enough to make him grin from ear to ear, the mystery collector from Hermosa Key consigned two additional fine pieces to Pear and Mason. The museum board members were also delighted. Candace's feature story in the local newspaper drew record crowds to the Designed To Deceive show at the Ringland. Even non-art goers were fascinated with the faked and thievery aspects of the art on display.

Web was sure to highlight the museum's latest acquisition by placing it right in the center of the huge open gallery. He surrounded it with a ring of brass escutcheons and velvet covered rope, topped off with a museum guard inside the circle to accentuate the painting's value.

Although the piece was not as large or widely known as Young Woman Sketching, Web included a photograph of that piece along with information about Villers. He knew this would call attention to the fact that the Metropolitan was not the only museum to own such a rare find.

Visitors to the show appeared as entranced by the painting as Ed, Kip and Web had been – that is except for Zen and Zoe. The cats circled it warily and displayed a distinct air of indignation. When Ed lifted each of them up to see the work from his height, they bristled and made it clear that they wanted nothing to do with it.

“What a strange reaction,” Ed thought.

Several weeks after the opening of the Designed To Deceive show, he dismissed the incident. After all, he had something, someone on his mind. Ed and the new object of his affections had become steadfast friends. His meetings with Candace were no longer by chance, and the two shared a good deal of time together having dinners, going for walks with or without the cats and taking trips to view the latest art, not just in Ringland but other galleries and museums in nearby cities. They also went to the movies together and made trips to the beach where Candace in her bikini attracted unusual admiration. The two had even begun to fix one another dinners at Ed's home or Candace's condo. The cats seemed to like her almost as much they liked Ed.

Her condo was in a three-story building with four two bedroom units on each floor. Three Oaks had been named for the three large live oak trees on the property, but one of the massive trees had been cut down when the City widened Route One which bordered the two building complex close to downtown Ringland. Proximity to offices of The Daily Brush was one of the reason's she bought her place. The other compelling incentive had been the reasonable price. Oak View, as it had been renamed, had been built thirty years previously as an apartment. Time and too little maintenance had taken their toll before an investor bought the complex at a bankruptcy auction, refurbished the buildings, added a swimming pool and converted them to condos. Candace had bought in after sales had been slower than the new owner had hoped. He lowered the price on the units in her building because the view of the harbor had been blocked when a developer purchased an intervening plot and built a high-rise condo.

It was a comfortable place for the single, forty-something, knock-out journalist Ed now cared for deeply, although he was still shy about physical advances. Candace had decorated her unit tastefully, buying most of her furniture at household auctions for a fraction of what she would have paid for new.

The neighbors on her floor were quiet and congenial, but one, a grandmotherly lady of ample proportions was a bit of a character. Soon after Candace had moved in, the neighbor, Mollie Murray, had invited her in for a cup of tea and during their conversation had casually mentioned that she was a Wiccan and her coven occasionally met in her unit.

“Now, dearie,” she said, “I hope that doesn't disturb you; were all good witches. If you ever need a spell cast or want to reach someone over there, just let me know, I'm a third-degree priestess.”

Before Candace had mentally come to grips with what she had just been told, Mollie continued, quite unaware she had said anything to startle her neighbor, “Have you seen my little great-granddaughter, Sylvia. She loves to visit her Nana. She's six years old and loves to play with my Moon Crown and splash around in the pool.”

Candace had, of course, told Ed about her neighbor, but added what a sweet soul and good neighbor she was, often popping in with cookies or Banana Bread she had baked. The only time she had seemed anything but a typical Nana was the evening when about five of her friends had visited and Mollie had left the door to her unit open to the exterior walkway all the units opened upon. It was a delightful, warm and breezy Florida night and Candace had done the same. She heard the voices of the ladies she assumed was the coven Mollie had mentioned chanting. Because it was a lovely evening and, truth be told, her reporter's curiosity had been piqued by what she heard, Candace walked out and glanced in Mollie's open door just to listen to the unusual chant a bit better. What she saw sent her scurrying back to her own unit. The six ladies, all about Mollie's age and heft were standing in a circle, holding hands stark naked.

She admitted to Ed, “I high-tailed it home. I was afraid I'd be invited in to join the circle!”

On several visits to Candace, Ed and Zen and Zoe met her neighbor and Sylvia the six-year-old great- granddaughter. The cats became comfortable at her condo. They made friends with all of the neighbors on her floor and even though it was a second story walkway both seemed to delight in jumping onto the wide outside railing and walking the whole length, not at all worried about the drop to the ground below. That was where the neighbors often greeted them. They were waist high on the rail and enjoyed being petted or scratched behind their ears or at the base of their tails as they purred in appreciation.

On one occasion, Candace invited Mollie and Sylvia to dine with them. When the little girl skipped in following her Nana, Ed bent down and extended a hand for her to shake. She was not at all shy and when Mollie said, “Shake hands with Mr. Ed,” the child shook his hand and said, “I'm pleathed to meet you, Mithter Ed. I'm Sthilvia Sthilvethter and I'm sixth. Are those your caths? I love puthycaths. Nana thez their nameths are Thzen anThzoe and they are brother and thister. Isth the thmall one the thister?

Ed and Candace could hardly keep from chuckling as the poised little girl asked, “Isth it alright if I pickth them up?” Both cats took an immediate liking to a new friend more their size than most and purred when she scooped up one after the other, hugged them and rubbed noses with each. Sylvia was as curious as a “puthycat.” Her great grandmother blanched slightly, held up her hands in a “what can I do” motion when Sylvia turned to Candace and asked, “Ith Mithter Ed your thweetie? Nana thed he waath.” She was a delight at dinner, entering into the conversation with the adults and asking about each dish served. “Thith is a thuper thalad! Ith it alright if I have thum more?” After desert. she complimented her hostess, “Thith waath a thcrumthiouth dinner, Mith Candath!” As Mollie and Sylvia departed, both Ed and Candace hugged the adorable child as Ed smiled broadly and told her, “You can play with the puthycaths – oops – pussycats any time they are here,”

When they dined at Ed' home one of the games the four of them shared came about after Candace spotted a colorful book on fake and forged art at a second-hand bookstore. It was an oversize coffee table volume she found in a bookstore that specialized in remainders. Despite the $65 price tag, she bought it as a gift for her becoming closer friend and his feline housemates.

Candace remembered Ed telling her about the incident when he laid photos of the so-called masterpiece and the creative genius on the floor. He related how he left the cats alone in the room with them, only to return and find they had destroyed and desecrated the photos. She was as fascinated as Ed by their strange behavior.

“Let's see if these art-aware cats of yours really can tell a genuine piece of art from a forgery,” Candace suggested one evening just for fun.

Despite her reluctance to cut pages from the beautiful book, she did just that and laid four of them on the floor, as Ed and the cats watched. Two of the pages were reproductions of authentic works of art and the other two were pictures of the same work but were forgeries. They looked almost identical.

Ed was captivated by Candace's slim but curvy figure as she knelt down to place the photos. Even Zen and Zoe seemed fascinated but for entirely different reasons. Ed and Candace moved to the sofa and made themselves comfortable as the cats began circling the pages. He couldn't help recalling Candace telling him about Mollie and her coven and thinking to himself, “Might be nice if the four of us formed a circle like Mollie's friends. The cats are already naked.” Putting thoughts aside, he and Candace waited to see how the felines would react.

It was not long before Zoe walked around them and growled. She suddenly pounced her four paws down on one of the pages. Then she sank her kitty fangs into the edge of the paper, lifted it from the floor and clawed at it as it dangled between her teeth. It was an image of one of the forged reproductions.

Zen saw what his sister had done and strode straight to a page that displayed an image of the masterpiece. He plopped down squarely in the middle of it as if he were protecting it from an attack by Zoe.

Ed removed his arm from around Candace's shoulder and stood up quickly to retrieve the two remaining pages. He then attempted to recoup what was left of the page Zoe still swung from her mouth but was taken off guard when both cats let out what could only be described as fierce yowls. He tried to grab the opposite edge of Zoe's page but she refused to let it go and only after the page was torn could he salvage even a part of it. The cat still clutched the other part of the page tightly in her jaws.

When Ed pushed Zen from the page he appeared to guard; he was shocked that his cat pawed his hand hard with his claws extended.

“Ow! That hurt!” he exclaimed, as a warning growl rumbled from his otherwise placid shoulder sitting friend.

Both cats then sauntered out of the room in what the two humans took to be high dungeon, leaving Ed and Candace confounded. With mouths agape, they were hardly able to utter a coherent word, let alone begin to express their amazement.

On other evenings together, they used pages from the book to play the fool the cats with a fake game. But they did not begin until Ed had trained Zen and Zoe to give up their positions on the game board of art pages when presented with a few Perfect Pussy Cat Treats, a trick suggested to Ed by a veterinarian friend. Even when the couple spread out a dozen pages, half real and half reproductions of forgeries, the cats were never wrong.

Sometimes Zen led the way and sat flatly on an image showing a real painting as Zoe watched.

When Zen had made a choice, Zoe ambled among the other pages and invariably sat on the matching forgery. On occasion they switched roles. As the cats realized they were playing a game, their outraged screeching and mangling of pages ceased. When they had made their choices, they were rewarded with Perfect Pussy morsels.

Eventually, the cats suggested the start of a game themselves by leaping onto the shelf where Ed kept the book of reproductions. They then rubbed their foreheads on the exposed spine. Felines have a scent gland in their foreheads, so it is a cat's way of either marking a possession or issuing a warning: “Don't touch; that's mine!” For Zen and Zoe, it marked the beginning of a new game using what by then they perceived as their book.

******

Chapter Five

For Ed, each day seemed better than the last, especially since Candace became a constant part of his life. Their relationship was maturing as they became more than companions. As their lives entwined, a special friendship had developed. They felt comfortable sharing every thought, their innermost feelings, hopes, and desires. They shared a deep and abiding faith that, although it bound them ever closer together, held them apart physically. With the moral absolutes that  ordered their lives they now had peace and happiness without the emotional roller coaster of highs and heartbreaks serial affairs promised but never delivered.

For Candace, stunningly beautiful, it meant she had learned to counter advances almost daily. Most were merely annoying, but occasionally they were crude. On one occasion, it went far beyond that. It had happened at the newspaper late one evening when she was alone working on a major feature article. A new hire newsroom reporter she had rebuffed before walked into the vacant office and stopped in front of her desk. She could smell the alcohol as he ogled her once again. Suddenly he dropped his trousers exposing himself and panted out, “Know what that is little girl – ever seen one like that?” Instead of screaming, she glanced at the erect appendage, then calmly looked him in the eye and replied, “Yes, I've seen something like that, but a lot bigger.” Then picking up a massive pair of shears she kept on her desk to cut articles from the newspaper, said steadily, “And if you come a step closer, I'll trim whatever it is until it disappears entirely.” He flushed a scarlet red, pulled his pants over the rapidly drooping display and rushed from the room. She reported the incident to the managing editor the next morning. He called in the perpetrator and fired him on the spot, telling him not to bother cleaning out his desk unless he wanted to be escorted out by the police.

For Ed Lear, once he had become a “road warrior” regularly traveling to sell artwork to collectors, galleries, interior designers and art consultants, his growing business made investing enough time for the “togetherness” a deep relationship difficult. There had been opportunities for one-night-stands with female customers who wanted more than a business relationship, but he knew it wasn't a good practice. Within the professional art community, there was a grapevine through which the good, the bad and the ugly passed quickly. He kept his flirting to a humorous give and take, but no more. When he had semi- retired, that was no longer the case. He knew Candace was worth whatever time, effort and energy more than friendship would involve, and he wanted with all his heart and soul to bring it about. But, truth be told, he was out of practice and wary of pressing. Neither he nor Candace had family close by, but they shared a “church family” of true friends who thought and based their lives on shared principles and a common relationship that guided their lives. That took the short term “grab it now” away, but it didn't diminish the heat that was building every time they touched.

He had accompanied Candace to an exhibition of Socialist Realism paintings done as propaganda during Josef Stalin's reign. Despite the subject matter, the technical ability of the artists was impressive. Her Feature editor at The Daily Brush knew she had the ability to blend her knowledge of art and politics. He wanted a feature page article that could tie in with the current administration's slide to the left and the up-coming election. He also knew she and Ed had become a couple and expected his knowledge of the art marketplace might add another facet to the article. That is why she had been given a full day away from the paper to visit the museum exhibition in a nearby city and another day to write the feature story.

Since it was already after the dinner hour when the pair was nearly home, Candace heard her stomach growling. “It's my birthday,” she announced. “Why don't you take me to dinner, but din-din for the cats first; then we can celebrate.”

“Don't worry about Zen and Zoe. You know I have automatic water and feeders set up. I can fill the hoppers and know they'll be well fed even if I'm away for a few days. Had to do that when I was on the road selling.” After a short pause, he added, “It's your birthday? And you didn't tell me! I would have gotten you something special if I'd known. Why did you keep it a secret?”

“I didn't tell anyone,” she said. “I was afraid someone would give me something with candles on it – or a funny T-shirt like the one I gave the Feature Editor. That did not turn out so well.” Her laugh betrayed her feeling of indignation. “I think that's why I got put on the Garden Club beat.”

“You never told me that story. What did the T-shirt say and why did you give it to him?” “Well, it was to mark his 10th year as the Feature editor. His secretary made it known that gifts

would be in order and because he's often so abrasive, many of us thought that was a little overboard. However, we all coughed up anyway.”

“I can sense trouble coming,” Ed said turning toward her smiling. “What did the shirt say?” “Annoying The World – One Person At A Time! Unfortunately, he failed to see the humor in it,

especially when everyone laughed as soon as he opened it.”

Ed practically split his sides laughing. “Candles and funny T-shirts are perfect gifts for a Sweet Sixteen party, and I'm sure you would have gotten both,” he quipped as Candace turned onto the Interstate. “Head south away from the house. I know a superb bed and breakfast about a half hour down the road. It features a four-star restaurant rating for its enticing menu and exemplary service. I have been told that it also has an outstanding wine cellar.

“When they see the youngster I'm taking to dinner,” he chided, “the sommelier, I mean wine steward, will undoubtedly suggest a brand that goes well with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!” “Flattery, sweetheart, will get you everywhere,” she responded with a grin, her luscious red lips

curved up at the corners. “I know Ed is interested in me and might even feel strongly about our budding relationship,” she thought. “But his treatment of me is almost courtly at times, and he seems pretty old fashioned when it comes to physical advances. Maybe, I'll have to make the first move.”

Ed realized that Candace must get hit on constantly because of her beauty. He did not want to be just one of many other men who acted that way.

He pointed toward the proper exit and guided her along an appealing tree-lined boulevard that led to a charming old rambling mansion, almost the size of a small hotel. She turned into the driveway and headed for what was obviously an entrance when Ed held up his hand. “Go around again, little one.

The restaurant is on the other side. This is where we'd go if we wished to register to stay.”

Candace circled the building and parked close to the restaurant entrance. Once seated at a table, they both scanned the menu and an unusually long wine list.

“We'll get a bottle of whatever you like best,” Ed directed, “but you'll have to choose because it's your birthday, and I'm just a Budweiser connoisseur. Not that I like the stuff, but I drink it out of affection for those darn frogs.”

“Then let's get a bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse,” Candace suggested and pointed to it on the list. “I think you'll like it, Ed.”

“Fine with me but you'll have to teach me how to say it correctly. I don't speak Hungarian very well, and I'd rather not look like a jerk when I order it.”

“Purse your lips as if you're about to give me a kiss,” she instructed. “And then say POOIE Fweezay.”

“POOIE Fweezay, POOIE Fweezay,” Ed dutifully intoned.

When the sommelier arrived and asked for their order, Ed assumed a quite continental and in-charge posture.

“We'd like a bottle of your very best POOIE Fweezay.” “Oh,” said the sommelier, “Number 53, an excellent choice.”

Candace looked at Ed and practically fell off her seat laughing. As soon as the sommelier was out of earshot, Ed cracked up too.

“The SOB couldn't say it either!” Ed exclaimed.

They both agreed that the dinner was exceptional. Afterward, they lingered over coffee and finally left the restaurant arm in arm. As Candace turned where she thought she would be leaving the parking lot, Ed held up his hand once more.

“Back up and go the other way. You've headed toward the check-in entrance again.”

Candice sighed and muttered under her breath, “This darn car seems to have a mind of its own sometimes,”

Ed was not quite sure what she said.

On the trip home hardly a word passed between the two. They held hands as Candace guided her car to Ed's house to drop him off after their day together. The hours they shared had flown by too swiftly, but timeless in a way neither understood. Something had changed. Something had changed them. They both knew, but could not put it into words.

When Ed unfastened his seat belt, he leaned over, took her face in his hands and planted a lingering goodnight kiss. He felt her tongue between his lips. When she finally pulled away, she whispered, “That isn't enough.” She unfastened her seat belt and almost ran around the car to where he stood before she pressed herself against him in a passionate embrace that lasted for what seemed an eternity Ed hoped would never end. They swayed, locked together as they kissed. When they finally stood apart, Ed heard the words he knew were true. “I love you, Ed,” then she took his hand and led him to the door. “Let's go in and feed the cats, I love them, too.”

“You'll save your kisses for me, won't you,” Ed chided.”

After feeding Zen and Zoe, she did just that. A torrid half hour had passed before they finally disentangled, sat again on the large sectional sofa they found themselves beside, breathless and aware that only another kiss stood between something that could not be stopped.

“I love you, Candace.”

“I know,” she said as she turned and stepped through the door to her car after giving him a final goodnight peck on the cheek.

The next morning, Ed got up late, unwilling to leave his dreams. The phone rang as he was in the kitchen sleepily making morning coffee. “Well, there goes the chance for a quiet moment or two with my furry friends while I wake up,” he thought to himself, “I'll ignore it. If it's anything important they'll call back after I get my head and heart on straight.” But the phone kept ringing, six times – seven – eight - Ed put his hands over his ears – nine – ten – he couldn't help counting – eleven – twelve – thirteen.

He got up abruptly, dumping Zen and Zoe onto the floor. Their startled protests compounded Ed's unwelcome transition to fully awake. As he got up unsteadily, he spilled his nearly full cup of coffee on the counter, where it cascaded over the edge, right on to Zen's back. The cat had planted himself there to be sure his angry yowls were heard. The hot coffee shower sent Zen almost vertically into the air as if he had been catapulted straight up. Zoe, who had curled up on top of Zen's tail was so surprised when the tail whipped from under her belly she added an anguished scream, leaped away and bounded onto the breakfast table knocking over the sugar, salt, and pepper shakers before leaping down and scrambling up the stairs to safety.

As Ed stumbled into the office to grab the phone, he knocked over the wastebasket scattering paper all over the floor. He made a grab for the receiver but not before dumping a full folder of bills and receipts he had been going through. He also managed to knock over the beautiful Toby Mug of pens and pencils he kept beside the phone, spilling all among the trash, bills, and receipts already there.

When he finally put the phone to his ear, he was ready to blast whoever was on the other end with some choice words to let them know what a disaster they had brought about.

It was Kip. “Ed, I've got another one,” he quavered. Ed plunked down hard into his desk chair. “Another of those scrawled notes,” Kip continued, “shoved under the front door so I'd find it when I opened for the day. It's another limerick and not one I like in the least.”

Then the gallery owner read it aloud:

No matter how hard 'experts' RESAT They
won't know which one has ALER FIRAL,

One real KROW OFRAT 

That sets it TARPA

Till they place side-by-side and RECOMPA

 “My Lord!” Ed exclaimed. “Are you sure nothing's missing from the gallery?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Kip responded. “You know how careful I am about what I show and I know the inventory like the back of my hand. Everything is here. I have looked at every piece, even taking each one off the wall and scanning the back. Except for a little dust on a few pieces, I'm quite confident that there has been no tampering of any kind.”

“This makes no sense,” Ed said scratching his head. “It has to be some misguided prank by one of the crazies that hit Sabal Avenue during the early morning hours. Chief Braxton, you know him as well as I do, has told me and others that Sabal Avenue is the pick-up spot for prostitutes and their Johns.

Some of the older, seedier motels down from the airport are notorious for renting rooms by the hour with no questions asked. After the sun goes down and the moon is out, a Sabal Avenue Gallery Walk takes on an entirely different meaning than the Friday night events most art lovers attend.

The after hours strolls display art and entertainment of another sort. Super tight blouses, minuscule shorts, and gigantic handbags are the point-of-sale signs on display. For some of the potential Johns who cruise the street ogling the merchandise, it doesn’t matter whether its male or female or a little of both.”

“I'm well aware of that, as are the other shop owners along Sabal,” Kip said. “That's why we asked Chief Braxton for regular squad car runs around the area in the wee hours and why we all have extra security.”

“What does your partner, Elmer, think of this?” Ed asked referring to the limericks and what they seemed to imply.

“I haven't told him and don't intend to,” Kip replied. “This is my problem. He's been traveling a great deal, and it isn't really his headache. If something goes awry with my end of the business, it won't affect his, except that the cachet of being part of a successful gallery helps him to conduct business with some of the collectors. Most of what he does is so far removed from Ringland that it's best to keep Elmer out of it.”

“That limerick is terrible,” Ed noted with obvious concern. “I have no idea what to make of it, whether you should forget about it or tell Braxton about the two you've now received. But if that sort of thing gets around and the media gains wind of it, it could hurt business for everyone.” After hesitating for a moment, Kip dropped another bombshell.

“I just got a call from my collector on Hermosa Key. He was upset as all get out that the Villers painting, Web authenticated was already on display at The Ringland museum. He told me he'd just received an offer for the what his caller said was the genuine painting but wouldn't say how much or from whom. It was not for another work by the same artist but the very same Young Woman on a Balcony that he consigned to me to sell.”

******

Chapter Six

Ed sank into his chair fully reflecting his own sinking feeling. As he listened to Kip and pressed the phone closer to his ear, his hand began to shake.

“I just cannot believe what I'm hearing,” he said dejectedly. “That limerick implies that this is definitely not a joke or prank. Someone is trying to convey that the painting you sold is a fake copy or a purposeful forgery. Whoever wrote it and shoved it under your door is attempting to ridicule you, Kip. The second rhyme you just read confirms that. How long ago did you receive the call from your collector on Hermosa Key?”

“It can't be more than 15 minutes,” Kip replied.

“Do you know if he's called Web at The Ringland or the police?”

“That's not likely, Ed. I told you he was emphatic about no publicity when he consigned the painting to me. The sale to The Ringland improved our contact somewhat, but he's a very strange individual.

Since the sale, I've asked to see his art collection, and if there are any additional pieces he'd like to consign. That was the sort of opening I had hoped for, more excellent art to display and sell at the gallery.”

“Did you get to view any of the other works in his collection?”

“I asked pointedly if I could visit him at his home to see the other art he owned,” Kip explained. “Told him I had an extensive collection of auction records and catalogs, and that I might be able to help him place a value on other pieces by the artists in his collection if the work had been sold at auction. I also tried to get him to reveal how the Young Woman on a Balcony came into his possession. His only response was, 'I gave you the provenance proving its authenticity when I consigned the art to you. You confirmed it was genuine and passed that on to the director at the museum when you sold it to him. I knew he would ask for any information I had on chain of possession.'”

“Ed, all of that is true. The papers he gave me with the painting looked to be the real deal, but as you know, little is really known about that work of art. Many people thought it was painted by Jacques Louis David, just like her other one. A letter informing the artist that her painting had been accepted for inclusion in the 1801 show was among the papers that he gave me, and I passed it on to Web. The letter sure looked authentic because the paper appeared to show its age. But as you know, that can be faked. If something is phony, Web's reputation will be tarnished because he authenticated the painting, too.”

“Very true,” Ed agreed.

“Aside from the collector, you and I are the only ones who know about this,” Kip affirmed. “I haven't told Elmer or called Web to pass on what you now know. I figured that if the painting were stolen, it would be in the news by now.”

“So you never saw any of the other paintings in his collection?”

“The answer to that has to be yes and no. I was ecstatic when he told me he had two more paintings he was sure I'd like and that I could come out and see them. I thought I had opened the door for sure. When I showed up at that huge, beautiful mansion at the time he told me to be there, I was looking forward to a tour of the place. Who wouldn't want to see the inside of that palace? It's the largest, most striking property in all of the eight miles of the Key with one spectacular estate after another but not one that comes close to his property.”

“Kip, what more can you tell me about your guy on Hermosa Key?”

“When I arrived, he was outside waiting for me by that gorgeous fountain you can see through the gates. I was floored when instead of walking me up those steps to the mansion's entrance, he guided me around to the side. There I saw a row of garages housing an unbelievable line-up of cars, from Rolls Royces to Lamborginis. Just the shine from their polish was enough to dazzle the eyes.

“Inside behind the cars, he had placed two excellent paintings set up on easels. 'These are ones I'm willing to let go,' is just about all he said. 'Do you want to handle them for me, Mr. Mason or should I get in touch with someone else?' Of course, I wanted them, Ed. They were great pieces, smaller than the first but obviously top drawer. I told him flat out that the gallery would love to show them.”

Kip explained that the man told him to just sign the consignment forms and he could load them into his car right away. He said that he then knew he could trust me. He added that I should conduct some research in the auction records and get back to him with what I believe I could fetch for them. He suggested that the museum might be interested as well.

“I countered by saying, 'Why don't we go inside where I'd feel more comfortable making the transaction. I could also tell you if there are other pieces for whom I might know a ready buyer. His answer was a frown and the words, 'Maybe some other time.' Then he pushed the consignment papers and a pen into my hand.” He stated coldly, 'If you don't want them, Mr. Mason, just say so and we'll be done with it,' so of course, I signed.

“He sounds like a real gem, Kip,” Ed interjected.

“Well, that's when I noticed a young woman polishing one of the cars. It was a cherry red Mustang convertible. The man called over to her, 'Carry the paintings to Mr. Mason's car and be sure the gate's locked after he leaves.' Although I could only see the back of her, I noticed her long dark locks, tight black dress pants, and pink leather jacket. I figured she must be quite attractive and was not disappointed when she turned to look in our direction, although she was some distance away. When we finally parted company, the man didn't even shake my hand. He just turned on his heels and headed for the mansion's big front door.

“His actions were certainly rude and rather peculiar as well,” Ed observed. “What can you tell me about the man himself? Did he have an accent of any kind? What did he look like; did he appear to be of any particular nationality?

“Hey, slow down, Ed!” One question at a time,” Kip said.

 “He was slightly built, almost feminine. He had a light complexion, brown hair and a small matching goatee. I was quite sure that he was a foreigner and expected him to speak with an accent but oddly enough, he spoke perfect English. And when he spoke, he was always quite formal, calling me Mr. Mason even during phone conversations.

“There was another man with him that I assumed because of his powerful physique might be some sort of bodyguard. We were never introduced, and he never said a word. He was more than just tall. In fact, he must have been six feet, seven inches at least. He was impressively built, almost ponderous like one of those freak wrasslers on TV and bald as a cue ball. He just stood beside his boss rocking back and forth like a bored kid. Since he wore swim trunks and beach shoes, I could easily see that he had a great sun tan too. I figured he must have spent a lot of time at the beach or by the pool. I never actually saw a pool, but given the magnificence of the place, I felt sure there must have been a huge one somewhere on the beach side of the house.

“Do you know his name at least?” Ed asked. “How did you address one another?”

“When the collector and I were first in contact, it was by telephone about the original painting, which incidentally, he had delivered to the gallery in a windowless van. Our only conversations before the time at the mansion that I just told you about were always by phone. He identified himself as Mr. Eeskoostvo, which I asked him to spell for me.

“That's an odd name,” Ed noted.

“I had a little trouble pronouncing his name, and when I stumbled a bit he commented, 'It's a hard name for you Americans – just call me Mr. Art. So that's what I did each time we spoke after that. His signature on all of the consignment papers we exchanged was a scrawl, not something anyone would have much chance at reading, but that's not unusual.”

“Kip, you know Webster Lowe really should be aware of all that has transpired. If you want me involved, why not let me call him and ask if we can come over to his office right away? I'll tell him that we have an urgent matter to discuss with him.”

The gallery owner sounded distinctly relieved when Ed made this offer.

“Ed, if I ever needed a friend and moral support, it's right now. Do you have any idea how he might react? We know so little but at some point, some way, he does have to be told.”

“Better now rather than later,” Ed suggested.

“I'm sure he'll demand to talk to Mr. Art what's-his-name,” Kip replied, “but I don't believe it will be a request I can deliver on based on our only meeting. For sure Chief Braxton needs to know about this as well. However, Mr. Art's emphasis on no publicity, as well as his all-round reluctance to let me into his home, indicate that he would not be too happy about bringing the police into this matter.

“Add to that the fact that I took two new pieces into the gallery on consignment and that they all might or might not be stolen or works of a forger. God only knows how the chief would react. Then there's Web and the reputation of the Ringland museum to consider. This entire affair places me and my gallery in a tight and totally uncomfortable position... and might even result in legal ramifications that I could only guess about. The whole thing poses a real conundrum so attempting to determine which action to take is downright troublesome.”

Ed endeavored to sound reassuring, but the slight quaver in his voice belied his true concern.

“Stay as calm as you can, Kip. I'll call Web. Get in your car and head over here now because I'm sure he'll tell us to come right away if we feel it's that important.”

About 20 minutes later, Kip turned into the driveway at Ed's unique house. It was a prime example of the Sarasota School of Architecture. Some called it Sarasota Modern. Ed had bought it immediately when it came on the market, willingly paying the asking price to be sure no one else would buy it. The house was designed by Tim Siebert, one of a handful of architects who designed buildings between 1941 and 1961. Those architects paid close attention to climate and terrain.

Ed's home was a beautiful example of the style. It featured oversized sliding glass doors with striking sunshades and a floating staircase leading to the second floor. Its walls were block, not the usual one on two conventional type that masons use and cover with stucco. Instead, the walls expressed a hallmark of the style. They were built block on block, which gave a distinctive vertical shadow line between the stacks of block and only needed to be painted. This detail highlighted the trim, simple exterior that in turn accentuated the tropical plantings near the windowless sections of the wall and the large areas of glass in between. The windows themselves were either stacked jalousies or in a row neatly under a large shaded overhang.

As soon as Kip parked his new Cadillac in the driveway, Ed dashed out of the house and jumped into the passenger seat. Kip had purchased the car from his bonus on the sale of the now questionable work of art to The Ringland museum. Ed held the original limerick that Kip had received in his hand.

“You've got the new Limerick with you, haven't you?” he asked.

Without a word, Kip handed it to his friend so he could examine the two side-by-side. They were on the same lined notebook paper, and anyone could tell that the scrawled handwriting was the same, even to the upward slant of the limerick lines on each one.

“You never told Web about this first note when you made the sale to The Ringland, did you?” Kip's answer was what Ed expected but not what he wanted to hear.

“No, I didn't. I should have, of course, but I was anxious to make the sale and had pretty much put it out of my mind as not being all that important.” Then hesitating he added, “Well to be truthful, the commission to Pear And Mason overrode my usual common sense. It's not something I would ever let happen again, I can assure you. At the gallery, we have always maintained a policy of being completely honest with our customers and disclosing everything we know about a particular work of art.

“Yes I know,” Ed commented. “I have worked with you often and never had any reason to question your integrity.”

“I have to admit that since the sale was finalized and I got that second note,” Kip confessed, “I've really been kicking myself. Web would have every right to be as irate as Mr. Art sounded on the phone. He'll be waiting for a callback and an explanation too. This has been one of the worst days of my life, and I can't help but think, I ain't seen nothin' yet.”

The drive from Ed's home to the Ringland museum took about 25 minutes but due to the tension in the air, it felt much longer. Not only did it seem that they hit every red light, but they also had to drive via a drawbridge over the Intracoastal Waterway to get from Limo Key to the museum. And wouldn't you know it, the drawbridge had just opened to let a tall sailboat pass slowly through. It proved to be an interminable wait that jangled both their nerves even more than they already were.

“Ed, I have no idea what to say or how to let Web know his purchase has been called into question,” Kip said as they waited in a long line of vehicles.

“Just try the truth, Kip. You know the old saying, 'Oh, what a tangled web we weave...'”

Finally, they arrived at the museum stressed out more than ever about what might happen when they talked with Web. And they had little chance to calm down before seeing him.

“He's waiting for you,” said Bill, the doorman. “Just take the elevator.”

Janice, Web's secretary, was waiting as the elevator doors opened and ushered the men into the office where their friend was seated behind his desk with two chairs pulled up in front. Ed and Janice did not partake of the usual good natured banter that usually accompanied his previous visits. Web arose and shook both of their hands.

“This sounds like serious business and from the looks on your faces, I think all of us should sit down,” Web said.

Ed started to speak first, but Kip interrupted him.

“No Ed, this is my responsibility, and I had better explain it.”

After telling the museum director about the two scrawled notes he received, he handed them to him.

Web proceeded to read them, and a perplexed look appeared on his otherwise friendly face. “They make no sense to me,” he said. “What do they refer to and how am I involved?”

“As far as we've been able to figure out, these limericks seem to apply to the painting I just sold to you,” Kip blurted out before he lost his nerve.

With that Web's expression changed again, from calm and inquisitive to a much more serious demeanor.

“I had the first note before the sale and should have shown it to you,” Kip admitted sheepishly, “I thought it was probably some sort of prank. I just got the second one this morning.”

“Better start at the beginning,” Web suggested. “Are you telling me the Villers painting... the one in the show downstairs... is a forgery and someone is now trying to sell you the authentic one? If so, then you can rest easy. I authenticated that work of art myself. I have no doubt that it's genuine and it's right where it belongs.

“I seriously scrutinized every inch of that painting and the provenance, such as it was, with a fine toothed comb like one that Ed might use on his meezers to remove fleas and tangles. Viviane knows as much or more about forgery and provenance as I do and she concurred with my conclusion. Kip, someone must be pulling your leg!”

“Even though you might be right,” Kip countered, “you'd better hear the whole story. There are more people and powerful people, I'd guess, who are involved. This could blow up into something none of us wants to see, perhaps legal actions and accusations that could hurt your reputation as well as the museum's.”

It was then that Web's serious demeanor displayed a hint of impending alarm. For the next hour behind tightly closed doors, the director listened to every detail. He then peppered the two men with questions neither one could answer. When he learned that the mysterious, ostensibly rich and now furious, Mr. Art “what's-his-name” had received a call offering him the genuine masterpiece, he was stunned. The man demanded the same answers to questions that Web was now asking, so it became obvious to all that the collector had to be called or the police must be informed. If either one happened, there would be new questions including what measures should be taken to uncover the truth and how to minimize the media attention the matter would inevitably attract.

