Who Are You? (9780307823533) (19 page)

“He says come now,” Gurtz repeats.

I sigh. I do owe it to Mr. Merson to let him know what I told Sergeant Balker. “Okay,” I say to Gurtz. “I’ll be at his house in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

As soon as I hang up, I call Sergeant Balker to leave a message, but he answers the phone himself.

“Did you find out who sent the wine to Mr. Merson?” I ask him.

“Yes. Frederick told me. It’s a long-standing custom for the Royal Heritage Gallery to send a bottle of expensive wine every now and then to Merson. A friendly gesture? A way of ensuring that they keep his business? Frederick claims he didn’t know why.”

“Maybe it was to celebrate when they sold one of Mr. Merson’s paintings,” I suggest.

“It’s possible. Anyhow, it seems that Frederick has helped himself to some of the wine before. He knows a good thing when he sees it.”

I take a deep breath and say quickly, “Sergeant Balker, I think Alanna Chase is the one who has been trying to kill Mr. Merson.”

Before he can answer, I hurry to tell him what I’ve discovered about Ms. Chase’s not being in New York at the Pierre Hotel after all. I add, “And she
knew that Saturdays are Frederick’s days off. I think you should find her before she tries again.”

Someone says something to Balker. “Right now,” he answers the person. Then he says to me, “Gotta go, Kristi. You stay quiet and let us handle things. I’ll get back to you.” He hangs up.

Frustrated, I bang down the receiver, grab the car keys, and leave for Mr. Merson’s house. Again I park out on the street and walk up the long drive.

Gurtz lets me in. “Where’s Frederick?” I ask.

“Out,” Gurtz answers.

“Is he feeling all right now?”

“Sure. Go on upstairs. Mr. Merson wants to see you.”

I keep my eyes on the stairs. I don’t dare look at the paintings as I pass them. Mr. Merson’s door stands open, but I hesitate.

As Mr. Merson glances up from his chair by the fireplace, he gives a start. Then he beckons me to come in. I walk to the chair opposite him, but I don’t sit down. I’d rather remain standing. Behind me I hear the door closing. Gurtz is giving us privacy. Good. That will make it easier to tell Mr. Merson what I think.

He reaches for his pad of paper and pencil, but I speak before he has a chance to write.

“I have to be honest with you,” I say. “I was in your studio yesterday. I saw the Chagall you’re copying. I know you’re a forger.”

Quickly Mr. Merson shakes his head. He writes, “I paint reproductions of beautiful paintings. I am not a forger.”

I repeat what Ms. Montero had told me. “It’s
forgery if you intend to deceive people. And people who buy the paintings think they’re painted by the famous artists whose signatures are on the paintings.”

“I am fortunate to be highly talented,” he writes. “I know how to adopt the style and technique and spirit of a wide group of artists, such as Pissarro, Chagall, Kupka, and Picasso.”

He hands me a page, then continues to write. “But I simply paint the pictures. What happens to them later is no concern of mine. If a gallery or auction house misrepresents them as having been painted by someone else, then
they
are guilty. The guilt is not mine.”

“Don’t you add the fake signatures?”

“What does it matter who adds them? They can be added by anyone who has access to the finished paintings.”

“You’re cheating people.”

“On the contrary. I’m giving them what they want. Many people hang my reproductions in their homes. Even if they have doubts as to whether the paintings are originals, they pass them off as the real thing. Snob appeal is the main reason they bought the paintings.”

“But there are people who buy art as an investment. You’re cheating them,” I insist. “You’re committing a crime. You can go to prison for what you’re doing.”

He shakes his head, then gives me a strange smile. “Not for long,” he writes. “Not if I plea-bargain.”

I clamp my teeth together in frustration as I read
his words. I liked him at first. I sympathized with him. Now I’m disgusted. “I’m guessing that some government agency has been investigating forgeries,” I tell him. “The police? The FBI? Are they coming close to discovering what you’re doing? Are you going to give them the proof they want by placing all the blame on the Royal Heritage Gallery of Art?”

Mr. Merson shrugs and writes, “They took their chances.”

“So Ms. Chase is guilty too,” I begin, but I stop and think. What did Mr. Merson just say?
They
took their chances?

“Who is Ms. Chase’s partner?” I ask Mr. Merson.

I’m not surprised when he writes, “Landreth.”

“Where is Ms. Babson?” I ask.

Mr. Merson shrugs. Then he writes, “She quit. She didn’t return.”

“Did Frederick hire Gurtz?”

Mr. Merson shakes his head.

“Did Ms. Chase?”

“Landreth,” he writes.

I think of Gurtz’s phone call. “Tell me, Mr. Merson, why did you send for me this morning?” I ask.

For a moment he stares at me. Then he writes, “I didn’t.”

“But Gurtz said you did. He called me.”

Mr. Merson’s eyes slowly grow wide, as we both become aware of the same thing. I probably look every bit as scared as he does. “I’m sure that Landreth has been trying to kill you—probably with Gurtz’s help. I’ll telephone Sergeant Balker.” I
reach for the phone next to the bed, but the line is dead.

“Come on. Get up! Hurry!” I shout at Mr. Merson. “You and I have to get out of here!”

As he stumbles up behind me, I grab the door-knob. It doesn’t turn. Gurtz has locked the door.

