When I left the meeting, the first call I made was to Tackle.
“I need your help with something.”
“Shoot.”
“Take a deeper look into her and her parents’ background. I’m looking for possible siblings.”
“Copy that. I’ll get back to you with what I find.”
My second call was to Striker. There were several organizations I wanted information from, and he’d be able to disseminate it more quickly than I could.
One thing that made no sense to me was why no one from the US had come forward saying they too purchased forgeries from Emsworth. News that he was a wanted man had certainly made the headlines. It stood to reason that many, particularly in New York City’s social circles, would have fallen victim to his scam. Yet, there hadn’t been a single one.
The victims were scattered across Europe, but that appeared to be it. No one had come forward from wealthier middle-eastern countries, Russia, or China. In all of those cases, whether a single victim came forward or not, by now, the CIA would have gotten word of an international hunt for Emsworth. So why only Europe?
“An AISE informant believes the forger is someone close to Emsworth,” I told Striker. “They believe there is a familial connection.”
“We’ve run background—”
“Dig deeper. Nieces, nephews, cousins…” I ended the call before I could let my anger get the better of me. I needed something—anything—that would point toward someone other than Tara being the forger.
When I returned to the farmhouse, I found Tara outside, painting. There were several canvases lined up, resting against the low stone wall that surrounded the terrazza. Each looked as though she’d done a small amount of work and then abandoned them.
“What are these?” I asked after giving her a kiss that let her know being away from her for only a few hours was agony.
“I’m painting with oils today. I haven’t for quite a while, so I need practice. Plus, they have to dry a bit before I do more.”
The colors on the unfinished pieces were so different than her watercolors. They were darker, more like the Gothic work we’d seen at San Marcos.
“Oh, Pia came down earlier. She asked if I could work in the tasting room for a few hours once you returned from Florence.”
I had research to do, but there was no reason I couldn’t do it from the winery.
“Of course,” I muttered, looking back at the unfinished paintings.
“Great. I’ll just clean up.”
It took over a half hour for Tara to “clean up,” which was a grueling process, involving foul-smelling liquids.
“Is this stuff toxic?” I asked, studying the can that held the solution.
“Probably. It could be why so many of the masters eventually went mad. Although, today’s dissolvents, I’m sure are more environmentally friendly.”
“Environment? What about to humans?”
“I certainly wouldn’t drink it.”
“I’m not sure I’m a fan of oil painting.”
Tara shrugged. “Every medium is fraught with something that makes the process difficult. I admit that when we were at the Accademia Gallery, I was inspired to paint the way people like da Milano, Michaelangelo, and Cennino did. A challenge, if you will.”
“Have you ever tried copying their work?”
She cocked her head. “It’s not an uncommon practice for students.” She pointed over to the terrazza. “That’s what all those are.”
“I thought you were an art history major.”
Her eyes scrunched. “I was. I also took painting classes.”