The missing pieces of the puzzle lay, of course, with the owner who had consigned the painting to Pear and Mason. Had he knowingly sold a fake or forged work of art to Kip and was there actually a genuine painting he was now being offered for many thousands of dollars?

Always a rational man, Web knew what must be done.

“We've got to meet with this Mr. Art right away,” he said. “Kip, call him right now.” He handed him the phone and added, “Tell him we are on our way over and only he can straighten out this mess.”

“Yes, of course, I'll make the call,” Kip said, “but as you know from what I've told you about the man, I don't think he'll agree to meet.”

He dialed Mr. Art's personal number, the one he had been given by the now angry collector. Kip was not surprised when the man answered the phone. After a short explanation of where they were and why they were calling, everyone in the room could hear Mr. Art's ear-splitting response.

“No way! I told you NO publicity!” he bellowed.

Then there was the distinct sound of the receiver being slammed down about as hard as one could do it.

“That,” Web said, “leaves us with no alternative but to call Chief Braxton. He has the authority to force the idiot to cooperate, so we can get to the bottom of whatever sort of game he's playing.” Turning to Ed, he said, “You know Braxton better than either of us and you know as much as we do, so it's your turn to make a call.”

Ed phoned police headquarters and asked for the chief. He knew Bull Stevens, the cop who answered.

“You won't be able to reach him for hours, I'd imagine,” Bull informed him. “They just found the body of a young woman on Hermosa Key. She had obviously been strangled and viciously beaten. Mauled might be a more apt description. A murder this outlandish and brutal hasn't happened in this burg for as long as I can remember… probably never.”

******

Chapter Seven

When Ed relayed what he had just heard, the other men looked shocked. After a few moments of stunned silence, Kip was finally able to get out, “Not much we can do until we're able to talk to Braxton. Compared to a brutal killing, our little problem would fade into insignificance in his mind with all he needs to do in the most immense investigation he has likely ever handled.”

“Perhaps there is something we can do to find out more,” Ed cut in. “Let me call Candace Topping at the newspaper. Even though she writes for the Feature section, my guess is that every reporter and writer at The Daily Brush is on the story somehow. I'll call her on her cell phone. I think wherever she is; she'll pick up my call. However, she might not be able to talk much about the case. When things calm down, knowing Candace, she'll be on top of everything the paper uncovers and along with the other reporters, she'll trying to get a handle on what happened, who the victim might be and why the woman was done in.”

Web stood and trying to sound encouraging commented, “Not much we can do till we 'know the rest of the story' as Paul Harvey might have said. The friends had shaken hands before Ed and Kip left.

In the car on the way home Kip sighed and said glumly “I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that the young woman could be the one Mr. Art insisted carry those two paintings to my car. That and somehow, some way, we'll find ourselves involved in a lot more than a maybe theft or forgery.”

“Given the circumstances, we and perhaps whoever committed the murder are probably the only ones who know about the riddles,” Ed noted. “I'd suggest we carry on as if the riddles are some sort of sick gag, say nothing and maintain our regular schedules. I doubt very much that our mysterious Art 'what's his name' will be contacting the press or the police. There is something else I can do,” he added, “better me than you. I'll take a trip to the County Property Appraiser's Office to find out who actually owns the mansion on Hermosa Key. It's a public record, and all I have to do is ask. Then we'll know the name of the real owner and what he, or it, paid for it.”

After the men had parted ways, Ed drove Kip to his house so he could retrieve his vehicle. On the way, Kip looked more than a little worried.

“You'll keep me informed on anything you find out, right?” he asked.

“Of course, my friend. Now get back to the gallery and sell something expensive, not the two new paintings you've been consigned.”

To that Kip managed a rather somber smile. As he drove off, Ed opened his front door and immediately noticed a note slipped under it. He saw right away that it was a scrap of lined notebook paper. He picked it up, and his hand shook as he read another limerick.

There are times that the STESTRAM FO YUSG 

Thinks he's reading some gags or STJU SLIE. 

He should join the EGMA

For dollars and EFMA.

And do what he's told – or EH SIDE!

Ed Lear, the namesake of a nonsense writer, now had three limericks in his possession, none that he felt sure were nonsense. After entering his residence, he stopped to give each of his cats an appreciated scratch and petting, which elicited plenty of happy purrs, since it had been hours since they had seen him. Then he sat down at his desk and dialed Candace's cell phone number.

She knew immediately who it was and before he could even speak, she said, “It's a zoo around here.

You won't believe what happened on Hermosa Key!”

“I know about the murder, Candace,” Ed replied evenly. “In fact, I might have known before you did. I have something any newspaper would love to get it's hands on. I'll show it to you because I value your advice... but you have to trust me. This is not something you can write about. Not yet anyway.”

“You might have heard about it minutes before I knew because you couldn't get Braxton on the phone and Bull Stevens told you he was at the crime scene,” she replied to his utter surprise. “But the paper has some inside sources at the department that you don't, and I have a surprise for you... something that will soon hit the media. Braxton will have to divulge this information when he gives the mandatory press conference to ease public fears about a killer on the loose. He will also have to reassure everyone that the police are on top of it, and have asked and received the cooperation of state authorities, as well as the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“The fact is that the young woman is actually a young man,” she revealed. He was dressed in women's clothing right down to the lace panties, which were ripped apart at the back. As it turned out, this person is well known to the police. He's one of the Sabal Avenue prostitutes – a gay cross-dresser. The FBI had to be notified immediately because it could very well be a hate crime.”

“I'm heading to South County to the Property Appraisers office,” Ed said, “to learn a little about a certain property on Hermosa Key. Want to come with me? We can talk on the way.”

“I'll be there faster than a speeding bullet, even if I have to leap tall buildings and a short Feature editor,” Candace replied adding a little humor to what was otherwise a dire situation. “We've all been told to start digging for any hooks that could be worked into a story on the murder, so I'll have no trouble leaving. Just have to advise the editor that I'm following a lead and need to go.

“And you can trust me, Ed. Nothing goes into the paper unless we both agree. We've become too good friends for me to ever think of double-crossing you. I'll pick you up. I just had my jalopy fixed, so I want to see if the mechanic did a decent job and the old girl is running right again.”

On the way to the Property Appraiser's office, Ed drove the jalopy while bringing Candace up to speed on what had recently happened. He told her what transpired in Web's office, the limericks Kip had received and that he had with him. He also relayed information on the unusual meeting between Kip and the man he assumed owned the mansion, the huge bodyguard by his side and the artwork that was consigned to him.

One of the reasons for going to this office was to examine the county records of the real estate transaction to uncover the real name of the mansion owner. Ed had asked Kip to spell out the difficult name Mr. Art had given when he stumbled over the pronunciation of Eeskoostvo:   E-E-S-K-O-O-S-T-V-

O. He wanted to confirm whether this man was the actual buyer. In the county records, names were carefully typed to ensure accuracy. Even if there was a signed copy of a settlement sheet there or in the hands of the selling realtor with just the scrawled signature that Kip had described on his consignment forms, the names of the buyers and sellers would be typed out and easily readable.

While driving, Ed described the meeting at the museum and Candace had the opportunity to once again examine the two poems that were delivered to Pear and Mason. Then he revealed that there was more she needed to know.

“There's one more limerick you haven't seen, nor have Kip or Web because I just got it,” he said. It was slipped under my door, so I couldn't miss it when I got back home from the museum.”

He then handed it to her.

“Ed, it looks to me as if this isn't just a threat. It's an invitation,” she said with a gasp. “An invitation to become part of an underworld gang stealing or forging art. If we were in a movie, it would be The Godfather and this, the offer too good to turn down or suffer the ultimate consequence – a brutal death, like the one just uncovered on Hermosa Key!”

When they arrived at the Property Appraiser's office, the clerk handed him the huge property log. Ed was not surprised to find the buyer wasn't an Art anybody. The actual owner was a huge Russian corporation that among other items, manufactured arms and ammunition. The sale was made through a New York realtor, a straw man for the company and the multimillion dollar price tag had, in fact, been paid in cash, or rather a cashier's check drawn on a Middle Eastern bank. The bank was widely known as part of a string of institutions used to create a paper trail, which would be excessively arduous to follow.

As they left the office, Ed handed Candace her car keys.

“That was pretty much as I expected,” he said while they walked to her vehicle. “My guess is that a stay at the mansion is some sort of reward or perk provided by the Russian firm to employees or associates for services rendered. And I also have a strong hunch that when Braxton's department investigates this maybe crime of ours, Mr. Eeskoostvo will be long gone.”

Ed stopped speaking for a moment and rubbed the increasingly deep crease on his forehead. “I wonder what nationality that name might be and if it has any meaning?” he asked.

“Easy enough to find out,” Candace countered. “I can go to the web for a translation right here on my smartphone. I'll try Russian first,” she said already thumbing her Blackberry. “Here it is spelled out in Russian: искусство and it means: Art. Well, isn't that something!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “Kip's Hermosa Key contact is either honest or has an ironic sense of humor.”

******

Chapter Eight

During the drive back to Ed's home, they discussed the last ominous limerick slipped under his door. “What do you intend to do about something that appears to be a threat on your life,” Candace asked, concern evident in her voice.

“That is unless you agree to somehow aid whoever it is that is engaged in art theft and forgery. Could it actually be a Russian company? Apparently, it's connected somehow.”

“That,” said Ed, “is something I'll have to put a good degree of thought and prayer into. “You're right. After a bottle of POOIE Fweezay, we'll be thinking more clearly in the morning. Then we'll be better able to decide what should be done next. In the meantime, I suppose it would be best for us to put it out of our minds until we've had a good night's sleep.”

“Kind of what I had in mind,” Candace replied.

“I'm not sure whether you should tell Web, Kip or Braxton about your note at this point,” she added. “It might be wiser to keep that between us for now. Especially considering what's happening with the police and the fact that no one in the public knows yet that the painting at the museum is being called into question.”

“Your newspaper and the national media love that kind of grizzly murder story because of the brutality and AC/DC sexual angle,” Ed noted. “Soon it will become breaking news, and this art fiasco will be placed on the back burner. That could be to our advantage because I suspect that I haven't heard the last about fencing stolen or fake art. It also takes a lot of stress off Kip and Web, until Braxton and crew have the time and inclination to deal with our minor art problem.”

“Well, let's hope it's minor,” Candace cut in.

“I'm sure the cops and FBI will be gathering all of the information they can about the Russian connection and tracking to see if they own any other properties on this side of the pond,” Ed said. “Because you're press, you'll have access to plenty of details that I won't be privy to. But in my mind, one thing is sure. Art what's-his-name will be a primary person of interest, as well as a suspect because of where the young man/woman probably worked. I suspect Mr. Art is long gone by now. He and other visitors to the mansion on Hermosa Key were likely just mules used to smuggle the art into this country for sale.

“Either that or the mansion was used to hide known stolen items, not necessarily all paintings. It could be anything of value from historical artifacts found or dug up anywhere in the world to things quietly lifted from museums and perhaps other art collections, public or private. This Russian company might even be fencing missing art confiscated by the Nazis during World War II. There are works that have never been found and returned to the rightful owners, most of whom are dead by now.

“Museums are notorious for having large reserves of collectibles stored away – things they haven't inventoried for years, if at all. Ninety percent of items stolen from museum collections are inside jobs by long trusted, minor employees who have access to the storage areas, and have the time and inclination to steal them for much-needed extra cash.”

“Is that right?” Candace asked.

“Yes, but thieves have found other means of swiping works of art as well. The most famous heist of all occurred when the Mona Lisa was stolen from The Louvre in 1911. An employed glazier at that venerable institution helped build the glass box that protected the painting from public touching, so he knew that it was just hung on four pegs and could be lifted off them in seconds.

“Even if the drowsy guard had noticed him, he was well known at the Louvre because he routinely took down and put up various paintings that needed some kind of minor work done. He took the painting on a Monday, the only day The Louvre was closed to the public. He removed it from its frame, left the museum via a stairwell and walked home with the most valuable painting in the world under his coat.”

“Wow, he had quite the perfect cover that allowed him to walk away with such a famous painting,” Candace noted.

“For sure,” Ed continued. “In fact, that employee was not even questioned because he was officially off duty on Mondays, so he would not have normally been there. A monumental police screw-up! And it caused an international uproar too. During the investigation, several iconoclastic modern artists were thought to have stolen the piece to protest the predilection for the old masters. Even the Spanish painter, Pablo Picasso, who pioneered Cubism and was a young artist at the time, was among those questioned.”

“You know your stuff, history buff.” Candace quipped.

“The real thief, a man by the name of Vincenzo Perrugia, tried to sell the Mona Lisa a few years later but was unsuccessful because the oil painting was so famous. Whoever bought such a work would become the subject of a police investigation, so even though the painting was extremely valuable and might be sold for a fraction of its worth, no one dared to take the bait. Finally, the Italian crook contacted the directors of the Uffizi Gallery and admitted he had stolen the piece.”

“Why would he have done that?” Candace asked.

“Leonardo da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa in the early 1500's,” Ed explained. “It was only because Perrugia claimed he wanted to return it to Italy where he felt it belonged. As a result, many people hailed him a patriotic hero, and although he was convicted of the theft, he was sentenced to only six months in prison.”

Candace knew the story in general but felt somewhat awed by Ed's grasp of the details.

“Billions of dollars in stolen art is peddled on the world market each year,” Ed continued, “much of it from museums and collections that don't even realize the works are missing. Like it or not, I will probably be back in the art repping business before long but it won't be like the old days when the worst that could happen to me was to lose a client. Fortunately, I own two cats who seem to know more about what is real and what is fake than I do. Perhaps with the aid of a few Perfect Pussy Treats, Zen and Zoe would consent to help me.”

“I bet they could too,” said Candace confidently. “They're two very smart kitties when it comes to art.”

“Why don't we touch base in the morning after you have a chance to mine whatever information is available at The Daily Brush,” Ed suggested. “I've always liked the slogan that the paper's Entertainment section runs under it's heading: Let Us Help You Paint The Town Red! Now some killer has painted Hermosa Key red.”

“Of course I will, Ed,” Candace replied. “I have more at stake here than a string of stories on the Feature aspects of the murder. You have become a personal matter for me. I would imagine that the FBI is taking the lead in this case because of the international aspect and because the murder might be a hate crime, which is a federal offense.”

“Kip described Mr. Art as a slightly built man and the bodyguard as enormous and muscular, so it makes sense that they would want to take a close look at surveillance tapes from local businesses up and down the Keys. They might see someone who fits either description visiting stores in the area. They'll also have watch lists and airport ticketing records in and out of the United States. Not only that, they'll soon know if any other properties around the world belong to the Russian corporation along with their addresses. Mr. Art and his bodyguard had to arrive at Hermosa Key from somewhere, and if they've fled or are in the process of doing so, the FBI might pick them up that way.”

“Candace, let's hope for the best, but it wouldn't surprise me if the FBI comes up empty. If this whatever-it-is corporation has the bucks to buy, staff and maintains a property like the one on the Key, neither the mystery man nor the body guard would have to go outside that walled compound. There would always be someone there to satisfy whatever whim a friend of the Russian power brokers might need. They might even have someone cruise Sabal Avenue at 2 or 3 am to pick up suitable paramours for whoever is in the U.S. enjoying a vacation.”

The following day was unusual for the area, not the sunny Florida weather that snowbirds flock to in season. The local television station was headlong into the murder, but the weather was running a close second. A fast-moving tropical depression had shifted course over night and was headed for the Ringland area. It was not of hurricane strength, but year-rounders knew it would not be a pleasant day. The wind had already picked up, and the forecast was for rain by the barrel full. It was the type of storm that could flood streets in low lying areas, and with gales strong enough to topple a few trees and power lines. Due to the inclement weather, the already overburdened police department had to reallocate some cops away from the ongoing criminal investigation.

Rain or shine, the Feature editor at The Daily Brush called his staff early that morning. There would be no excuses accepted for not showing up for work. Candace’s T-shirt was once again on the nose. The editor's abrasive demands to still sleepy writers and other employees were surely annoying that part of the world - one person at a time.

His terse attitude did not have a chance to bother Candace, though. She never received the call because she was up and walking through the newsroom door, while her editor was on the phone. As she had said the evening before, this nasty incident was now a personal matter and she wanted to talk to her friends around the city desk. Some of them had remained at the paper all night mining contacts and fielding queries from other news organizations.

They were in touch with the FBI, and though what they learned at that early stage was not for public consumption, they knew the Russian corporation was truly enormous with tentacles in many areas, not just the manufacture of weapons. It was also a player in the burgeoning energy sector that was feeding tremendous income into the Russian economy and the hands of favored friends of those highest up in the government. Some of those political figures had become billionaires in short order thanks to their connections.

IT, under a plethora of other names for related offshoot endeavors, owned properties all over the world. Aside from the mansion on Hermosa Key, IT owned similar residential properties, as well as offices in Germany, France, Italy, Bahrain, the United Arab Eremites and Saudi Arabia. The corporation also acquired a vast hunting reserve in a sparsely populated area in Canada with just a barbed wire fence between it and the states.

As soon as she could, Candace called Ed to pass on what she knew. His first question was, “What have they found out about our mysterious friend, Mr. Art?”

“As far as I can tell, Ed, they've drawn a blank, but as you know, it takes lots of time to scan surveillance tapes, Visas for visitors to our area, airline ticketing, customs records and so on. Maybe he'll show up somewhere.”

“I doubt it,” her friend replied, “You know how porous our borders are, especially the northern one between the U.S. and Canada. To me, the tip off would be that hunting reserve in Canada. Art is undoubtedly a fake name. Anyone with a forged double-citizenship passport could fly into Canada unnoticed, spend a few days hunting or whatever these people do there until the jet lag wears off. Then it would just be a matter of stepping across the barbed wire to be picked up on a back road that isn't patrolled. From there, he could be driven to anywhere in this country, including Hermosa Key, carrying whatever parcel the bosses want smuggled in. Then he could enjoy a plush vacation with pay and a little extra before heading home, wherever that might be, the same way he arrived with no one the wiser.”

That afternoon, as the rain poured down on Ringland, the Hermosa Key murder hit the cable networks. Chief Braxton tried to stay abreast of the investigation, along with the state police and FBI. He was far too busy to contact Ed, Kip or Web. However, he did take calls from the producers of various media outlets to answer the standard questions they had about the crime. At that point in his fact-finding mission, they were just non-essential calls.

“No comment at this time,” was about all he could say. “There will be a news conference shortly.” When asked when that might be, he replied, “No, I don't have the time. It will be announced on TV.” The producer from the Neta Von Lustron Show on Fox called to say she was flying down with a camera man to do a segment and asked if she could interview him. By that time, Braxton hadn't slept for 20 hours and only caught a four-hour power nap on a cot in his office. Naturally, he was not sure if he could even handle that.

The police department tried to contact Mr. Art and was told by whomever answered the phone listed for the mansion that there was no one there by that name. As far as the person knew, no one on the staff fit the description of the young man/woman or anyone who had ever worked there. Essentially, the police faced a dead end skillfully manipulated by someone who knew much more than he cared to let on.

The FBI had called the Russian corporation. Their contact stated that they had many properties in various countries. He said he would have to reach someone higher up to see if the company had offices or owned any property on Hermosa Key. He'd then call back resulting in yet another convenient dead end.

At the same time, Braxton's detectives attempted to contact known Sabal Avenue prostitutes hoping to learn if any of them knew a person who fit the description of the murder victim and if they could be interviewed about the incident. The police wanted to know if they knew any cross-dressing associates but their inquiries primarily solicited nothing but dead silence.

“Whataya think,” one cheeky hooker said, “we're some kinda Hooters buddies? We're competitors out to make a buck the best way we can. Your nightly patrols are a pain in the can and bad for business.”

None of the investigators contacted Ed, Web, Kip or Candace. Why would they? Only those four and whoever sent the notes knew about the limericks. Maybe the two events were not related in any way, except possibly in their own minds. The four of them kept in touch by phone and decided that there was nothing to do but wait it out. Once there was a less harried time when Ringland was back to normal, and they could get the full attention of Chef Braxton, then they could tell him about the notes.

The parents of the victim were located in New Jersey and expressed complete shock when they learned that their son had been murdered.

 “We were afraid things would end up bad for him,” his father said. “Always in trouble as a kid until he left home. We haven't heard a word from him in five years. And yes, we suspected he was into drugs back then.”

His father noted that as far as he knew, his son never held a regular job but always seemed to have money for whatever he wanted.

“I asked him how he earned the money. All he said was that he was a poet. Fat chance of that! I never saw him write a single word. In fact, he flunked English before he left school and moved out to God knows where. He wasn't straight like our other son, who was killed in an auto accident two years ago. My wife is all broken up once again. Now we've lost our only two boys. I don't know what else to say.”

The inclement weather in Ringland began to clear the following day, and by the next one, it was bright and sunny, perfect for Florida's Snowbirds. As would be expected, the public beaches were crowded. The inlets between the Gulf and the Intracoastal Waterway on both the north and south ends of the Key were crowded with fisherman hoping to land the whopper on an incoming or outgoing tide. Dolphins could be seen playing at the entrance of the south jetty. Sometimes they followed or led the incoming or outgoing power boats, yachts or jet skiers.

Candace and Ed decided to grab a quick lunch together at the water's edge. They enjoyed juicy hot dogs from a stand on the Ringland side of the inlet looking across to Hermosa Key. When they finished their lunch, they took the cats for a stroll and reveled in the glory of God's splendor. There was no way to tell if Zen and Zoe were impressed by God's splendor, but they surely considered the sandy beach the largest litter box they had ever seen.

Except for small areas of public beach and a few beachside motels at the far ends of Key, there was no public access to the Gulf. Along that eight-mile stretch with its narrow road luxuriantly lined with tropical foliage, only the owners of the eye-popping mansions on that exclusive length of real estate had open access. You either owned or were a guest of one of the owners to reach that stretch of soft white sand. And the view was awe-inspiring.

Looking west toward the horizon, one could take in a view that was surely the most breathtaking on God's green earth. The sparkling clear blue water stretched as far as the eye could see. That was the reason the mansion owners shelled out tens of thousands of dollars for each running foot they owned. However, few of the owners realized that their high priced properties extended only to the tide line.

West of that, the public owned the beach and had the absolute right to walk the full eight miles to take in the same view that the wealthy owners paid so much to look out upon. But that seldom happened.

That afternoon, Ed got home and went straight to his mailbox. He knew that the mail always arrived a bit later than usual after the minor havoc of a tropical depression. Then he remembered the postal department's motto: “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”

“Nothing stops the mail, but it surely slows it down,” he thought.

Ed scooped out quite a few pieces of mail and as he leafed through it, he noted one that was hand addressed and appeared to be an invitation. The handwriting was vaguely familiar, but he could not place whom it belonged to or where he had seen it before. He now knew Candace's shorthand-like script because he had seen the notes she took while conducting an interview for a story. As well, there were those funny cards she felt he would enjoy.

Once inside his home, Ed promptly set aside and dumped the many advertisements and election- related pieces of mail into a trash can. The election was quickly approaching so naturally, each of the candidates sent along pieces of political flack. Then he plunked into his over-stuffed chair to open the invitation-sized envelope. It appeared to be a friendly but standard Thinking of You top fold note.

******

Chapter Nine

When Ed opened the note, instead of a message written on the card, he found a piece of folded notebook paper. The light bulb immediately went on inside Ed's head, and he knew in advance what he would be reading. This time before unfolding it with trembling hands, he carefully let his fingers touch just the very edge of the note. He knew it would contain yet another scrawled limerick:

 “We hope that you're smartVATIMOONTI 

Will give in to art rep's NAPTMETTIO. 

That you'll MOCE DROUNA.

Our best offer is DOUNS.

Don't make this our last VITAININOT.”

Ed read it aloud to Zen and Zoe, who promptly hissed and backed away. Taking a piece of his personal stationery from his desk drawer, he folded it and slid it under the note with the Limerick. Then he methodically picked up the folded stationery and the envelope, and cautiously placed them into yet another piece of folded stationary. In doing so, he purposefully only touched the very edges of the note he had received. As usual, his cats had been watching him.

“There are probably fingerprints from a number of people on the envelope,” he noted loud enough to perk up those sensitive feline ears. “Mine are there as well but just maybe, only one set on the notebook paper and I don't want mine there. However, the envelope is worth keeping if it isn't one of the self- stick kind. If someone licked the envelope, there is likely DNA on the gummed flap.”

Then he bent over to pick up the phone.

“You'd better see what I just got in the mail,” he told Candace. “Come over as soon as you can. I promise to fix you a great dinner.” “Then how could I refuse,” she replied.

Even before she turned into the driveway, Zen and Zoe were seated expectantly by the front door. It was as if they somehow knew that a friend was approaching and their favorite game with the pictures might be part of the evening entertainment. Ed was already busy preparing the main meal when Candace arrived. Coconut shrimp was baking in the oven, rice put on to steam, black eyed peas boiled on the stove, salad was prepared, and canned Hoppin' John was ready in the microwave.

When she opened the front door, her face clearly displayed the worry she felt inside. But Ed's welcoming smile put her a bit at ease before she could ask the inevitable question. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Ed raised his hand.

“Dinner first, sweet one. Plenty of time to look and talk after we have dinner. Hope you're hungry!

He added with a grin.”

Candace took a seat at the table while Ed filled plates for each of them and grabbed a bottle of sparkling cider from the fridge.

“Coconut shrimp, Hoppin' John, and sparkling cider is a rather odd combination,” Candace asserted. “Am I to infer anything special from this?”

“Maybe a little,” Ed replied. “The salad is for my waistline. The coconut shrimp is because we both enjoy it, right after baby lamb chops, and Hoppin' John is not only great for the soul, but it's also supposed to bring good luck, especially if you leave three of the black-eyed peas on your plate. The flute of sparkling cider is to celebrate what might be my new occupation and because I didn't have any POOIE Fweezy handy,” he concluded with a chuckle.

Nearby, the cats happily feasted on tuna in their special bowls.

When dinner was over, Ed took out the cat's favorite book and laid six sheets of painting reproductions, ones the cats had never seen before, on the floor. Within minutes, Zoe pawed at a forged painting while Zen sat watching, sitting squarely on the original. That was their signal for the Perfect Pussy Treats, which Ed already had in hand.

Gathering up the book pages, Ed motioned for Candace to sit with him by his desk where the two folded sheets of stationery lay.

“Now it's time for a little business,” he said. “I need your input and advice. We have to decide if Kip and Web should know about the limericks I received – the one under the door and this one in the mail today. Then we should decide if the time is right to bring our little art problem to the authorities attention.

“The murder investigation isn't taking one hundred percent of Braxton’s time now. I think he should know, but because of the last two limericks that seem to be invitations, my initial feeling is that only the FBI should be informed. They have an art theft investigation division, so they should know that I’m being considered as a recruit to join their dirty business. Theft of any art or antiquity worth over $5,000 is now a federal crime.” Then with a laugh, he added, “Who knows, maybe the FBI will want to recruit me too.”

Candace grabbed Ed by the shoulders and swung his upper body around, so they were face-to-face. “I have a sinking feeling that drinking the sparkling cider to celebrate your new job and eating Hoppin’ John for luck means you're going to take whomever or whatever up on their offer.” “They’re crystal clear about the alternative,” Ed countered, “and we know what that is from what happened on Hermosa Key. I'm confident that the notes and the murder are related somehow, and their request is mercilessly sincere. If I have to take them up on it to save my life, I know where I have to go, but I can't take Zen and Zoe with me.”

“Oh, Ed!” Candace cried.

She pulled him toward her and grasped his shoulders pulling him to her.

“This can’t be happening...” she began, but her words turned into sobs, as she buried her face in one shoulder.

Ed returned the hug pulling her even closer to him.

“My utmost fear is that if they know my art and sales background, even how I live and the people closest to me, those around me might become targets as well. And my ultimate failure in life would be not being able to carry through with what I desire with all my heart and soul to do.”

His voice faltered and the tears Candace shed mingled with his own. “Which is?” she choked.

Ed eased her body away from his and looked straight into her watery blue eyes. Then Candace felt somewhat calmer and in fact, felt a pinch of unexpected anticipation.

“To ask you to marry me,” he said solemnly. “Now it's just too dangerous. You see that don't you?” “I was afraid the question I'd been longing for would never happen when I finally found the only man I would ever consider marrying,” she responded, her voice becoming steadier. “All the thugs in the world and any danger they might pose could never keep me from saying yes to you. I know your faith – the same as mine. I thought it was keeping you from making the kind of advances I rebuffed from so many other men that I've lost count.

“Danger I can live with,” she added peering deep into his soft brown eyes. “You, I can't, and that includes Zen and Zoe. I know the real thing when I see it, just as they do.”

“Sweetness of my life, I'd be turning cartwheels in any other circumstances, but I'm... we're... too vulnerable. I don't care about myself but if anything were to happen to you, I could never forgive myself.”

“If you take those scoundrels up on their offer, whether they find out or not, the two of us are one as of this moment, even before we say the words. Whatever life is left for either of us, it will be... has to be one life.”

“But,” Ed attempted to say.

He could not because at that moment; Candace planted her soft lips firmly on his. For her, there were no buts.

“Well then,” Ed exclaimed when they parted, “I guess my bachelor days are over! And as my bachelor friends would say, 'Women sure can complicate things!'”

“I intend to put the lie in that old canard,” she said smiling. “You'll see all that I've been saving for Mr. Right! Those thugs may think they're pretty smart, but we're far smarter than they could ever be. There's another old saying we'll have to modify. With Zen and Zoe, and their uncanny ability, 'four heads are better than one!'”

“If you agree, Ed said, “we'll have to try to keep the art theft syndicate or whatever they call themselves from knowing our plans for as long as possible. It means foregoing the big wedding, the gorgeous gown, bridesmaids in colors they probably wouldn't be caught dead in and me in a tux only a circus performer would wear. Our pastor can perform a quiet ceremony in his office with no one the wiser,” Ed continued.

Candace could not help giggling, as she imagined the gaudy dresses and Ed in a circus performer's outfit.

“This is deadly serious, sweetie,” he gently affirmed. “Beside you, our pastor is someone I can trust.

For the time being, we'll have to maintain separate homes, and what appears to be individual lives to outsiders. They'll know we're spending nights together at your place or mine but that's the way of the world they live in and probably live themselves whenever the opportunity, you'll pardon the pun, arises. And that includes Kip, Web, and Braxton who probably already assume an affair is taking place.”

“You don't know how close that came to happening the night we had dinner at the lovely old bed and breakfast,” Candace revealed.

“You too?” Ed asked with a touch of surprise. “Asking you to back up twice just about did me in despite drowning my intentions with a bottle of POOIE Fweezay!”

“You mean number 53?” Candace laughed. “I can't wait to try out all the possible selections leading up to that number once I start uncorking all I've been fantasizing about!”

“Now that's an offer no man in his right mind could refuse,” Ed grinned. “If our life together turns into another Godfather movie, I'm looking forward to seeing it and living it at least 53 times!”

“I couldn't agree with you more,” Candace replied.

“Now that the important business is out of the way, we still have to plan what our next move should be. Just what and how much should we tell Kip, Web, and Braxton?” Ed asked on a more serious note. “Ed, we have two distinct problems, and I think we should keep them separated as much as possible.

The first has to do with the painting and the limericks that Kip and Web know about. You three should meet and bring Braxton into it, assuming he's ready to listen and has some manpower he can commit to this issue. I'm not part of that as far as they know and we should keep it that way as long as possible.”

“I would certainly agree to that,” Ed noted. “You shouldn't be dragged into this at all.”

“There are some ifs, to letting them know, though,” Candace continued. “Web said he authenticated the painting that The Ringland bought. What if he wants to leave it at that unless one of you receive another limerick calling it into question? What if Braxton thinks it's such an insignificant crime that he simply dismisses it as unimportant, particularly given the more serious crime he's currently investigating? He might believe that Kip and Web are being played with by some goofball and should just forget about it unless something more concrete turns up.”

“We'd only know the answer by approaching them with the questions,” Ed noted.

“The second more grave situation has to do with trying to recruit you into joining them in marketing spurious art, forgeries or even stolen originals,” Candace continued. “Their last limerick ends with, “Be quick and accept our last invitation.” Nothing in it says how you could give them your decision. I would imagine that some instructions will be put into your hands, probably in limerick form like the other notes. And you can bet I'd be involved in that! When we're finally together, there will be no holding back on anything on my part and none on your part, mentally, physically or spiritually.”

 “Agreed, of course,” Ed confirmed. “But there's a third problem. How soon are you ready to tie the knot? If I can get our pastor on the phone and he understands our urgency, would you do this tomorrow? That's Sunday, and it wouldn't seem unusual if we walked back to his office after the evening service. Everyone else would be heading for home.”

Candace looked lovingly at Ed and reached for his hand.

“He would need to let the church secretary know because she'll have to act as a witness, but not to worry. She's as trustworthy as the pastor. It would only take minutes, and then we could celebrate by heading back to the bed and breakfast that gave us such a problem the last time we were there. No backing up this time!”

“That's for sure,” she grinned giving his hand a squeeze.“We'll park at the check in, celebrate with a great dinner and bottle of number 53, before trying out number 1 and so on until breakfast.

“My guess is, it will be a late one,” said a beaming Ed.

On Monday morning while Candace showered before breakfast, Ed noticed a hand written limerick on his pillow. It was on the bed sheet and written on the B and B's notepaper from the pad by the telephone. It was shocking to imagine that someone actually entered their room to place the note where he found it. The limerick read:

 “I'm not very good at LONGCINACE
How happy and warm I am ELFGINE.
If you're not VARSEE

To a little THILG SERVE,

I'll admit that last night left me GREENLI!”

Ed was already showered and dressed but not in his usual conservative attire. He wore a colorful plaid and stripes that he knew would surprise Candace. He folded the note carefully and slipped it into the pocket of his shirt, right over his heart.

******

Chapter Ten

The newly married couple enjoyed a sumptuous breakfast that included tiny baby lamb chops, a house specialty, served by the owner of the historic bed and breakfast. After the meal, Ed and Candace left hand-in-hand and walked to his car, which was parked near the entrance. However, when they reached the vehicle, their obvious happiness received a jolt that dampened their joy of being together. They both spotted the all too familiar scrap of notebook paper and its handwritten scrawl taped to the middle of the steering wheel. It read:

 “Our last rhyme was not to SUPEER
Nor something that you LOUDSH UFREES.

So don't be a FLOO
You had better be OOCL.