I run to the fireplace and pull the poker from the stand at one side. I jab as hard as I can at the door frame, trying to split the wood and release the lock. But the strong smell of smoke stops me. Wisps of smoke begin to curl under the door and into the room.

“The house is on fire!” I cry out.

Mr. Merson beats on the door with one fist.

“It’s no good!” I yell at him. “Come with me! This way!”

I tug him roughly away from the door. It’s the only way I can get him to move. He cries out in pain.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, but we can’t go that way,” I tell him. “Come with me.”

I raise one of the windows. I’m not sure whether the rush of oxygen will give fuel to the fire. I just know we have to get out of that room in a hurry. “The roof of your patio is just a short drop,” I tell him. “Here. I’ll help you.”

Pulling and pushing, I manage to get Mr. Merson out the window and down on the patio roof. There’s a crackle behind me. I don’t dare turn to look. As soon as he’s settled, I practically dive out the window, landing beside him.

We work our way to the edge of the roof. Below
us is the deep end of the swimming pool. I can hear loud clacking overhead and, glancing up, see the whirling blades of a television news helicopter. And there are sirens in the distance. A neighbor must have seen and reported the fire.

I grip Mr. Merson, helping him to keep his balance. “The fire engines are coming,” I say. “They’ll help us.” But the noise of the fire grows louder, and I can feel its heat. Bursts of black smoke swirl around us. The fire’s spreading quickly. The porch roof is ablaze.

“Jump!” I shout at Mr. Merson. “Push out as you jump! The water’s deep enough!”

He tries to hang back. I grab his arm and force him to look at me. His eyes droop with agony. “You won’t drown,” I tell him. “I’ll take care of you. Jump!”

The roof shudders under our feet. He steps to the edge, pushes with his toes, and sails out over the pool.

At the same time, I hear a gunshot.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

I
’m terrified that Mr. Merson has been shot, but I have no choice. I leap out into the water too. In the air I’m a target. In the water we’ll both be unprotected targets. But the fire gives us no choice.

I slice into the water. My feet slam against the bottom of the pool, propelling me up. As I surface I gulp for air, twisting to find Mr. Merson.

He’s close to me, fighting the water, trying with one hand to stay afloat.

“Lie back!” I yell as I come up behind him and support his back. “Float!”

He obeys me, although he’s sputtering water and it must be hard for him to swallow or breathe. I slip one arm across his chest and, with a sidestroke, head for the shallow end of the pool. When we
reach the steps I help him sit, and I scan the water around us for signs of blood.

“Stay down!” I warn him. “I heard a shot.”

“It’s okay, Kristi,” I hear Sergeant Balker’s voice saying. “Gurtz is in custody now.”

Balker runs down onto the top step. Others are with him, and I find myself being dragged out of the water.

“Get out of there fast!” someone shouts. “That roof is ready to collapse into the pool!”

Hanging on to Sergeant Balker, I run as quickly as I can. But we’re only a few feet away when the roof does come down with a crashing noise. Dripping, rubbing water from my eyes, I watch Mr. Merson’s house burning to the ground.

He’s watching too. I ache. His beautiful art. It’s gone.

I want to say something to let him know I’m sorry, but he turns to me, and I see a kind of triumph in his eyes. He points at the house, then makes a motion with his hands.

“I think,” Sergeant Balker says, “Mr. Merson here believes that all the evidence is gone.”

Mr. Merson looks pleased with himself.

Furious with him, I turn away to face Sergeant Balker. “But you and I are witnesses. We saw the Chagall he was copying.”

“The D.A. likes more solid proof than reports that can’t be verified,” Balker says.

Mr. Merson actually chuckles. As I stare at him I think of all he promised me and hate the fact that I was tempted for even a moment. “You’re not my grandfather,” I snap. “You’re a forger, a cheat, and a
liar. What Roger told you was not the truth. It was revenge for what you had done to him. He knew you were so caught up in lies, you wouldn’t recognize another one. You’d like to control me, but I won’t let you.”

I pause for breath, trying to beat down the anger that flames up inside me. When I speak again, my voice is quieter and under control. “What I’m going to do is not revenge. It’s a way of righting a wrong, of making you take responsibility for what you’ve done.”

I tell Sergeant Balker, “I think you’ll find evidence of forgery hanging in the living room of a Dr. Alonzo Salinas. The art experts can examine his Pissarro. I don’t think Ms. Chase helped with the attempts at murder, but she may have known about them. She certainly knew she was selling forged paintings.”

I turn and walk away. I do not look back at Mr. Merson. I do not care what happens to him. Sergeant Balker accompanies me to the place where I parked the car. “Will you write me a note?” I ask him. “I mean, I am really,
really
late for school.”

He looks at me and grins. “I think before you go to school you’ve got a few things to do.”

“Like call my parents,” I say. “I know that.”

“I meant find a towel, and deal with what’s happened here.”

A beach-sized bath towel appears, and another officer hands it to me. I wrap it around myself. I fight away tears. I’m swept by a sudden ache to cling to Mom and Dad and never let go.

I want to forget Mr. Merson and Roger Merson
or whatever he called himself. He may not have known who he was or wanted to be, but I know I will not try to be someone I am not. I choose to believe Mom and Dad. In my mind there’s no doubt about it. I’m positive. I’m sure. I’m their daughter. I’m Kristin Anne Evans.

I am.