Myron did not laugh, just stole a glimpse of Darwin from the corner of his eye. “Too bad I can’t be everywhere, or that everyone can’t be as organized as I am.”
“Riiight,” the detective drawled. “So our first item is a pair of torchères—am I saying that right? Torchères. Anyway, the catalog says these are circa eighteenth century French, bronze and partly gilt, approximately thirty-five inches tall.”
“Torchères?” Darwin echoed, and turned a puzzled look to Myron. “Would those be the Gilles Joubert pair? From the Hamblen collection?”
“The catalog says Potter collection,” the detective clarified.
Myron rubbed his palms on the knees of his cords as he thought about it. “Must be Joubert,” he said to Darwin, then to the detective, “You should find them at the Lindsey House in Newport. These things get moved around from time to time, depending upon the exhibits.”
“I’ll make a note of that,” the detective said, and squinted at the paper again and shook his head. “But they weren’t in the Lindsey House, either.”
“No?” Myron asked, and looked at Darwin, shrugging. “Maybe they were stolen. I’d have to go back and check my records, but you know we’ve had the thefts down on the shore. I suppose I could have overlooked them.”
“Would you mind checking?” the detective asked, his smile completely gone now.
“Sure, no problem.” Myron pulled a little notebook from his back pocket, made a quick note, and cleared his throat.
“The second item,” the detective continued, “is a circa sixteenth century Venetian enameled and gilt-edged hand-painted fruit bowl.”
“Oh, yes,” Myron said. “From the Botwick House.”
“Except that it’s not at the Botwick House,” the detective responded, and lifted his gaze to look directly at Myron. “Amazing memory you have.”
“Not really. I just remember it from the forklift incident,” Myron said, rubbing his palms on his knees again. “It was one of the items we moved after the crash. It’s probably in a cabinet. I’ll have a look tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Detective Keating said. “Oh yeah, here’s another . . . a Joseph Badger portrait. The catalog says it is a ten-by-ten inch portrait entitled Colonial Woman.”
“Oh yes,” Darwin said proudly. “That is one of our very best examples of early American art, donated by the Pierpont family. It’s in the Pierpont House, isn’t it, Professor?”
“The Pierpont House?” Myron asked, shifting his gaze from the detective to Darwin. “I don’t think so,” he said, and winced inwardly at the sight of Darwin’s brows raising nearly to his hair.
“It’s not?” Darwin echoed incredulously.
“There was a corner of it,” Myron said, “a smidge of the painting that needed restoration. Just a smidge—nothing to diminish the value. So I sent it out for restoration.”
“Could you get it back?” Detective Keating asked.
“Of course. It usually takes about six weeks—”
“I meant today,” the detective said with a deceptively soft smile.
Myron laughed as if that was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. “Today? I . . . I, ah, I don’t think— The thing is, I had another assistant curator handle it. I will have to ask him. And you know it’s really hard to get these things back in the middle of a restoration process.”
“So . . . how soon could you get it back?” the detective pressed.
“Well, restoration takes time, Detective,” Myron said, rubbing his palms on his pants again. “I’m not really sure. I’ll have to ask about it.”
“Could you let me know when you know?” the detective asked, and Myron nodded. Detective Keating smiled and closed his file. “Thanks so much. That would be a great help.” He put the file in his briefcase and came to his feet, then stood up, leaning over the desk to shake Darwin’s hand. “I really appreciate your assistance in this,” he said, and turned to shake Myron’s clammy hand. “And yours, Professor. I don’t think we could do this job without you.”
“No problem.”
“I’m sure we’ll be talking,” he said, and walked to the door, but paused there for a moment and glanced at Myron over his shoulder. “By the way, who did you say the assistant curator was who sent the Badger painting to be restored?”
“Ah . . .” Myron scratched his head for a moment. “I didn’t. I’ll have to look in the files in my office.”
“So much for that memory, too, then, huh?” Detective Keating laughed.
“Right,” Myron said, forcing a laugh. “I’ll look it up and give you a buzz, how’s that?”
“That would be great,” the detective said, and with a half salute, half wave, he strolled out of Darwin’s office.