You have only two choices – so SCHOOE!”

They slipped into the car without saying a word. Ed turned the ignition key and put it in gear but, before stepping on the gas, he turned to his wife. “We're already being watched,” Ed noted. “Whether they know we're married, I can't even guess.” As he headed toward the Interstate he added,” If I had to make one, it would be that we'd just had a one-night-stand. That would be their world's accepted reasoning.”

“You're probably right,” said Candace. “At least let's hope so.”

“Just to be sure, I'll drop you off at your condo, and you should go to work as usual. Your friend, the Feature editor, will probably chew you out for being late. Just say, 'Something came up.' That's not even a white lie!”

“Oh, Ed,” she replied smiling and stroking his cheek, “now that I truly know you, I'd say that's a straight answer!”

“Not my fault sexy one!”

Then returning to the threat at hand he added, “I'll get on the phone with Kip and Web to suggest we get together for lunch at the Food Palette restaurant. I won't push for going to the authorities or mention my limericks and our own special event,” he said. “My expectation is they'll both suggest we kick-the-can down the road so to speak unless one or the other receives another limerick.

“Web authenticated the painting, so he would naturally be ego driven since one of the criteria experts use for authentication is connoisseurship... the special knowledge that comes from experience and handling art from a particular period or artist. In the past, Web has made a point of claiming such curatorial expertise. That expertise had to be one of the criteria that weighed heavily in The Ringland board's decision to hire him as the museum's director.

“Kip and his gallery would have a great deal of credibility to lose, not to mention a steep loss of sales if their motives are called into question. He took the Villers piece on consignment believing it was authentic. The shock of receiving the limericks has likely begun to wear off by now, so I wouldn't be surprised if he's hoping nothing else turns up.”

“You're probably right, Ed.”

“They know I won't go to the police without their participation,” he continued. “But they're not aware of the other limericks I received. If they were and became convinced that I'd been recruited by an unsavory, illegal art theft or forgery syndicate, they might begin to think there is something over-the- line in my past business dealings. If they thought that because of the limericks, I was involved in shady art practices, I'd not only lose two good friends but also become suspect in their eyes.

“Well, you don't want that to happen,” Candace said. “You've had such a great relationship with Kip and The Ringland for many years.”

“Maintaining my good standing is important,” he said. “Assuming I can make a clandestine contact with the FBI's Art Theft office, I would be able to work both sides of the situation. That, of course, remains to be seen. It could provide a little protection for me... for us.”

Ed called Kip and asked him to meet at Web's office then drive to the restaurant for a late lunch. As he anticipated, both opted to sit tight to see if the limerick writer taunted them again. Of course, he said nothing about his latest limericks, including the next to last that he cherished, the one he kept in the breast pocket of his shirt.

Returning from the late lunch, Ed had almost forgotten where he'd parked his car on the vast Ringland lot, which was crowded with visitors to the Designed to Deceive exhibition. After walking up and down several lanes of parked cars, he spotted his and climbed in. There taped to the steering wheel was yet another limerick on the too familiar scrap of notebook paper.

How is it you haven't IREPLED?
Is it morals or only OURY RIDEP?

Don't opt for STAL STIER 

So switch on RYUO GRBTISH,

We'll watch you as homeward OYU VDRIE.

Ed knew the jig was up, so to speak, and although there was still about a quarter hour until twilight, he switched on the headlights. He pulled the brights lever toward him and exited onto the main drag leading southward toward home and to who knew what? Thousands of cars passed on the east side of the road.

“It could be any one of them,” he thought.

A few cars flashed their brights as they passed.

“Was that a signal or just someone trying to remind him that my headlights were momentarily shining in their eyes?” he wondered.

He pulled into his driveway, exited his vehicle and unlocked his front door. He wondered if when he opened it, he would find another scrawled Limerick on the floor. When there was none, he breathed a huge sigh of relief.

What he did find when he opened the door were two cats that had expectantly awaited his return. “How are you guys?” he asked, as he scooped Zen and Zoe up in his arms. “I'm sorry that I'm a little late and have been away for such a long time. How about we start with a good scratch and then see if there is some tuna in the pantry?”

The cats responded with excited meows. Ed settled for a minute in his favorite overstuffed chair and both of the cats curled up on his lap. They happily received an extended petting by their much-loved owner. They then chowed down on an extra portion of tuna that he placed on the floor in their special food bowls.

Ed could not help thinking, “I wonder how many friends I'll be dealing with, how they'll give me directions and how they plan to stay in touch? They surely must have an arrangement in mind. Given the method of leaving the limericks, I suspect I'm just a cog in a much larger machine. If there had been another limerick under the door, it would probably mean only one individual had been here before.

Perhaps another one of those cogs is directly involved in recruiting me into their enterprise.

“If someone taped the note to my steering wheel at The Ringland, it would have been too difficult or risky to try to beat me back home, leave a limerick and take off before I returned,” he speculated. “But that's just a guess. I think I'm overworking my imagination! Time to calm down and be patient. Some way, some time, this syndicate will have to get back in touch. Maybe something in the mail like the card I received. Just have to wait and see, I guess.”

The following week was uneventful for Ed. No limericks, no cards. He kept in touch with Web and Kip, neither of whom had received a limerick or contact of any kind. He could almost hear the self- comforting words that must have been running through their minds. An out of sight, out of mind mentality that reinforced their hopes that it had all been a weird happenstance, perhaps by a customer with a warped sense of humor.

But of course, they knew nothing about the other limericks that Ed had received. Only he, Candace and whoever wrote them knew. That knowledge drew the secretly married couple closer than ever, as they enjoyed their new relationship in every way and at every possible moment.

Just when Ed thought all was quiet, it turned out to be the calm before the proverbial storm. As he leafed through his mail on the following Monday, there it was, a greeting card-sized pink envelope. He reached into one of the drawers in his desk and took out a pair of the white cotton gloves he sometimes used when he was on the road selling art. At those times when he had to hold an exceptionally fine and valuable print or original while showing it to a prospective buyer, he'd pull on the gloves to add a touch of drama and reinforced the valuable impression that he attempted to impart.

Museum personnel, who routinely worked with extremely valuable pieces of art, wore such gloves. They did so to keep an item that might be worth millions in absolutely pristine condition, not sullied or smudged in any way by even the moisture on their fingertips. Those types of works were worth many times more than the most valuable fine art prints he carried as his stock in trade. His gloves had been simply for show.

Sitting down at his desk Ed held the card carefully and folded down just a corner. His intent was to hold the envelope and what he was sure would be inside in a condition that would preserve any stray fingerprints. Should he be able to contact an expert in the FBI's Art Theft division, they would look for those, as well as any DNA left on the card or the inside flap of the envelope.

He almost laughed to himself as he thought, “I've been watching too many of those forensic television episodes.”

The picture on the greeting card showed a couple embracing and a single printed word in a fancy script that read: “Congratulations.” Inside on the right flap were the words: “On Your Engagement!” It was a specialty card by a well-known manufacturer, and available in many shops. It was the kind of card that someone in a “getting to know one another” relationship might feel appropriate. As he expected, there was also a scrap of notebook paper with a scrawled Limerick on it that read:

Now that you're really NO BROAD
Our trust has been somewhat STEERROD

It's time to KLAT POSH;
Don't try to play LAPY POC.

You'll miss out on wealth and WARDER.

Again days passed. No limericks, no cards. The election was drawing closer, so every day in the mail there were many political postcards, letters, and appeals for contributions toward one party's candidate or another. Some of them were positive but most contained negative attacks and counterattacks by one incumbent or would-be office holder or another.

About mid-week, an especially fancy envelope embossed with a party logo caught Ed's eye. When he opened it, he was taken aback. He was invited to a posh, political fundraiser. Along with the congratulatory letter complimenting him on his political views, there was a ticket to a $10,000-a-plate dinner to meet the top candidate. When he saw the address where the exclusive party of big bucks contributors would be held, he realized that the invitation was the real deal. It was being held at the luxurious mansion on Hermosa Key.

Ed immediately picked up the phone to called Candace. “Hi sweetheart,” he began. “I just wanted you to know that I'm not just a Russian syndicate's art rep but also one of the political movers and shakers in Ringland. I have been invited to meet the top “you know which candidate” with his eye on Air Force One at a posh $10,000-a-plate dinner and the golden opportunity to contribute a few million more to help him along the way.”

“Ed, the paper has been trumpeting the fact that 'you know who' has a planned fundraiser and televised town meeting here,” she replied. “Perhaps you've been sent a fake ticket, and someone is pulling your leg. Otherwise, it could be that you've just been given a left-handed compliment by a left- leaning wanna-be candidate. However, it might also be that your new friends have already made a substantial investment in your future, one they'll expect you to pay back many times over.”

“Hmm… that's a lot to consider,” Ed replied.

“I'll be over as soon as I finish the latest article I'm writing about the Garden Club's next speaker, whose talk incidentally is titled No One Handed You a Bed Of Roses.”

While he awaited her arrival, Ed took all the political junk mail, including the fancy embossed envelope and tossed it on the floor in front of Zen and Zoe. They sometimes took delight in scattering the mail about or burrowing under it. If he balled such items up before dropping them like he did with the embossed envelope, they would bat it around like a feline soccer ball.

“Well cats, you've once again proved you are true independents when it comes to politics. You know it's all a game even when they don't!”

******

Chapter Eleven

Candace was soon at the door with that troubled look on her face once again. Ed knew it indicated just how distressed she felt inside.

“Don't look so glum,” he said.

He pulled her close to give her a warm hug and kiss, hoping to lift her mood.

“It's difficult not to be concerned given your new job and all,” she replied while removing a light pink summer jacket.

“Well, let's sit down and talk about this upcoming event and what it might mean,” Ed suggested. “On the plus side, I'm finally going to see the inside of the palace where Kip's Hermosa Key collector lives. However, I doubt it will be all fun and games. I'm pretty sure the invitation means that I'll be meeting the boss, at least the local boss... or whoever is acting as my watchdog.

“Whether there's some connection between the Russian owners and politics, I have no idea. Just because the dinner will be held at the mansion, it does not necessarily link them to a candidate. It might just be a rental paid from party funds to add a bit more prestige to the event. There is no other venue in the area that even comes close in magnificence.”

“That's true, but I doubt that's all there is to it,” Candace said. “These guys, whoever they are, might think this elaborate affair offers a perfect cover for them to personally talk to you.”

“Could be,” Ed replied. My $10,000 benefactor will probably have someone attend the party specifically to make contact with their new recruit. But this event might also provide an opportunity for me to get in touch with someone at the FBI's Art Theft division. The candidates have Secret Service protection with them all the time, even at very private fund-raising dinners like this one. If I manage to slip a note to one of them, I'm pretty sure it would be passed along to the FBI. It's a chance I'll have to take without anyone noticing.”

“If there are plenty of people at this event, it might be easier than you think,” Candace noted. 

“Either way, it's time to get the old tux cleaned and pressed,” he chided drawing her closer to him.

“The letter made it clear that this will be a black tie event. If they were sure I had enough green to pledge, I could probably show up in shorts and your boss's T-shirt!”

With shop talk over, Ed and Candace snuggled up together and for the rest of the evening, as they watched one of her favorite movies. Although Beaches with Bette Midler would not have been Ed's choice, he didn't mind. He knew that next time, he could watch one of the James Bond 007 movies, preferably with Sean Connery. Raiders of the Lost Ark with Harrison Ford was his 'numero uno' choice, but even the cats refused to watch again unless there were Perfect Pussy Treats to go along with Ed's bowl of popcorn. If Candace looked in on them, she usually found all three asleep before the Ark was opened.

The very best times for Zen and Zoe were when Ed was deep in his favorite chair and deeper even in a good book. The cats had him all to themselves, and they could curl up side-by-side on his lap as he read on his Kindle, wrists resting lightly on the dozing pussies' backs.

Candace preferred to stretch out on the sofa with a real book leaning against her drawn-up knees. From time to time one or the other would comment or share something they were reading with their partner.

“What are you reading, dear one?” she asked, turning slightly to see him.

'I'm rereading The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens. Now that I seem to be part of a mystery, I thought I might try once again to figure out who killed poor Edwin.”

Looking at the comfortable cats on Ed's lap, she asked, “Didn't Dickens say, 'There's nothing greater than a cat's love.'?”

“Almost right – it's 'What greater gift than the love of a cat.' Did you know Dicken's had a cat named Bob?”

 “What a coincidence! I'm reading A Street Cat Named Bob by James Bowen!”

“Now that you've started that one, Candace, you'll be hooked for weeks reading all the 'Bob' books. They've become international bestsellers, just as Dickens stories were bestsellers around 150 years before your 'Bob'  caught readers' fancy.”

“You should be able to figure out who did old Edwin in; you're good at unscrambling puzzles like the awful limericks we're dealing with.” Candace knit her brow at the thought of rhymes.

“Ironic, isn't it, me sitting here reading a one-hundred and fifty-year-old story in digital format on a device that didn't exist a few years ago, and you're there reading a book written in 2013 in a format that's been around since Gutenberg published the Bible in 13 something.”

“I wonder what Dicken's cat, Bob, was like?” Candace asked wrinkling her forehead even more as she tried to picture what he looked like.

“You can still see part of him, if you'd like,” Ed said smiling, anticipating her reaction to what he was about to say.

“Part of him?” she queried, eyebrows raised.

“Dickens was so fond of Bob that when the cat died, he had one of the kitty's paws stuffed and mounted on the end of his letter opener, so he could pet a little of his friend every day when he opened his mail.”

“I think that's strange!” she gasped.

“Not for that day,” Ed responded. “Taxidermy was a very 'in' thing during Victorian times. Edward Potter was a taxidermist during Dicken's lifetime, and he did fantastical anthropomorphic tableaux – whole scenes of stuffed kittens, bunnies and even rats, dressed in tiny clothing, right down to frilly undergarments for itty-bitty kitty characters in one of his wedding party exhibits. They were so wildly popular Potter opened a small museum with thousands of examples of his work.”

“How awful!”

“Even today, you can go on the art website, Etsy.com, and find examples of dressed up stuffed animals for sale. Last time I looked, there was a dressed up Billy Goat and Kid for sale for a couple of grand.”

“Animals that big?

“Why not – Roy Rogers had his horse, Trigger, stuffed and mounted when he passed away. He was displayed in the Roy Rogers and Dale Evans Museum until it closed. You can still see Trigger in Branson, Missouri, I think.”

“Well, I knew about Trigger, and even saw him once when I visited Branson on holiday – but that's different – or is it?” Candace wrinkled her forehead even more.

“Next time we're in the Big Apple we can visit Dicken's, Bob. The letter opener is on display at the Henry W. and Albert A. Collection of English and American Literature. It's really quite artistic. The letter opener blade is Ivory. It's shaped like a dagger and looks to me as if it could do some real damage as a weapon.”

“I hope they keep it locked up.”

“They better – I guess if it went up for auction – or got stolen, it would bring big bucks.”

“You wouldn't do anything like that to Zen or Zoe, would you?” Candace asked as she sat up and looked directly at Ed and the sleeping cats, a worried tone creeping into her voice.

“Not if you don't want me to. I promise.”

Candace relaxed and started to lie back on the cushions, as Ed continued speaking just loud enough for her to hear. “But if you pass away, I might have you stuffed – like Dickens Bob; I couldn't bear losing you.”

He only just dodged the book Candace had thrown at him before he started to laugh, waking the sleeping cats who leaped from his lap complaining loudly.

Give and take became their new catch phrase as a married couple and it seemed to work for them.

Add some liquid refreshment and they could enjoy any activity, as long as they were together.

Zen and Zoe never missed a chance to snuggle up with either or both of the people they felt they owned. Ownership was an act of genuine affection, although there were some strings attached. From a cat's point of view, ownership included the right to be picked up, put down, petted, groomed, played with and fed at a time of the cat's choosing.

If a person they owned did not comply promptly, every cat had the right to complain vocally, sulk or in extreme cases, disappear for as long as it took for the owned one to have a change of heart and begin searching frantically, assuming some terrible fate has befallen the aggrieved feline. A cat's superior intelligence gave it the ability to disappear for hours, even in a small house or apartment.

The cats believed they had the right to a window seat in any vehicle or on the lap of any person allowed in the vehicle in which they were being transported. Ownership of a person included the right to anything that they felt they possessed, including another person, as in this case, Ed and Candace.

The fund-raising dinner was six days away, which gave Ed time to take the tux in to be cleaned and to have the waistband on the trousers let out by a little over an inch. He decided not to tell Candace for obvious reasons, and it paid off. On the evening of the soiree, she commented that he looked, “Quite handsome.”

When the day of the expensive dinner arrived, Ed headed for Hermosa Key.

“I think I'll loosen the cummerbund a little,” he thought as he drove. “No use passing up any of what might be included in a $10,000-a-plate dinner.”

In his pocket, he had a short note folded so it fit easily into the palm of his hand. It read: “Urgent! Pass this on to the FBI Art Crimes unit. Contact Candace Topping at Ringland's Daily Brush ASAP. Cell # 942-555-7777.”

The two had discussed how best to initiate contact knowing that someone at the party would probably be watching him closely. He hoped this would occur while he took part in some before or after cocktail conversation to let him know how, when and where his part in the illegal art business would be explained.

Once inside the mansion's gated compound, he could not help noticing the fountain, which was lit up for the occasion with strategically placed lights. The fountain's water sparked in the many beams that the bright lights emitted.

Ed was directed to a parking spot among several dozen luxury cars, including a stretch limo that likely delivered the candidate. Security was unobtrusive, but there appeared to be plenty of it. Twilight was quickly fading, and as Ed approached the broad stretch of steps to the entry, floodlights suddenly came on illuminating the facade of the imposing structure. They etched the outlines of the building and each striking detail of its impressive architecture.

Massive bougainvillea loaded with blossoms lined the inside walls surrounding the compound, and they too were lit to accent the waves of vivid color covering the branches. Ed knew the alluring color of the blossoms hid wicked thorns sharp as needles ready to tear the flesh off anyone foolish enough to tend to their beauty without stout garden gloves or long-handled loppers to keep well away from what was concealed.

“I think,” he considered as he mounted the steps, “the beauty of this mansion and the gorgeous art I believe is hidden away inside may well prove to be more painful than what the bougainvilleas conceal.”

Though dressed in his best attire, Ed suddenly felt nearly naked as he approached the doorway to meet whomever or whatever awaited him. Was he prepared for the hint of a future he might not be ready to confront? He really did not know, but he had no choice in the matter.

Inside the door to the mansion each guest walked through a gaily decorated arch that Ed suspected was a cleverly disguised metal detector. On the other side of the arch there was a receiving line. The would-be office holder stood in the middle of it, flanked by a couple of tux-clad Secret Service types. You could always spot them with their short, neat haircuts and slightly bulging breasts, which hid their bullet proof vests and a shoulder holster for the weapon each of them carried. Ed noticed that one of the men also wore a thin wire behind one ear that reached to his shirt collar.

A lovely young brunette in a fuchsia off the shoulder gown stood at the beginning of the line. She was clutching a clipboard and smiling as she asked each guest for his or her name. She then whispered it to the first person in the receiving line. That person then greeted the guest, gave a name and with a smile, offered a firm handshake. A few words were also spoken such as, “I'm Dan Lefko, your host's publicity assistant.” The guest's name was then repeated to the next person in line and so on. The men who stood on either side of the candidate also shook hands but just offered their names – no smiles, no handshakes – a clear sign of their serious reason for being present at the event.

When Ed reached the candidate, the handshake was accompanied by a friendly grasp of the elbow that gently guided him until they were side-by-side facing a photographer. At that point, they became the center of attention. What followed was a whispered, “I've so wanted a picture with you for my office,” or something to that effect.

“This is definitely not the time to pass a note,” Ed thought. “I'll have plenty of opportunities to do that after the dinner and pep talk from the candidate.”

At the end of the line, everyone was directed to a lavishly stocked bar where small groups began chatting with drinks in hand. Ed recognized several people, including a couple that had served on Ringland's museum board. He decided to greet them after he asked for a ginger ale with a twist, to the rather obvious amusement of the bartender.

“Ed, you remember my wife, Caprice? Don't you, Ed? 

“Of course I do, Lance,” Ed smiled as he took her hand.

Lance and Caprice were both short and round like a couple of beer kegs. Ed commented on the weather and how pleased he was to see them there. As he walked away, he smiled both outwardly and inwardly wondering how the two had come by such inappropriate names. Then remembering his own, the same as the originator of the limerick, it seemed to become more appropriate with every scrap of notebook paper and rhyme that had brought him to this unlikely party.

There was also someone he barely recognized from a gallery meeting because of the tux he wore.

His usual attire when visiting the gallery consisted of a saggy T-shirt and rumpled shorts. The man was there quite often, and on at least one occasion, Ed witnessed some money changing hands. He also spotted a red Sold stickers affixed to a piece of art. Ed assumed he was not the only one surprised to see him at such an overpriced dinner and thought the same way he did.

“Can't judge a book by its cover,” he thought.

It was not long before a short, stocky fellow with an unusual bowtie to complement his tux approached him. The bowtie, not the usual black, displayed a small print of the Mona Lisa repeated to form a pattern. The man also wore a scarlet cummerbund that no one could ignore around his ample waist. He headed toward Ed, hand extended, and introduced himself as Archie Anderson.

“My boss said you'd be here and we'd better get to know each other,” Archie said. “I read somethin' about you and how you talk to cats. You and me will be sittin' side-by-side, so you can fill me in when we sit down to eat.”

Then motioning toward the candidate he added, “The people I work for must think this mug is somethin' hot, 'cause they laid out some big bucks to get us here.”

Ed was surprised that the way he spoke failed to fit with the obviously expensive tux, his highly polished pumps and the carefully manicured fingernails on the hand he had just shaken.

As expected, the dinner was delicious from the appetizer to desert, and Ed savored every bit of it. During the meal, he chatted amiably with his new friend, though finding topics of common interest proved to be difficult.

After the political speech, the candidate, tall and quite presidential looking, lowered his voice and intimated that some of what would be passed on was confidential, for their ears only. He inferred that as friends increased their support, as he was sure they would, the advantages of having a real friend in high office ready to hear their concerns would become apparent to them. This would happen, he said, if he was elected.

Ed wondered how many of these intimate personal fund-raising dinners the candidate had arranged and if they all might fade into one huge blur before the big night arrived. He also wondered should the candidate manage to make it to the Oval Office, would there be enough walls for all of the photos of the friends he “had so wanted a picture with for his office.”

Other people at Ed's table began heading toward the bar again. As they did so, Archie noted, “The boss said we should get together, like at the beach. Seen you there with your girlfriend a few times.”

“Oh, you have, have you?” Ed asked.

“Sure did,” he replied grinning wickedly. “Saw that gorgeous woman of yours too. She sure fills out a bikini!”

“Okay, Archie, enough of that. When and where?”

“Meet me at the south end of Hermosa next Tuesday, and we'll take a stroll up the beach. Park by the pavilion around 6 am. Won't be so hot and the tourists don't start comin' till later, so we'll have the beach pretty much to ourselves. It's a helluva a walk, but the boss will see that we get a ride back. Just don't be late; the boss don't like that.”

“Sounds as though you have a pretty good plan and know how to get things done,” Ed replied smiling. Although he was merely patronizing the man, Ed tried his best to sound sincere.

“That's part of my job, makin' sure nothin' gets messy.”

Ed knew that although Archie was smiling, he meant every word, so he silently vowed not to let that happen.

When the guests left the table with drinks in hand, they broke up into small groups just like at any cocktail party, and many ambled from one group to another to join in the small talk. The candidate was constantly surrounded by an ever-changing group of guests. His protectors stood or walked nonchalantly around the gatherings, also with drinks in hand, but never more than a few feet from the one they were protecting. Ed guessed they were probably drinking Shirley Temples or some other non- alcoholic beverage like his own. Now and then, some of the guests said a word or two to one of them, and there was an occasional handshake.

While Archie was at the bar getting yet another drink, Ed wondered if his new friend would make it home intact. Brushing aside that minor concern, he knew he must attend to a much more important one. He casually strolled across the floor toward the person he felt sure was with the Secret Service. More specifically, the man with the thin wire behind his ear.

“You guys have an important job, and you do it well,” Ed said extending his hand.

“Thanks,” the man replied. 

“I know you told me your name, but with my memory, I've already forgotten it.” Ed smiled as he nodded toward their hands. 

That was when the note was passed. “Bill Smith, good to meet you.”

After another quick nod to their clasped hands, the agent slipped his hand with the note into his pants pocket.

The guests were beginning to leave, but Ed made sure he sought out his new friend before he left too.

“Archie, I was hoping to make a friend here at the party, and I'm looking forward to our walk. You can be sure I'll be at the Pavilion on Tuesday at six am. Don't worry about me forgetting; I'm good at following instructions.”

He thought he saw a look of satisfaction momentarily flicker across Archie's flushed face. Then he left and headed for his car.

During the evening, Ed had noticed how well the part of the mansion where the party was held had been decorated. He had walked around the large room and looked closely at the beautifully framed art on the walls. All of them reflected good mid-level art work. There were even a few signatures he recognized as art worth owning, but there was nothing with a value over a few grand.

“Those,” he thought, “could not be the collection. I suspect that I'll see a great deal more on Tuesday.”

Before leaving, he stood before the huge glass wall between massive pillars at the back of the huge room looking west toward the beach and gulf beyond. The beach behind the huge mansion was also brightly lit, and he could see clearly all the way to the ripples breaking on the beach.

“I think,” Ed concluded, “the only way I'll be able to escape what's in store for me on Tuesday would be to strike out for Corpus Christi on the other side. It would be quite a swim, but probably worth trying.”

Candace and the cats were at the door when Ed reached home and opened it.

“I think it went quite well,” Ed said even before the question was asked. He thought to himself, “Little white lie, forgive me, Lord. I don't want her to worry.”

Realizing that he'd been remiss, he stopped in his tracks to give Candace a hug. Then leaning her over, he gave her a passionate kiss.

“Now that's more like it,” Candace murmured “I've been waiting for that all evening.”

While she returned to the kitchen to fetch a wine bottle and two long stemmed glasses, Ed stooped to scoop up Zen and Zoe. They purred contentedly, butting his chin with their foreheads, marking him once again as their own. He felt Zoe's rough tongue against his cheek just for a moment before he put them down. As he slipped off his suit jacket, loosened his tie and dropped the cummerbund on a nearby chair, he suddenly felt great relief. That cummerbund had sure seemed a lot tighter after the magnificent dinner he had enjoyed.

Candace returned from the kitchen and they headed for the couch in the living room. Motioning her to sit next to him, Ed continued.

“All we can do is wait to see if you get a call from the Art Theft office,” he told her. “The Bob Smith who I slipped the note to seemed to acknowledge that I had handed him something important. What he'll do with it is now in God's hands, not ours.

“What should I say, if and when I do get a call,” she asked.

“If someone calls, let him know what has been happening and that there should be some clandestine way for us to communicate. I have no idea how that might happen but if they think there's something here worth following, they'll take the lead. They've been instrumental in recovering art and historical items worth millions. It's likely that they'll already know about the strange murder on the Key, even if it's only because of all the national media it has received. They just might think that by connecting the dots, they could help another division in the organization solve a grizzly killing.”

Two days later at about 11 pm, Candace was engrossed in a book while lying in bed with the cat's asleep next to her. Ed was still out playing cards with his friends from their church. She heard her cell phone ring, so she thought it must be him calling to say good night.

The voice on the other end did not identify himself. He only said, “I'm the guy someone there wants to talk to, and I have your note in my hand.”

Then it clicked in. It had to be the much-anticipated call from the FBI. “Did you hand it over to someone who got it to me?” he asked.

“Not me, it's my husband,” she replied. “Is there a way you can talk?” “Does he have a cell phone?”

“Doesn't everyone?”

“Then tell him to toss it,” the caller said.

Candace was stunned by this request but continued to listen.

“When you get the Fed Ex addressed to you at the newspaper, there will be one like those we use.

Tell him just to hit Contact, and we'll both know more when we talk.” Then the call abruptly ended, and her caller ID registered Undisclosed.

The following day at the paper, Candace was contemplating any possible way that she could add a little excitement to yet another item about a dull Garden Club meeting. Her thoughts were interrupted when the boy from the mail room walked in personally delivering a small carton to her. As soon as she saw it, she knew she had to leave the paper and hurry home.

Candace had already told Ed about the conversation she'd had the night before when he returned home and presented her with such a passionate greeting. This time when she stepped inside the front door, she handed him the much anticipated box. While she petted the cats to still their vocal greetings, Ed tore the package open and pulled out what looked like a standard iphone. He immediately clicked it on and touched Contact.

“I'm Greg Seven,” a voice said from the other end. “I understand we have some mutual interests we need to discuss.”

Their conversation lasted nearly an hour as Ed laid out all he knew, what he had received, and what Web and Kip had gotten, as well as the incomplete information they had. He described his experience at the expensive fund-raising dinner and that he was scheduled to walk the beach with Archie the following day.

“Can you take the cell phone with you where it won't be seen?” Greg asked.

“Not likely. We'll be in trunks, and if I show up with a cell, I'm sure my contact would tell me to leave it in the car.”

“Too bad,” he replied, “It records too. Just get back to me after the meeting, and we'll have a better idea of how to proceed.”

When the call ended, Ed heaved a tremendous sigh of relief. “Well, sweet one, I think we've got a little protection lined up.” 

“Thank God for that!” Candace replied.

“We'll find out more as this nasty business unravels,” he added.

So far, we've been able to keep the irresistible offer I'm now tied into, and the limericks about Web and Kip's painting as separate issues. I sure hope it stays that way. As long as the limerick writer doesn't contact either one of them, they will likely remain content to let sleeping dogs lie. They would assume there's nothing phony about that beautiful painting, so I doubt either one of them would be ready even to consider bringing Chief Braxton into this situation right now.”

“Best to take things step by step,” Candace suggested. “In the meantime, there's not much we can do, but it's great to know someone has our backs.”

“Okay, hon. Let's concentrate on getting a good night's sleep.” 

“Let's get part of a good night's sleep,” Candace winked.

Her silky red negligee slipped to the floor, as she headed toward their bedroom. Ed wasted no time in following her, eager to bring one more game to an exciting end.

******

Chapter Twelve

Early Tuesday morning, 4:30 am to be exact, Ed awoke, dressed and prepared to drive to the pavilion at Hermosa Key to meet Archie.  Despite just four hours of sound sleep, Ed was smiling and refreshed as he slipped into a pair of swimming trunks. There was no way that he wanted to be late for their 6 am stroll.

Suddenly he heard the phone on his desk in the other room ring and rushed in to pick it up. He closed the bedroom door after him so as not to awaken Candace.

“Who in God's name could be calling at this hour?” he muttered before picking up the receiver. As soon as he put the phone to his ear, he heard Kip's voice, almost in tears.

“Ed,” he said shakily, “I came into the gallery early to hang a new show and there it was... another notebook paper slipped under the door. I'm beside myself, Ed! It's another limerick, and I think it means deep trouble!”

The note read:

'Authentic' is one of ROYU RESMAD 

But the painting's not whatit EESSM 

The artwork is NIFE,

The real one is EINM.

Just a sample of one of our CHESSME.

Ed had been expecting that another limerick referring to the painting would show up, probably at Pear and Mason. Whoever penned the verses was aware that Kip and Web were in touch, and that neither had gone to the authorities.

“This new Limerick suggests that the writer might an artist,” Ed thought. “Perhaps someone turned to fake art because his or her talent and serious work hadn't been recognized to the extent it might have deserved.”

He knew that some of the forgers Web had cited in the Designed to Deceive exhibition had done just that. Also, a skilled painter could earn big dollars by selling copies, as if they were revered masterworks.

“In such a case,” Ed thought, “a gigantic ego would probably be involved. Could this possibly be true with Ringland's latest acquisition?”

Ed mulled this over in his mind while his friend waited on the phone. “Ed... Ed, are you there?” Kip kept repeating.

Meanwhile, he was also trying to figure out what to say to Kip.

“I'm here Kip, just so shocked at what you read to me, and I'm not sure what to say. I am here, and you should also know I'm here for you but I'm about as confused as you are. All I can suggest is that you try to calm down the best way you can – and for the time being, say nothing. Most of all, don't show the limerick to anyone. I'm about to leave for an urgent appointment that I can't afford to miss.”

“When can you get here?” Kip asked.

“I have no idea how long the meeting will take. Even if it's short, it will take me some time to sort this out in my own mind. Just say or do nothing until we have a chance to talk. Above all, don't call Web Lowe or Chief Braxton. If you can, finish hanging the new show and try to act as if nothing untoward has happened. I will get back to you; just don't know when, so please wait for me.

“We're the only ones aside from the limerick writer, who know about this note right now,” Ed added. “You aren't being threatened with any bodily harm as far as I can tell by what was written. The scoundrel who wrote the verse makes it known for some unfathomable reason that going public in any way would hurt the gallery and your own reputation. In fact, that could also get him in trouble. As far as the media goes, today is no different from yesterday until you, Web and I get together. Kip, I've got to hang up now. I'm already a little late getting to where I need to go. Hang loose.”

Ed hopped into his car and headed for Hermosa Key. There were only a few cars on the road at that hour, and he edged a little over the posted speed limit just to make up for the minutes he spent on the phone.

“As the new boy on the job,” he thought, “I want to make the best impression possible with Archie. I doubt patience is one of his virtues, assuming he has any.”

He made it to the beach pavilion just a few minutes after 6 am. Archie was already there, sitting drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of a shiny new Mercedes, maybe the one he had parked next to at the dinner party.

“There were plenty of Mercedes in that lot,” he thought. “Whoever pays Archie for whatever else he does besides attend parties obviously compensates him quite well.”

Both men got out of their cars as soon as he parked.

“Bridge up, sorry,” Ed said smiling and grabbed Archie's hand. 

“Don't give it another thought,” Archie replied smiling back.

“Let's head for the beach. We got a good long walk ahead of us. Got on your beach shoes, I see,” he continued glancing down. “Me, too. Had mine made special. Where'd you get those? Kmart?”

Ed could be forgiven for thinking, “Was that a dig?”

By the time the two had strolled past the sand in front of the few motels at that end of the beach, the sun was fully up. They felt warm as they walked along close to where the tide had receded, and the sand felt firm beneath their feet. This was where they passed the beachside mansions.

“As private as they think their investments makes these places,” Ed asked, “did you know that everyone, even the poorest bum, can walk their private beaches as long as they stay below the tide line?”

“Is zat so?”

“Everybody owns that right, you and I included.”

