The Thief of Hearts

  The Thief of Hearts

  Ripley Proserpina

  Contents

  1. The First Night

  2. The Second Night

  3. The Third Day

  4. The Fourth Day

  5. The Fifth Day

  6. The Sixth Day

  7. The Seventh Day

  8. The Eighth Day

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Books by Ripley:

  To Annie:

  For support, editing, and explosive ordinance disposal.

  1

  The First Night

  Director Lohse ignored Shira’s knock. Even through the thick wood, she could hear him, yelling at the person on the other end of the phone line. Shira laid her ear against the wood to hear better.

  “—I need the goddamned papers, Gottleib!”

  Shira jerked her head back and stepped away from the door. She wasn’t sure what it was Director Lohse wanted, but she had every suspicion it had to do with the upcoming auction at the Lohse and Gottleib House.

  A ball of nerves squeezed her stomach tight, and made the coffee she’d been drinking all day bubble warningly. This auction was Shira’s first, and what she’d been working toward since graduating with a Master’s of Fine Arts more years ago than she cared to count.

  Shira had painstakingly hand selected each piece going into this exhibit and auction. For the first time, her name would be identified as curator.

  Lohse and Gottleib House was a relatively new establishment, though the owners and co-directors, Bruno Lohse and Hermann Gottleib, were powerhouse brokers in the art world.

  When this curator job was advertised, the opportunity made her giddy with excitement. Still, she’d done her research about the owners before applying.

  Oh, she’d heard their names before, but she didn’t really know anything about them. A brief investigation into their backgrounds showed her this could be the break into the art world she was waiting for.

  The list of galleries where Lohse and Gottleib had worked, or negotiated art deals, blew Shira away. Some of the galleries were places she dreamed of visiting. While the artists for whom they brokered deals had sold out shows, results in commissions Shira couldn’t fathom.

  She backed down the hallway, her gaze on the director’s door. A breath of relief huffed out of her as she turned the corner.

  Had she thought being a docent at the Museum of Modern Art, and an assistant educational staff had prepared her for a job as curator? If so, she was a fool. What she’d observed hadn’t prepared her for the pressure of being solely responsible for a multimillion dollar art collection.

  “Forbidden.” The sign she’d helped design glared at her as she passed through the gallery on her way to her office. She’d been so excited about this collection.

  And then today had happened.

  Five wooden crates appeared at the gallery earlier in the day. Five crates of pieces she hadn’t prepared for, promoted, or researched.

  “Galleries need a gimmick, Ms. Rose,” Director Lohse had sneered. How had she overlooked the sneering during her interview? “Ours will be the surprise appearance of art.”

  Shira sat on her rolling chair and pulled herself to her desk to stare at the file folders.

  There were seven days left until the auction, and Lohse expected her to seamlessly integrate the pieces he’d procured into her catalogue.

  Her cell phone blazed to life, ring tone blaring so it could be heard over trucks, and drills, and construction sounds that could drown it out in the gallery.

  “Shit!” Shira clapped her hand over her heart. As the name appeared on the screen, her stomach sank. Nerves that had already been strung tight vibrated and snapped. Her fingers trembled as they hovered over the phone, but she forced herself to answer. “Hello?”

  “Shira? Where are you? You don’t like my latkes anymore?”

  A throb began behind her left eye and she pressed her thumb against her temple. “Hi, Grandma.”

  “The sun is down, the table is set, and you’re not here. Is my granddaughter, the girl I’m so proud of, on her way to light the menorah with her aging grandparents? ‘No,’ my daughter tells me. ‘She’s working late. Too busy at her job.’” In the background, Shira heard a groan, clearly her mother’s.

  “I’m sorry, Grandma. I have so much to do. This is my first—”

  “Yes, yes. So important. I understand, but I’d hoped your mother was wrong. ‘Somehow,’ I said to myself, ‘my granddaughter will find a way.’ I even saved a place for you at the table.”

  Shira dropped her head to her desk, rolling her forehead against the wooden end. She had a feeling when she lifted it, she’d have a line imprinted into her skin, but she didn’t care. “I’m so sorry, Grandma. I’ll try to be there tomorrow.”

  “Oh, it’s fine, my love. I don’t want you to get in trouble. Work is important. We’ll be here when you’re not too busy for us anymore.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, stupidly. There was nothing else for it. She deserved every bit of guilt her grandma was heaping onto her head. Though, in less exhausted and anxious moments, she’d probably recognize the woman was pushing some of the limits on the guilt tonight. Yes, it was the first night of Hanukkah, and yes, she usually gathered with all of her family to light the menorah, but even her mother hadn’t balked when she’d explained the situation.

  “I love you, sweetie. Happy Hanukkah.”

  “Happy Hanukkah, Grandma,” Shira replied tiredly.

  Her grandmother hung up, and she blinked. In front of her, the file folders containing the provenances of the artwork Lohse had delivered seemed to pulse. Deal with me, they said. You know you have to.

  Provenance papers came with every piece of artwork Shira had ever encountered. She’d spent much of her time in graduate school poring over them, tracing the chronology from artist to owner, to gallery, to museum—all to establish that the piece was what people claimed.

