Who masterminded the Gardner theft? Psychic art sleuth Celine Skye and former FBI agent Julia Skye have long suspected wealthy art insurer and collector, Hugh Norton.
So when a stolen Degas surfaces years after it was taken and it turns out the work was insured by Norton’s company, Celine immediately suspects Norton.
But why would Norton, an affluent collector, steal a work only to sell it?
Could Celine and her FBI friends have been wrong about Norton all this while?
As a psychic, Celine typically receives impressions from the criminal’s point of view. This is par for the course. Most psychics either view a crime from the victim’s perspective or from the criminal’s.
Limited though it might be, either perspective will yield valuable clues law enforcement can use to hunt down their suspect.
So it’s not surprising that Julia’s questions trigger a series of impressions about the man behind the heist. But who is he? Norton or Henry Dodd, the man who ended up with the stolen Degas pastel? Here’s an excerpt from Bearer of Secrets.
An alarm pinged in Celine’s brain. Her mind filled with the image of a painting with an enormous red “x” in front of it. Whoever had sold it, it hadn’t been a legitimate sale. She shared the insight with Julia.
“I’m inclined to agree. But”—the former fed exhaled heavily—“If Norton’s such a Degas enthusiast, would he have sold the work? It’s not like he’s hurting for money.”
It’s not want of money that causes one to steal, Sister Mary Catherine whispered.
“Well, yeah, I guess not,” Julia conceded when Celine relayed the nun’s words to her. Although neither woman was sure if the nun was confirming their suspicion that Norton was behind the theft.
“The question is,” Julia continued, “would a Degas fan pass up the opportunity to possess an authentic work by the artist. His laundress series are beautifully executed—the play of light, the texture of the clothing, the raw flesh tones of the women’s arms . . .”
Celine ceased to hear Julia’s voice. She found herself looking down at a pastel of a thickset woman, her red, beefy arms pressing down an iron on a starched white shirt. A sense of revulsion and loathing filled her. God, how could anyone stand to look at this dumpy broad? Her solid features were devoid of any beauty; her body was like a thick, sturdy column of flesh.
How had Degas managed to look at the woman long enough to capture her?
Nauseated, she averted her eyes from the pastel. But it was currently valued at half a million dollars—sure to appreciate in the future. Not something you’d want to look at. But still a good buy. A sound investment.
“Celine? Celine!” The sound of Julia’s voice calling her name barreled closer, growing ever louder.
Celine stared down at her soapy hands and the wine glass clutched between them. Like a bubble that had burst, the image of the Degas had dissolved. The disconcerting sensation of disgust that had washed over her dissipated now.
“I don’t think he appreciates women,” she said, her voice low and hoarse. “The laundresses are too coarse. The ballet dancers too fleshy. He’s only interested in their value, their worth as high-quality investments.”