“Didn't know that,” Archie replied, “but it don't make no difference. Hardly anyone does what we're doin', 'cept the guests of the house owners and they pretty much stay in front of wherever they're visitin', 'less they know whoever owns next door. We're passin' a lot of bucks in back of these joints, but they're nothin' compared to where we'll end up.”

Archie seemed relaxed, allowing the two to chat about this and that, the weather, how good some of the food had tasted at the lavish dinner, how much he liked his new Mercedes. All just small talk; nothing about Ed's new job, or who or what he'd see at their destination.

“That girlfriend of yours is somethin' else,” he said loosening up even more. “What she does for a bikini had the guys on the beach droolin'. What's her name?”

Although Ed did not want to talk about her assets, he knew he'd better play along.

“Candy,” Ed replied knowing that if she and Archie ever met face-to-face and he called her that, she'd cut him as dead as a couple of the fish carcasses in the seaweed flotsam the high tide had left above them.

“You gotta be kiddin'! I'll take a piece of that anytime you wanna pass the box, - box, get it – box like . . .”

Ed cut him off, “ I get it – but with crude talk like that, there's no way you would, or ever could. So let's leave it at that – OK.” Inside he was steaming. It was all he could do to keep from flattening his leering companion, but he knew better.

“I wish I could see more of her,” Ed lied, “literally and time-wise. She's a pretty busy woman, so I'm lucky to spend whatever time I can get with her. You can imagine how many other guys like you would like a piece of that! But you know the old saying: 'Ten percent of something is better than a hundred percent of nothing.'

“Do you mind if I take a quick dip in the Gulf? It's getting a little warm.”

He really wanted to put an end to that conversation plus the evening before was still fresh in his mind. 

“Nah,” go ahead,” Archie replied. “Me and water don't get along.”

“Could have guessed that,” Ed thought. “Judging by that belly, I'd say he likes his beer. I wonder if he'd just float or sink like a beached whale!” he mused.

After he had come out of the water, he realized the girlfriend talk might have opened an opportunity to get Archie to share a little information about himself or what he did for the organization.

“Judging by the new Mercedes, the special beach shoes and the classy tux you wore at the fundraiser, you must be a valuable asset to your bosses,” he noted hoping to further the conversation.

 “I do okay,” Archie replied,”but we don't talk about what we do or who else we work with. I'm guessin' I'll be your contact. You'll probably meet my contact too. What his name might be, I got no idea. It ain't like they hand out organization charts, or we hang out for a beer after work. I guess you'd say I'm their go-to guy if things get messy. I do what they tell me to do when they tell me to do it and don't ask questions. The less I know, the better..”

“In this business, I'd say that's a good thing,” Ed agreed.

“The way I look at it, as long as the bucks are there, and they always are, and in cash, it works for me.

Far as the IRS knows, I'm just a small time handyman.”

Ed and Archie had ambled along for about thirty minutes looking up at some of the most expensive real estate in the country and the show-off homes that were built there. Each was more opulent than the next. Sparkling swimming pools, cabanas, and small sailboats dragged up on the sand near luxurious shaded patios. Ed was beginning to wonder how long the walk would take when they came upon a rock groin. It extended out into the water from the end of an ivy-covered, eye-catching high wall that fronted and protected what looked like a palace. He was pretty sure that's where they would be visiting.

“Looks like we're expected,” Archie remarked. “The dogs are in.” 

“Dogs?” Ed began.

“You wouldn't want to see 'em. Nobody would or should when they're out like at night or sometimes durin' the day when some fool tourist takes a jaunt where we've been walking. If the rocks extendin' into the water don't give 'em a sign that it's time to turn around, a couple of mean junk yard dogs the size of small horses on chains long enough to reach the water's edge should give 'em the message.”

As the two men scrambled over rick-rack piled to make the groin, Ed was again awed by the size of the property. The mansion had more beach frontage than any of the other mansions along the whole eight miles of road along the Key. The building, actually from the gulf side, appeared to be a central part of the mansion with two separate and adjoining wings. Behind each of the wings were large swimming pools extending onto the beach with about a quarter of their width extending back and into each structure. Thus they were indoor and outdoor pools widening out to the sparkling spreads of water that gracefully curved around a large putting green with half a dozen holes between the wings and the pools. The effect rivaled any resort advertised on TV to attract tourists.

There were patios on the opposite side of each pool with elegant furniture artfully arranged behind each. These patios also contain seating areas, large dining spots, and other comfortable chairs and couches. Behind all that splendor was sliding glass walls, which apparantly could be opened removing the partition between the indoor and outdoor portions of the pools and the putting greens.

On the extreme sides of the property were structures that Ed assumed must be garages set back against the surrounding walls that were so impressive from the road. The spread of beach to the turquoise Gulf waters was several times larger than that of any of the neighboring mansions.

The central structure was where the dinner party had taken place. Archie led the way past a magnificent fountain similar to the one on the front of the property, which could be glimpsed from the road through a huge decorative gate.

“Time to meet the boss,” Archie announced as they advanced up the steps to the entrance.

Once inside, they were confronted by a neatly dressed but rather slight gentleman with a small goatee. Ed almost did an involuntary double-take. The Boss matched Kip's description of Mr. Art, whom he finally had an opportunity to meet.

“Somewhere,” Ed thought, “I've seen that face before.”

It was evident that any supposition of him being just a delivery boy for purloined or phony merchandise would be a mistake.

“He must be much higher up in the organization. How high up, one could only guess. The hulking figure Kip saw with him was not there at his side. Perhaps that one was the supposed mule. Maybe he was involved in the murder and had to be quickly banished.”

“Boss,” Archie said addressing him, “this is Ed Lear.”

The boss did not smile or extend a hand to greet him.

“You're dismissed, Archie,” he said gruffly. “Be back in half an hour. I think that will allow Mr. Lear to come to a reasonable understanding. You probably noticed the dogs were out last night. The beach by the groins is a mess, and we want it kept immaculate. You know where to find the scoop.”

“Yes, sir,” Archie said meekly.

Ed figured it must have been a demeaning demand, especially in front of him. Archie quickly turned to leave the same way they had entered. As he did so, Ed recalled his previous words and could not help smiling.

“I'm their go-to guy if things get messy.”

Of course, he was fairly sure scooping poop was the least of his responsibilities, especially considering the rate of pay he received and the equally high style in which he lived.

“Archie will be the one who checks in with you from time to time to make sure we made the proper choice,” the man noted.

“You and I will meet from time to time, probably here but it could be anywhere in the world depending on what we're marketing. You'll be told well in advance, and know what and with whom we think you should deal.”

Ed stood in place as if taking instructions from a higher up soldier. He did not want to give away anything that he might be thinking, especially about his voice, which seemed almost gravely.

“Knowing your background as we do, and your familiarity with art and other valuables, we feel sure your intuition will lead you to other buyers for what we have to offer. You won't be disappointed, whether it's an original or otherwise. Where or how we obtain it is none of your concern, nor is it mine. Our responsibility is to obtain the best possible price given its value or rarity. Rest assured you will be well compensated from the proceeds. Not the penny ante commissions you received previously. But much of that will be up to you and your innate discretion, unless you become careless.”

“I'm sure I'll be quite satisfied so long as those closest to me are not placed in harms way, Mr...?”

The man, who wore a black suit and white high collared shirt, ignored the question. Ed could not help noticing the expensive looking gold cufflinks that peeked out from his suit sleeves. He also wondered just how competent Archie might prove to be in the overall plan and it was as if the boss heard his thought.

“Archie and others we count on also have scoops of other kinds. Not something we have any desire to use 'if things become messy' as Archie is sometimes foolish enough to describe his responsibilities. However, he willingly does what he's instructed to do, as will you. I can assure you that your compensation, which is always in cash, has none of the limits Archie is aware of for what he does. The more effective you are, the better off you'll be in more ways than dollars.”

“I understand completely,” Ed replied, “but I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name. For me Ed is fine, no need to be formal. Once I've established a relationship with a client, we were almost always on a first name basis. How would you prefer I address you, other than boss?”

“Let's make it easy on both of us, Mr. Lear. Sir would be fine for me. The more I know of you, the better; the less you know of me is protection for both of us.”

“Well, Sir,” Ed replied, “when will I see the merchandise? Buyers ultimately have to have their hands on whatever they buy. Good photographs are often the first step. I've no doubt you can supply those as needed?”

“They will be the best, as well as any provenance we provide when requested. We work only with the finest. Actual transfers of what is purchased can take place anywhere in any secure locations that we feel is suitable. I'm sure you have no reservations at seeing a bit of the world, if necessary.”

“I understand all you've said and hope to work to our mutual satisfaction,” Ed said extending his hand.”

“That won't be necessary,” said the immaculately dressed gentlemen. “I'm quite satisfied with our chat and feel confident that you will be as well. Let me call someone to drive you and Archie back to your cars.” 

With that he left the room. Seconds afterward, Archie and a man in a chauffeur's uniform entered the room.

******

Chapter Thirteen

Archie and Ed left by the front door, past the magnificent fountain and into a Bentley parked near the gate. They were seated on the comfortable leather seats in back, driver in front with a glass partition between them.

“Don't get the wrong idea about what I do,” Archie said, “Scooping' dog poop ain’t my job, but I've learned to do anything that little bastard says, no matter what. I don't get a Mercedes for cleaning' up after those mutts, but I guess he was makin' a point so you'd understand that what he says goes.”

“I never had any doubt that your job involves a lot more than that,” Ed commiserated. “He made a point of mentioning that you're sometimes entrusted with more unpleasant and difficult tasks than that display of rudeness he used on you today.”

Ed could tell his contact was still seething at Sir's instruction to clean the beach, but he thought it would be a better idea to use the short time during the drive back to their cars to try and form a more friendly relationship with Archie. He hoped to gain any information he could about how they would work together.

“Do you get to see any of the merchandise or the customers for it?”

“Yeah,” Archie responded. “I delivered a painting to one of them galleries on Sabal Avenue to some guy name Mason not long ago. It was covered in bubble wrap, so it must have had some value. Not my business to know what's real and what's phony or whether the people who get them are either. I stick to my job. You stick to yours, and we'll get along fine.

“No problem,” Ed interjected.

“Sometimes I'm like a bodyguard when merchandise or money changes hands, so nothing' goes wrong, like cops or FBI plants sitting' in on a transaction. I carry the best heat available on really big deals in case somebody shoots off anything' other than a big mouth. I'm told who's on our side and who might not be before any meeting. There's usually some signal like a word or special hand gesture to break off what's going' on and bug out.”

“Always best to be on the safe side, eh?”

“Yep and grabbin' the merchandise is usually my job,” Archie said, “and anybody that gets in the way gets whatever it takes. The good part is that I've been able to travel to some really fancy places I only heard about and some that I never. Always go first-class. Whoever pays the bills sees to that.”

“Sounds like a nice bonus,” Ed noted.

“As for you and me, you'll hear from me in whatever way seems best. I might show up where you are and you won't know in advance. If you throw a party and anybody involved in what you do will be there, you let me know ahead of time, so I can be like one of your guests or hired help.”

“Will do, Archie.”

It wasn't long before they reached the pavilion. As they got out of the Bentley with the driver holding the door, Archie commented, “Said too much already. Forget most of what I said. Got it?”

“Got it,” Ed replied.

Archie punched the driver in the chest with his finger, glowering as he spoke.

“You can't hear what we said behind you, can you what with that glass between the seats? Keep the effing' glass, and your ears closed too. You'll stay healthy and get to keep on driving' nice cars.”

As Ed hopped into his own vehicle, he ruminated in his mind what he should tell Kip. Candace would hear it all, of course, because he knew it would be safe with her. If anything ever happened to him, the proper people would know, and he was confident that Zen and Zoe would be taken care of.

Once he arrived home, Candace sat riveted as Ed related the day's events. He then used his secure cell phone to call Greg Stevens at the FBI's Art Theft division. He related the same information to him and added that he assumed he was now officially a rep for stolen or faked art work for the Russian conglomerate that owned the Hermosa Key property. Although he had only seen a small part of the massive mansion, he had noticed that it was handsomely decorated. However, he considered the art hanging on the walls as just mid-level value paintings. There was nothing that caught his eye as being stolen of forged merchandise, the type he would soon be expected to negotiate high figures for with shadowy collectors.

He also told Greg that given the size of the compound and two guest wings, it surely served multiple purposes, only a portion of which had anything to do with art. It was a beautiful and comfortable venue where any sort of business the owning company was involved in could be transacted in privacy. The guests might be from anywhere in the world trafficking in whatever their mutual corporate interests might be. During their stay at the mansion, they would undoubtedly be impressed by both their luxurious surrounding and the first-class care they received. In that way, the mansion was cleverly used to obligate the client to engage in other opulent business deals. Such a lavish resource could easily be used as an edge over any competitors.

Greg listened intently on all that Ed imparted.

“Whatever you can learn will be helpful,” he said. “We've had our eye on that Russian company for some time for a variety of reasons but dealing in stolen and bogus art is not far up the list. I have to be straight with you,” he added on a serious note. “Despite the billions of dollars in art stolen and sold around the world each year, our specialty takes a back seat to other kinds of theft, and the resources we can bring to bear are limited.

“You're not dealing with nice guys, and I wish I could tell you we could provide meaningful protection for you. This is the only office in the country that is focused on art theft. We can contact any FBI office both here and abroad to request help, but like any other government organization the so- called culture and internal politics affect how and who will actively respond, even if you send me an urgent help message.”

“That's not too comforting a thought,” Ed said.

“It's a frustration I deal with every day, even though we've been instrumental in recovering some real treasures. Few art thefts hit the headlines, but we get tips on everything from well-known paintings to early maps, manuscripts and even Native American stuff like Indian artifacts. Did you know that it's a federal offense to sell eagle feathers? A lot of it walks out of museums and scholarly collections, but nobody knows. Only a few of them take regular inventories of what the public seldom sees. I hope your new director at The Ringland isn't one of the careless ones.

“Web is much too competent and efficient for that,” Ed assured. “I hope he is,” was what he thought but didn't say.

“You'll probably be more help to us than we will be to you,” Greg continued. “But it's vital that we stay in touch. The smartphone you have is as secure as we can make it. Same kind we all use, even POTUS, the U.S. president, has one. There will likely be times that we'll have to send correspondence back and forth. I'd guess you're being watched quite closely. They probably have someone check your home mailbox regularly unless they suspect you've set up some sort of surveillance camera. Wouldn't be unusual in a wealthy town like Ringland where lots of home owners have them but from this point on, Ed Lear no longer exists in any of our records.

“Are you old enough to remember the Lil' Abner Comicstrip?”

 “Of course,” Ed replied.

“I thought so. Do you remember Barney Barnsmell, the outside man at the Skonkworks? From now on, you're just Barney in anything that passes between us. The short guy you just met, who'll probably pass the merchandise to you, will be referred to as BBS, standing for Big Barnsmell, the inside man at the Skonkworks.”

“No problem, Greg, I'm Barney from now on.”

“Get a post office box at a commercial mail drop. Pay for it with cash and tell them anything sent to Barney goes into that box. If you need to send anything to me, send it to Box 877, Philadelphia, PA, 19102, addressed to Pappy Yokum. By all means, send the cards, envelopes, and limericks you told me about. We'll see if anything matches up but don't hold your breath, except around BBS.”

With the phone call finished, Candace turned Ed's attention to his promise to call Kip back with his thoughts on the new limerick:

'Authentic' is one of your dreams
But the painting is not what it seems
The artwork is fine,

The real one is mine.

Just a sample of one of our schemes.

While Ed met with his cohort at the beach and was introduced to the slightly built man Archie referred to as Boss, Candace had time to study the Limerick and form an opinion about what advice he should give to Kip. Web had not been informed of the new Limerick that seemed to add a new dimension and, perhaps, motivation for taunting Kip with the poems.

“Ed, before you call Kip back or he tells Web about the new poem,” she said, “I still think we have two separate problems to deal with. To the best of our ability, we should try to keep them that way.

Only the two of us, Archie and whoever is recruiting you into this illicit art scheme know of the limericks and cards, as well as your involvement and visit to Hermosa Key. Telling either of the others would only complicate the situation.

“My advice would be to call Kip and advise him to set up a meeting with Web. Let them decide when and how to bring their limericks to the authorities. Let's keep the limericks you received, which they know nothing about, between us. You could offer to sit in as support for Kip. The way I read his limerick, it suggests that the writer is boasting a bit about being a talented art forger. In fact, it seems that he or she believes the painting is so good that Web thought it was an original and bought it for the museum. The writer also insinuates that other capers of some kind have also been planned.”

“I'm with you so far,” Ed responded. “I'm also guessing that neither Web nor Kip is anxious to make their problems public, and neither one of them knows that I'm now serving as a type of double agent. They don't know that I have an FBI contact or a connection to a swiped or forged art business that expects me to help them sell stolen or bogus art for big dollars.”

“So what do you think, Ed? Will they call Chief Braxton now?”

“I think Kip and Web probably will call him but play down the apparent crime aspect. They will likely suggest that it's just a sick prank that they don't want to see spread to other galleries. Considering the police are still so involved in solving the murder of the young woman, man or whatever on the Key, it won't be far up on the chief's priority list. It would probably not be a big breaking news item for the media either.”

“Well, I have to agree with you on the latter,” Candace said.

“Add to that, Web's ego and reputation are involved. If the painting is a fake, it will sully his and the museum's reputations. After all, he authenticated it as the real deal and who knows, it could be. Viviane Blaine said it was genuine. Web's predecessor and Blaine's boss for many years, Carter Grimm, said he believed the painting was authentic too. Unless an original shows up somewhere else, there's no real way of knowing.

“Very true, hon. All we can do is hope that never happens.

“At some point, I'll probably be expected to find a buyer for that painting. If it is a forgery, they've already been paid well for it by The Ringland Collection. I don't think it likely that they would welcome any publicity.”

Candace sat straight up, faced Ed and added another possibility.

“You know Kip's contact, Mr. Art, is most likely your contact, Sir, because he wouldn't give you his name and because he matches Kip's description so well. If he were the one who told Kip he'd been offered the original, then your supposition that he was just a guest at the palatial mansion on the beach wouldn't make any sense.

“On the other hand, based on the media descriptions of the brutality of the murder, the powerfully built bodyguard you saw with him could have been involved in the killing, but again, we have no way of knowing for sure. Remember when Kip told us about the woman he saw when he was invited to Hermosa Key to view an exceptional collection of art that he might purchase for Pear and Mason? He- she is most likely the victim and if Mr. Art and Sir are one and the same. Did he hire the Sabal Avenue prostitute? Perhaps he knew that his bodyguard's passions would take over when they got together. Do you think their session of sex might have ended with a male body in women's clothing being brutally raped?”

“That wouldn't make sense,” Ed responded. “Sir is rude and brusque, but I know he isn't stupid. You can bet that once the rape happened, he would have spirited the bodyguard away before the victim's body was even cold. I'd bet that the punishment for such an attention-grabbing screw-up would make what the bodyguard or whoever committed the crime, seem almost humane. A real objective lesson for anyone else in their organization who steps out of line, I would think. But I don't believe Sir would set something like that up. It would garner too much police attention… and that's something Sir definitely doesn't want.

“But the limericks to Kip have me puzzled. If they were written by an ego-driven forger calling attention to how talented he is to have created a work worthy of inclusion in a major museum collection, then who wrote the ones to recruit me into the business? It looks as if they were scribbled by the same person.”

Ed then called the still worried Kip and repeated Candace's observations that even though Braxton should be informed, it would likely not be of great import, even if it caught the attention of the media. The situation was unlikely to attract much notice at all with the local news still paying attention to the on-going murder investigation. Web, an acknowledged expert in his field, had authenticated the museum's purchase as an original. The museum board, which trusted his expertise and had voted unanimously to offer him the directorship at Ringland would likely not consider it a prodigious problem either. After listening to Ed, his friend seemed to calm down considerably.

“I'll call Web and set up a meeting,” Kip said. It's not an emergency, mind you. Just a chance for the three of us to get together. You'll come too, won't you? The way you've explained the likely consequences, it should put his mind at ease. I'm sure he will insist on calling Braxton and informing the Ringland board as well. He has to be straight with them. But for all we know, those dumb little poems might be a gag thought up by some of the hookers who use Sabal Avenue as their own after- hours gallery.”

A couple of days later, the meeting took place in Web's office. He agreed that he and Kip should call Chief Braxton to make the limericks Kip received known to him. They would also suggest that although Pear and Mason was singled out to receive the limericks, they were likely meant to antagonize and worry all of the gallery owners. Perhaps it was a way to get back at the owners on Galley Row because they requested extra drive-by police patrols that put a damper on some of the most obvious solicitations.

“Give me a break, you guys,” Braxton responded when told of the limericks. “The murder investigation is still ongoing. Aside from that, I now have a real theft to deal with. Did you know the top collector of golf memorabilia has a home in Ringland? Neither did I, at least not until he called and said his entire collection was stolen while he was away up north. He showed us an inventory of items worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, stuff he considered his hobby that should have been locked up in something more secure than a vacation home. Brains and bucks don't always go together!”

Kip and Web were rather relieved that the chief had other more pressing matters to worry about.

However, he did say that he would put one of his guys on their little problem.

“I know you gallery owners are concerned about anything that could hurt business,” Braxton said, “but you must understand that we're still up to the ears in the murder on Hermosa Key. If we find out who wrote those five line whattaya call 'em, limericks, what do you want me to do about it? There's no crime for writing crazy stuff unless it explictly threatens someone with harm.”

Braxton's response was pretty much what Ed expected, but he knew the chief's reaction would change drastically if he knew about the other poems he had received.

A story about the limericks did make it into The Daily Brush because the reporter covering the police beat was referred by Braxton to another officer who knew about it. The editor who read the write-up, which quoted a couple limericks, blue penciled them and had a few words for the reporter.

“These guys with the galleries are all advertisers,” he warned. “Let's use a little discretion and not piss any of them off.”

Thus the story ended up as three paragraphs at the bottom of the last news page and on a Saturday, the lowest circulation day of the week.

******

Chapter Fourteen

A few days later, Ed watched a talented sidewalk chalk artist demonstrate his abilities at a street fair in downtown Ringland. The artist created amazingly realistic pictures that were so detailed and drawn in such a way that spectators were captivated. They stood in front of the two-dimensional art and had friends snap photos of them with it. They looked for all the world as if they were part of a believable 3D beach scene.

Suddenly, Ed felt someone nudge his shoulder and was surprised to see Archie, who appeared to be just one of the many people watching the artist.

“The boss wants to see you,” he whispered without even glancing at him. “Be at his place at 3 pm tomorrow. The gates will be open. Park and use the front door.” 

Then before Ed could turn toward him, he was gone, merged into the crowd of onlookers.

Despite what the riddle of the limericks so obviously implied – a specter of deception and danger for the friends who knew of them – life continued as usual. Ed, Kip, and Web shared a mutual interest in art even though it could bring grave consequences for all of them. And those consequences would be the same for Candace, so they all became good friends. They became much closer because they needed to wear outward masks to portray that all was well before friends and associates who knew nothing about what had transpired.

Ed and Candace maintained what appeared to be separate lives and separate homes, although their obvious affection led those close to them to believe the relationship was far from platonic.

“Yes,” some thought, “they do go to church together and maybe what happens after hours doesn't quite line up with what they hear there.”

But in many ways, their lifestyles seemed almost traditional. Even if some folks gave it more thought, they likely assumed, “What the heck. Probably half the unmarried folks at church are doing the same thing.”

To some extent, Web and Kip felt the heat was off unless another limerick showed up. They enjoyed a self-induced calm and managed to preserve it by engaging in normal activities just like any group of friends. It would be no different on this day. Ed scanned the crowd of people, who were oohing and aahing at the chalk paintings that lined a full block, as they strolled from one piece of work to another. Candace was there on assignment from the paper to take photos and write a story on the event. He soon spotted her and quickly came to her side.

“Pretty good stuff,” he remarked. “Did you get the photos you need for the story?”

“I did and more,” she replied. “I talked to some of the artists and photographed two of them with their work. I think it will make a grand Feature story. Not only that, it got me out of covering another Garden Club meeting!”

Ed smiled broadly and leaned in to give her an inconspicuous kiss on the cheek.

“One of the artists is a story in himself,” she exclaimed. “It's one I'm going to run by my editor. His name is Vladimir Popov, a Russian obviously. He works on Gallery Row at Crossfield's Framing and Restoration. His chalk painting is the best of the lot, and the one attracting the most attention and photos. He spoke fluent English and told me he had worked as an art restorer at the Hermitage, but when the opportunity arose for him to come to this country, he jumped at the chance.

“He knows Kip and his partner,” Candace continued. “Kip met him on a trip to Russia when he was organizing an exhibition. Kip actually put him in touch with Crossfield's, and they could not pass up the chance to hire him. Pear and Mason, as well as a number of the other galleries, use his expertise to repair or restore paintings for some of their clients, before or after a work passes through their hands.

“Interesting,” Ed interjected. “So he likes restoring paintings?”

“Restoration is what Vlad enjoys the most, but the majority of the work coming to Crossfield's is fine framing. He's a little frustrated because so much of his time is taken up with framing art rather than where his real expertise lies. That's one of the reasons he's become so adept at the chalk painting as an outlet for his artistic talent. And he isn't shy about telling anyone who will listen that he's the best art restorer in this country. When he saves enough money, he plans to open his own art restoration company. He only wants to work on museum quality art like he did in his home country.”

Web had invited Ed, Candace, and Kip to lunch on Gallery Row and promised a surprise afterward. 

“Well,” said Ed, “let's get to the restaurant. I bet Web and Kip are already there. I know we'll have another good lunch, but I can hardly wait to find out what Web's big surprise might be.”

“He did seem mysterious and quite excited about whatever it is he's going to spring on us,” she said smiling and took Ed's arm as they headed for Gallery Row.

The Food Palette was just a block away. As soon as they entered, they spotted their two friends at the table they often shared.

“Where are our other two companions, Zen and Zoe?” Web asked.

“Had to leave them home, despite the vocal complaints,” Ed quipped. “They're being punished for a session of midnight madness; a cat conniption fit that happens every so often for no reason as far as I can tell. They race around the whole house jumping from one piece of furniture to another letting out what sounds like screams of pure joy. They'll probably sulk when I get back if I don't bring a kitty bag of leftovers.”

When lunch was over, Candace tucked the kitty bag in her large purse along with her camera and the small recorder she used when interviewing the artists.

“Okay now,” Ed said staring straight at Web,” we're all anxious to know about the pièce de résistance that we've all waited so patiently for, your surprise!”

“You'll have to come next door to find out,” Web said with a grin.

He then led the way to the Artists Cooperative Gallery that displayed original works by a number of the fine artists, who lived in and around Ringland. Once inside, he walked straight to a handsome oil painting of a tropical landscape with what was surely the Gulf and the beach along one of the Keys. It could have been any of the three that bordered the city, but in the distance there was a partially obscured building that looked much like the home of Joseph “Moneybags” Ringland, now the museum, and Web's pride and joy.

“Look who painted that masterpiece!” Web exclaimed pointing to a neatly done signature in the lower right corner.

There it was for all to see: W. Lowe. Not only that, on the card posted next to the painting with the title In Paradise by Webster Lowe, there was a red circular sticker indicating that it had been sold.

Kip, smiling as broadly as Web, slapped him hard on the back. Ed, delighted and surprised by this impromptu unveiling, pumped his hand until Candace took Web's beaming face in her hands and planted a kiss on it.

“We had no idea!” the three yelled out almost in unison.

“The truth is,” Web explained, “I've fooled around with painting for quite a number of years without much success. Not enough to show what I tried to do until this one, which for the first time, makes me think I have an original style worth showing off. I think I've become pretty good technically, but my weakness has always been composition. It's rather easy for me to copy someone else's painting because I recognize great composition but coming up with my own has pretty much escaped me until now with this painting.”

Web noted that a few years before coming to the U.S., he helped organize an exhibition of paintings by avant-garde Russian artists, including works by Malevich and Kandinsky.

“I had the opportunity to spend two weeks in Russia and was lucky enough to visit the Heritage. It was there that I met the director, Michail Petrovsky. I was also able to see The Staraya Derevnya Restoration and Storage Center, which was of particular significance to me because of my interest in the sky-rocketing, worldwide counterfeiting of masterworks. That was my inspiration for organizing the Designed to Deceive exhibition.”

“Then you must know Vlad Popov,” Candace interrupted. “He's one of the chalk artists and an employee of Crossfield's.”

“I surely do,” Web replied. “I helped him come to this country and put him in touch with John Crossfield. Before I came to Ringland, I met him at the Staraya Derevnya Center. He was one of the directors assigned to show me around because he spoke such good English. We spent an entire day together.

“Later he wrote to asked if I knew how he might find a job in this country, which is one of the requirements to obtain a work Visa to come here. I knew John Crossfield already; met him at a conference for professional art restorers hosted by the Inter-museum Conservation Association. He jumped at the chance to hire a gifted technician in the field. Crossfield's is an excellent company with high standards that produces good work, but Vladimir's exceptional ability was beyond what they had done. Given the slightest chance, Vlad would be glad to tell you that himself!” Web added.

“I've since approached my board of directors and asked them to hire him. As you know, our chief restorer, Viviane, is retiring soon and he could take her place at a salary better than John was able to afford. However, it's not what Vlad thinks he's worth. If we can temper his ego and overbearing manner a bit, he'll be a great asset to the museum.

“Sounds like somewhat of a challenge,” Ed cut in, “but if he's that good, I can see how it would be well worth it.

“I definitely believe that,” Web replied. “We've been fortunate to have the expertise of a dedicated restoration and conservationist at The Ringland Collection Of Art And Antiquities thanks to Carter, my predecessor. Viviane has been with the museum for years now. She was Carter's choice when he became the director, just as Vlad will be my choice when she retires in a few months.

“Although I haven't been with The Ringland for most of that time, I've known Viviane for a number of years. As I said at the docent's meeting, while I worked my way up the curatorial ladder, I borrowed her on a number of occasions to touch up, clean or help authenticate works in exhibitions that I put together. She also helped me when I put together the Design to Deceive show. As well, she's familiar with the Villers painting that the museum just purchased from Kip. Before the painting began its tour around the country, it was cleaned under her supervision. Her attention to detail is one of the reasons its colors are so vibrant.”

 “They sure are,” Ed and Candace agreed.

“Despite the special education and training conservationists must obtain,” Web said, “it's not reflected in their paychecks, sad to say. The average salary is around $36,000 a year, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. I happen to know that because I'm going to bat before the museum board to get Vladimir more than that to start. He was willing to take even less at Crossfield's because a guaranteed job was one of the tickets that helped him acquire a Visa. I'm glad I could help, but I hope to secure him a better wage than the average at the museum because his talent is worth far more than that. I know I'm letting myself in for a constant barrage of, 'when's my next salary increase coming?' but his talent is what I need to carry out my plans.”

“Sometimes we just have to bite the bullet when it comes to real talent,” Kip noted, “no matter what a person's temperament might be.”

“So true,” Web replied. “Viviane, bless her heart, never pressured Carter for more money. He almost had to force her to take salary increases to keep up with the cost-of-living. But if you knew how she lives, it would be obvious that she's a well-heeled woman. Maybe she had access to family money or received an inheritance that allowed her to follow her passion. She'll be missed, of course, but Vlad is ready and able to step into her shoes.”

Web turned back to look at his own painting and then continued.

“Vlad will tell you, creating something that stands out from the rest is no easy task and having met some of the finest painters, I've come to appreciate just how difficult that can be. It wouldn't surprise me if a handwritten note by Leonardo Da Vince turns up reading something like, 'Worked on that painting again; still can't get the mouth right.' I can surely agree with that considering how many times I attempted to rework a painting only to trash it because I couldn't pull off the effect that I felt it needed. Although I prefer traditional subjects, the feeling one gets about a painting that needs another touch or two is not something just the old masters encountered. Modernist Alberto Giacometti not only struggled with his rail thin sculptures, but he also could never leave his paintings alone. He has been quoted as saying, 'The more one works on a picture, the more impossible it becomes to finish it.' Even when something he created was applauded as a masterwork by critics, he often considered it a failure.”

“That's hard even to imagine,” Candace said.

“Early on,” Web continued, “I tried to make a name for myself but hard as I tried, except for compliments from a few friends, nothing. That's when I turned to museum work in earnest and climbed the success ladder to some extent. I had hoped to become a lion in the art jungle and make a fortune painting, but it was not to be. This painting gives me a glimmer of hope. I think it has a personal style that people might respond to and perhaps I can build on this small success after I retire.”

At that point, Candace pulled her camera out of her purse.

“We have to record this for posterity, the day a new lion of the art world made his first kill!” she said excitedly.

She snapped pictures with Web beside his painting, and then Kip and Ed. Then another gallery-goer captured a shot of all of them together with the painting. Once done, Ed made an announcement.

“This celebration is just beginning,” he said. “Let's go back to my place. I have a stash of some really fine champagne that has just been crying out to be opened!”

That's how another perfect day in paradise ended for four friends and two cats, with hours of talk, laughter and empty champagne bottles.

The next day as directed, Ed drove to Hermosa Key and through the mansion gates, which opened automatically as he approached.

“They must have security cameras all over the place,” he thought. “They know who's coming or going long before it happens. Then again, I'd guess that many of the properties on the Key have security cameras of some kind to keep residents aware of who might be on or near their property. Just confirms my supposition that Mr. Art or his bodyguard never went beyond these gates. They would not want to be seen on any camera downloads that the FBI took the trouble to view after the murder.”

Ed parked his car and skipped up the steps to the front door, but before he could reach it, the door swung open. The neatly dressed boss appeared and motioned him inside. Without any greeting, the slightly built gentleman curtly addressed Ed as he handed his visitor a large manilla envelope.

“We know you're a friend of Kip Mason and are familiar with the Villers painting that he sold to the Ringland,” he said. “It's a well-done forgery, despite the fact that he authenticated it as the original. We own the original, and the envelope contains excellent photos of it. Have Mason contact Web Lowe. If he doesn't want his gallery exposed to publicity that would ruin his precious business and his reputation, he'll make it clear to Lowe that he has only one choice.

“All he has to do is convince the museum board that it must tap into the Acquisition Fund, which he administers. With the funds, the board can acquire another excellent museum quality, original painting that we need to move for the bargain price of $100,000. It's one he will, of course, authenticate if he has any sense. His job, reputation, and career are on the line here. If Lowe is smart enough to convince the board to approve our choices for additions to the museum collection, no one including the board would have to know about the first one being a forgery. Lowe would save his job, and Pear and Mason would keep its commission and reputation. And… nothing embarrassing will hit the media.”