  In seven days, every piece of art the director had laid at her door would go up for auction. And its provenance would need to be airtight.

  The theme of the auction was “Forbidden.” Shira’s catalogue contained pieces of artwork that had all been censored at one time or another.

  She’d been so proud of it.

  Not only had she managed to acquire paintings, but she’d had some unique pieces as well—a handwoven prayer shawl hidden by a Jewish family as they fled from Russian pogroms. An original photograph of Diego Rivera in front of his mural Man at the Crossroads, before it was taken down by Nelson Rockefeller because it included an image of Lenin.

  But these? The pieces Lohse had laid at her feet and told her to include? She had no idea what they were or where they came from. She didn’t know how they would integrate into her theme, or if they did at all.

  With a groan, she dropped her head to the desk again, lifted it once, and let it fall.

  “Ms. Rose!” Her door swung open, hitting the back wall.

  “Yes?” Shira spun to face Director Lohse. “Yes, Sir?”

  “You have five of eight provenances on your desk, correct?”

  Without looking, she nodded. She’d counted the files, but hadn’t opened them. “Yes, Director.”

  “Have you opened them?” Director Lohse was a tall, imposing man. His gray hair was short, cut and styled perfectly, and his broad shoulders stretched the seams of his suit. He was an aging cover model, a prime example of how wealth translated into health.

  He made her feel dumpy and awkward, even though she’d long ago accepted her looks and was pleased with what she saw in the mirror before leaving every day. Yes, she may be short, but she could edge around people without them noticing her when she got
on the subway every morning. And no, her nose was not pert or buttony, but it was her father’s nose, and no one loved her or cared for her the way Dad did.

  Without thinking, Shira ran her hand through her straight, black hair before smoothing her palms over her black skirt. “Not yet,” she finally answered.

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Make sure everything is organized. Those pieces I brought in could be the difference between this collection selling or flopping.”

  It took all of Shira’s strength not to lash out at the man. Her collection was already getting good word of mouth. Just this morning she’d sat down with a Times reporter to talk about the catalogue, and the excitement it had generated. The reporter had questioned, rightly, the connection she’d made between the country’s current political unease and censorship.

  Shira had no doubt that even without the added pieces, the gallery would pull in plenty of money.

  Director Lohse had nothing to worry about.

  Peering at him closer, she considered the man in front of her. A bead of sweat dripped down his temple, and onto the collar of his shirt, and his chest rose and fell rapidly, as if he’d run to her office.

  “Are you all right, sir?” she asked.

  “Of course.” He narrowed his steely gray eyes and turned on his heel. “Get that work done, Shira. Or I’ll find someone else who will.”

  He didn’t bother closing the door. Spinning on the heel of his expensive-as-hell shoes, Lohse didn’t waste another moment on her, merely strode down the hall and out of sight.

  Asshole. But Shira shook her head. It didn’t matter whether or not she liked her boss.

  The art world was fickle and sensitive. She’d had plenty of practice dealing with temperamental artists and anxious owners who wanted to make sure the piece they had to sell ended up in the right hands. Why then, did Director Lohse’s attitude bother her so much?

  Perhaps Hermann Gottleib, the owner she’d only met once, at her interview, would put her at ease. Lohse had yelled at him over the phone. Maybe it was just the sort of person Lohse became when he was under pressure.

  Reaching for the cup of coffee on her desk, Shira sighed. The mouthful of dark roast was cold, but she made herself swallow. She was going to be here late, even later than she thought, with these new files to go through.

  Shira opened the first and gasped. A glossy photograph of the painting gleamed at her. It was beautiful, and in no way fitting with the rest of the collection.

  Pale pinks, blues, grays, and greens smudged in a series of quick strokes that identified the piece as Impressionist.

  It was a stretch to call works by artists like Monet, or Pissarro, forbidden. Sure, the Impressionists were rejected by The Salon, which in the eighteen hundreds was the greatest art event in the Western world. But that wasn’t the end for them. Some of the painters had been able to find rich patrons, and sold enough of their work see a profit.

  How the hell was she supposed to fit this into the auction?

  It wasn’t that the paintings wouldn’t sell. Impressionist pieces brought in millions of dollars. Christie’s, the famous auction house, had had five bidders locked in a war for a Monet which eventually sold for over eighty million dollars.

  This piece, if she wasn’t wrong, was one of Camille Pissarro’s. With shaking fingers, she turned over the photograph and skimmed the provenance.

  1881: Given by Pissarro in lieu of medical fees to Dr. Charles Pinot.

  1915: Sold to Georges Porak, Paris.

  1932: 4 January, sold via Pietor Menten, Dublin and Saint-Tropez.

  1946: By descent to Sir Clifford and Lady Guinton.

  1993: Bought by Dirk Joel.

  Shira actually felt her brain screech to a halt. Quickly, she reviewed the provenance again and closed the folder. Shit. She grabbed the next file, opened it, and choked on her spit. Shaking, she took another sip of cold coffee.

