rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_24873dff-ee5f-574a-8ec8-7129dd9316bb">Chapter Three
“I know Taylor West’s work well,” the art dealer said when Laramie called. “Who did you say gave you my name?”
“Local Realtor McKenzie Sheldon Cardwell. She said she’s worked with you before.”
“Oh, yes, McKenzie,” Herbert Darlington said. “You have a painting you’d like me to authenticate?”
“If you can.”
Darlington made an unpleasant sound. “If it is a true Taylor West work, I will be able to tell at once. When would you like me to take a look at it?”
“I’m parked outside your gallery right now.”
The gallery was in a narrow building along the main street of Bozeman. Laramie had driven the forty-five miles first thing that morning. He was anxious to know about the painting. Even more anxious to know about the woman who’d gotten away.
Golden light shone on the paintings on the old brick walls of the gallery as he entered. He looked for any by Taylor West and saw several of Native Americans as well as one of cowboys. This one, though, was a cattle drive filled with longhorns and cowboys driving the herd through a canyon. It looked so real he could almost smell the dust the cattle were kicking up.
“Bring it back here,” Darlington said motioning to a door at the back. The man was short and thick with thinning hair above a round red face. He wore a dark suit like an undertaker and sported a narrow black mustache above narrow thin lips.
Without another word, Darlington took the framed painting from him and moved over to a table. He snapped on a light, pulled on a pair of glasses and bent over the artwork.
“Where did you get this?” he asked after a moment.
“I picked it up from an unknown source.”
Darlington shot him a look over one shoulder before returning to the painting. “It’s quite good.”
“But it’s not a Taylor West.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Laramie waited impatiently as the man pulled out a magnifying glass and went over the entire painting again. So much for being able to tell at a glance.
After a few minutes, Darlington let out a sigh, took off his glasses, snapped off the light and turned. “It’s an original Taylor West.”
Laramie let out a laugh as he raked a hand through his hair. How was that possible? How did any of this make sense? It didn’t. “You’re sure?”
The art expert gave him a pained, insulted look. “I’m guessing you picked it up for a song.”
“Something like that.” He reached for the painting.
“So you’re interested in selling it,” Darlington said. “I suppose I could make you an offer.”
“It’s not for sale.” He reached again for the painting and this time the gallery owner handed it over, though reluctantly.
“I would be happy to authenticate it for you in writing,” the gallery owner said.
Laramie wondered if he’d authenticated the one now hanging in the house he hoped McKenzie was getting for him. “I’ll think about it.” The art dealer walked him toward the front door.
Just then a tall, thin older man with a shoulder-length mane of white-blond hair and a handlebar mustache came in on a gust of wind. He looked like something out of an Old West movie.
“Cody can verify what I’ve told you,” Darlington said.
Laramie eyed the man, wondering if he was also considered an art expert.
“Cody Kent is another of our Western artists,” the gallery owner said. Then he turned to Cody. “Mr. Cardwell brought in a Taylor West painting. He was questioning its authenticity.”
“Really?” Cody tilted his head to look at the painting in Laramie’s hand as Darlington explained to him that while this was a one-of-a-kind piece, apparently there was another one owned by another collector.
That definitely got the man’s attention. “So you’re saying one of them is a forgery?”
“I’d stake my reputation that this is the original,” Darlington said, puffing himself up. “Do you agree?”
Laramie handed the man the artwork and watched him as he inspected it. He noticed that the man’s hands seemed to tremble as he stared at it.
The artist handed it back. “Sure looks like the real thing to me.” Cody Kent’s gaze met his. “Where did you get it?”
“Just picked it up recently,” Laramie said. He took it back from the older man. “Glad to hear you both agree it is an authentic Taylor West.”
As he headed for the door, Darlington followed. “Well, if you decide to get rid of it...”
Laramie shook his head but then stopped just short of the door to ask, “How much would you say it’s worth?” He noticed that Cody Kent had moved to one of the paintings on display only yards from them, clearly listening to the conversation.
Darlington seemed to give a price more thought than was necessary since he’d just offered to buy it. “I could give you...thirty,” he said, keeping his voice down.
“Thirty?”
“Thirty thousand,” Darlington said. “It would be more but it’s an older piece. His work has improved over the years.”
Was that right? Laramie smiled to himself. From what he’d seen online last night, artists’ older work appeared to have more value—especially if the artist was now dead. Taylor West was still kicking, apparently, but Laramie suspected the painting must be worth a lot more that what he was being offered.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll keep it,” he said as he tucked it under his arm. “It has...sentimental value.”
* * *
SID PUT ON clean jeans and a sweater to go to the grocery store. Often she went in her paint-streaked pants and shirts. Anyone who paid any attention was aware that she painted since she spent most Saturdays at the local craft show selling her wares.
Not her paintings, but haphazardly done Montana scenes on everything from old metal saw blades and antique milk cans to ancient tractor parts and windmill blades. Amazingly, her crafts sold well, which proved to her that most people didn’t know the difference between good art and bad.
But today she wanted to fly under the radar. No reason to call attention to herself as an artist. It might be too risky if the man from last night was still in town. She knew she was being silly. He’d probably completely forgotten about her.
She assumed he would have gone to the marshal last night with a story about her robbing that house. Since the painting wouldn’t be missing, she wasn’t worried.
Her only regret
