The Magnolia Palace(54)

“I like the research part of the job. Although at times I feel like I’m out of my element, surrounded by all these paintings of rich white folks, purchased by rich white folks. My father says it’s a good place to start, and he’s right. He’s always right.”

“You mentioned your mother is an artist. What does she think?”

“She understands my irritability—I guess that’s the word I’d use, though it’s not quite right. Impatience is better. But I’ve always been destined to work in the arts, I suppose. When I was born, she insisted I be named after the first documented Black artist in America, Joshua Johnson.”

“What’s his story?”

“He lived in Baltimore around the late 1700s and early 1800s. Made his living by painting portraits of affluent whites. He was most likely self-taught.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“That’s it exactly.” His nose wrinkled as he waved his hands in the air. “Why not? I mean, other than the fact that you’re from England. But still, that’s no excuse.”

“I don’t know if I could recognize many other artworks, to be honest. It’s not like I go to museums often. I like Van Gogh.”

From the curve to Joshua’s lips, that was not something to brag about. Veronica didn’t know this world, and had no idea how to talk about it, other than listing the things she liked (the Renoir in the hallway, of the little girls in fur) and the ones that she didn’t (Goya’s Forge). For the second time in two days, she was made to feel like a fool, and she resented it. “I take it from your silence you don’t like Van Gogh. Too mainstream for you?”

“No. I love him, I consider him one of the top Postimpressionists. It’s just the way you say it, makes me laugh. Van Goff.” He stressed the last word. “In America, we say Van Go.”

She grinned with relief that he wasn’t making fun of her. At least he didn’t think she was an idiot. “Right, sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“That’s just what we do.”

“Who?”

“The British. We apologize. But usually we don’t mean it, it’s more of a way to keep the conversation going.”

“I’m sorry you feel the need to do that.” He flashed a quick smile.

She laughed in spite of herself. “I’ve been trying to kick the habit. Tell me, what was Joshua Johnson’s artwork like?”

“The portraits are odd, slightly stiff. But with kind eyes. And he had an attention to detail that’s extraordinary. Like a piece of lace that looks like it might flutter off the canvas.”

“I’d love to see his work.”

“You won’t find it in this building, for sure.”

“I suppose not.” She waited a moment, but he didn’t continue. “So, let’s move on to the final clue, shall we?”

Joshua turned over the seat cushion of a wooden chair stationed beneath the painting. “There’s something here,” he said, peeling off a piece of paper. “Number twenty of twenty.” They both leaned in close; she could feel his breath on her neck as she read aloud. “Your prize is in the room where all this began Find the right panel and voilà, thank me You can.”

Joshua shuffled through the clues, back to the very first one. “I’m pretty sure I know where to go. The first clue refers to what’s now the enamels room, where Mr. Frick used to have his study. Right over here.” He pointed to a doorway at the end of the room closest to Fifth Avenue.

Inside, glazed earthenware and brilliantly colored ceramics were on display. Joshua circled the perimeter, ignoring the art objects and instead staring intently at the dark wood walls, which were broken up into square panels. “It would make sense that there might be some storage space behind the panels, back when Mr. Frick worked in here.”

They each took a wall, tapping and closely examining each panel. Veronica ran her fingers over the wood, not trusting her eyes in the faint light. They both ended up near the northeast corner of the room. Just as Veronica’s fingers ran over a tiny imperfection on the side of a panel, Joshua gave a shout.

“There’s a hole in this one, like there might have once been a knob or something in it.” He inserted a pen from his shirt pocket into the hole and, with some effort, gently pulled it open.

Inside was a deep pocket of darkness.

He reached in and very slowly lifted out a short, narrow ribbon of silk, about five inches long, with a delicate chain attached to the top. The bottom was cut into an inverted V, and in the middle hung a gold-plated charm.

“What is it?” Veronica asked. Whatever it was, it was not a pink diamond.

“An old-fashioned watch fob, I believe.” He held it closer to the light. “They made it easier to pull a watch out of a waistcoat pocket. The initials on the charm are RJD.”

“Who could that be?”

He ran his thumb over the engraving. “Not sure. It’s embroidered with a flower. A magnolia.”

“Let me see.” He was right. A delicate pale pink magnolia bloom had been sewn into the silk.

Veronica was overcome by a wave of dismay. All of their poring through books and lifting up chairs and peering behind paintings had come to naught. The magnolia treasure referred to a silk watch fob, not a shiny gem.