A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,84

schools, new to the market.”

“Ooh,” Relay said. She leaned forward on her elbows. “I don’t know the last artist.”

“I was wondering if your private clients might like to take a look at them.”

Relay sat up. “Mostly they’re interested in modern art, but … Why wouldn’t you put them up for auction at Tinsley’s?”

Elm chose her words carefully. “Their provenances are sort of slim. Art owned by Jews, stolen by the Nazis and recently recovered. Their sale goes toward reparations for the families, you know, the ones who survived.”

Relay furrowed her brow. “So you don’t want them for Tinsley’s, but you want to foist them off on me?”

Elm laughed, though Relay was close to the truth. “It’s not like that. I just can’t verify the ownership to the extent that the house demands. But they’re really beautiful pieces, and the cause, so to speak, is good.”

“What kind of a financial arrangement would you be looking for?”

Elm had planned out what she was prepared to offer, but she pretended to consider. “How about we split the twenty percent commission?”

Relay nodded.

“And, my name stays out of it,” Elm said. “That’s really important. Obviously, I’m not supposed to deal privately, but I really want to see these pieces end up in good hands.”

“So I’ll deal directly with the sellers,” Relay said.

“Well, actually, me, and I’ll deal with the Englishman who is selling them on behalf of the owners. They want to remain anonymous.”

“Okay …” Relay dragged the word out, the thinking evident in her pause. She seemed about to ask a question, then thought better of it. “Yeah, that works. Send me the PDFs.” Relay held out her hand for Elm to shake, an odd formality that amused Elm.

When the check came, Relay insisted on paying, even though Elm had invited her to lunch. “Because you’re bringing me business, that’s why,” she said.

This had been so easy, Elm thought. Why had she thought it would be impossible to sell Klinman’s drawings? She didn’t even have to pay for lunch.

Relay called her the following week and left Elm a voice mail saying she thought she had a buyer for a couple of the drawings. Elm called her back.

“I think you know them? You were at their party? The people with, you know, the dog?” Relay had the unfortunate habit on the phone of raising her voice at the end of each sentence so that each statement sounded uncertain.

Elm looked at her fingernails, feigning nonchalance, even over the telephone. “Super,” she said.

“They want the old woman? And the beach scene?”

“Great.”

“They offered $175,000 for both.”

Elm sat up straighter. She did some quick math: 80 percent to Klinman and his clients, the remaining 20 percent split between Relay and Elm. That would come to $17,500. “That’s a little low,” she said.

“I know.” Relay sighed as though they were discussing a common evil, like traffic or losing sports teams. “But they were concerned about the certificates, the provenance not being so great, you know? Resale and all that. They’re investors, not collectors.” Relay lowered her voice, confiding in Elm.

“I’ll have to consult the seller,” Elm said, swiveling her chair back to face her desk. She didn’t know if Klinman would take it. They had hoped to sell them for $100,000 each. But if the sums she was receiving were smaller she would attract less attention.

As she hung up she considered too that she wasn’t sure where Relay’s loyalties belonged. Of course, she’d want to negotiate the best deal to earn her commission, but maybe she had a side deal going with the collectors, or “investors,” as she called them. Maybe she wanted to get them a deal so they’d use her more. Maybe … maybe … it was impossible to tell.

Elm knew she did not have a criminal mind. The entire business made her queasy. Plus she knew these people. She’d been in their home. She had assumed the buyers would be unknown, at least to her. This made it more personal. Real criminal masterminds (at least in the movies) were free from anxiety. They slept dreamlessly at night. Meanwhile, Elm was lucky if she got two straight hours.

The worst-case scenario, she decided. I’ll think of the worst-case scenario and then I’ll feel better. She imagined herself pregnant, behind bars. Fired, bankrupt from an extended lawsuit. And still she didn’t regret her decision to clone Ronan. That must mean something, surely.

She wondered where Klinman got them. How far back did the forgery go? To the Holocaust survivors? Did they