  The photograph showed a modernist painting. Done in beige, crimson, and black, a woman’s stark profile stared at her. She recognized the woman. It was the German artist Elfriede Lohse-Wächtler, who had been murdered by the Nazis for being mentally ill.

  Shira read the title of the piece, Arnsdorfer Heads. She’d never heard of this painting, and the artist was one of her favorites. Both because of her honest, stripped down portraits, but also her tragic story.

  1927: Sold by artist to Hamburger Kunsthalle Museum.

  1953: Sold via Pietor Menten, Dublin and Saint-Tropez to H. Princehorn, Heidleberg, Deutschland.

  Shira’s heart pounded in her chest. Manically, she thumbed through the rest of the provenances and then sat, staring sightlessly at the pile of folders on her desk.

  Was it her imagination, or did each of those provenances have a very significant gap in their chronology?

  “Shira!” Director Lohse stormed into her office, a stack of files under his arm. Imperiously, he thrust them toward her and she had to grab them, or let them drop to the floor. “These are the correct files. The ones on your desk are incomplete.”

  Her shoulders slumped in relief. She hoped Lohse didn't see her hands tremble as she gathered the files to hand to him. “I hoped so,” she said, and laughed nervously.

  “Why do you say that?” The director cocked his head to the side, staring at her. He suddenly seemed to loom larger, crowding her in the small office. All at once, she was aware of being the only one left in the gallery.

  “The dates.” Damn her voice for shaking. “There is a significant gap in the chronology that would raise the suspicions of any art collector.”

  He blinked, and then his entire body relaxed. He smiled, actually smiled, and shrugged. “Hence the ones now in your hand. All the gaps have been filled with verifiable information. I would hate for the provenance papers to raise any sort of suspicion. Especially with this being our first event.”

  “Of course not,” she replied. His name was on the gallery. No wonder he’d been irate at his partner about these incomplete papers. She opened the file, reading the provenance and reviewing some of the information.

  Signed certificate of authenticity from an authority she recognized?

  Check. Exhibition stickers attached to the art? It was a photograph, but she could verify that when she saw the piece, so check.

  A written statement from the artist, Pissarro, stating he’d sold the piece to the gallery, yes. Check.

  And finally, the names of the previous owners, along with gallery receipts, filled in the gap between 1933 and 1945.

  Shira let out a sigh of relief. It looked like everything was in order. She’d need to do research on each of these pieces of evidence, but for now, it was good.

  “I’ll get right to work on these, but you should be prepared to hold some of the pieces if the provenance can’t be verified—” She spoke while reading, but happened to glance up at the director, and stuttered to a stop.

  His body seemed to vibrate with anger, but as soon as he saw her face, he relaxed. “I’m sorry,” he said right away, and raked his hand through his hair. “I’m anxious about the auction, and on edge. I don't normally get so riled up.”

  Ignoring the pit in her stomach, she nodded. “I understand. It’s a stressful time.”

  “Why don’t you go home, Shira,” he said. “I’m only going to get crankier as the night goes on. Get some rest and come in early. I want these pieces in the catalogue by Tuesday’s auction.”

  Shira glanced at the work piled on her desk before meeting Lohse’s gaze. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” As if to punctuate his words with actions, he reached for her coat on the back of the door and held it out to her. Recognizing a dismissal when she saw one, Shira stood. Once it was on, Lohse handed her the soft purple scarf she’d paired with her coat and waited for her to wrap it around her neck.

  Though she wanted him to wave goodbye, Lohse walked next to her as she headed toward the exit. He pushed open the heavy wooden door, and smil
ed. “I just remembered, it’s the first night of Hanukkah, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” Digging in her pocket to find her gloves, she nodded distractedly.

  “You’re Jewish, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “I am,” she said. Something about his tone, something dry and exhausted, caused her to glance up at him. His face was serene though, not at all like his voice.

  “Happy Hanukkah.” He smiled and shut the door, locking it behind her.

  Shira glanced at her watch. She was going to be late, but she might still have time to make it to her grandparent’s house before her parents left.

  Decision made, she hurried down the quiet city street toward home.

  2

  The Second Night

  “Director Lohse…” Shira rubbed her forehead with one hand, while the other clutched her phone so tightly, the plastic case creaked. “Director, I’m sorry, but I don’t see how these pieces are going to be ready in time for the auction. I’m doing everything I can, but I’ve only made it through two of the eight provenances.”

  A blast of static over the line made her jerk her head back. “Shira—I swear to God and all that’s holy if you don’t get your ass in gear, finish this in time, you’ll be fired before you can—” His diatribe was interrupted by someone, and he cut off abruptly. “Do it, Shira. I don’t care how many hours it takes. You don’t leave that gallery until it’s finished. Got it?”

  Shira had returned to the gallery that morning only to be greeted by utter chaos. The paintings and sculptures from yesterday, the ones whose provenances she hadn’t had time to certify, had already been hung and displayed. Apparently in the six hours she’d slept, Lohse had ordered new catalogues, emailed buyers, and notified the papers about their new acquisitions.