Ed held up his hand and interrupted. “Mason will likely think that I've been a part of this from the beginning, that I'm a willing participant. That would eliminate any useful contact in the future.”

“You are to show Mason the limericks you received and convince him that you are, as he must be, a participant and both of you must do exactly as instructed or suffer very real consequences just as the rhymes to each of you indicated. By the time you make clear to him what he must do, he will be more than willing to put aside any reservations he might have. Your friendship must stay intact. And your contact with each other will be useful in the future.

“Do this well, and you'll soon be handling some real money. We know there are collectors who'd love to have paintings, which you'll convince them are originals. Some of the buyers you've run across should be happy to get them at a bargain that we'll provide to you as soon as you start making a bit of cash for yourself and us. You also know the payoff, if you screw up and do something careless or stupid. You understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” was all Ed could say. Then he turned around and headed back to his car. As soon as the gates opened, he hurriedly drove through them, never so happy to leave anywhere else.

Candace was waiting for him when he got home. She had left The Daily Brush early to interview shop owners in and around the area where the street fair took place the day before. He showed her the envelope and the photos it held because it was not sealed.

“They look just like the painting at the museum,” Ed noted as they both stared at them. “When you wrote the story on the acquisition of the Villers painting, I know the paper took photos because they accompanied the article,” he said looking at Candace. “Can you get copies of those? I'd like to play the fake or phony game with Zen and Zoe before I give these to Kip and let him know what the boss expects him to do.”

“They'll be in your hands tomorrow,” she promised. “Till then, I think there's time before you contact Kip.”

The following day passed slowly for Ed until Candace arrived with copies of the news photos. Ed laid out four photos of the Villers painting on the floor, two from the boss and two from the paper. The cats noticed right away and seemed excited at the prospect of playing their favorite game.

Zen sat quietly on the side while Zoe sauntered around all of the photos emitting low growling sounds. She then jumped on one but only for a moment. Just seconds later, she jumped to the next and remained there. Then Zen strolled to the two remaining photos and stretched across both of them. Zen and Zoe looked expectantly at Ed. Having made their choices clear, they waited expectantly for their Perfect Pussy Treats.

Candace and Ed glanced quickly at each.

“That confirms it,” Ed exclaimed. “Web authenticated the wrong painting, and the Russians own the original! Time after time, using the photos in their favorite book, these cats have never been wrong. Zoe always sits on the forgery and Zen goes straight to the picture of the real thing! Are they trying to tell us something?”

“I think so,” Candace replied. “I believe they are telling us that Kip's collector on Hermosa Key is into more than forged art. He's into theft as well. Cat's intuition. My intuition tells me they're right. From reading the Art Loss Register's International Index of Stolen WorksArt Loss Register's International Index of Stolen Works,” she added, “there are 350,000 stolen pieces of art in the world worth more than a billion dollars.”

“If that's so, Sir might be trying to pull off a triple-cross,” Ed reflected. “First double-cross Kip by consigning a fake painting to Pear and Mason. Second, double-cross the museum for several hundred grand and three, try to triple-cross Web and the museum again for an extra hundred grand for what might or might not be an original painting. And for that one, Web will have to convince the board that it's a worthy addition to their collection. I wonder what it will be?

“Maybe a quadruple-cross, if you count them crossing me, their new recruit, into selling phonies to underworld buyers while keeping the originals. As I see it, they have nothing to lose. If they commission well-executed copies from a talented forger, they make a profit on what they pay for them, assuming that I can find the right kinds of unscrupulous, greedy buyers. I sell fakes for cash while they hold on to the high-priced originals. Maybe those are hidden at the Hermosa Key mansion, waiting out the proper time to auction them off or sell them to legitimate buyers, even museums like the Ringland.”

“Sounds like quite a lucrative business, as long as you don't get caught,” Candace noted.

“The other unfortunate aspect for museums duped into buying forgeries is that their archives containing the provenance for each acquisition are corrupted by phony documents, which they believe to be real. It's happened to some of the best museums in the world, including the Tate in England. That museum accepted skilled forgeries by John Myatt, one of the forgers featured in the Designed to Deceive exhibition that Web put together. Each of his paintings was backed up with a pastiche of chain of possession documents. As it turned out, some of those documents were created from their own archives by Myatt's wealthy but crooked conspirator, John Drewe.

“That man had ingratiated himself with the museum by making contributions of paintings from his own collection, forgeries so good that the Tate thought they were real... that is until the pair became too bold and got caught. By that time though, the collector had raked in a fortune from the fakes that Myatt painted – mostly the avant-garde works that Kip's partner specializes in.

“'The limericks to Kip sound as if they might have been written by some forger who is anxious to see his works hang in a fine museum, even if they aren't under his name. Now that we know Web is a skilled painter and had access to the Young Woman on a Balcony, he could have painted it himself.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Candace interjected. “He seems to be such an upstanding type of man.” “You just never know, sweetie,” Ed continued. “I've been instructed to show Kip the limericks I received, that along with something more – God only knows what it will be. I have to convince him that I'm in the same boat he is. Otherwise, it wouldn't be a stretch for him to suspect that I've been part of the scam all along. He knows that when I was on the road selling art, I was occasionally approached by shady gallery owners or supposed art consultants who hoped I could move some questionable works.”

Candace dropped her head into her hands and expressed her words with real compassion.

“Poor Web and Kip!” she opined. “A couple of nice guys just doing what anyone in their professions would do, now being pressured into going along with the crooks or lose their livelihoods and reputations. Even worse, you've been dragged into it and could face an even more terrible fate.”

“Let's not go off half-cocked,” Ed remarked, “Half-cocked might be a poor choice of words,” he added with half a smile. “Let's sleep on it. Things should be clearer in the morning.” Pausing a moment, he added, “There is a bright side. Only you and I know that I'm a double agent with an FBI art theft contact. Maybe there's a chance to double-cross the triple-crossers, with help from a couple of kitties!”

******

Chapter Fifteen

Another of the galleries Ed visited frequently was AnythinGoes. True to its name a gallery-goer never knew what might be displayed. The most eclectic collections of anything that could be considered artistic, in the very broadest sense, often ended up on display. It could be whatever caught the owner's fancy, from Objets Trouves – Found Objects or Readymade, to classic realism, humorous, tongue-in- cheek assemblages, or “cutting edge” offerings none of the other galleries on the row would consider.

The gallery was an honest reflection of the whimsical tastes of the owner, Harmon Dolly, a character of the first order. Eccentric was an understatement, and that was one of the reasons Ed Lear had become a visitor to the gallery, had gotten to know Harmon and become a friend. Only friends addressed him by his Christian name. Everyone else knew him by the name he had adopted for business purposes. It was on his business card along with his picture. He had assumed it to amuse, or outrage; knowing some would take it one way and some the other. It was pretty much an accurate mirror of the exhibitions he mounted in his gallery. A couple owners of other galleries, felt it diminished the dignity of the area, but had to admit the number of walk-throughs his quirky offerings drew was impressive.

To all but close friends, Harmon's other persona was Salvador Dolly. He had nurtured a mustache like his “almost” namesake's and kept it carefully waxed and upturned in a “have-a-good-day” half circle that matched his welcoming smile. That was the photo he used on his business cards and any advertising he bought to advertise the gallery. In the gallery, he usually wore a waistcoat so he could carry a pocket watch and watch fob. He often pulled it out whenever there were gallery goers present. They usually did another double-take to match their surprise on first seeing him when he welcomed them to the gallery. He'd had his pocket piece bent to resemble Dali's iconic drooping watch image. It no longer told the time, but it told a lot about Harmon. It gave him another chance to chat with visitors because Harmon liked people. In a tourist town such as Ringland, he was a character visitors remembered - a memory they carried home and talked about. And it increased business. Even though he'd told Ed he didn't care if his gallery never turned a profit as long as it was fun.

Another reason Ed liked the owner and the gallery was the resident, all black, gallery cat named Kaspar. He had been named after the famous feline of the Savoy Hotel on the Strand in London. That Kaspar was, and is, a two-foot-high wooden statue of a cat who has joins every dinner party of thirteen guests since 1927 to ward off bad luck. Kaspar had once been cat-napped as a prank during WWII, and it took the influence of Winston Churchill to have it returned. Impresario Richard D'Oyly Carte built the luxurious hostelry in 1889 with profits from his Gilbert and Sullivan operas. On Gallery Walk nights Harmon, aka Salvador, invariably had Gilbert and Sullivan playing for the added enjoyment of visitors.

Harmon was a dedicated cat lover, and he kept a corner of the gallery for an ever-changing exhibition of cat related art. That corner was where AnythinGoes Kaspar had his bed, a work of art in its own right. His owner had commissioned one of the exceptional, artistic, craftsmen whose work he had exhibited to build a magnificent couch for Kaspar. He'd paid more than $2,000 for it, claimed it was the most expensive cat bed in the world, and submitted it to the Guinness Book of World Records. “Gotta win,” Harmon said, “how many other competitors can there be?”

Zen and Zoe especially liked the gallery because, after a period of “get to know you” apprehension, Kaspar welcomed them to the gallery, as he did human visitors. He even allowed them into his cat bed castle, and the three sometimes curled up together to get away when the gallery was busy.

Cat portraits were a specialty for Hamon and he regularly showed work by a number of excellent animal artists. 15% of any sale made from the KittyKorner went to a local cat rescue organization. He featured photos of adoptable cats, and regularly assisted in finding suitable homes for unwanted kittens.

Kip Mason knew Harmon, called him by his Christian name because they became friends soon after AnythinGoes had opened. Ed and Candace, Zen and Zoe were often together for lunch or when they visited on Gallery Walks. When Webster Lowe became Director of The Ringland Collection of Fine Art and Antiquities, met Ed and Kip, they soon made him part of their group. Candace met Harmon soon after the gallery began to make a name for itself as a unique place to visit, and she had written features for The Daily Brush about notable or kooky exhibitions he arranged.

Many of the other gallery owners thought Harmon's antics as Salvador Dolly were a sophisticated marketing technique rather than a manifestation of his personality. It may have been both.

Harmon always claimed, “I'm just an ol' Florida Cracker like my Pappy and Granpappy.” There was a lot of truth to that. His family was native Florida, generations back. His Great Granpappy was in the Ringland area even before Joseph “Moneybags” Ringland had built his empire on cheap land.

And another of Harmon's statements was true, “I don't care if the gallery never turns a profit as long as it's fun.” It didn't have to. His Great-grandpappy bought land on Hermosa Key when the only people interested in living there were eking out a few dollars as Mullet fishermen to supplement subsistence farming. He still owned a house there, one of the few ancient, wooden structures not gobbled up by the mansion builders. He had sold off the Gulf side of the property for what must have been millions, although he kept an easement to the magnificent beach. He had, of course, improved the old house, very comfortable and modern inside, but still one of the least impressive, almost dowdy by comparison, along the eight-mile stretch of the key. His neighbors on each side and across the road were unbelievable castles.

Ed had asked him, “Why don't you built something to match your neighbors? You could do it.” Harmon had just laughed, “What would an ol' Florida Cracker like me do in a place like that 'un? I'd have ta get to know mah neighbors. If I got invited in, I woulden' know how to act right. Never learned to stick out mah pinkie when I'm drinkin' tea. That's for smart folks like you.” He was putting on an act for the amusement of his friends, of course. Then he added,”Ed, you know I don't need that to feel comfortable. My old place is just fine. You've been in it; it's pretty nice to my eyes, and I can walk across the street to the beach and have every right to be there. The little cabana I have on my easement is all I need to enjoy the view my neighbors, including the one I sold to, spent millions and millions for. And I've got a great view of the Intracoastal out the back of my humble abode, too.”

Candace winked at him, “Bet there's another reason you won't sell out, isn't there?” “You've gotten to know me pretty good, haven't you lady?” he smiled. “I keep it that way just to bug 'em a little, kind of like for a couple of “nose-in-the-air” neighbors for AnythinGoes.”

Harmon's closest neighbor on the key was the fantastic mansion where Ed's Mr. Art conducted his monkey business. He never had to look at Harmon's modest home just diagonally across the road because the gorgeous high wall around his property blocked the view.

But Harmon's easement on the Gulf bordered the rickrack barrier marking the Mansion's north side.

If he cared to, Harmon could wade a few feet into the warm water and see the full expanse of magnificent beachfront, the swimming pools and putting greens Ed had seen on his stroll with Archie “when things get messy” Anderson.

Harmon did have a major beef with the owners of the Mansion. It was one that gave him pain to talk about. He often brought home stray cats up for adoption to Hermosa just to help socialize them before they met their new owners. One pretty tabby caught his fancy, and on a weekend, he had carried the friendly, older feline across the road to spend an afternoon with him as he sat in his cabana next to the rickrack barrier. Tabby had enjoyed the sand on the beach, sniffed at the incoming tide and decided it wasn't for her before jumping on to the stone groin. Before Harmon could grab her, she disappeared onto the sacred turf of Mansion beachfront. Harmon wasn't as agile as he was when he enjoyed that beach with his parents as a child, and of course, the piled up stone wasn't there all those years ago.

 “What happened then?” Ed asked.

“I ran to the water's edge so I could see where she might have gone. What I saw,” he started to sniffle, “I couldn't believe. I knew they had guard dogs on the property, mostly out just at night 'cause I'd heard 'em bark. While I watched Tabby turn as I called to her, one of the guards, I guess, opened a gate and let out one of the biggest, ugliest dogs I've ever seen. It was on a chain – a long one, but it dragged behind him like it weighed nothing. He was on Tabby in a flash – just grabbed her in his jaws, threw her into the air and caught her in his jaws again. I had to look away. All I heard was Tabby scream once.”

“My God, how terrible!” Candace cried out, “What did you do?” Harmon was crying, “Nothing I could do. Just stood there in shock. The guard that let the dog out walked down where it was mangling Tabby's body. Made the beast drop her, and then picked her up by the tail, swung her around and threw her over the rickrack, so she landed at my feet. He was laughing and yelled something before he headed back up the beach. I don't know what he said 'cause it wasn't in English. But what it sounded like I still hear in my head – sounded like he yelled BOT BAWA COWCA! That was all.”

Candace was scribbling words on a scrap of paper as she thought they might spell out. She was thumbing her Blackberry. “I'll bet it's Russian. Bot Bawa Cowca – no that wouldn't be right for Russian. Probably K instead of C – вот ваша кошка. That's it. The SOB just yelled, 'Here's your cat.' - and threw it at your feet. What a despicable, horrid, thing to do!”

There were better times for Harmon and the cats he loved so much. Mollie Murray and little Sylvia visited Candace whenever Ed was there with Zen and Zoe. She played with the “caths” happily but teared up when Ed had to leave and take Zen and Zoe home. “Oh Nana, ithn't there thum way I can have a puthycat of my own?” she'd sniffled. “You thed caths were spethial friends for good witches, and thum timeth helped catht spelths.” 

Candace and Ed said almost together, “If your mother approves, we know how you can have your very own kitty.” Turning to Mollie,”Won't you ask her? If she says 'yes' we want to take you to visit a special friend of ours. He's close by, and he loves cats as much as Sylvia does.”

Candace had begun to learn a bit about Wiccans, and about the “Magick” they felt they could perform. She had an idea for a Feature story she might write as she researched Wicca. The amount of information on the Internet surprised her. Wicca was worldwide, and there were a number of Covens in the Ringland area. Many Wiccans were hesitant about admitting their practice, fearing discrimination. In 2001, there had been an extensive survey done by the ARIS, American Religious Identification Survey, and updated in 2008. That study estimated there were 408,000 admitted adult Wiccans in the US and counting children of Wiccan families, 750,000 people, although the number was probably a good deal higher because many Neopagans were secretive about their involvement. She also learned cats, especially black cats, are very special to Wiccans. They are known as “familiars,” and the association of black cats with Halloween has Wiccan significance because All Hallows Eve is one of the four greater Sabbats, of the Wiccan Pagan year.

Harmon had no idea his all black Kaspar might have been a familiar of witches, but he readily admitted his feline friend worked some kind of “magick” on visitors to the gallery. The art in KittyKorner held some sort of “spell” for the many cat lovers who made a point of visiting and buying. When Candace asked if he could find a kitten for a special little girl, he happily offered to help but cautioned finding a pure black one might be difficult on short notice.

Mollie and Sylvia's mother, both Wiccans, had asked especially for a black feline, but Harmon was not about to give up Kaspar. When Candace let Mollie know it might take a while to find one, she smiled, and replied, “Now, dearie, don't you worry about that, just leave it to me. There'll be one for Sylvia when you call your friend back tomorrow.”

That evening, Candace couldn't help hearing chanting coming from Mollie's unit. She didn't peek in, not wanting to know if a cat-chant had to be done naked. When she called Ed, to tell him about her conversation and what she was hearing, he kidded her. “Oh, go on Candace, help the ladies out, and join the group. With your pretty red hair and their gray hair you'd probably be the only one where 'collar and cuffs' match.”

“It's not naked that's keeping me out,” she shot back. “I’m just not into chanting tonight, but if you want to check out the cuffs, I'm ready for a little naked with you.”

“Be there before the chanting stops,” was the answer she heard as the handset hit the cradle. He was, and he did. And it wasn't the sound of chanting coming from her condo if you had happened to walk by at the right time.

The next morning, when Candace called Harmon, he picked up the phone and blurted out excitedly, “You won't believe this. I've got the sleekest little, all black kitten I've ever seen. Just eight weeks old. Her fur almost shines and you ought to see these eyes. She'll cast a spell on you for sure. Kaspar wants to keep her, but if you and the little girl get here before we change our minds, she's ready to be adopted.”

Sylvia was almost beside herself with excitement when Candace picked her up with her Grandmother at lunch break from the paper. Ed met them at AnythinGoes because he wanted to watch and listen when their favorite child met her “puthycat.”

As soon as the door to the gallery opened Sylvia flew in. Ed scooped her up in his arms, gave her a kiss and said, “Sylvia, I want you to meet two friends of mine. The big one here, with the funny mustache is Mr. Salvador, and he's holding a little friend you might just like, too.”

“Oh, Misthter Thalvador, thtith ith the nithest puthycat I've ever theen. Can I hold him?”

“Well, Sylvia he's really a she,” then pointing down at Kaspar, who joined the group, “Say hello to Kaspar. He's a boy.” Sylvia kept her eyes fixed on the kitten, but knelt beside Kasper, stroked his back and heard him purr loudly at the welcome attention. “Heth a sthuper puthy, too. I thinth Kathpar isth a sthuper name. Can I thee the little one – can I hold him  - her?

“Sylvia, You may more than hold her. She can be your very own cat – IF she likes you.” The little girl was cuddling the kitten and feeling the tiny rough tongue on her cheek. “She thinkth I'm her mommy. She loveth me and I loveth her! Isth she really mine to keep? Nana theth she ith a spthechial cat because sheth all black all over. “

All of the adults were glowing at the little girl's happiness. Mollie, picked up both the child and the kitten, kissed the child and said to her. “Do you remember I told you yesterday afternoon you'd have your very own black cat today?”

“Oh yeth, Nana, you thed tho and you alwath thay whaths going to happen before it doth.” The other adults looked at one another, with a “Did I hear that right” look on their faces.

“What are you going to name your cat, Sylvia?” Mr. Harmon asked. “I wanth to call her Kasthpar, justht like yourths!” 

He laughed, “But Sylvia, Kaspar is a boy's name.”

“Thath alright, Mithter Sthalvador, I likth the name and she likth it, too. Her name is Kathpar Sthilvethter, justh like mine!”“Well, I guess that settles it,” Mollie agreed.

******

Chapter Sixteen

Early the following morning Ed placed the photos that the boss had given him back into the manilla envelope. He then turned toward Candace and shrugged his shoulders.

“No way to put this off. I'd better call Kip and present the offer he can't refuse. I expect he'll be devastated as soon as the import of this dirty business sinks in. He might very well come to the conclusion that someone, me, whom he thought was a fast friend, is actually a crook and part of a plot to ruin both him and Web unless he lowers himself and joins the scam.

“Of course, I'll show him the limericks I received and hope he believes that I'm in the same position that he is but with a far more serious personal consequence if I don't go along. If I were in his shoes, I would read those limericks and assume that they are pure baloney, stuff that I concocted to appear as a victim instead of a victimizer.”

“It is possible that Kip will recall all that you two have done together as friends,” Candace pointed out. “In that case, he just might set his doubts aside.”

“That will be a long shot,” Ed noted. “What he'll be asked to do will more than likely be so repugnant to a fine man with his principles that he will probably only imagine the worst. If he balks and considers going to Chief Braxton, his finger will point straight toward me, but the other four will be pointing back at him.

“He'll have to consider how deeply he's involved. Any investigation will reveal that he kept his mouth shut about the limericks he received until after he had made the sale plus a large commission for a painting he should have suspected was a fake. He knows that he told me he shouldn't have done that and would never do anything like it again. Legally, that's failing to disclose a material fact with a bearing on the value of what's being sold.”

Ed picked up the phone and dialed Kip, who answered after the first ring.

“You must have been sitting on the phone,” he said in an attempt to sound nonchalant.

“I was just about to call you,” Kip responded. “I've received some terrible news, Ed. Another one of those limericks was slipped under the door.”

Kip's voice quavered as he continued.

“It's even more disturbing than any of the others, and I'm beside myself now with no idea what to do.

Please, Ed, be a friend and get over here right away. I'm afraid to leave the gallery!”

At that instant, Ed heard a loud crash, as if something shattered and then the line went dead. Ed dropped the phone, grabbed the manilla envelope, ran out his door and sprinted to his car. Speed limit signs on the way to Gallery Row were just a blur until he reached Sabal Avenue and pulled into an open space close to Pear and Mason. Ed ran to the door and tried to push it open but found it locked tight.

He pounded on the glass almost hard enough to break it and then grabbed the bronze handles of the double entry door. He tried with all his might to force them open. As he stepped back ready to throw his full weight against the unyielding barrier, he spotted the glass pane in the window next to the door, which was now shattered. Then he saw his friend, Kip, through the door and heard the click of a pair of deadbolts being withdrawn.

Kip appeared ashen-faced and his overall demeanor showed that he was terribly distressed. He frantically yanked Ed inside and quickly slammed the door behind him.

“Thank God you're here!” Kip shrieked.“We need to get back to the office, away from the windows.” 

“I heard a loud noise and then the phone went dead,” Ed said. “Are you okay?”

“At this point, I'm not quite sure,” Kip replied.

Once inside his office, he sank dejectedly into the chair behind his desk. With a shaky hand, he gave Ed a familiar scrap of lined notebook paper, which read:

Not a thing to unscramble this time, 

There's only one reason for rhyme.

You'll take our offer 

Cash in your coffer

Or your life is not worth a dime!

As Ed absorbed the threatening words that the Limerick contained, Kip broke down, almost sobbing. “Did you see the window next to the door?” Kip asked, his nerves rattled. “Two bullets. One of them only inches away from my head. I had just picked the paper up from under the door and was on my cell talking to you. The other one shattered the frame on a painting behind me. Someone in a car must have driven by. No one's on the street at this hour.

 “Oh Lord!” he exclaimed. “What am I supposed to do? What offer? What are they talking about?

Why are they threatening me? The other limericks were bad enough but this one... this one... what am I supposed to do, Ed? It has to be about the painting I sold to the museum. Why did I ever take that thing and agree to sell it? Why didn't I just tell Web about the crazy limerick? I know I should have! The commission I got is dirty money. I should have known... I should have known, , ,”

Kip began to babble. Ed placed a steady hand on Kip's shoulder and said evenly, “Calm down my friend. I think I can tell you . . . Well, actually show you what lies at the root of all these limericks, especially the one you just received. The shots through the window weren't meant to kill you. They were just a warning of what could happen if you don't buy into what you're about to hear. Just try to stay calm, Kip. You aren't in immediate danger. I've got to get something from the car. It will help you understand why you, why both of us, are in this predicament.”

When Ed returned, he pulled the photos out of the envelope and laid them on Kip's desk. They were the ones from Sir, as well as the ones Candace brought home from the paper. Kip managed to regain some composure by that time but was clearly taken aback.

“Oh, my God!” he said gasping. “All four of these are of the painting I sold to the museum.” “Not quite, Kip. Only two are of the painting you sold; the other two are photos of the original.” 

“I don't understand,” he said looking bewildered. “What are you telling me and how are you involved? How do you know that I'm not in eminent danger? You're not part of this are you... are you, Ed?”

Ed drew in a deep breath and then began to explain.

“You are to tell Web that the Young Woman on a Balcony, which you sold to him, is a phony and show him the photos of the original. I doubt he'll want the world to know that the Ringland was duped into paying an unscrupulous gallery owner for a forged painting that he authenticated. If that is the case, he'll have to pony up an additional hundred grand from the museum board's acquisition fund so he can get another 'fine museum quality painting' that your collector would supply. And it would be one that Web would also authenticate, of course.

“Assuming all goes as the limericks indicate, no one would be the wiser. Then you and Web will maintain your professional reputations. If the collector receives the money for the new purchase, more such paintings will come your way in the future. Two of the photos you see were taken by a The Daily Brush photographer of the painting now at the museum. They surely appear to be identical but as one of your limericks stated:

No matter how hard 'experts' stare,
They won't know which one has real flair.

One real work of art 

That sets it apart,

Till they place side-by-side and compare.

Kip's face turned sallow again, but his voice seemed steadier.

“It's obvious to me that you're somehow a part of this scam, Ed. Probably have been from the beginning. Not that I should care but what are you getting out of this?”

“The same as you, my friend – life. You should know that I've been receiving more limericks, just like you and I think it's time you read them.”

Ed had also placed his limericks inside the envelope the night before and now he set them before his friend. They were stacked in the order he had received them. One by one Kip read:

There are times that the smartest of guys
Thinks he's reading some gags or just lies.

He should join the game

For dollars and fame.

And do what he's told - or he dies!

We hope that your smart motivation 

Will give in to art rep's temptation, 

That you'll come around.

Our offer is sound.

Don't make this our last invitation.

Our last rhyme was not to peruse 

Nor something that you should refuse.

So don't be a fool;
You had better be cool.

You have only two choices - so choose!

How is it you haven't replied?
Is it morals or only your pride?

Don't opt for last rites
So switch on your brights,

We'll watch you as homeward you ride.

Now that you're really on board.

Our trust has been somewhat restored.

It's time to talk shop;
Don't try to play cop.

You'll miss out on wealth and reward

     Ed pointed to the last rhyme. “This is the last note I just received. I think it applies to both of us.”

We'll soon tell you how to proceed.
If you'd like your success guaranteed.

Just do what we say 

And always obey.

Our violence is greater than greed.

 “I want to believe you, Ed,” Kip said eying him warily. “I really do, but you could have written these to appear that you're a victim too. You could have written them all; might have written them all. After all, isn't Edward Lear the originator of the limerick. Your namesake wrote nonsense rhymes. These are anything but!”

Ed could see Kip's face redden with anger as he talked, so he knew he had a lot of explaining to do. 

“You might think I've been involved in this from the beginning, Kip. You might also believe that I fingered your gallery, that I suggested to Mr. Art that you could sell a beautifully done painting, one you assumed to be authentic because of it's quality and the faked provenance. Plus you know my background as an art rep and that I've even talked about being approached by not so wholesome contacts that I'd run across in the past, so I fully understand why you wouldn't believe me.”

“To be honest, I really don't,” Kip interceded, still visibly irate.

“Given all of that, it would be easy for you to assume that I'm in cahoots with Mr. Art and a Russian- based theft and forgery business. That I'm the one who slipped the limericks under your door. That the ones I've just shown you, the limericks that I received, are counterfeits to make you think I'm just an innocent bystander. If I were you, that would make some sense to me.”

“Yes, it certainly does,” Kip affirmed. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

 “Allow me to put the shoe on the other foot for a moment,” Ed continued. “Perhaps when you were approached by the Russian collector, you were let into the mansion on Hermosa Key, given a bit of a tour and shown some mouth-watering art. Superior pieces that you knew could move your gallery from one of the finest in Ringland to the top national or even international echelon of galleries. Art so exceptional that it could mean wealth and fame for you. Why wouldn't I reasonably suspect the limericks you received were bogus to make you look like the innocent bystander?”

“I suppose that I could be perceived as such but there's no truth in that,” Kip said firmly.

“Well, let's take it a step further,” Ed said. “Suppose Web isn't the victim he appears to portray? Look at the painting in question, the beautiful and acclaimed Villers work. He sure wasn't shy about telling us that he actually had it in his hands when it was part of an exhibition shown at his venue in Texas. After all, one of his areas of expertise is fraudulent art. During a lecture he presented to the museum docents for the Designed to Deceive collection, which by the way he organized, Web had Viviane demonstrate some of the techniques that forgers use.”

“And..?”

“We also learned recently that he possesses his own artistic ability. Suppose that when the real Villers painting passed through his hands, he couldn't resist the desire to copy it? He had no success selling his own paintings so wouldn't he love the satisfaction of knowing that one of his own works, the forged Young Woman on a Balcony, had been accepted as museum quality? On top of that, he would earn good money from selling it.

“Then as the new museum director, with my unwitting assistance, he discovered that his own work had been consigned to your gallery. He was likely so thrilled that he convinced the museum board to allow the purchase from the acquisition fund, which he administers. He then authenticated his own painting as the original. Possible?

“I suppose it is,” said Kip as he stared at the photos again.

“Let's take this thing another step. Web spent time in Russia at one of the world-renowned centers for art restoration. He befriended and helped Vladimir Popov, an expert in restoration and who knows what else, to come right here to Ringland. And he's planning to hire him at the museum in a few months when Carter's restorer retires. Is it possible that Vlad is part of the Russian conglomerate with fingers in all kinds of businesses? Could he have painted the Villers and suggested that Web buy it?

“I can tell that you've given this a good deal of thought,” Kip noted.

“Could it even go beyond these suppositions? Suppose Web and Vlad did more than spend a day together at The Staraya Derevnya Restoration and Storage Center. Suppose Web, Vlad, and the money- hungry organization formed a co-op. Could it be that the Villers painting is just the tip of the iceberg?

Doesn't one of the limericks slipped under your door read when unscrambled:

'Authentic' is one of your dreams
But the painting is not what it seems.

The art work is fine
But the real one is mine.

Just a sample of one of our schemes.

 “That last line suggests to me that the Villers scam is just the first cozenage, a fraudulent business scheme that was planned by well placed, knowledgeable partners in the multimillion dollar world of stolen and faked art. And Kip, it isn't a stretch is it, for a suspicious mind to think that you and your partner, Elmer, are willing participants who deal in forged and stolen art from traditional to avant- garde? Elmer's family is from Russia. He sells from his own collection and he travels extensively. The gallery is a perfect front.

“Yes, I suppose it would be,” Kip conceded.

“Or... perhaps you and I are the patsies. Think about that for a minute. You already noted that Elmer, Carter, and Viv are tight as a tick – possibly as thick as thieves too. With their combined contacts and talents, could they be more than just friends? Or the last possibility: all three of us are innocent bystanders who happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and in the wrong business with the wrong contacts?

“You're in a tough spot, Kip, no doubt about that. Your reputation and the gallery that you and Elmer have worked so hard to build could be gone overnight. It all depends on whether you present their deal and convince Web to become a part of the charade. That is, assuming he isn't already cheating the museum out of $100,000, to save his reputation, his position as director and his future. He could end up with unmeasurable disgrace and even prison if his real profession were exposed.

“Whether you believe me or not, the Russian syndicate has targeted all of us for whatever reason. You have plenty to lose, no doubt about it. But I've been in the mansion on Hermosa Key and actually met someone who could be your mysterious Mr. Art. Rest assured, he's been very clear about my deal. If you decide to blow the whistle, it isn't just my reputation and future that's on the line. We both could be toast before breakfast tomorrow morning.”

******

Chapter Seventeen

At that, Kip looked both astonished and puzzled. “You've been in the mansion on the Key, met someone who could be the Mr. Art that I met? What did you see there? The kind of art I suspect is there?”

“Actually,” Ed divulged, “I've been in the mansion twice. The first time was for a $10,000-a-plate political fundraiser, my ticket courtesy of the syndicate. That's where I met my contact, a well-paid enforcer they go to if and when things get messy. My second time in the mansion was yesterday on orders from the boss. That man might be your Mr. Art. He was as brusque with me as he was with you. And when I asked how I should address him, he said, 'Sir,' the only title I needed to know. My meeting and the fund-raising dinner were held in the large, lavishly decorated reception area, not in either of the wings.

“Hmm… I wonder,” Kip mused almost under his breath.

“There were nice original paintings there,” Ed noted. They were good mid-level art worth a few grand apiece but nothing I could identify with exceptional value or by recognized, big name painters. I don't doubt they are there but not to be seen by just anyone. Especially not guests with the money and morals that would make them willing and able to deal with the likes of our associates.”

“Your associates!” Kip spit out, his anger still crystal clear in the tone of his voice. “I want no part of this!”

“Before you do anything foolish, Kip, think this through. Those limericks under the door and the shattered window should be proof that you're closely watched, just like me. These are powerful people with global connections. Assuming you live long enough to go to the authorities and proclaim your innocence, keep in mind that if Mr. Art is approached by the police, he has your signature on the consignment form for a painting he claimed was authentic. It is a work that a recognized expert agreed was genuine and had provenance, which you passed on. It's also a painting that you sold to the Ringland Collection for which you collected a hefty commission, part of which is parked in your driveway.

Kip's angry expression turned into a look of impending dread.

“You have two more paintings here in the gallery that might or might not be true originals,” Ed noted. “Neither of us knows for sure, but your collector has your signature on another consignment form. The police would have no reason to believe they are not what your collector claims. Mr. Art's obvious wealth, along with Web's authentication, would surely indicate that they are all that he would avow.

“True, your broken window and contention it was shot out might raise an eyebrow or two. However, drive-by shootings do occur, perhaps because a not-so-upright client of a not-so-upright gallery feels that they've been scammed. The limericks you received would constitute the only tangible proof that you are the innocent party in all of this. But you would still have to convince the authorities. They might suspect you of writing the limericks yourself to bolster what could appear to be a very unlikely story.”

Kip leaned back in his chair looking more dejected than ever.

