Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO STOLE A BOOK
Police found no forced entry.
That bothered Catherine more than broken glass would have.
The gallery’s rear office door had been opened with a valid staff code.
Marcus.
Catherine.
Assistant manager Joel.
Two owners.
Cleaning contractor.
Alarm logs showed:
Code 0628.
Joel’s.
Joel swore he was home.
His apartment building camera placed him there.
So someone had his code.
Or someone had copied it.
The gallery changed every access credential.
Police took statements.
Adrienne arrived at 8:20.
Catherine saw him through the front window and nearly told Marcus not to let him in.
Then stopped.
Suspicion is not evidence.
She needed to remember that too.
Adrienne entered alone.
No Andrew Vale.
Good.
“What was taken?”
“The catalog.”
His face changed.
“You told him?”
“Who?”
“Police?”
“Yes.”
“No. I mean did you tell Marcus what you found last night?”
Catherine froze.
“How do you know I found something?”
Adrienne stared.
Then realized the mistake.
Silence.
Catherine’s entire body tightened.
“How do you know?”
He reached inside his coat slowly.
Pulled out his phone.
Opened an email.
From Lydia.
CC:
Adrienne Mercer.
Catherine looked at Lydia.
“You copied him.”
Lydia’s face tightened.
“He is connected to provenance records.”
“That was not your decision.”
“You said Mercer/Vance.”
“I said do not remove the patch.”
Lydia looked ashamed.
“You’re right.”
Good.
No defense.
Adrienne said:
“She sent only your subject line and asked if I knew what Daniel examined.”
Catherine read.
True.
No notebook image.
No detail.
Still.
“Then why did you ask if I told Marcus?”
“Because if the thief knew to take the catalog, someone knew it mattered.”
Fair.
“But why Marcus?”
“Because he had access.”
So did others.
Catherine crossed her arms.
“What are you not telling me?”
Adrienne looked toward the conservation room.
“A lot.”
“At least honest.”
“Yes.”
“Start.”
He took a breath.
“My grandfather, Henry Mercer, owned an Elias Vance painting called Summer House No. 2.”
“Not The Last Summer.”
“No.”
“Your father examined it.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“It was declared a copy.”
Catherine stared.
“By Daniel?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“By a committee after his preliminary examination.”
“What did Daniel say?”
Adrienne’s face hardened.
“He refused to sign the final report.”
There.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said he found something.”
“I know what my grandfather wrote.”
“What?”
Adrienne looked at her.
“That Daniel Turner was either incompetent or blackmailing him.”
Catherine went cold.
“My father did not blackmail anyone.”
“I am telling you what Henry wrote. Not what I believe.”
Important.
“Why would he write that?”
“Because Daniel told him the painting had been altered after Elias Vance painted it.”
“Support altered.”
Adrienne froze.
Catherine saw.
He did not know the exact wording.
Good.
She continued.
“My father wrote that.”
“Where?”
“His notebook.”
Adrienne’s eyes sharpened.
“Do you have it?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“No.”
A pause.
Then he nodded.
“Good.”
Again.
No demand.
Catherine almost hated how reasonable he kept being.
“What does ‘Rose knows’ mean?”
Adrienne’s face changed completely.
“You found Rose’s name.”
“Yes.”
He turned away.
Walked toward the front window.
For the first time, he looked less like a billionaire collector and more like a grandson.
“My grandmother left Mercer House when I was ten.”
Catherine waited.
“She moved to Maine.”
“Why?”
“Family story said grief.”
“Whose?”
“My father’s.”
“Your father died?”
“Yes. Car accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
Adrienne nodded.
“But I learned later Rose had been fighting with Henry for years over the Vance paintings.”
“What fight?”
“He believed Elias owed the family.”
“Why?”
“Because Henry financed him.”
Catherine frowned.
“Patron?”
“Something like that.”
“Something?”
Adrienne turned.
“Elias Vance was Rose’s brother.”
The room disappeared.
“What?”
“Half-brother.”
Catherine looked at the painting.
The woman on the steps.
Rose.
Painted by her brother.
Not a patron’s wife.
Family.
Adrienne continued.
“Elias was born Elias Vance Mercer.”
“No.”
“He dropped Mercer.”
“Why?”
“Henry.”
“His father?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Henry was his older half-brother.”
Catherine sat.
Family tree.
Rose and Elias shared mother.
Henry shared father? Wait.
Adrienne explained slowly.
Rose Mercer’s mother, Evelyn Vance, had Elias before marrying into the Mercer family.
Then later married Henry Mercer Sr. and had Rose?
No, Henry as older half-brother impossible if Rose grandmother and Henry grandfather are married. Need clarity. Let's fix structure.
Adrienne says Elias Vance was Rose's brother. Rose married Henry Mercer, Adrienne's grandfather. Henry believed Elias owed family because he financed him. So Henry is brother-in-law, not half-brother. Correct.
