The Ladies of the Secret Circus by Constance Sayers (ebook reader with internet browser TXT) 📗

his glasses off and wiped them on his shirt. “It’s unlikely, but this signature does resemble Émile Giroux’s. This painting is from the 1920s, non?”

“Yes, that’s about right.”

“This would be the correct time frame as well as the correct location for Giroux. It’s just that…” He stopped and turned his head, looking at the painting at an angle. “Again, I highly doubt it. This painting was probably some street artist, but there were rumored circus paintings by Giroux. Lost paintings—three of them—Les Dames du Cirque Secret. It’s an odd coincidence.”

“You’re saying this painting might be famous?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “I’m going to contact Edward Binghampton Barrow to see if the paintings are all accounted for. The lost thing is always a bit of an exaggeration. Usually they’re just in some private collection. This is probably just a cheap copy.”

“Edward Binghampton?” Lara laughed out loud struggling to recall the third name.

“Barrow,” said Gaston, clarifying. “Binghampton Barrow.”

“That’s a ridiculous name.”

“Troisième,” he said, smiling. “Or is it quatrième—as you say it, ‘the fourth’? I can never remember. Anyway, there’s a whole mess of Edward Binghampton Barrows, but this particular one has done most of his work on French Jazz Age painters. A few years ago, he wrote the only biography that exists of the painter Émile Giroux. So if anyone will know if this painting is one of his, it would be Teddy.”

“How do you know him?”

“We studied at the Sorbonne together. His mother was a famous Nigerian model who used to hang with Warhol. In our youth, his mother’s cachet could get Teddy and me into some terrific parties in Paris. His father, the rather stodgy Earl of Campshire, would often have to get us out of any trouble, but it was a marvelous existence.” Gaston grinned, turning the painting over and bending over it, again studying the frame carefully. It was gold-carved with inlaid flowers that looked to have once been red but were now faded brown. “While I’m not a fan of this frame for this picture, I think it might be quite valuable—an original even.”

“Let me know what you find,” said Lara. “I think I’d like it more if it was framed in something like this.” She pointed to a simple gold frame.

He nodded. “I’ll call you when I hear something from Teddy or have something to show you.”

Hearing the bell’s off-key clang, Lara turned to see a petite chestnut-haired woman making a beeline toward Gaston. Recognizing her as Marla Archer—the recent ex-wife of police chief Ben Archer—Lara stepped out of the way as the woman approached Gaston and gave him a kiss on each cheek. Marla Archer quickly shifted her gaze to Lara as though she were a potted plant that was in the way.

“Hello,” she said brightly. “So sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“This is Lara Barnes,” said Gaston.

“Oh,” said Marla in that tone. Her eyes softened. It was the look of pity that Lara was used to by now.

“Well,” said Lara, giving a final nod to Gaston. “Call me when you find out something, Gaston.”

“That’s quite a painting,” said Marla, pushing her shoulder-length hair out of the way to get a closer look at it.

“It needs a new frame,” said Gaston. “But we’re taking care of that.”

As Lara turned the knob, she heard Marla exclaim, “That’s gorgeous.” Lara turned to see that Gaston was holding up a frame with one of her recent photographs, the painting now forgotten. Marla was one of only two photographers in Kerrigan Falls. That Marla had taken her high school graduation portrait and still didn’t recall her until Gaston’s prompting didn’t exactly make Lara feel memorable. Over the years, she’d been introduced to Marla several times, but it seemed the woman didn’t recall her until the connection with Todd was made. It was tough when the only thing you were known for was not getting married. But her mother was right. Lara came from a long line of strong women. She would weather this. Thinking about the painting, Lara realized she really would like to see it hanging in her dining room.

As she shut the door behind her, she wondered what she would do if she found out the painting was valuable.

Only in the quiet of the night, when Lara worked alone at the radio station, did she feel she’d learned the rhythms and creaks of the place, the music of old boards and rusted nails giving way. It was only then that she felt it was truly hers. After the sale, and at the urging of her father, she’d stopped doing the overnight shift to focus on the business side of things—which had sorely needed her attention—but she liked to do the occasional night and overnight shifts. Now her day was a constant stream of spreadsheets and advertising numbers, so she liked to get behind the booth and remember why she loved this station. Tonight she was filling in for the seven-to-ten shift.

As she came through the door, she was surprised to find her father still in the studio. He was sitting on the floor, a fan of albums spread around him.

“Looking for something?”

“I’m doing the Laurel Canyon sound tomorrow night.” There seemed to be an order to the scattered albums, and he kept swapping them out. He looked like a teenager on his bedroom floor.

“Not enough David Crosby?”

“Too much Crosby,” said Jason, his face stern. “Not enough Joni Mitchell.”

Lara made a face behind his back. She wasn’t as big a Joni Mitchell fan as her father. “How about Buffalo Springfield? Maybe ‘Expecting to Fly’? Haven’t heard that one in a while.”

From the corner of her eye, she could see him smile. He was always proud when she knew her music.

Jason stood up, knees cracking, and plunked himself heavily in his desk chair, which faced hers.

Housed in the old Main Street pharmacy, 99.7 K-ROCK’s focal point in the office was a giant stained-glass mortar and pestle that had once been centered over the bar. At