Chapter Twenty-Five

October 18

Lucien Kite Estate

L ucien Kite sat on the wildly uncomfortable money throne and greeted two visitors. He double-checked their names on the small writing pad. Abner Fitch was the scruffy historian—average height, average looks. One of the arms of the horned-rimmed glasses he wore had a safety pin protruding from the hinge. The other man, Winston Frobisher, didn’t have a job title. Kite understood; there wasn’t exactly a major in college for what Frobisher did. Cryptographer wasn’t quite right, nor was treasure hunter. The closest job title Kite could come up with was solver of riddles.

“Gentleman, please take a seat.”

The men complied, looking ill at ease.

“What have you discovered?”

Abner Fitch spoke for both of them. “It will come as no surprise that this will take some time. Almost a century has passed. There have been shifts in both landscape and language.”

“I’m not interested in what you haven’t discovered, Fitch. I want to know what progress you’ve made.”

“Of course.” Fitch stood and crossed to the painting.

It was a portrait of a woman in profile. The model sat nude on a riverbank, her waist-length dark hair cascading around her. She was wet from her swim—her skin dewy with droplets. Staring to her right, her hand reached out to something beyond the bounds of the canvas, her longing palpable.

Lucien Kite neither knew nor cared about art. This sad painting was no exception.

Fitch spoke like he was giving a lecture. “Painted in 1928 by the famed Spanish painter Francisco Tavarro, the painting is of an unnamed woman. Historians believe the subject is a young British aristocrat named Anne Covington. In 1926, Anne and her family moved to the Spanish coastal village where Tavarro lived, hoping the sea air would help Anne’s brother recover from tuberculosis.

“Tavarro was forty at the time and instantly developed an obsession with nineteen-year-old Anne. The Covington family encouraged the modeling work and art lessons the already famous painter offered, and soon, Tavarro and Anne were caught up in a torrid love affair. The family left the town in the spring of 1927, ending the affair and breaking Tavarro’s heart. Tavarro lived for ten years after Anne left, before jumping from a cliff to his death, and in all that time, he only painted one painting.” Fitch swung his arm to the artwork.

“Tavarro’s murals and landscapes hang in museums and civic venues worldwide. This piece is his only portrait. Measuring two feet by three, it is his smallest work, appropriately titled En Algún Lugar. Somewhere .”

Finch continued, “The work is a declaration of everlasting love to a woman he would never see again.”

Lucien Kite wasn’t interested in the painting for the love story. He wasn’t interested in its two million dollar price tag. It was bait.

“Note the poem the artist painted in the grass along the bottom.

Kite stepped closer and read it.

away from the world beneath the arching cliffs

in the blood-red sage beside the river

I find the riches all men seek but rarely find

beneath the laden vines, I am a king

Abner Finch pointed to the words. “Historians believe, I among them, that the artist was simply writing thoughts as they occurred to him while he painted his lover. That explains why the words are in English. Anne was British.”

Frobisher interrupted with a lift of his finger. “While I have no doubt that is correct, I find it noteworthy that Tavarro was a genius. After analyzing the words and structure, I’m convinced this is a carefully worded guide.”

“To where?” Kite asked, dubious.

Frobisher chuckled. “That is the question. I’m taking it apart by phrase, word, and letter.” He stood and joined his colleague at the painting. “There are the subtle references: the river, the arching cliffs, even the mention of the blood-red sage. Then there are more obvious hints—the words ‘seek’ and ‘riches.’ These are all clues.”

Kite could smell a swindle a mile away. If this guy was soaking him, it’d be the last job Frobisher ever pulled. Popping two aspirins, he made a get-on-with-it motion with his free hand.

“I am convinced that for centuries.” He paused for effect.

Kite half expected to hear a drumroll.

“People have been looking for the sapphire in the wrong place.”

“Really?”

“I’m still attempting to map Tavarro’s words.”

“Get me something by next week.”

Frobisher’s lips tipped in a condescending smirk. “If it were easy, Mr. Kite. Someone would have already done it.”

Kite ran a hand down his face. “Frobisher, I may not be in my limo, but I know when I’m being taken for a ride. If you think I’m a difficult client now, you should see me angry.”

Frobisher took an involuntary step back. “I’ll let you know when I have something actionable.”

Kite stood. “In the meantime, I’ll have it reframed. It’s not a bad-looking thing. At least she’s not one of those heifers from the old days.”

Fitch stepped in front of Frobisher and said, “No, don’t reframe it. You were lucky the painting was still in the original frame.” He ran his hand over the splintered wood along the left edge. “This damage could be significant. See how it’s mainly here and here.” Frobisher pointed to the top, then the bottom. “As if the painting had been hinged.” Then he added meaningfully, “Perhaps it was concealing a safe at some point.”

Kite stepped closer and examined the area Frobisher indicated. He was right. The intricately carved frame did indeed appear as though it had been connected to something else and then ripped away, splitting the wood.

“Is it possible Tavarro found the jewel? Had it in a safe and was robbed?”

“I think it’s improbable. News would have spread. Someone would have heard something.”

Kite blew out a relieved breath. “Yes, that’s true.”

Fitch said, “Let us keep investigating. The area’s topography has changed over the last century—cliffs have crumbled, the river has shifted. I’m confident with our combined knowledge base, we can solve the mystery.”

Kite led the men to the door. “Then get to it. If I wanted to pay someone to stand in my office and look pretty, I’d get a woman.”

Frobisher laughed awkwardly despite the fact that Kite wasn’t joking, and the two men left.

Kite stared at the painting long after their departure. Like the woman reaching out, beckoning her lover, Kite, too, desperately wanted something, or, more accurately, someone.

It was time to show The Lynx his latest acquisition.