Catherine frowned.
“Then why did you say your grandfather financed him?”
“Because Henry married Rose. He paid for Elias’s first New York studio.”
“Then Elias owed him?”
“Henry thought so.”
“Did Elias?”
“Apparently not.”
That fit better.
“What happened to The Last Summer?”
Adrienne looked at painting.
“Elias gave it to Rose.”
“When?”
“Before he disappeared from public life.”
“So it was hers.”
“Yes.”
“Then why did Henry search for it?”
“Because Rose took it when she left.”
Catherine stared.
“That sounds simple.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Of course.”
“Henry claimed the Mercer Collection had paid for materials, studio rent, exhibitions. He believed all major works created during that period belonged to the collection.”
“Did Elias sign that?”
“We don’t know.”
“Then ownership dispute.”
“Yes.”
“And Rose?”
“She said Elias gave it to her personally.”
“Evidence?”
“A letter.”
“Where?”
“Missing.”
Of course.
Everything important in art history eventually becomes missing paper.
“What happened after she left?”
“She kept The Last Summer at the lake cottage in Maine for a while.”
“The cottage in the painting?”
“Yes.”
Catherine’s skin prickled.
“It exists.”
“Yes.”
“Who owns it?”
Adrienne looked at her.
“I do.”
Of course.
“Can I see it?”
He blinked.
“That is not what I expected you to ask.”
“I want to know whether the painting matches physical details a copyist might not know.”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
“Not alone.”
“Agreed.”
“With Lydia.”
“Yes.”
“And my lawyer when I get one.”
“Yes.”
“Not tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
His phone rang.
He ignored it.
Catherine’s did too.
Unknown number.
She answered.
“Catherine Turner?”
“Yes.”
“This is Mrs. Hammond.”
The antique vendor.
Catherine stood.
“Are you okay?”
“I think so.”
“What happened?”
“A man came to my house.”
Her blood went cold.
“What man?”
“He asked about the painting.”
Adrienne’s face hardened.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I sold it.”
“To me?”
“I didn’t say your name.”
Good.
“What did he want?”
“My uncle’s storage papers.”
“Do you have them?”
“I told him no.”
“Do you?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Catherine closed her eyes.
“Mrs. Hammond, please do not destroy anything.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Do not give them to anyone.”
“I won’t.”
Another pause.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“My uncle didn’t own that painting for years.”
Catherine’s pulse stopped.
“What do you mean?”
“I found a note in his storage ledger.”
Paper rustled.
“He got it in 2003.”
“From who?”
“Daniel Turner.”
The gallery disappeared.
Catherine stared at nothing.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Hammond sounded confused.
“It says: ‘D. Turner — painting and box. Hold until requested.’”
Box.
Catherine could barely speak.
“What box?”
“I don’t know.”
“There was a box with the painting?”
“I think so.”
“What happened to it?”
Mrs. Hammond was quiet.
Then:
“That’s why I called. I still have it.”
The police officer who took the gallery statement asked Catherine a simple question she could not answer.
“Who knew you owned the catalog?”
Catherine listed names.
Marcus.
Lydia.
Archivist.
Adrienne.
Andrew.
Maybe anyone in back office.
“Was it valuable?”
“Not financially.”
“How much?”
“Maybe forty dollars.”
He looked at her.
“Then whoever took it did not want the object.”
“No.”
“They wanted information.”
“Yes.”
The officer nodded.
“People steal secrets differently than jewelry.”
Catherine almost wrote that down.
Instead, she thought of Daniel.
He used to say restorers are detectives who are not allowed to arrest anybody.
At eleven, she went downstairs to gallery storage with Lydia.
Not because police needed her.
Because she wanted to reconstruct the book’s path.
She had placed it beside painting.
Marcus moved it to office.
Archivist used it.
Then locked cabinet.
Who knew cabinet?
Half the staff.
Nothing useful.
Catherine hated that.
Mysteries in stories always reward attention immediately.
Real life often gives you a list of people and no conclusion.
Lydia leaned against shelf.
“You think Adrienne did it.”
“I think he had motive to control information.”
“That is not same.”
“I know.”
“Marcus?”
“Same.”
“Me?”
Catherine looked at her.
“You forwarded my email.”
Lydia winced.
“Yes.”
“Without asking.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I was excited.”
Not sinister.
Human.
“I thought connecting Mercer immediately would help authenticate.”
“And maybe it did.”
“Yes.”
“And maybe it exposed information too early.”
“Yes.”
Both.
Lydia looked at painting through conservation-room glass.
“I spend my life telling interns to document before touching.”
She sighed.
“Then I got excited and touched the situation.”
Catherine smiled faintly.
“That is a very conservator apology.”
“It is all I have.”
Catherine accepted it.
Not because the choice had no consequences.
May you like
Because Lydia named the actual mistake.
That mattered more than a dramatic promise never to do anything wrong again.