“Or let's say you call Mr. Art and tell him you've had second thoughts about doing business with him, that you want to return the two paintings here in the gallery and just leave it at…”

“You might be right about going to the police,” Kip interrupted, “and I might be angry, but I'm not stupid. Right now, I'm too frightened to think clearly. One thing I do know for sure is that you and I have been friends for years. As far as I'm aware, neither of us has lied to or cheated on the other. We really are in the same boat. I believe you, Ed. What should I... we... do?”

“I think the first thing you should do is have the window fixed. The second is to change your shirt. You're up to your armpits in trouble, and it shows. The third is to plan how you should present the deal that Web would be foolish to refuse, even though doing so would be as odious to him as it is to you. I think he will realize that we're all in the same boat, up the creek without a paddle, as they say.”

“But Ed, what if Web is involved with the Russians, one of the possibilities you pointed out a few minutes ago? He has been to Russia. He did organize the exhibition with the Villers painting. He had the original in his hands, probably for weeks. He has told us that he's fooled around with painting for a number of years but is better at copying than composing. Wouldn't it make sense for him to pretend he's going along reluctantly with the deal because he doesn't want to lose his future or put me in danger?”

“Either way,” Ed replied, “I think he'll cave quickly. We won't know why, but it doesn't really matter, as long as he comes up with the hundred grand for another painting to add to the museum's collection.”

“You really think so, Ed?”

“Yes I do but a word of caution. Web shouldn't know about the limericks I received or that I am a party to this. He should assume that the deal came directly from your collector. Once you have Web's agreement, call the personal number that Mr. Art gave you and tell him the director must have the painting to show to the board. Tell him he should also get any provenance on the work, which must be convincing for Web to pass it off as genuine.”

“Okay, then what?”

“I suspect that you'll receive another visit from the windowless van and the delivery boy who is probably my watchman. When the painting is in your hands, call me at this number; it's a special cell phone that the syndicate knows nothing about. My regular phones might be bugged. Get hold of Web as soon as you are composed enough not to fall apart. Our friend is not a patient man.”

Two long days passed before Ed's secure phone, the one sent by Pappy Yokum, rang. When he answered it, Kip was on the other end.

“I've got it, but it's not what I expected,” he said, “not pre-1900 like Young Woman on a Balcony. It's an avant-garde piece by German expressionist Heinrich Campendonk. It's very appropriate for the museum's growing Modernist Collection, but I'm not the expert in that area. But I have checked auction records and found out quite a lot about him on the Internet. It's the kind of work that my partner, Elmer, deals with every day. ”

“Well, that could be beneficial,” Ed said. “Will Elmer be around anytime soon?”

“No, I don't think so, but the provenance looks good to my eyes. It says the artist was a member of the Der Blaue Reiter group from 1910 to 1911 and the painting, which is a gouache, came from a private collection hidden away when the Nazis rose to power. Campendonk was one of the modernists condemned as degenerate. He fled to the Netherlands and died there as a naturalized Dutch citizen. 

“He has a long auction record, and if this is the real thing, the museum is getting a bargain at $100,000. But he has been copied. Wolfgang Beltracchi, a skilled forger, is thought to have earned at least 16 million euros along with his accomplices before he was caught. One of his forgeries, Red Picture with Horses, was so well done that it sold at auction for almost three million euros.

“Very interesting,” Ed said.

“I expect that the Ringland museum would be delighted to get it and Web will be able to add this to his laurels as a top museum director for acquiring the painting at such a small price.”

“You've obviously done some homework, Kip,” Ed responded. “In its own way, the syndicate might be looking out for you. The fact that you're not an expert in the period takes suspicion off of you, but Web should have no trouble authenticating it. Who knows, it might even be real, stolen, not forged.

Stolen art often comes from cheap crooks who are happy to get 10 percent of what a painting is actually worth, even if they have an idea of it's real value. I've no doubt the Russians know a lot of cheap crooks!”

“I'm sure they do,” Kip responded.

“But be aware that you and Web probably haven't heard the last from the syndicate. Now that you and he have taken the deal, they'll be pushing more so-called bargains your way. I'm also sure that they won't be shy in pointing out to me that I'll have great merchandise to sell at inflated prices, not the bargain you currently have in hand.”

Candace was beside Ed as he took the call and she overheard the exchange. “We'll soon know if it's a forgery or the real thing,” she said. “This acquisition for the museum will be another big story for The Daily Brush, and I'll be assigned to write it. You can be sure that I'll have good photos of the painting taken to illustrate the story. There are probably plenty of pictures of Campendonk on the web showing many of the works he painted.”

She pushed a few buttons on her Blackberry for a minute and then held it up for Ed to see. She flipped the screen from one brilliantly colored paintings after another, along with pictures of the artist, even self-portraits he had painted.

“Our resident experts,” she said pointing to Zen and Zoe, “are already looking forward to some extra Perfect Pussy Treats and the game they enjoy. Didn't you say the first time you played the game with them, Zoe clawed the phony painting to pieces and Zen peed on the artist?”

“Oh yes!” Ed said and burst out laughing, “If only the syndicate knew who authenticates the artwork we examine, they'd be the ones peeing!”

As expected, the new museum acquisition made a gorgeous Feature page item with full-color photos of the new Campendonk the museum owned. Web offered a glowing description of how the colorful abstract was a gem that any major museum would love to own and how he had exhaustively researched the artist. He and Viviane, the Ringland's chief conservator, had both authenticated it as a lost masterpiece, almost unknown because of the decades it had been hidden away to keep it out of Nazi hands.

Viv was quoted as stating how happy she was that one of the high points of her career came just before she was about to retire. Candace had even obtained a quote from Carter, who had just retired but was still highly involved in the art community and especially the museum.

“I'd have given my eye teeth to have added this to our Contemporary Collection and at such a bargain price,” he said. It's a fraction of the painting's real worth. Perhaps under our new director, this will be just the first of many.”

What had looked for all the world as if it might be a scandal, now gave bragging rites to Web and the ecstatic members of the museum board. Not just that they had become owners of the top quality Villers painting but now there was a unique addition to the Contemporary Collection that Web and the board promised would soon grow in importance.

And they backed up their word, contacting wealthy museum benefactors for contributions to the acquisition fund to allow for the purchase of more modern and traditional works of art. Under Web's inspiring leadership, The Ringland Collection of Art and Antiquities was on its way to greater prominence than at any time in its history!

******

Chapter Eighteen

The Campendonk painting caused quite a stir among the art cognoscenti throughout the state. Dollars flowed into the museum coffers from wealthy patrons not just from the Ringland area but also from across Florida. Donors wanted to have their names associated with the acquisition of a significant painting selected by a rising star among museum directors, none other than Webster Lowe.

He was quickly becoming a lion in the art world, although not in the way he had dreamed. Some well-regarded galleries in Miami and Key West found out that he was a painter and asked if they might show his work. Knowing of Ed's experience as an art rep, Web contacted him. He asked if Ed would negotiate for him while trying to keep his persona as a painter separate from his growing reputation in the hierarchy of museum leadership. But the luster from one did rub off on the other. While Web squeezed out time from his museum responsibilities and completed other paintings, Ed found it easy to double and double again what Web had been so pleased to receive for his surprise at the Cooperative Gallery in Ringland.

Beyond that, Ed began to hear from previous clients and galleries he had sold works to in the past. However, he also heard from some of the not so wholesome contacts he had shunned. They assumed that because he represented Web as a painter, he might also have acquired knowledge of bargains that the Ringland Collection had refused.

Thanks to their new Russian associates, it turned into a heady time for Web, Kip, and Ed, albeit for different reasons. Kip's gallery became the funnel through which works of art were presented to the museum, not just from the Russians but also from other legitimate consignors. When a sale was made, the commission was sometimes quite substantial and increased the gallery's bottom line as well.

Kip, of course, knew about Ed's connection to Hermosa Key and Mr. Art but did Web? Did Kip's partner, Elmer, know anything? Kip had kept his limericks to himself. The gunshots through the window became a brick probably tossed by one of the ladies or gentlemen of the night. Someone who was miffed enough about the gallery owner's insistence on ever more frequent patrol car ride-byes that he or she wanted to put a scare into him. Whoever it had been, more frequent arrests for the more flagrant solicitations, as well as embarrassing collars of some of the Johns might have prompted someone to take action. One of those Johns turned out to be, what else? A well-known political figure from a prominent local family.

Ed made sales for some of what Sir provided as genuine originals acquired from sources he was not allowed to know about. And as promised, the commissions were greater than any Ed had collected in his previous stint on the road. They always arrived in cash, usually slipped to him by Archie in some unexpected way at unexpected times and in unexpected places. His calls to show up at the mansion on Hermosa Key became more frequent, and as sales increased, Sir became less curt during their conversations. That was until Ed made one particularly nice sale and became bold enough to confront the man whom he was absolutely sure was Kip's, Mr. Art.

“The stuff I'm selling looks great, and the backup documentation appears to be first-rate,” he said, “but I'm ready to make some real dollars. I've got some hungry art lovers who know how to keep their wallets open and their mouths shut. They want the big names, and you've got 'em, I'm sure. I think I've earned the trust that you referred to in one of your rhymes,” he added.

“It's time, Sir, to let me out of short pants and into a pair that really fits, one with deep pockets. I know my buyers; you don't. You know your inventory; I don't. If I could see the real goods, I would be able to put together something that would make us both very happy.”

“Follow me, Mr. Lear,” Sir replied. “Perhaps it is appropriate for you to become familiar with more of our inventory, as you call it. You will, I'm sure, recognize some of the works we have but how or where we acquired them is none of your concern. You have the ability to find suitable buyers but whether you can keep your mouth shut, which is also required by your contacts with open wallets, is one of our primary concerns. You must also act with the utmost discretion, something that is perhaps even more important, if you understand my meaning… and I'm sure you must.”

He then took a key off a gold chain he wore around his neck; the key hidden by his shirt. After pulling aside a richly embroidered curtain on the north side of the room, he unlocked a door and motioned Ed through it. The man followed him, then closed and locked the door behind them. Ed knew immediately that he had entered one of the wings adjacent to the center section of the mansion.

There before him were the inside ends of the indoor-outdoor swimming pool and putting green he had seen from the beach side of the building during his stroll with Archie many weeks before. The area behind the pool and putting green was lavishly appointed. There were handsome painting on the walls, some of which he recognized because of the artists' styles. They were high-end originals of the decorative art that had been his stock-in-trade for the interior design firms, which Ed used to call upon regularly.

These were paintings that in commercial galleries might have been priced in the $15,000 to $45,000 range but nothing he was sure, above that. He had already made sales for greater dollars from what he had been given to sell. Some closing in on the $100,000 plus bargain range that the Ringland had paid for Young Woman on a Balcony or the small Heinrich Campendonk gouache. But nothing yet that qualified for seven figures and above.

Sir walked to a large completely stocked bar and touched something near the end of it. The entire section of the wall lined with hundreds of liquor bottles pivoted at the center and opened to reveal a large room lined with magnificent painting and sculptures.

Ed's eyes were immediately drawn to a lovely, soft Impressionist painting. He knew immediately that it was by Camille Corot one of his favorrite artists.

“I know exactly where I can find a home for that one,” he said pointing toward it. “I'm not surprised to see one here. You're probably aware of the strong market for Corot's works. Due to his relatively easy-to-imitate painting style, there was a huge production of Corot forgeries between 1870 and 1939. You're probably also familiar with Rene Huyghe's quip that 'Corot painted 3,000 canvases, 10,000 of which have been sold in America.'”

“I'm well aware of that, Mr. Lear,” his companion responded with icy coldness in his voice, “and I don't like your cheeky innuendo. Your job is not to speculate about the merchandise, as you call it. Your job is to sell what we are generous enough to provide and earn far more than you have ever been able to make at any time in the past!”

“Touché, Sir. I'll keep my quips and those of Rene Huyghe to myself.”

Ed's real surprise came when he glimpsed through a half open door and spotted what appeared to be the entrance to a tastefully decorated apartment. There was a large sectional sofa, and on it, he saw the reclining figure of a bald man, obviously asleep. He had only a moment before his host quickly closed the door.

Ed was left with the distinct impression that this was someone he knew but could not recall when or from where. Then it hit him. The man stretched out on the sectional was as tall as the sofa was long.

The man had to be the bodyguard Kip had dubbed Goliath!

Sir caught Ed's questioning glance as he turned to shut the door. “Not your business to know who or why! Understood, Mr. Lear?”

“I have no idea what you're referring to,” he replied. “Didn't see a thing.” Then he quickly added, “Must have had something in my eye.”

 “You've seen quite enough for one day, Lear.” Even the courtesy of Mr. was missing as Sir spewed out those words.

“You bet I have,” Ed thought but kept a stern face so as not to portray any of the suspicions that were beginning to swirl through his mind. Although he was not directed to, Ed walked hastily back through the opening beside the bar, eyes straight ahead. When the wall was closing, Ed waited for the man to retrieve the gold key.

Then they walked toward the main entrance door in the center reception area. “I'll let you know when my buyer wants to see the Corot, Sir,” Ed said evenly.

Without looking behind him, he stepped through the front door and headed toward his parked car. He could almost feel Sir's angry gaze cutting into his back sharper than a knife filleting a fish out of water.

******

Chapter Nineteen

The local media hungered for more and more coverage on the Hermosa murder. In fact, it was beginning to become rather monotonous. However, the influx of dollars to Ringland's acquisition fund allowed Web to purchase two more preeminent paintings for the growing Contemporary Collection.

Ed knew where they came from and why but he was not sure if they were forged or stolen. He also didn't know if Web would be able to pull off unquestionable authentications? He had the implicit support of the museum board, which was more than happy with the increased traffic through it's doors, as well as the added income from ticket sales and increased memberships. Web had even been able to raise admission prices to the museum, which was another plus.

Viviane, the retiring chief conservator, and Vladimir, the incoming head of the department, were quoted in a series of articles published in The Daily Brush. They both noted their wholehearted approval confirming Web's expert opinion.

Candace was deep into writing the series, even though she knew all of what Ed learned and suspected. Her Feature editor had encouraged her and readily approved the stories she wrote. It was big news. Four major purchases within just months of one another. But she knew at some point, the lid was bound to blow off what was happening. When, not if that happened, she would be able to utilize her outside and inside knowledge of the situation. That could move her into investigative reporting, hard news that would be front page items rather than an article in the Feature section.

Web's aura was luminous. He was planning a major event that would further burnish his reputation and more importantly, that of the museum. His intent was to throw a lavish fund-raising party to debut the new acquisitions and announce a new wing in the works for the Contemporary Collection. The gala would also serve as a farewell to Viv and a welcome to Vlad. As well, it would be an opportunity to introduce the board members and major museum supporters. On top of that, the party would give him a chance to thank the supporters, the arts community including the heads of various galleries, potential contributors and known art collectors from all across the state.

There was only one venue in the area that would be grand enough for such an event, the mansion on Hermosa Key. If it was good enough for the leading political candidate, who was eager to become Potus, it was good enough for Web, who was eager to become the next president of the Association ofAssociation of Art Museum Directors. 

That prestigious group known in art circles as the AAMD was organized in 1916. The association's goal was to increase the contribution of art museums to society and to formulate guidelines of professional standards from accession and dissolution, to ethics and censorship.

Ed tried on his tuxedo, which had been hanging in the closet since he attended the political fundraiser. While he prepared for Web's shindig the following night at the Hermosa Key mansion, he wondered if the rental fee to the museum had been discounted due to Web's undiscovered connection with the owners. As he scanned his profile in a full-length mirror, he was pleased to note that the cummerbund was not as tight as it had been before.

“Could it be due to the stress I've felt with Sir and his demands? Or does the stress stem from selling art to some galleries, consultants and collectors that I shied away from during my previous incarnation as an art rep?”

Either way, it didn't stop him from calling Candace's attention to his svelte profile. She was trying on a new gorgeous off-the -shoulder, gold lame gown. When she turned to face Ed, he realized just how breathtaking she looked. The gold lame did wonders for her luscious figure and the generous slit far up the side of the skirt accented one of her most appealing features, actually two of them!

“How do you think this will go over at the next church pot luck?,” she asked with a beguiling wink. 

“I think that dress would stimulate some of the saints to skip dessert!” he replied with a grin.

The next evening, Ed and Candace drove through the gates of the mansion grounds and were directed to a parking spot among the many luxury cars. He did not see the museum parking attendants that he knew and expected. Instead they were the same uniformed men he remembered from his last party there.

When they entered the mansion, Ed was surprised to see that the large room had been completely rearranged and entirely redecorated. All of the many paintings that had graced the walls at the political bash had been removed and were replaced by a selection of works from the museum's Contemporary Collection.

The new acquisitions including the first purchase, Young Woman on a Balcony, were front and center along with handsome architectural drawings of the proposed new wing. The Villers painting provided a striking counterpoint to the colorful avant-garde additions but it held up well and even overshadowed many of the newer works to his practiced eye.

“Too bad Zen and Zoe had to miss this,” Ed whispered to Candace. “They'd know the real from the rotten faster than you can say Perfect Pussy Treats.”

There was a reception line at this lavish affair, just as at the last event but instead of unobtrusive FBI types, there were hired uniformed guards, as well as half a dozen of Ringland's finest provided by Chief Braxton. Web stood at the head of the line, greeting each guest. Viviane was next to him with Vlad to her right, then members of the museum board. Last but not least, the architect for the new wing stood on the end. Ed was sure he would make a presentation, show stunning drawings and explain how guests could become permanently recognized by making a contribution toward the cost of the wing.

Ed scanned the crowd but to his surprise, Sir was nowhere in sight.

However, he did spot Archie dressed as a waiter behind the bar. He was quite puzzled by Sir's absence and leaned in toward Candace's ear.

“I was sure Mr. Art would be here,” he whispered. “I wonder why not? I had so hoped you would have a chance to meet him.”

Among the guests, Ed recognized quite a few people who had attended the political fundraiser. He spotted the now nattily dressed visitor to Gallery Row who usually arrived wearing a rumpled T-shirt and shorts. Occasionally, he made a quiet purchase of something that caught his fancy. He was talking with Viviane and it seemed obvious that they knew one another well.

Ed and Candace decided to join the conversation, which was about the new paintings the museum had on display. Ed introduced Candace and then awkwardly asked for a reminder of the man's name. “Sol Grosskoph,” he responded while his eyes focused on Candace. “Where did you get this work of art?” he asked lifting her hand and kissing it.

“When the art is priceless, a smart collector never tells,” Ed quipped.

They chatted amiably until Web, who had finished his duties in the receiving line, joined them. Web and Candace greeted each another, while Sol turned toward Ed and placed his hand on his elbow.

“I hope you don't mind if I borrow your canny art expert for a moment,” Sol said with a smile.

With that he guided Ed to a quiet corner.

“I liked what you said about smart collectors,” Sol noted. “I understand from some friends in the business that you've acquired a bit of a reputation with some serious buyers as a reliable source with good contacts and the ability to find some priceless items that others can't. You certainly seem to have a good eye,” he said with a wink, looking in Candace's direction.

“As far as my reputation goes,” Ed replied, “all that glitters isn't gold but I do the best I can. I've seen you select a few paintings on Gallery Row.”

“Those are just to help the local economy. I mostly give 'em away. Did keep one I bought recently, Web Lowe's painting from the Co-op Gallery. I think he's got some talent, don't you?”

“I surely do, friendship aside.”

“That's another reason we ought to get to know one another better. I took a $10,000 shot at inside information a few weeks back. Saw you there, but I don't think either of us would see anything but glitter out of it. The dinner was good though, wasn't it? But having an inside with a guy like Web could be worth some real gold, if you catch my drift.”

“What sort of art don't you give away?” Ed asked slipping his arm under Sol's and walking him casually away from the rest of the crowd.

“I don't talk much to anyone about my keepers,” he responded.

“The real beauties seldom go to show offs. A real collector's satisfaction comes from, 'for my eyes only.' A private pleasure, like your lady over there. When others won't see it, you might get to see what others never will.”

“Serious money?” Ed asked quietly raising an eyebrow.

“See this place?” Sol said answering a question with a question. He swept a hand around the room. “Could have bought it but didn't. Not a show off. Good things come in smaller packages.”

“We'll be in touch, Sol,” Ed concluded. “Let's freshen up our drinks and get back to the others. I think our architect friend might have his eye on you.”

Web stood tall on a low podium in front of rows of neatly arranged chairs that sat unobtrusively on one side of the spacious room. The guests, who had been circulating, talking and admiring the works of art from the Contemporary Collection lining the walls, then grew quiet. Behind Web, Viviane, the architect, Steve Chen, and Vladimir were seated with members of the museum board at a head table. As guests found seats a hush fell, lights dimmed and the platform became illuminated.

Web kept the introductions short and turned the microphone over to the chairman of the museum board. He first introduced Viviane and Carter, and then presented Viv with a huge bouquet of roses, as well as an envelope he said contained a small token of appreciation for her years of unwavering service. He then introduced Vlad who stood and acknowledged the applause following a glowing account of his impressive credentials. It appeared that he was about to step from behind the table and speak but Web quickly took the microphone.

The lights again dimmed and an impressively large digital display above the head table flashed a far larger version of the architect's rendering of the proposed new wing. The guests were riveted as he introduced Steve. The architect presented an enthralling narrative on what he described as an exhibition space that would be unequaled in any other museum in the country.

When he had finished, Web again took the mike. The room lights came up and the guests saw on the other side of the huge space, a beautifully arranged dining room with a line of servers poised against the wall.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I think you will deem the refreshments real works of art as well.

You'll also find a presentation folder with complete details on our plans for the new wing, and information on the proposed additions to the Contemporary Collection. As well, you will see suggestions on how you can become genuine patrons of the arts in bringing it into reality.”

The dinner was all it had promised and more. The guests followed it up with coffee and after dinner drinks. They could also be seen carefully examining the folders and some lively discussions ensued among a number of potential patrons. Some of them filled out the pledge cards and asked waiters, who were circulating among the tables, to take them to Web and the architect.

After a short while, Web again picked up the microphone.

“We are so gratified by your generosity,” he stated. “I am thrilled to announce that we have an anonymous challenge, which will match dollar-for-dollar any pledges turned in tonight up to a $500,000 total.”

This was followed by enthusiastic applause. Sol turned toward Ed and winked. It was obviously an I told you so. And Ed understood completely.

******

Chapter Twenty

Ed carefully wrapped a stack of $100 bills in plain brown paper and addressed it to Pappy Yokum, Box 877, Philadelphia, PA, 19102. At the counter in the post office, he dropped it on the clerk's scale.

“Priority mail please,” he said.

“Does your package contain anything liquid, perishable, fragile or potentially hazardous?” the clerk asked, likely for the hundredth time that day. Then glancing at the address he smiled and asked, “How's Daisy Mae these days?”

“Considering she's about 80 now, she's looking a little like Mammy,” Ed smiled in return.

“Too bad, she was one good looking broad,” the clerk grinned. “Abner can't be very happy about that!”

“Abner hasn't been able to remember who she was or what she looked like for about a decade,” Ed replied.“The years do take their toll.”

“Tell me about it,” he grimaced. “When I look at mine, I wish I couldn't remember what she looked like 10 years ago.”

“Sorry about that. Didn't mean to spoil your day.” 

“That's okay. It was spoiled before you came in.”

Ed paid the postage out of a twenty and as he took the change he encouraged, “Hope the day get's better.”

“Not likely. Say 'Hi' to Mammy for me.”

Ed had been making a number of trips to the post office with similar packages addressed to that character. As his sales for Sir increased, so had the cash in the plain envelopes that Archie passed along to him from time to time. It was not money he ever considered keeping. It would have come in handy because as he traveled more frequently, his expenses increased. It was out of necessity that he was forced to tap into his savings to keep up appearances for his Russian associates, whom he was sure were watching closely.

“If I get any more successful, I'm liable to go broke,” he remarked to Candace during a weekend at home. “The money doesn't worry me; it's being away from you that takes it's toll.”

Candace made sure she always had special treats for him when he returned from being a road warrior again. And she also made it up in ways money could never buy, much to Ed's delight.

The days between Ed's trips away were frequently punctuated by what Ed referred to as R and E sex.

Recreational and Experimental - which might take place at any time or anywhere. Anywhere meant inside or outside the house or condo. Anytime meant whenever the spirit moved them. There were times that gave an added edge to the excitement as they had to muffle cries of delight that might have given away what was happening.

There was a spiritual side to their balanced relationship, as well. They felt especially close, and the Song of Songs had become their favorite book of the Bible. Anyone who has read and understands it knows it is both lofty and loving, sensuous and sexual in ways only a committed couple can enjoy one another. The special poetry of that Scripture became another acronym: SSS for Song of Songs Sex.

Reading the poetry once again and what followed had left them spent and comfortable still embracing. Candace raised herself on one elbow, kissed Ed on his cheek and quipped, “Did that leave you feeling Holy?” 

“Not wholly, Holy, if you catch my spelling,” he retorted, “but I'm willing to try for it again whenever you're ready.” It didn't take long.

His prospects for a huge payday had increased exponentially since his conversation with Sol Grosskoph. It was obvious to him that the man did not seek the same merchandise he had been placing with the contacts he had avoided previously and the contacts of those contacts he was meeting. The deeper he dropped into their world, the more surprised he became at the huge, hungry underbelly of the art market he had only guessed at when he was legit.

Ed never knew if what Sir came up with was a competently painted forgery or a stolen original. They could have been either. The back-up material he gave to his buyers was convincing for them. It would not likely be scrutinized more carefully given their level of expertise or the odds they'd risk in blowing their own less than polished pasts by calling it into question. But Zen and Zoe knew.

Ed had several conversations with Pappy Yokum and kept him appraised of his growing involvement with the illicit art sales. He also sent Greg, his FBI contact, copies of articles about Web's growing reputation, the museum's acquisitions and plans for the new wing.

Unknown to Sir or Archie, he kept meticulous records of what he sold to whom and what they were purported to be. He also photographed everything before completing the sale. Those records and photos went into a safety deposit box for which only he had a key. He absolutely would not give a duplicate to Candace, because he knew that if she were somehow forced to open it for his associates, her life and his would not be worth a tiny fraction of what the Russians believed he was stashing away from his commissions.

Candace knew Ed also consulted Kip's extensive auction records and those available on line, as well as his resident art experts, Zen and Zoe. Because the paintings or drawings he offered were by well known artists, or at least purported to be, pictures of the artists and their works were often available on the Internet. Ed could print them out and place them alongside the photos of the piece of art he was selling and play the cats' favorite game with them.

On a number of occasions the cats made it clear that they accepted some as genuine and others not. Based on the pussies' remarkable track record when the game was just a game and not deadly serious, Ed assumed that the works they indicated were the real thing had been stolen and those they did not were forgeries. That confirmed his opinion that Sir and the organization were deep into both. But of course, his credibility with Pappy Yokum would have been diminished to the vanishing point had he indicated in any way that Zen and Zoe were sure about any of them.

However he did add, “In my opinion, this painting is...” to his copies. He felt confident that when he was able, with help from the FBI's Art Crime office, to somehow bring the sordid business and those responsible to justice, he and Candace would have the satisfaction of knowing that the cats' intuition was truly as remarkable as they already believed.

Greg was aware that he was keeping careful records but Ed had made it clear that mailing them was not an option. It would be far too dangerous because he knew he was being watched. He could be intercepted on a trip to the post office and anything he was about to mail might be taken from him. If examined it would likely result in deadly consequences.

The packets of hundreds were another thing. Ed never addressed them until immediately before he handed them to the clerk. If he were intercepted and his mail was examined against his will, probably by Archie, he could look him straight in the eye and say, “I earned it and it's not your business who I'm sending it to or why. So tell the boss to butt out!”

Given Archie's distaste for the SOB, who sent him out to the beach to clean up after the dogs, it was unlikely that he would make an issue out of it. After all, what Archie did with his own money was never questioned.

Ed felt he knew pretty well what type of art Sol sought. Given his obvious wealth, he probably did not desire anything that would be stashed away for a while to make a killing on it later. There are some collectors, who are not motivated by greed: Arab sheiks, oil rich billionaires, Russian oligarchs, shipping magnates, arms dealers to name a few. They simply wish to privately enjoy a real treasure.

What turns this elite group on is knowing that no one else is aware of what they keep to themselves.

A stolen masterpiece from an infamous, unsolved heist could remain buried for years. Such was the case with the theft from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum and art looted by the Nazis during World War II. These were never recovered and in some cases, would not be seen until the thieves no longer had the patience or inclination to keep them. Even so, something too hot and too well known to sell on the open market could still be lucrative. The buyers know such a work can't go to auction and sell for multiple millions of dollars, so they make a deal for a fraction of what a painting is really worth. And the seller must be assured that it will be for the buyer's eyes only. Even at the discounted price, Ed knew his sales could be in the seven figures range, or perhaps more.

He felt emboldened by the prospect of placing a famous but stolen painting that had languished in the hands of the Russians so long that they would welcome a sale. And at the price Sol would offer, he contacted Sir to asked for an unscheduled meeting.

Ed arrived at the mansion on Hermosa Key at the time Sir had specified and parked his car. After mounting the steps and walking inside, he was confronted by his glowering host. To his surprise Archie was there too.

“Be quick about it Lear and state why you asked to see me.”

“I think you have a painting that a collector of mine might be willing to take off your hands because you haven't been able to place it for reasons both of us understand. I'm confident that it could go at a price that would be attractive to my buyer and acceptable to you, given it's problematic history.”

“The dogs were out last night,” Sir scowled at Archie. “You know what to do. When you've finished wait outside.”

As soon as Archie exited the room, Sir turned to Ed and indicated two comfortable chair close at hand. What do you have in mind Lear?” he asked in a less abrasive tone.

“I think it's time we addressed one another in a businesslike manner,” Ed suggested, “since that's what we're engaged in. Would you prefer Mr. Eeskoostvo? I think I can handle that, or Mr. Art?”

The man's lip curled as he spoke. However, the tone was almost but not quite conversational.

“Mr. Art will suffice, Mr. Lear. Suppose we cut to the chase. Tell me about your collector. I assume we are not talking on the level you have been able to bring to the table thus far?”

“Probably seven figures,” Ed noted, “assuming it satisfies his desire to own an acknowledged masterpiece, one that he alone can enjoy because no one else would be given that unique pleasure.”

“We have a number but their values on the present market should be 10 times that.” “Assuming,” Ed interrupted, “that there was a present market. This person is not a speculator nor will he be curious about how or when it came into your hands. He's well aware there were at least 100,000 works plundered during World War II that were never repatriated to the rightful owners. And he's aware of the instances in which valuable art has gone missing in the years since then. Something the Third Reich considered decadent, perhaps from the Rothschild, Rosenberg, Wildenstein or Schloss families would do nicely.”

“I'm sure you understand the consequences, if you are unable to complete a satisfactory transaction.” “I am indeed.” Ed replied evenly, “Now let's cut to the chase again. Show me something my collector might be interested in purchasing.”

Mr. Art rose from his chair and motioned for Ed to follow him. He walked toward an embroidered curtain and fished a key out from inside his shirt.

******

Chapter Twenty-One

A month before, Ed confronted the man he now addressed as Mr. Art and made his largest sale since becoming an unwilling rep from what he began to refer to jokingly as, “my gallery on Hermosa Key.” Candace thought it amusing but Kip, whose gallery became the conduit for purchases made by Web for the Ringland Collection was not smiling when Ed made that reference to the art source that they both had become beholden.

Ed was able to place the Camille Corot he spotted when first given entry to the gallery behind the bar at Hermosa Key. After being presented with a provenance by Mr. Art, his dealer contact came across with a payment of part cash and part diamonds in the mid six figures. The delightful landscape painting was convincing in appearance, all the documentation was in order and the chain of possession appeared thorough. Unless his buyer took the trouble and the chance to contact the dealers, previous owners or museum archives that were cited, the material appeared to be rock solid. Ed had never been challenged.

He had the painting in his possession for several days before making arrangements for delivery to the buyer at an Interstate rest stop that the dealer had designated. That gave him time to enjoy the work as it hung on his office wall, to photograph it and for Candace, Zen and Zoe to examine it closely. He had downloaded photos of other Corot paintings from museum Internet sites, as well as an early photograph of a quite handsome Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot.

When Ed laid out the prints of the paintings and the portrait of the artist on the floor, Candace poked him in the ribs.

“If I hadn't found you, he'd be a close second,” she joked referring to the artist.

Ed also placed the painting on the floor at the cats' height. They understood immediately that they were playing their favorite game and from their audible purring, Ed felt sure that they already imagined savoring those Perfect Pussy Treats.

Zoe immediately sauntered toward one of the printouts of a museum owned Corot. She sat for a moment and jumped to the next and then repeated the jump to the third. Zen strolled confidently to the portrait of the artist and sat watching as Zoe jumped from one painting printout to another.

At that point, Ed picked up Zoe and placed her squarely in front of the painting that he was about to sell.

“All right Zoe, what about this one?” he asked.

The little cat bristled and backed away, meowing loudly. He looked over at Zen and found he had walked away from the artist's photo.

“I guess that tells us this one's a phony,” Ed deduced looking up at Candace. “It might be a recent forgery or one of the 10,000 Corot's sold in the states between 1870 and the early 1900's. I've no idea.” “Perhaps we ought to teach Zen and Zoe to read a calendar!” Candace said giggling. Ed could not help laughing aloud.

“If we do, I'm sure they'll demand double Perfect Pussy Treats and the Lord only knows where that might end.”

When Ed met Mr. Art he informed the boss that the Corot would be paid in part with gems. Mr. Art then insisted that Archie accompany Ed when he made the sale.

“I think that might make my buyer nervous,” Ed suggested.

“Lear, your buyer makes me nervous. You call him and make it clear that he is to come alone when he meets you at the rest stop on the Interstate. You are also to tell him that he'll recognize you because your chauffeur will be driving a Rolls. For the likes of a cheap crook, that should calm his nerves.

Carry the painting in the trunk.

Archie will park well away from any other vehicles that might be in the lot. You are to make it clear that if we find the gems anything but what we expect, he can anticipate another visit at a time and place of our choosing. If necessary, Archie will reinforce that in such a manner that he's certain to understand.”

“I'm pleased Archie will be with me,” Ed replied. “Never did like driving that part of the Interstate alone, Sir.”

On the day specified, Archie drove to the designated rest stop, pulled in under the shade of some oak trees at the very edge and turned off the engine.

“We gotta a little breeze and with the shade, we might as well enjoy some Florida weather,” he said rolling the windows down.

Archie had chatted with Ed on the drive across state over Alligator Alley. Mostly small talk, how he liked to drive the Rolls and so on.

