“Pack up,” John told Mrs. Stafford. Like it or not, he’d agreed to accompany his wife to Africa for a Serengeti shoot if there was no story. He didn’t even have a picture of his subject after 1938: Gilletto’s portrait was a copy of the younger copy of the man himself.
***
Jocelyn looked up from her desk when the shop bell announced a customer. Strange for a Monday morning. Artisan Auction was more of a warehouse than a retail outlet. She’d direct the elderly man in the pale gray suit and black fedora to Antique Row. She pressed the lock button that secured the metal gate separating the office area from the storage area, and walked towards him. “Good morning”
“I’m looking for Mister Arlington.”
“I expect him back about three this afternoon.”
“He attended an estate sale in Los Angeles Saturday. Lot 156.” She felt her heart jump. “You haven’t sold anything yet, I hope . . .”
“Which part of the lot are you inquiring about?” His response was predictable.
“The Gilletto paintings.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time Arlington was sold something by mistake. “If you’ll leave your paperwork, I’ll see that he gets it as soon as he comes in.”
“But have you sold anything?”
“No.” She hadn’t. She’d bought something.
“Litigation shouldn’t be necessary then.” He handed her copies of the Last Will and Testaments of Natalia Casparino and Nicholas Borghese. “My uncle inherited my father’s paintings when my mother passed. They’re mine now.”
“Gilletto was your father?”
The man hesitated before nodding yes. “I’m the youngest son.”
She knew estate claims had to be honored. Auction houses often bought in bulk and sometimes there were mistakes—one man’s junk is another’s treasure. As long as ownership was established, and the property returned, there was no problem. All she had to do was retrieve her check and return the portrait. She paper clipped his business card, and a copy of his I.D. to the copies of the wills, and put them in a folder. “I’ll get in touch with him as soon as possible. Do you have a cell number?”
She locked up as soon as he left, and headed home. The Lopez’ dog howled her a welcome as she bounded up the stairs, and Mrs. Boyle yelled, “Shut that mutt up!” That’s when the first tear fell. Why? Because the unemployment rate had climbed to eight percent? Because California was in another drought? Hardly. She brought the Gilletto into the living room. She called Trey. She’d meet him at noon and treat him to lunch. Why did she feel she was parting with something priceless? She knew something about art. The dashing pose. The romantic costume. Those dazzling eyes and the wry smile. Still, the painting she slid into the picture case wasn’t worth the twenty-five dollars she paid for it. But the man?