“I'm gonna get me one of these,” he said. “The Mercedes they give me every year is okay but a classy car like this would help when I'm pickin' up a little entertainment on Sabal Avenue. I like the big back seat, if you know what I mean.”

“From what I understand,” Ed replied, “what you could be looking for might not be what you expect.”

“Six of one, half dozen of the other. Some folks like chocolate, some like vanilla. I like 'em both. Sometimes I go for a double dip. But there's nothin' there like what you got.”

Within a few minutes, a shabby SUV pulled in beside the Rolls and Ed's dealer stepped out. They shook hands as the buyer, really a middleman in the transaction, stared at the Rolls and at Archie in his chauffeur's uniform.

Ed noted the surprised look and smiled.

“My other car is a '92 Toyota,” he said nodding toward the Rolls.

“I got what you want; it's here in this briefcase. Lemme see the painting.”

With that Archie moved to the back of the car and opened the trunk. The painting was neatly covered in bubble wrap.

“Let's take a look at your briefcase first,” Ed insisted holding up his hand.

He opened it under the cover of the raised trunk and as he had specified, counted 10 packets of $100 bills, along with a small black velvet drawstring bag. He opened it and carefully spilled out a palm full of sparkling gems.

“These better be what you say they are,” Ed warned. “We wouldn't be happy if we had to make an unannounced visit, now would we?”

Archie had taken the bubble wrap from the painting and as he lifted it to re-wrap it, he accidentally, or maybe not, pulled aside a cloth that covered a deadly looking Bushmaster assault rifle. He just as quickly covered it again.

“You understand what I mean, don't you?” Ed said staring hard and directly into his dealer's eyes. “Understood! Understood! The stuff is good. Not to worry,” the man insisted and backed away to put the painting into his SUV.

On the way back to town, Archie chatted away to Ed who had moved beside him in the front seat.

The proximity between the two seemed to encourage Archie to become more talkative. “That guy probably crapped his pants when he saw the Bushmaster. Whatta you think?” 

“Very likely,” Ed replied. “As you say, you're the go to guy when things get messy.”

Archie chuckled at that remark and then with real anger in his voice he said, “That little SOB and his, 'The dogs' been out. You know what to do.' He'll get his!”

Ed could clearly see Archie's face turn crimson even under the evening's dim light.

“I told him I oughta have a Rolls like this one for all I do for him and he just laughed at me. Told me it'd be a cold day in Florida before that would happen and to fetch the pooper scooper. He'll get his, the little SOB.”

Two weeks later, Archie handed Ed the fattest envelope he had yet received. He had appeared unexpectedly as Ed and Candace were leaving the Sunday evening service at church. They had attended a pot-luck dinner to hear a young missionary couple to India describe the challenges in reaching Hindu believers.

At home with Candace at his side, and Zen and Zoe each snuggled on a lap, Ed opened the envelope and counted out the cash. Then he counted it again.

“That's funny,” he said turning to face Candace, “it's always been an exact twenty percent of the sale, just what I've been sending on to Pappy. This is five grand short. Wonder why?”

“Was the envelope sealed when you got it, just like the others?” she asked.

“No, come to think of it. This one just had the flap tucked in when Archie slipped it to me.” “Uh oh,” Candace noted, “I think you just got yourself a partner.”

“Whoever said, 'No honor among thieves' must have been in my business. Archie and I will need to have a little talk, I guess.

“But, sweet one, let's not let light fingered Archie spoil a Sunday night at home. There are better things to do than count money. It's been a good night so far and I have the feeling we can make it even better.”

Candace asked, “Did you enjoy the dinner?” 

“I did,” he answered. “The food is always good and being with our friends makes it even better. I thought the information about life and working in the Punjab was fascinating. Takes a special kind of love to do what they are doing! I could tell by the way they treated each other they have the kind of special relationship we have, too.”

Candace looked at Ed with the twinkle in her eyes that made him suspect she was about to surprise him. “Maybe we should try that.”

Ed was almost dumbfounded at the suggestion. “Become missionaries?” 

“No silly, try the Missionary Position,” she giggled. 

Ed cracked up. He could hardly suppress a laugh as he tried to keep a straight face. “We're only part way through the Kama Sutra. Let's not rush things.” 

It was Candace's turn to laugh, as they unbuttoned one another's blouses.

The opportunity for the talk with Archie did not arise right away. Ed had told Mr. Art that he anticipated a seven figure sale to Sol so he decided to speak with Greg, his FBI contact, on the secure cell phone.

“What do you know about Grosskoph?” Ed asked.

“He's been on our radar for a while now. After his great-grandaddy immigrated to this country from Germany around the early 1800's, he became a junk man with a horse and wagon. He prospered pretty well and the family built the old man's scrap business into what it is today, a multinational conglomerate worth billions that is still family owned. When something really big like a decommissioned battleship or scrap from an outdated skyscraper gets it's underpinnings blown out from under it, one of Sol Grosskoph's companies gets the call whether it's here, across the pond or on the other side of the world.

“Very interesting,” Ed interjected.

“Nobody really knows how much he's worth. He buys anything he wants and no one's the wiser. We know he buys some art. Private purchases. Nobody knows what he pays and nobody ever sees the art again. It seems to go into a great black hole. He's made some multimillion dollar buys at Christies and Sotheby's through straw men just like he buys real estate. Those paintings disappear too. For all anybody knows, he's straight as an arrow or crooked as a snake.”

“Hmm… I'm leaning toward the latter at this point,” Ed said.

“If he's looking to deal with your Russian friends, it might very well be the latter,” agreed Greg. “But he does give generously to museums and arts organizations, maybe only as a cover for his other side. If you come up with a long lost masterpiece from your gallery on Hermosa Key, let me know. We might want to try setting up a sting or show up at an inconvenient time while you pull off the sale. Then we'd see if there's a house of cards that might come tumbling down. Returning something well known and valuable to it's rightful owner is what makes this business worthwhile.”

The “games” Ed had been forced to play with Mr. Art and Archie, with Web and Kip, with Chief Braxton and the shady art buyers he now met on a regular basis could take a toll. His “fun and games” with Candace were a major release. He never once heard “Not now – I have a headache” from his gorgeous other half. She was ready for anything he had in mind and often initiated games of her own that left him more than breathless.

Mollie Murray, despite her witchy Wiccan beliefs, and little granddaughter, “Sthvia Sthilvether” had become good friends. Grandma Murray was more often that than leader of her Coven chanting in the altogether. She made the best Banana Bread either he or Candace had ever tasted, and she frequently popped in to leave that treat when Ed spent time with Candace at her Oak View condo.

He took every opportunity to relieve some of the tension from being “under the gun” literally and figuratively from his Russian syndicate comrades. That included taking Mollie, Sylvia, and Kaspar to Harmon Dolly's modest Hermosa Key get-away because they were all now friends. Mr. Art had no idea he sometimes spent a weekend there just across the road from his own secret hideaway. He probably wouldn't have carried as long as Ed kept a buttoned lip and brought in increasing bucks from his collector contacts' unbuttoned wallets.

Harmon 'Salvador' Dolly placed a 'little cabana' on the easement to the Gulf he retained after selling off a huge stretch of beach inherited from his 'cracker' forebears. It was one more manifestation of the quirky personality that had earned a reputation as a genuine eccentric. He could switch in the twinkling of an eye from 'cracker' to crackpot, to the 'put-on' owner of his AnythinGoes gallery, to sophisticated art lover, to hard-bargaining businessman worth multi-millions. The personality his close friends saw was a down-to-earth, generous, fun-to-be-with all 'round good guy,' ready to pitch in for anything. It could be a pot-luck picnic, a game night with cards and board games, cruising or just relaxing on Hermosa Key. His real passion was rescuing stray cats, and finding owners for unwanted kittens. He devoted not just dollars but time to that.

The 'lil ol shack my grandpappy built ' was diagonal across narrow Hermosa Drive from the Russian-owned Mansion. Mr. Art's hidden stash of stolen, forged and fake art was there, and probably worth many more million than Harmon had profited from the sale of his beachfront property. The 'shack' was modest by comparison with his neighbors. It still had a weathered wood exterior and a natural Florida landscape surrounding it rather than the lush manicured, ultra-tropical imports favored by the rich and famous who took up most of the real estate along the drive. It wasn't dowdy or uncomfortable. Quite the contrary. Harmon expanded the original building on the bayside and had a magnificent view across the widest part of the Intra-coastal along the whole of Hermosa Key. He had a rolling verdant lawn down to a pier and covered boat dock where he kept a beautifully restored, classic 1955 Chris-Craft 20' Continental speedboat. 1955 Chris-Craft 20' Continental speedboat.

He could choose to drive to AnythinGoes or hop in his Chris-Craft, motor around the north end of Big Pass, then to Ringland Marina where he could dock and walk to his Gallery.

His easement to the beach ran alongside the Mansion's wall to the rick-rack barrier. His 'lil ol cabana' was, in truth, a bit more. Just a couple of yards of open space separated it from his neighbor's wall, but with a generous periphery all 'round the other three sides there was plenty of 'relaxin' room. Inside it was somewhat like an Arab tent. Canvas sides could be rolled up or down from the pavilion roof.

Harmon and his oft-time guests, Candace and Ed, preferred to leave them open. Oriental rugs and massive, brightly colored cushions covered the carpets. Very unlike an Arab tent, there was water, electricity and a well-stocked refrigerator concealed behind curtains. But Harmon refused to allow TV or a barbecue grill. There was a fire pit just outside to add a little feel for 'campin' out.' If the fire was a bit hard to start a concealed valve provided a propane flame until there was a crackling fire.

To be certain he would never feel shut in, the deed for the beach property on his other side contained a covenant that no structure could be built within 200' of his easement. Nor any closer to the water than his cabana. It ensured an unobstructed view except on the Mansion side, but there was little he could do about that. The cabana was too close for their surveillance cameras to look down into his space. That provided privacy for whatever activities might take place. When Ed and Candace were there alone, day or night, the unobstructed vista of turquoise water, sandy beach, delightful breezes and piles of comfortable pillows suggested a variety of ways to enjoy their favorite activities. A luxurious outside shower and warm gulf waters made it a paradise better than any Arab martyr-to-be could be seduced into believing before blowing himself into a No-Kingdom-Come.

Bill Engle, perhaps Ed's oldest friend, had moved to Ringland with his wife, Mary. Ed's description of the town had lured them there and it quickly had become a place they loved. Ed had known Bill from the time they were in junior high school, best buddies and confidants, double dating in their teen years until Bill got married.

They had seen one another almost every Friday after that for what became regular game nights. And now, reunited with Mary and their grown son, Paul, in Ringland they resumed “game night” on some Fridays if Ed were home. They still often put away the cards and played Monopoly, Ed favorite board game. He usually won because he stepped outside the rules and offered outrageous deals for special advance rentals on hot properties he owned or convinced them he would own. Either that or rides on the railroads, if he were able to snag those by hook or by crook. They could not help laughing at his earnest sales pitches, but to their chagrin when the Monopoly money was counted up at the end of the game, they realized that they had bought into terrible deals. Some, perhaps, as preposterous as the phoney art Ed sold to greedy buyers open for a con.

Candace would pick up Mollie and Sylvia and drive them to Hermosa Key for dinner and an evening of Monopoly. The little girl was so bright she had little trouble keeping up with the adults. “I thinkth thith isth a thuper game. Ith tho much better than the thilly gameth we hath to play at thkool!”

When Molly was playing, Ed was a bit perplexed because he wasn't winning quite as often. He'd announce, “I'll soon own all the railroads and if any of you probable riders want to purchase half-price tickets now before I own them, it will save you money in the end. If I don't, you are entitled to a full refund plus 20%!” He usually had buyers, and their advance dollars helped him buy the ones he landed on. And he was often very lucky in bringing off what he claimed.

“I thanths you for the chanth to buy ticketh at thuch a thuper prith,” Sylvia might say as Mollie smiled at her, “but Nana thez she thees them as thumthing I'll own.” Which she often did. Ed, to his consternation would have to refund the advance dollars plus 20% to the adults who had bought in. Mollie and Sylvia would just smile and exchange glances. No matter, Mary still served up a wonderful homemade apple crisp with ice cream before they departed for home.

Ed, of course, would follow Candace, Mollie and Sylvia home to continue “game night” in Candace's condo until they were both ready to give up R&E for sleep and a late, leisurely breakfast.

“You don't suppose,” Ed remarked, with a perplexed look as he took the last bite of Banana Bread, “that Mollie really could . . . no . . . that's just not . . .” His voice trailed off before he finished the sentence.

******

Chapter Twenty-Two

Mr. Art led Ed through the door into the wing of the mansion that Ed called. “my gallery on Hermosa Key.” As soon as they stepped through the entry into the wing with the pool and putting green, Mr. Art gasped slightly and swung 'round as if he were about to try and push Lear back through the door. But it was too late.

Both men saw Goliath waist deep in the pool playing with two toy boats. The giant swung about with a glimmer of recognition on his face and started to wade toward the steps at the end of the pool but Mr. Art made him stop.

“Stay, Oleg!” he barked sharply. “Do not follow!”

Ed could also see the expanse of beach through the glass wall, and Archie walking along the rick- rack groin with a small broom and scoop in hand. As he approach the end of the groin near the water, a huge black dog dragging a chain fastened to its collar dashed toward him. Archie heard the growls and turned to see the beast almost upon him. The broom and scooper he had nearly filled were thrown into the air scattering the contents as he threw himself in the water just inches before the chain restraining the dog snapped taut. The dog's forward momentum was so great it was lifted completely into the air. Clamping jaws firmly on anyone on the beach was what the huge canine had been trained to do.

Now soaking wet, just out of reach of the hound, Archie was shaking his fist and apparently screaming at two men who were looking at him and laughing raucously, They gathered up the chain, petted the now docile animal slipping a reward into it's jaws.

Ed glanced again at the huge man in the pool, playing with the plastic boats, before Mr. Art roughly grabbed his elbow and moved quickly to the end of the bar with Ed in tow. They watched a portion of the bar wall pivot and reveal the gallery it concealed.

“You've seen nothing, Lear! Is that understood?”

As the wall closed behind them, Ed nodded in the affirmative.

“What do you have that might satisfy my client's particular taste? It must be authentic and exceptional, a masterpiece by a well known artist, not a copy,” Ed noted. “How you obtained it or when is of no consequence to my client. It also must be one that you obviously cannot sell or auction off for it's true value because you're not the rightful owner. To do so would implicate you in its theft or disappearance. We are both aware of that, as the buyer will be.”

“We do have such a painting,” Mr. Art replied.

“Is it from one of the collections looted during World War II?”

“If your collector is knowledgeable about such paintings,” Mr. Lear, “he will recognize this one and the collection from which we obtained it. And he will understand why we would be willing to accept a reasonable offer. This painting is still being actively sought by representatives of the collector's estate so it must never be shown in public.”

“I'm anxious to see it,” Ed said with a glint in his eye. “Wait here then.”

Mr. Art walked to the door through which Ed had glimpsed what appeared to be a residential apartment. In a few minutes, his host reappeared with a beautifully framed oil painting. The time it had taken suggested to Ed that Mr. Art had only to lift it from a wall on which it had been hanging and carry it into the gallery area. As he turned the painting for Ed to see, he stepped back in awe of its vibrant colors.

“That has to be a Manet,” he enthused, completely taken by the image before him. It was one he was viewing in person for the very first time. Previously, he'd only seen this work via commercial copies that were easily available from a number of sources.

“The Soldier! A masterpiece!” Ed exclaimed. “My collector would be thrilled to own a work by the painter of The Luncheon on the GrassThe Luncheon on the Grass, a painting that caused such controversy after it was rejected by the Salon because of it's subject matter. It was then displayed at the Salon des Refuses.”

“Quite right,” Mr. Lear, “not seen since the end of January 1945. One of many fine works once owned by Dr. Bertalan Neményi. Only a few have been recovered since their disappearance.”

“Looted by the Nazi?”

“Carried off by Russian troops, Lear.”

“Whatever. I'm sure you will be as sorry to lose it, as my collector will be to obtain it.”

“Your collector will need to submit a suitable offer, one that we're willing to accept,” Mr. Art said. “Then of course, we will have to arrange a place and time of my choosing to complete the purchase.

Those arrangements can be made after you show him photographs of the painting in a setting that he would recognize rather than one taken off a commercial site offering reproductions. He will see the work that we intend to provide and he'll understand that he alone will have the enjoyment of owning the original, as I have for a number of years.”

“That, I'm sure, will be acceptable,” Ed replied. “I will go ahead and confirm my collector's interest, and his offer for the purchase. You must understand that he would consider the price negotiable and his first offer might not be one that is mutually agreeable.”

“Tell him, Mr. Lear, that we are not patient people and the fact that he knows we own the painting comes with certain risks that he should understand.”

“I will and he will,” said Ed. “That said, I'll be on my way. After you provide the photographs and the provenance, I will let you know when I've met with my buyer. I do have a favor to ask though.

Please ask Archie to contact me sometime after he has completed his current duties. It's a personal matter unrelated to anything we have discussed. I believe he has something of mine that he picked up when we were last together. He will understand.”

Several days later, Archie arrived at Ed's home, the first time that a meeting ever took place there. In every other instance, Archie had appeared unexpectedly at some place or time when Ed was away from home. Each of those contacts was momentary, a few words spoken or the quick hand-off of an envelope of cash or written instruction.

“The boss said you wanna see me,” he said when Ed answered the door.

Zen and Zoe had followed their master but as soon as they glimpsed Archie, they arched their backs and spit at him. Zen looked as if he were about to spring, but at Ed's surprised remonstrance they turned tail and ran, disappearing rapidly up the stairs to some hiding place only they knew about. Likely, under a bed or behind a piece of furniture or books on a shelf. It could be anywhere, high or low, as long as it provided concealment. This was highly unusual behavior reserved for only a select few when the cats' intuition picked up on some sort of threat.

“Effin' cats – I hate 'em!,” Archie growled. “So, You wanna see me?”

“I surely do, my friend,” Ed said ushering him in. “Let's have a chat. Take a seat and relax a bit.

Would you like something to drink?”

“Waddaya got?” he asked plopping his stalking frame onto Ed's couch. 

“Nothing like the bar back at the office I'm afraid.”

“Don't get to touch any of that,” Archie said. “Only been in that room like when the boss wants me there in case things got messy.”

“They don't let the dogs inside, do they?”

“Not funny. You got any booze here or just lemonade, comedian?”

“No offense, Archie. I keep a bottle of Four Roses in case of emergencies.” 

“That'll do. So what's the emergency you gotta see me about?”

“I think you know why,” Archie. “Want it straight or with water?”

“A double straight. So you're pissed at makin' a contribution to my Rolls Royce fund? You're rakin' it in and I'm stuck with what's left over.”

“Those leftovers have given you a pretty good ride from everything I've seen,” Ed noted. “I thought you said you did pretty well, new Mercedes every year. Why don't you trade that in? A guy with your talent should be able to arrange a pretty good deal when they realize what they're up against.”

“I only use my kind of talent with crooks like you, not the crooks at a fancy car dealership. So I'm takin' contributions because there's gonna come a time when you need a guy like me, just like the little SOB. A little protection would make you feel better when some real cash changes hands, right?”

“What makes you think I want any protection, Archie?” 

“It's not up to you, Lear. It's up to me.”

“Unless I tell Mr. Art that I'd rather pick up my cut from him?”

 “Wouldn't do that if I was you. He don't like that. You do your job and I'll do mine. I won't take more than five G's any time I deliver, okay partner?”

“At that rate, you'll have your Rolls in no time. Then what, partner?” 

“I got expenses you and the boss don't know about.”

“Let me guess. Sabal Avenue and the big back seat?”

“So what. You got yours. I'm gettin' mine and you'll help out a little. Ther'll be a time when you need me. Wait and see.”

“There is a time that I need you, Archie, my new partner... and it's now. A place the size of the mansion needs plenty of staff to keep it running. My visits are short and the boss makes sure I never have contact with anyone but him. The people who make that place run are invisible. The closest I ever came was at the fundraiser that we both attended when we were directed where to park. Don't know if they were staff or hired help brought in by the candidate.

“Once when I was invited or should I say instructed to appear, I glimpsed a couple of guys trimming bougainvillea along the surrounding wall near the garages at the north end of the property. Soon as they saw my car, they high-tailed it out of sight.

“I've never seen maintenance or maids or drivers for the collection or cars I know are there. Only the chauffeur who drove us back to our cars in that Bentley the first time you made me hike the beach to meet the boss. I'm guessing you've been there many times for various reasons to be sure things don't get messy. And I'm not talking about the little SOB or how he dis's you in front of me with the dog clean- up.”

“He''ll get his for that one day! And yeah, there's lots of people you'll never see but I do. Get to talk to some of 'em, those that speak American. Most of 'em jabber in Russian. Not many hired from around here.”

“Like from Sabal Avenue, partner?”

“Don't get into that, Lear. Nobody talks about that.” 

“How about the bald headed muscle man? Ever see him?”

“You're pressin' your luck, buddy. I said don't go there, understand? I'm protectin' you.”

“Archie, my new buddy, you might be the one who needs protection. Ever hear of 'Accessory before the Fact.' It's a serious crime. It means one who was absent when the act was committed but who procured, counseled, ordered or abetted the principal or actual perpetrator of the criminal act.”

“You some kind of lawyer, Lear? I don't know nothin' about nothin' and neither do the cops or it would be all over the TV.”

“You're pretty well known on Sabal Avenue, Archie. Do you think the cops have given up on your friends there? They have lots of ways to put pressure on the boys and girls that work that area and at some point, one of them will make a deal to stay out of the slammer. Then you'll have plenty of questions to answer.

“Let me explain the legal jargon just to make it a little more clear. One means you, Archie. Procured means picked out, picked up, paid for. That's what you did on the boss's orders. We're both pretty sure about the actual perpetrator and the criminal act. You might get the Rolls but never have the opportunity to try out that big back seat, buddy.”

“What kind of protection could you give me, Lear? Even if what you're blabbin' about happens, that little SOB can hide me as well as the stuff he's got you peddlin'.”

“And that's my problem because if your problem blows up, mine is sure to follow and you're involved in that too, partner.

“Do you know what a limerick is, Archie? Here's one that I wrote just for you like the little poems the boss had you copy on the notebook paper and slip under the door at that gallery where you delivered the painting. And similar notes that you slipped under my door or taped to the steering wheel of my car. Ed's read his limerick as Archie frowned.

 “You think that you clean up his crap, 

But the boss made a plan to entrap.

You have been tricked
Your scrawl will convict,

His go-to-guy will take the rap”

 “Ain't funny, comedian” But his voice gave away what he was thinking.

Zen and Zoe, the curious cats, were cautiously peeking around the corner as soon as they heard their master recite a limerick.

“You have very distinctive handwriting, Archie. Every line slants up, doesn't it? And why do you think the boss had you copy those limericks? Whose fingerprints are on the paper; not that little SOB's, right?”

“Okay, Lear. Whatta you want from me?”

“Just your eyes and ears, Archie. Stuff I can't see or hear. You're there more often than I, my friend? Got to be more than me.”

“Yeah, I'm there every time the boss has a meetin' with someone that he don't trust or if he's buyin' or sellin' somethin'. Not just there, sometimes out of the country, like when he meets with his partner.”

“I didn't know the boss had a partner, Archie. Do you know his name, what he does?”

“No idea. I don't ever see him. I'm along to hump the luggage and protect whatever he brings back, mostly some sort of art, I think. Stuff you'll probably get to peddle. It goes with us back to Canada and then to the ranch. That's what we call it. The limo picks us up when we step across the fence into this country. Don't have to go through customs that way.”

“Doesn't the art or whatever have to go through customs when it arrives in Canada?,” Ed asked. “Depends, some of it does. Some of it we take to the Russian embassy in whatever country and then pick it up later from the embassy in Canada. Stuff that goes through the embassies must be hot. That's what I think, anyway.”

“When do you get to talk to the help when they're not jabbering in Russian?”

“I've got my own place in town but I can come to the Key to relax if I want. Even got my own room behind the garages, along with the regular staff there all the time. About 30, I think. It's pretty nice. Not like the big house but real comfortable and we get to use the south end, the pool, the puttin' green and everything just like in the north wing where you see the boss.

“Our side of the big house gets rented out sometimes, just like the main area where we went to the fundraiser or the blow out for the museum. Sometimes I'm like a guest, sometimes hired help like when I worked the bar for the museum. You saw me there. I was there watchin' you and your lady. None of us ever go to the north wing 'cept when the boss schedules work or a meetin' and he wants me there. I don't do the dog poop regular. There's a Russian guy does that along with any other clean up job that needs to be done. The jerk gets a big kick out of it when I have to do it.

“Are you getting your five grand worth, buddy boy? Archie asked.

“We're about four grand into the five. I never knew that the boss had a partner. What do you know about Goliath? How does he fit into the picture? I've only glimpsed him twice by accident and Mr. Art was sure not happy about that! Also heard about him second hand from the gallery owner whose window you shot out.”

“I scared the crap out of him, I'll bet,” Archie chuckled. “But I never seen much of Goliath. Once playin' in the sand on the beach with some toy trucks, like a kid. I think he's a dead issue by now.”

******

Chapter Twenty-Three

 “I think it's time I met Mr. Art and your partner, Archie,” said Greg.

Ed was on the secure cell phone with Pappy Yokum, head of the FBI's Art Theft Division in Philadelphia. He had called him to let him know he was about to make his biggest sale ever. The masterpiece,by Edouard Manet.

“When and where will the transaction take place,” Greg asked. “This is a major painting from a collection belonging to Dr. Bertalan Neményi. It was looted by the Soviets at the end of World War II. Hasn't been seen since and now we know where it was buried. It's too hot a property to auction off anywhere because it would be recognized immediately. Through you, our Russian friends have found the perfect buyer in Sol Grosskoph. In his hands, it will remain buried, and he'll be patting himself on the back for making a deal for pennies on the dollar. Do you know what he intends to pay for it?”

“His offer of $2.8 million has been accepted, reluctantly I might add by Mr. Art. I'll get 10 percent, not the 20 percent that I've been getting, less five grand for my partner if he delivers my swag. I'm to tell the boss when Sol is ready to hand over the payment and pick up the painting. They've been in touch and worked out how he will pay. I've no idea what form the payment will be in, though.”

“Where is this all expected to go down?” Greg asked.

I'm told the exchange will take place at the mansion on Hermosa Key. You've got the sketch of the layout I put in with the last bundles of hundreds I sent, haven't you?”

“I've got the sketch, more like a map given the size of the place. Grosskoph will be paying less than 10 percent of what that painting is worth if it could ever go up at auction. The highest price for a Manet was $11 million way back in 1986. It would be at least double that today, not counting a huge premium for the rarity of the painting and how seldom one of Manet's works changes hands. He must be ecstatic about picking it up on the cheap.”

“I'll bet he is,” Ed said.

“But don't start counting your cut just yet. This deal will never get that far. Stall for as long as you can. I've got to get our local office in line so we can put enough assets in place. I need at least another week.”

“I think I can do that,” Ed responded, “but how do you figure on getting in? Hermosa Drive is a narrow winding two-lane road and the only one leading to the mansion. In some places, you could spit across the Key from Gulf to bay.”

Ed continued to make sure Greg knew as much as possible. “The exchange will have to occur when no other activity is going on at the mansion. Mr. Art would never take the chance. He always schedules my visits, so I don't even see the hired help, except for Archie and then only when he gets sent to the beach to clean up after the dogs. I think Sir lets 'em out beforehand, just so my partner has something useful to do.

“How will you know when to arrive with whatever those assets might be? You'll need some signal, won't you? There's no way I can think of to give you one once I'm inside.”

“Has your boss told you how he'll get you and Grosskoph to the mansion and where the deal will take place once you're inside?” Greg asked.

“Mr. Art wants to put on a show for Sol. He says we'll be picked up in the stretch limo because he plans to impress the buyer, who might be good for a few million more. I guess the exchange will take place in the north wing but not in the hidden gallery behind the bar. Mr. Art would never let on it even exists or let Grosskoph see the other goodies he's got back there. He's only given me a few minutes back in the gallery,” Ed said. “There are some choice paintings in there. Some sculptures too from what I could see. Whether everything in my gallery on the Key is the real McCoy, faked, forged or stolen, can only be known once the operation is closed down and the place emptied.”

“Is there anything else back there I should be looking out for? Greg asked.

“There's some kind of apartment back there as well. It's on the sketch I gave you. Just got a glimpse of it before he slammed the door but that's where Mr. Art went to retrieve the Manet. I suspect he lives, or at least stays in there some of the time, and must have had the painting hanging for his personal enjoyment.”

“Have you got any idea how long the exchange might take? From what you've said sounds like the negotiation on price has been settled, hasn't it? Greg questioned.

“If both sides are happy with the Manet sale, I believe the whole transaction will take no more than half an hour. Neither Art nor Sol will want to expand this into any kind of social affair. It's business for both of them.”

“If we know when your stretch limo goes through the gate, we can hold about twenty minutes and have our people in place,” Greg assured. “Can you think of a way to let us know – cell phone, maybe?”

“No way. Mr. Art made it clear I was never to have a cell phone on me anytime I came through those gates.” Then hesitating Ed closed his eyes as if he were picturing something in his mind, and thought to himself, “the mansion is walled and gated, and there are surveillance cameras all around the property. Archie says there's a staff of around 30. They'll be watching the road in both directions to be sure one is following the limo. Got to come up with something.”

“How about Gulf side?“ Greg asked.

“Nothing but water 'till Texas,” Ed replied. “All they have to watch there is an occasional sailboat in the distance. Now and then there are jet skiers. There's a jet ski rental at the public beach south end of the key, and I think a couple of the neighbors close by may own some.

“My friend, Harmon Dolly, owns a small place diagonally across from the mansion. Sold a hunk of beach that was passed down to him from his 'cracker' forebears. It's the beach north of their rickrack breakwater, Won't say what he got for it, but it had to be plenty. He kept an easement to the beach. He's built a little cabana there. 'Same view as mah 'hoity-toity' neighbors.' is how Harmon would put it.

"Candace and I have spent time there, and he's right. Because the wall around the mansion ends where the stone barrier begins, they can't see him, and he can't see them unless he walks into the water.

“Like I told you,” said Ed, “the place gets rented out from time to time, and the south wing has apartments for guests. That area seems to be used for meetings and conferences, from what Archie says. Probably for the Russian's more legit business ventures or vacation payoffs after a deal goes down. Good front. If it's not in use, he and any of the staff who aren't on duty can use the pool and putting green. That wouldn't happen if Mr. Art, or whoever books the joint could keep it rented all the time.”

“Maybe he's getting pressure from his bosses,” Greg posited. “Place like that has got to have a hefty overhead to keep it running, not that the Russkie company that owns it is short of change. We know there was just a huge arms deal to one of their mid-Eastern playmates that had to bring in plenty. Still, if they consider stolen and phony art a profit center, they might get edgy when the bottom line droops a little.”

“Government agencies and political big shots buy it for payoff parties. The $10,000-a-plate fundraiser I attended was one of them. The IRS rented it for a posh four-day conference to reward some of their top producers a year back. The Russians soaked them plenty for the privilege. The $8 muffins they bought for the lucky employees got some press coverage if you remember.”

“Yeah Ed, I recall. When my boss rewards us for recovering something big like the Manet or a few valuable artifacts that walk off from a museum or university collection, we get a blowout at Starbucks. I think some of their muffins go for around that.

“You'd be surprised how many collections haven't had an inventory in years. It's easy pickings for a low paid but trusted employee to give himself a nice bonus to make up for a few years of 'sorry no raise. Maybe next year.'

“I've been to Starbucks so often that I can almost remember the menu. Ever have a CaramelCaramel Macchiato?  I'll get you and your lady one if we wrap up your deal with no one getting hurt.”

The planned exchange would take place shortly in the opulent north wing of the mansion with a magnificent view of the sparkling Gulf through the glass wall. Ed could only guess who, if anyone, besides Mr. Art and Archie would be present when Sol handed over his check. That check, Ed assumed, would be drawn on a middle-eastern bank that both had agreed upon to ensure any paper trail would be so convoluted and labyrinthine, as to be impossible to untwist.

Ed, of course, was counting on Pappy Yokum's ability to provide the surprise guests necessary to protect all who were on the grounds, any number of whom might be armed. Pappy Yokum was counting on Ed for providing a signal that would work.

****** 

Chapter Twenty-Four

When the day of reckoning arrived, Ed kissed his wife goodbye before she left for her tennis date with their pastor's wife. He also gave Zen and Zoe extra minutes of petting beginning behind their ears and progressing to the base of their tails. It was not the “see you later scratch,” as if he were leaving for a routine meeting. He knew it wasn't but didn't want his wife or the cats to feel his nervousness.

The tennis courts were near their home. Candace had lured the cats into their kitty carrier with a couple of Perfect Pussy Treats because she felt an outing would do them good, as it would for her. The tennis match would help keep her mind off the errand her husband would soon be on, and the rising trepidation she felt.

Both Zen and Zoe complained with long meows when they realized they would be confined for the ride rather than enjoying the usual run of the car. The extra petting Ed had given them was what he usually did when he would be away for a few days. Insurance, he said, so they wouldn't forget him while he was gone. Candace planned to be home by the time he returned from the mansion. He had a good hour to sit and fidget before the chauffeured limo would show up.

“What if,” he thought, “Mr. Art or Sol have second thoughts about consummating the purchase? What if Pappy Yokum can't get his assets in place? What if the little SOB has second thoughts about parting with his ten percent commission? Two hundred and eight thousand would be more than he's ever had to hand over on any previous sale, even considering Archie shorting my usual twenty. What if things get messy and Archie has to clean up inside, instead of on the beach? What about the armed security staff?

“Too many 'What Ifs,'” he decided. “I'd better calm down. Too bad Grandma Murray and Sylvia aren't here as he recalled the little girl saying, 'Nana alwath thez whaths going to happen before it doth.'”

Finally, Ed heard a short toot outside at precisely the time he had been told to be ready. When he stepped from his front door, his car was waiting. As promised, Mr. Art had provided a stretch limo from the selection of vehicles kept on the twin garages at the mansion.

Ed hopped into the enormous and luxurious rear seating space as the chauffeur closed the sliding door after him. “Candace and the cats are at the tennis courts and she and Jeanette should be well into a couple of sets by now,” he thought as he pictured her in the attractive new tennis togs she was wearing. “I hope she has a good time and I get to see them – see her again - that we both come back as winners.”

Ed was only minutes into his ride to pick up Grokoph when Candace returned home from tennis.

As soon as Candace inserted the key in the lock on Ed's front door, both cats began to yowl furiously. “That's strange.” she thought. “They were perfectly quiet all the way home from the tennis court, nestled in their cat carrier. The whole time they roamed around the court during my tennis date with the pastor's wife, they were good as gold. Not even a meow came out of them except when we took a break between sets and Jeanette petted them.

 “They really like her and although they were less than happy about the cat carrier. I took it because some of the other players might not feel comfortable with them ambling about on the court. They'll forgive me and calm down when we get inside, and they enjoy a nice dish of tuna plus a couple of Perfect Pussy Treats.”

When Candace stepped through the door, she knew immediately what the yowling was about. It stopped as soon as they were inside and the cats saw Archie. They were looking at the business end of a nasty handgun held by Ed's so called partner.

“Welcome home, MRS. Lear.” He grinned as he emphasized MRS. “Don't let them noisy cats outta the carrier, less you wanna see me do a little target practice on 'em. We're all goin' for a little ride.”

Candace was dumbstruck and almost too frightened to speak. But instead of giving Archie the satisfaction of knowing how hard her heart was pumping, she composed herself.

“How did you know?” she said evenly.

“The boss had suspected for a while, probably 'cause I told him how often you and the mister were spendin' nights together. Not that it's any big deal, but I know you're big church people and I told him that too.”

“Just how often do you stick your dirty snout into our business?” Candace asked sternly.

“More than you know. An' watch your mouth,” Archie warned. “Church people are supposed to be nice. Don't that book you carry around say somethin' about lovin' your enemies?”

“It does, but it doesn't say we have to like them.”

Then Candace recalled catching a glimpse of a Rolls Royce parked a bit down the block when she turned into the drive.

“We gotta be on our way,” Archie announced. “Where?”

“To meet your mister. Boss wants us there before he arrives.” “I'm still in my tennis shorts.”

Archie ogled her and made a point of smacking his lips as he looked her slowly up and down. “I noticed,” he said with a grin.

“Keep your eyes in their sockets, creep. I'm not one of your Sabal Avenue playmates.” 

“Aint that the effin' truth.”

Candace pointed down toward the carrier she had placed on the floor. “The cats haven't been fed.”

“Where they're goin' they'll probably get a dish of them fish eggs. You ever feed 'em that?” 

“Why is this happening?” Candace asked glaring at him.

“Insurance. Boss says your hubby has a big deal goin' down and he wants you, me and the cats there to be sure he doesn't screw up or pull somethin' dumb. That goes for you and them cats too. Act nice, and we'll all go home in one piece. Now quit stallin' and walk nice with the pussies. Just around the corner. My car's there. If anybody's on the street, smile and keep walkin' to the Rolls. Nice car, thanks to your hubby.”

As Archie and his unwilling passengers started on the short drive to Hermosa in the Rolls, Ed was approaching his destination in the stretch limo.

Sol's residence was on Saint Symon Key, not quite as upscale as Hermosa Key, but in an exclusive, long established private beach club. The homes there were equal to many of those on Hermosa Key and sat just to the south across a narrow pass leading from the Gulf to the bay.

When the limo pulled in front of Sol's elegant home, he was outside waiting for it. He had been alerted to it's arrival by the guard at the entrance. Ed glanced back at the guard and wondered if he ever thought about the millions of dollars in artwork that house probably contained. He was sure the guard and any guests his resident entertained there would never see any of the artistic delights that mansion concealed.

“I wonder if he's also got a hidden gallery?” Maybe, just like Mr. Art, he's got a gold key hanging 'round his neck or a fake wall that rotates into a personal gallery. Or could some choice pieces be hidden in plain sight gracing the walls of obscure, far-flung offices of the Grosskoph companies? Perhaps it gives him a twisted kind of pleasure knowing that only he is aware of the real value of a piece of art, while the unsophisticated employees consider it just a pretty picture.

The chauffeur exited the vehicle and slid open the door to the 10-foot-long passenger compartment where Ed was seated. Mr. Art had thoughtfully provided champagne, beluga caviar on crackers and a generous dish filled with macadamia nuts. They were arranged on a center table between front and rear facing seats. Ed had helped himself to some of each on the drive to pick up his guest.

Sol was dressed in a T-shirt, rumpled shorts, and plastic flip-flops, hardly befitting a multi-million dolaar business deal. He greeted Ed jovially as they shook hands. He pointed to Ed's neat but casual attire, then back and forth at the interior of the stretch limo.

“I see you're showing off, my friend,” Sol said laughing. “No need to impress this old art lover.” Once inside, he sat back for a moment and then leaned forward to accept the glass of champagne Ed had poured, as well as one of the caviar appetizers.

“But you can pick me up in this anytime you're out slumming!” he chided.

Their conversation was friendly but general: the weather, sports, politics. The closest mention of anything related to art was Sol's comment that the museum had completed the challenge grant for the new wing.

“Good for Web Lowe. Maybe we should save some of this for him,” Sol suggested, indicating the dwindling supply of snacks before them. “I really like these macadamia nuts. Did you know they come from Australia? The Aussie's call 'em Queensland nuts. I got a company down there, and I bring back a bunch anytime I visit. There's three kinds of macadamia trees , two of 'em have nuts like these, good to eat. Nuts from the other tree are poisonous.”

Then Sol added a cryptic comment. “Kind of like your business, Ed. You got to know which of the nuts you deal with are good and which are poisonous. Like the people I deal with too. If you get hold of the bad kind, you got to know how to dispose of 'em.”

“My guess,” said Ed smiling, “is that you do.” 

“You can bet your nuts on that, my friend!”

The drive to Hermosa Key took about 35 minutes, one of the drawbridges up. The gates to the mansion swung open as they approached. The chauffeur parked directly in front of the steps leading to the main entrance. He hopped out and opened the door for Ed and Sol to exit. Then he slipped back in the driver's seat, circled the fountain and headed for the garages along the north side of the property.

“My other car is a '92 Toyota, Sol,” Ed joked as they climbed the steps.”

“Just like mine, my friend!” Sol quipped back, obviously in a very jovial mood.

A uniformed staff member opened the front door for them. Mr. Art was not inside to greet them, which Ed found unusual. The staff led them to the wall where the draperies that usually covered the door to the north wing had been draped artfully to one side. Ed was surprised, as he'd never seen them open. He also noticed that the door was slightly open as well. The guard motioned them toward it and then promptly turned on his heels and returned to the main entrance where he stood quietly.

Ed was taken aback when he saw Mr. Art, the bald giant, Oleg, 'aka Goliath,' and Kip. The magnificent Manet sat on an easel to one side with Archie standing protectively next to it. By the putting green, there was a free-standing, multi-paneled folding screen with dozens of golf clubs of all shapes and sizes. There was everything from old wood shafts to the most up-to-date, which Ed assumed were either one-of-a-kind prototypes or autographed clubs that had been used in major tournaments by top golfers. Beside each club was a neatly printed description. Ed realized immediately that when he first asked Braxton to look into the Limerick prank, this was the valuable and stolen collection he had mentioned, displayed to impress his wealthy buyer. And perhaps as an additional purchase - one for which Ed wouldn't receive a commission

Mr. Art offered a rare smile, stepped forward and extended his hand to Sol but the handshake was quick and limp, almost just a touch. The two men strolled toward the painting and Sol leaned in close. Then standing erect he said, “It's a beauty. I know just where I'll hang it.”

Kip stood just in front of Goliath whose arms were folded in front of him. He rocked back and forth on his heels, again like the bored child he had seemed the first time Kip had been at the Mansion. Ed walked in and stood shoulder to shoulder with his friend.

“Didn't expect to see you here, Kip,” he whispered.

“Didn't expect to be here, but our friend over there,” he said nodding slightly toward Archie, “made it clear that I'd better pay a visit. Car picked me up.”

Sol remained by the painting, peering at it again and running his finger tips over the surface of the canvas. Mr. Art returned and stood just in front of the swimming pool facing Ed and Kip. Looking past them, he said quietly, “Stop rocking, Oleg.”

“We won't be needing either of you,” he added addressing Ed and Kip. “You may leave now. A car is waiting to take you home.”

“Well, that's the shortest visit I've ever had,” Ed mused as he glanced at his Timex watch. He caught a glimpse of the gold Patek Philippe on Mr. Art's wrist as he waved dismissively indicating they should leave.

******

Chapter Twenty-Five

At that point, all hell broke loose! When the sound of gunfire filled the air, everyone turned to the window wall where they saw four jet skis pull up onto the beach. Eight men dressed entirely in black raced toward the mansion. The two huge dogs lay dead at the ends of their chains.

Mr. Art turned back just as Kip and Ed were about to move. “Stop them, Oleg!” he screamed.

Goliath lunged forward, his huge forearms snapping closed like an iron bar just above the shoulders of the two men sitting in front of him. His left arm caught Kip under the chin forcing his head up.

Goliath proceeded to apply a crushing pressure on his throat.

At the same moment, Ed quickly rolled to the floor. Goliath's powerful right arm grazed the top of his head as his knees hit the carpet. He turned, catapulting himself toward the display of golf clubs and grasped one of them. Ed found his feet, stepped back with a fully extended swing and his left arm straight. He caught Goliath squarely on the temple with the head of the club, a massive Big Bertha.

The hulk of a man crumpled back pulling the gasping Kip on top of him, arm still clamped firmly around his throat. Ed spun 'round just in time to catch Mr. Art taking a swing at him with another club. He lifted the Big Bertha just fast enough to parry the blow. In his haste, Mr. Art had chanced to grab a wooden shafted putter that cracked and broke cleanly in two when it met the titanium shaft of Ed's club.

Kip had managed to pry the arms of the recumbent, unconscious Goliath from around his neck. He sat stunned and coughing as Ed jerked the remains of the wood shaft from his assailant's hand.

“I think you were under clubbed, Sir!” he declared as he tossed what remained of the club aside. 

“That putter was worth a small fortune,” his assailant said sadly. “It belonged to Francis OuimetFrancis Ouimet. He used it when he defeated Harry Vardon and Ted Ray in the 1813 U.S. Open at Brookline. Ouimet used only seven clubs, all wood shafts in that historic match up. The other six are here too.”

“You won't have to worry about what that collection is worth where you're going.” Ed said in an ironic tone.

At about the same instant, the bar wall rotated and Candace stepped out from the hidden gallery with Zen and Zoe in her arms. Both cats were screaming as they leaped from her grasp. Zen headed straight for Archie with the same graceful jump that propelled him to the top of the tallest bookcase in Ed's home. He landed, claws extended on Archie's head raking his face with hind paws, while digging the front ones into the bald spot at the back of his bleeding pate.

Little Zoe leaped at Mr. Art standing at the edge of the indoor-outdoor pool and hit him with just enough force in the chest that he took a step back and toppled into the water. Then the door from the reception area of the mansion burst open with such force that it crashed to the floor, knocked completely off it's hinges. Four men with automatic weapons drawn surged into the room and toward those present.

Above the surprised exclamations, curses and screaming cats, everyone heard the undulating wah, wah, wah of police sirens. Then another crash was heard when two police cars smashed the main gates wide open.

The commotion had drawn most of the staff from their quarters. They quickly found themselves looking down the barrels of weapons held by sheriff's deputies or four FBI agents. 

The international art theft and forgery racket was about to unravel like a ball of yarn being batted around by a pair of playful kitties. Archie lay stretched out on the floor with his hands behind his bleeding head. The pistol he attempted to draw fell from his hand as soon as Zen sunk four sets of claws into his head and a member of the FBI team kicked it away from his grasp.

Sol stood agape as he watched the chaos taking place around him. However, he had the presence of mind to jam the check he still held in his hand into his mouth and start chewing it, as if he had a mouth full of macadamia nuts, Then he raised his hands over his head as a symbol of surrender.

“I know nothing about this,” he reassured the FBI agent who held a gun to his chest. “I was brought here against my will. I was told that I had to purchase a painting that I have no interest in or suffer bodily harm. These people,” he added, nodding toward Ed, Archie, Goliath and Mr. Art, “are obviously criminals of the worst sort. They seemed to know of my interest in art and how I support the arts community, even our own Ringland Museum because I have a successful business.”

Candace had run to Ed's side and both cats now stood between them. He embraced his wife and exclaimed with complete surprise, “How in the world did you and the cats get here? Are you all right?” 

She pointed at Archie stretched out a dozen feet away from them. “Thanks to your partner there. Its quite a story,” she said, “but it's had a happy ending, hasn't it?”

Ed extended a hand to the dripping Mr. Art as he started to climb from the pool. As he did so, he noticed a small neat goatee floating on the surface of the water.

“Nice to see you Viviane,” Ed said smiling. “You can pull off the wig too. It should feel good to let your hair down so to speak, now that you no longer have to dress in drag.

Candace looked shocked as he continued.

“It must also be nice to not have to remember who you pretend to be when you're here looking after the art and your nephew, Oleg, or creating fabulous fakes. Did you take a minor in poetry when you studied to be a museum conservator? The limericks weren't done nearly as neatly as the paintings you forged and passed off to many unsuspecting, greedy buyers.”

“Wrong Lear,” Viviane sneered. “I only passed on the limericks. You're just at the tip of an iceberg and you'll never see what's below the surface.”

They turned just in time to see Chief Braxton step through the door followed by two deputies. As he surveyed the scene before him, he motioned toward the still unconscious Goliath.“That one's mine I think, Greg,” he said to one of the FBI agents. “The murder took place in my jurisdiction.”

Ed and Candace turned toward the agent Braxton had addressed. As Ed shook his hand and smiling broadly he said, “So we finally get to meet Pappy Yokum. It's so nice to thank you in person.”

“We have you to thank, Ed,” Greg replied. “Between us, I think we should be able to return some real treasures to their rightful owners and put some of the participants behind bars. As for Viviane, aka your Sir, Mr. Art and Eeskoostvo, she just said there are many more involved that we might never know about.”

“And there's one more crook,” Braxton interrupted. “As soon as we walked into Webster Lowe's office, he told us, 'I knew this would happen. I just didn't know when.' He's ready to make a full confession on his part in all of this.”

Then he turned to face Kip, who had recovered enough from his near strangulation.

“We know the part you've played has been as an unsuspecting patsy or under duress,” Braxton noted. “You'll have to make restitution for the commissions you received on paintings sold to the museum but whether it goes any further than that will depend on the museum board.”

Ed looked straight at Kip and on to the still dripping Viviane. Then to everyone's astonishment, he made an announced.

“There are two more, aren't there Viviane? Your son Vladimir and your husband, Artur Popov. You married Artur before both of you came to this country and he became a partner in a gallery right here in Ringland. Then turning toward Kip again he added, “Your traveling partner, Elmer Pear.”

“That can't be true!” gasped a flabbergasted Kip. “Can it, Viviane?”

She nodded indicating it was true and then curled her lips into a snarl aimed at Greg.

“And you'll never apprehend him,” she seethed. “He's home in St. Petersburg and there's no extradition from Mother Russia. I'll be joining him soon too. Our family has powerful leverage over the weak and stupid administration in this country.”

“What about your nephew, Oleg, there?” Ed asked pointing to the huge man on the floor.

Oleg, still groggy from the blow Ed had dealt him, was now face down next to Archie, two pair of handcuffs pinning his massive arms behind his back.

“We brought him to this country for medical treatment. Despite his size, he's just 16 years old, retarded and still growing. The condition is called Gigantism, caused by a small tumor on the pituitary gland. Removing the tumor would have stopped the growth. I had no idea that his sexual appetite had grown along with his physical stature. We would never have brought him had we known. But you, Lear, should be held responsible for battery on a child. He, on the other hand, should not be responsible for his actions because of his age and mental handicap.”

Kip had recovered enough from the shocking news that his valued partner, Elmer, was part of a nefarious Russian family business.

“How... how...” he stuttered looking at Ed.

“Better let me tell him,” Greg interrupted. “It all came together with your help, Ed. Because of the sodomy and murder of the cross-dressing young man, we had DNA, not just semen but also saliva from the brutal biting. We ran it through every database at our disposal; came up with nothing. The same with the saliva sample we were able to take from the envelope of the card Viviane used to pass along your mailed limerick – no match with any database for that either.

“Not surprising. No reason these two,” Greg said pointing toward Viviane and Oleg, “would show up on a criminal database without some prior offense. The results that we needed actually came by accident. A sharp tech at the lab noticed a similarity between the DNA markers.

“Thanks to you again,” Greg added, turning back to Ed, “we also knew Web Lowe might be involved somehow. He had helped Vladimir Popov come to this country and was hiring him as conservator at the museum. We made sure that one of our local agents was at the party Web threw to announce the new wing for the Ringland. He just picked up one of the glasses that Vlad drank from and we had another DNA sample. That one showed an even closer family relationship than to Oleg.

When we ran the three samples together, it became obvious there was a family relationship.

Vlad's in custody now, picked up by another agent.”

******

The Rest Of The Story

The “assets' Greg had promised were in place. They had been jet sking back and forth along the beach front just north of the Mansion waiting for the signal that would take them rushing inside. Mollie Murray, spent a delightful morning at Salvador Dolly's bayside home with her granddaughter Sylvia, playing with Big Kaspar and Little Kaspar. She was seated at the bay window at the front of the house where she could see the road in both directions. She saw the stretch limo far down Hermosa Drive and the black SUVs in front and behind as they turned through the gate after it had opened.

As soon as the gate closed behind the vehicles she turned to her great-granddaughter and instructed, “Skip across the street and down to Mr. Salvador's cabana and tell him “Twenty minutes.”

A little girl skipping across the street - that's all the sleepy staff member pulling his shift monitoring the surveillance camera screens could see. He'd seen her doing the same things a couple of times that morning when he had been a little more alert. “Just a kid in a bathing suit with a towel going down to see the character that owns the house and easement to the beach. The boss says they belong in the neighborhood.” He yawned, looked at his watch and said under his breath, “Just another hour and I can head to my room and take a nap before dinner. Hope I can stay awake till then.”

When Sylvia reached the cabana, she hugged Mr. Salvador and handed him the towel she carried. “Nana thez thith isth the biggethed towel she could find and itth just what you athked her for. She thez 'Twenty Minith'.”

Harmon Dolly nervously twisted his waxed mustache as he watched the second hand of his watch creep around the dial for what seemed hours but was only twenty minutes. He stepped on to the beach, not quite to waters edge, and waved the big red towel as if he were shaking sand from it. Four jet skis turned and raced for the Mansion, their powerful engines sending 'rooster tails' of water high in the air behind them.

He picked up Sylvia and whispered quietly, “Put you hands over your ears, Sweetie, there may be some very loud noises.”

The men who dashed from the jet skis had authorization to blast anything that stood in their way, but only two vicious dogs died. The staff members, some armed, who rushed toward the beach when they heard the gunfire went face down in the sand as soon as they heard the command from the men wielding sub-machine guns, “Drop or you're dead!”

The Rest of the Rest Of The Story

Because this is a work of fiction, we have no idea how each of the characters in the story might have fared in the real world. if what you've just read were not the fantasy of an overactive imagination.

Except for the precocious and lovable Zen and Zoe, the only real-life characters.  For their extraordinary instinct, exceptional intuition and strenuous work in bringing the culprits to justice, they would each have received a generous helping of tuna in their special bowls, perhaps laced with some of those Beluga fish eggs and an extra Perfect Pussy Treat. Then they would curl up together for a much needed nap.

God grant that you don't need one too, after reading about their adventures! But if this story were real, here's what might have happened to each of the characters and why:

Oleg aka Goliath: After extended wrangling as to whether he should be tried in Ringland County or in Federal Court, Oleg was found incompetent to stand trial. He was sent to a mental hospital where he received his much needed operation, at taxpayer's expense, of course, to remove the small tumor on his pituitary gland that was causing his Gigantism He was then placed in the state's largest institution – Florida State Hospital at Chattahoochee - which maintains a costly unit for criminal patients. Each one of them on average costs the state about $68,300 a year. Oleg happily played there with his toy boats and trucks. Now 18, he will stay there for the rest of his life. 

Gigantism basically leads to an increase in the physical size and stature of the child who is infected with this disease. But this is not the end of it. Gigantism has many other effects too and most of them are negative. It sometimes leads to retardation of the mind as well as other problems, which affect the pituitary gland.

This disease refers to the condition where a human grows to above average height because of an overactive pituitary gland resulting in a proliferation of growth hormones. By above average in height, it does not mean a little bit above average. It means significantly above; in the upper one percent of the world population in height.

There are usually other health problems associated with the condition. Robert Wadlow was the tallest man in history (that we know of). He grew to an astounding 8 feet, 11 inches tall, a result of his overactive pituitary gland. He was still growing at the time of his death. 

Andre the Giant was a French professional wrestler and actor. His size was a result of Gigantism caused by an excess growth hormones. This led to him being called The Eighth Wonder of the World. His billed height and weight was 7 feet, 4 inches and 520 pounds respectively.

But no superstar in the sports and entertainment industry was as immense as Giant Gonzales. Not The Great Khali. Not Big Show. Not even the legendary Andre the Giant. All men stood in the shadow of this 8-foot monster from the wilds of Argentina.

He was first introduced to wrestling fans at the World Championship Wrestling’s (WCW) Capital Combat event in 1990. The former professional basketball player was lured to WCW by media magnate, Ted Turner. After being drafted by the Atlanta Hawks. Billed as El Gigante (Spanish for The Giant), the young competitor received an enormous amount of support from WCW executives, who believed they had discovered the second coming of Andre the Giant.

Vladimir Popov and Viviane Blaine (aka Mr Art, aka Mr Eeskoostvo, aka Sir, aka Viktoriya Popov): (That's POH-PAHV, not POP-OFF, please!) They were represented by a top immigration lawyer, paid for by no one knows for sure, and as a result, were bailed out in a matter of hours. They returned to Russia within 60 days, deported to their home country at tax-payer expense.

If you are not a legal citizen and you're in the country, a criminal conviction might mean your deportation and removal from the U.S. That is, the federal government can send you back to your native country and bar you from re-entering the states.

Archie Anderson: He found himself in a federal penitentiary for white collar criminals serving time for tax evasion. His Rolls Royce, nice tux and special beach shoes were seized, and sold at auction for a fraction of what he paid for them. Since his place of residence was a rental and he owned no stocks, bonds or bank accounts, at least not in the U.S., he had nothing to lose. He was always paid in cash, and the boys and girls on Sabal Avenue got a lot of that. He had no previous criminal record, so he received three squares a day and a comfortable cell in a modern facility: FPC Pensacola. It is a minimum security prison camp, again provided at taxpayers' expense. Forbes magazin listed it as the ”second cushiest prison in the United State. Visiting hours for some of his regulars was between 5 and 8:30 pm on Fridays, and 8 am to 3 pm on weekends and holidays. And he continued to do some cleanup when things get messy!

Webster Lowe: Although he lost his job as director of The Ringland Collection of Fine Art and Antiquities and would never again be hired in any capacity as a museum professional, he testified that the only forgery he had a hand in was Young Woman On A Balcony. He further noted that most of the actual painting was executed by Viviane Blaine. In a plea deal accepted by the museum board, he voluntarily returned all the salary he received while serving as director.

Ed, Candace and Kip, as well as many of Web's former friends in the American Association of Museum Directors, testified to his genuine love of art, citing numerous accomplishments including the Designed To Deceive exhibition that brought record crowds to many of the venues where it was seen. He received a suspended sentence, two years probation and was required to perform 500 hours of community service. For the latter, he used those hours to organize art classes in prisons in Florida. (Archie Anderson enrolled in one of the classes at the prison in Pensacola. The instructor said he had exceptional talent, which spurred him on to seek employment in the art field when he was released.)

The notoriety surrounding all that took place on Hermosa Key sent prices skyrocketing for Web's original works to which he devotes his full time and effort. Ed continued to be Web's art rep and profited from the generous commissions he paid. Web would be on his way to becoming the lion of the art world he had aspired to be as a young painter.

He, Ed, Kip and Candace remained good friends. After a time, even Zen and Zoe became Kip's buddies, particularly after closely examining a lovely portrait he painted of them, and gave to Ed and Candace.

Experts and institutions are reluctant to admit their own fallibility. Art historian, Thomas Hoving, estimated that various types of forged art comprise up to 40 percent of the art market40 percent of the art market.

Although many art forgers reproduce works solely for money, some have claimed that they created forgeries to expose the credulity and snobbishness of the art world. Essentially, the artists claim usually after they have been caught, that they performed only “hoaxes of exposure.”

Carter Grimm: As a retirement gift to himself Carter booked a trip to Europe to museums on the continent. He ended up at the Hermitage in Moscow where he read about the forgery scandal in his home town paper, Pravda. He's still there, living in the guest house at the Popov's dacha, doing God knows what!

Sol Grosskoph: Despite having been on the FBI's radar for a considerable amount of time and Ed testifying that he agreed to buy a stolen painting, Manet's The Soldier, he maintained his innocence. A battery of highly paid lawyers stymied every attempt to indict him, bring him to trial or allow any investigation of his residence. Investigators were also unable to inspect his business locations, art purchases, past or present, private or through major auction houses. His tremendous wealth allowed him to retain the very best legal minds and make increasing charitable contributions to museums and art institutions of all kinds. This included a donation of $7 million to complete the Contemporary Wing at Ringland in return for it being named in his honor.

After Candace wrote an article about the Grosskoph Wing in The Daily Brush, she was surprised a week after it appeared when a delivery truck pulled up in front of their house. (It was no longer just Ed's house.) The driver used his hand-truck to wheel in 75 pounds of fresh macadamia nuts. She Googled to find out how long shelled macadamia nuts would remain fresh: two to four weeks in the pantry, six months in the refrigerator and nine to 12 months in a freezer.

She found a nice used freezer on Craig's List for $100, and she and Ed are still enjoying them. Zen and Zoe have decided that they like the nuts better than Perfect Pussy Treats. The nagging question for the happily married pair is what to do when the macadamia nuts run out, given the disparity in cost between the Perfect Pussy Treats and the nuts.

Kip Mason: As noted, he had to return the commissions he earned to the museum. He was also forced to sell his new Cadillac but the board of directors wanted to keep the affair as quiet as possible and had no desire to pursue the matter. The board members are busy finding artwork for the new Grosskoph Wing and looking for a new director to replace Web.

Ed and Web testified that they knew Kip made “the offer Web could not refuse” under duress and in fear of his life. He showed the limericks he received to the FBI and to Chief Braxton as evidence of his predicament.

Kip tried to reach his partner, Elmer Pear, at the cell phone number and e-mail address they had used to communicate when he was on the road. Both had been disconnected. To Elmer's credit, he did contact their bank and request his name be removed from all accounts. He sent the stock certificates for his part of the business to Kip in a plain brown envelope with a Russian postmark. He withdrew nothing from the bank. As part owner of the gallery corporation, he could have emptied the accounts of both shares. Kip is now full owner of the Pear and Mason gallery.

“Why don't you become my partner in the gallery?” he asked Ed in an email. “We'd only have to change one letter on the sign.”

Ed is considering this offer. You'll have to read the next Zen and Zoe mystery in the series to learn of his decision.

Candace Topping-Lear: She never had to cover another Garden Club event. After her prize-winning series of articles on Art Theft, Fakes and Forgeries in the mansion on Hermosa Key, the editor of The Daily Brush, Brad Benjamin, took her from the Feature editor's grasp, doubled her salary and assigned her to head up investigative reporting. She is now working on a local bribery article exposing her ex- boss, the Feature editor, for taking kick-backs from local advertisers for running stories about their businesses.

To the delight of her husband, her by-line often appears above the fold on the paper's front page despite preferring to find her already below the fold in their king size bed when he returns late from selling art. Zen and Zoe, usually welcome on the bed, are in the guest room with large dishes of tuna and a few macadamia nuts for dessert.

Ed Lear: He took a week off to spent it with his beloved Candace at their favorite bed and breakfast where they enjoyed baby lamb chops, POOIE Fweezay (Number 53) until they lost track. When they got into Ed's car to return home, there was a note taped to the steering wheel:

 “Limericks for you aren't the same. 

No change in the cast - just the game.

You'll find our fresh start
Will be more than just art,

And all that has passed will seem tame.”

Signed: Guess Who

Stolen Art, Fakes and Forgeries in the Mansion on Hermosa Key

 “A fake is an exact copy of an existing work, which is being passed off as the original. A forgery is a unique work done in the style of a known artist and passed off as being by that artist. One duplicates an existing composition, the other mimics the style.” - The Valley Advocate: The Art of Forgery by Colette Loll, director and founder of Art Fraud Insights.

In an article in the Huffington Post entitled What Happens to Confiscated Art 'Fakes? Lynne Chaffinch, program manager for major art thefts at the FBI, stated that when the FBI recovers a stolen or fake work of art, “in most cases, all we can do is return it.”

Sometimes agents advise an owner that the work is a counterfeit. This puts the onus on that person to not represent the work as authentic, if it is sold again. But questionable works in both authenticity and ownership, “tend to pass through various hands” before anyone alerts law enforcement about the crime, she noted.

There are two federal agencies in the U.S. that handle cases of counterfeit art. That's because most such cases involve crossing state lines and “multiple jurisdictions.” Most of the charges involve “mail fraud, which is advertising in a publication or otherwise making a fraudulent solicitation through the mail, or wire fraud using the telephone for the same purpose.” While the FBI handles cases that involve wire fraud, which agency ultimately investigates a case depends on who receives the complaint first.

“There is no federal statute against intentionally selling counterfeit property, such as artwork,” the article stated. “While there are laws at the local level, those law enforcement agencies rarely investigate complaints involving faked works of art.

“New York City, for instance, has laws against schemes to defraud, criminal possession of a forged instrument and larceny under false pretenses, and the penalties are more severe than under federal mail and wire fraud statutes.”

A person can be charged with “up to five years in prison” for mail fraud and up to 25 years for “larceny under false pretenses.” However, a spokesperson for the Office of the New York City District Attorney noted that law enforcement there has not pursued such a case in “more years than I recall, and I've been here a while.”

Manet's The Soldier: The FBI would have returned the painting to its original owner, if this story was not a work of fiction. Dr Bertalan Neményi, who died in New York in 1947, was a collector of works by progressive Hungarian masters in the period from 1910 to the 1940's. He collected paintings, drawings and prints, in that order. In addition, he had a number of fine contemporary foreign paintings. Part of this large collection was deposited with the Hungarian Commercial Bank of Pest and with the Hungarian General Credit Bank.

The chests were carried off by Soviet troops and only a couple of the works that were stolen have since been recovered. The Neményi Collection, with its many precious works, represented one of Hungary's biggest art losses. It is to be feared that the value of the material it contained has not been recognized by its custodians over the last decades. The collection contains many pastels, aquarelles and drawings that are susceptible to deterioration.

“The works were packed in many chests, passepartouts and portfolios. Nemenyi’s interests were later represented by Dr. Róbert Palágyi and Mme Pál Schwarz without success, the more so since the bulk of the collection was carried off by Soviet supply officers at the end of January 1945.”

Much looted art was recovered and reclaimed. However, despite the efforts of the American and other governments, many thousands of pieces of art were never recovered by their rightful owners. As late as 1994, 16 of the 40 top paintings were still missing.

“There are at least 100,000 works of art still missing from the Nazi occupation,” stated Philip Saunders, editor of Trace, the stolen art register.

In an ABC News article entitled The Most Valuable Works of Stolen Art No One Can Find, it noted, “According to the Art Loss Register, an international index of stolen works, there are 350,000 stolen works of art in the world. Once thieves realize they can't sell the paintings at auction or get paid a ransom fee without being caught, many try to obtain cash or collateral illegally”, said Chris Marinello, general counsel for The Register.

“The next thing is the art goes underground to the black market and trades among criminals at about five to 10 percent of its true value. We've seen art being traded for drugs, weapons, involved in the international terrorism trade, traded for antiquities,” Marinello said. “When criminals run out of options for making money off the art, they often put them in storage or hang them in private homes where they can stay for years without anyone realizing.” He added, “The world's most wanted stolen paintings are valued at more than $1 billion…”

******

If you have enjoyed reading Des$igned To Deceive, please consider leaving a review and recommending it to any lovers of Mysteries, Cats, Limericks or Art, in whatever order seems best to you. For an author, reviews are like pure gold! Any comments, suggestions or recommendations will be very much appreciated by the author and two very smart pussycats. They can be reached here assuming one of us is not asleep at, or on, the keyboard. If you are a member of a cat rescue organization, GOOD FOR YOU! Let me know, and I'd like to send you a “thank you for reading gift” if you will subscribe to OurWorldDickHarriso.com no cost, maybe some fun. And by all means, let us know if you'd like to see more Zen and Zoe Mysteries!

******

Personal Information and Links

Richard L. Harrison: Nokomis, FL, 34275 (Paradise on the Gulf)

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American Artist, Barter News, Barter News Int.

Color Q Connection, DZ Times, Home Life, House and Garden, Humor Press.com,

King Features Laff-A-Day, Leadership Journal, Motion Picture Exhibitor, 

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Shine, Stand Firm, Success, Venice Gondolier. 

Articles on the Internet

Are There Secrets for Selling Art 

Dying for a Laugh - or Vice Versa 

How Do You Spell $ucce$$?

The Feel Good Church – a Satire

The Mammoth Market Artists Often Overlook 

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Published Books

Are There Secrets For Selling Art? 

Designed to Deceive

How Do You Spell $ucce$$?

How I Managed NOT To Become Famous 

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The Mammoth Market Artists Often Overlook 

Turn Your Art Into Dollars

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Fun With Lim-R-Iddles One & Two Children's Answers to Everything

Make Me a Different Kind of Sandwich Book

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How to Price Digital Fine Art Prints by Barney Davey

Syndicated Newspaper Features

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Competitions

Blimericks, 2nd Prize (November 2006)

America’s Funniest Humor, Hon. Mention, (March, April and May 2006) 

Florida State Writing Competition, Hon. Mention, Non-Fiction (2006) 

Tiny Lights Publications Annual Essay Contest, Finalist (May 2006) 

America’s Funniest Humor, Semi-Finalist, (Jan. 2006)

1st Place in the Dan Howe Life History Writing Contest (2004)

1st Place, 3rd Place, Hon. Mention, USAF, ARDC Short Story Contest (1953)

Education

BFA Maryland Institute of Art (Post Grad) Johns Hopkins University (Post Grad)

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I'm a writer, blogger, podcaster, artist and cartoonist. 

Owner of Brightwater Activities dba: OurWorldDickHarrison.com 

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The exceptional drawings of Zen and Zoe on the cover are by: Katja Turnsek

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