Maker's Mark

By Helen Osterman

Why do a sleazy antique dealer and a wealthy collector suddenly become interested in an unknowm artist named Jo Allison?
Is it the mysterious goblet she used in three still life paintings?
Jo disocvers it might be a priceless artifact.
Thieves follow her to Chicago.
The climax takes the reader to the steps of The Art Institute of Chicago between the roaring lions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Helen Osterman
• Release date: Dec 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301326617

Helen Osterman

Helen Osterman lives in Homer Glen, a suburb of Chicago. She has five children and nine grandchildren. She received a Bachelor of Nursing degree from Mercy Hospital-St. Xavier College and later earned a Master’s Degree from Northern Illinois University. Throughout her forty-five year nursing career, she wrote articles for both nursing and medical journals. She is the author of the Emma Winberry Mystery Series: The Accidental Sleuth, 2007, The Stranger in the Opera House,2009, The Elusive Relation,2011 Emma Winberry and the Evil Eye, 2012. Notes in a Mirror, a paranormal/historical, 2009. Song of the Rails, a love story, 2011. She is a member of American Association of University Women, Mystery Writers of America, and Sisters in Crime and The Authors Guild.

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Maker’s Mark

By

Helen Macie Osterman

Copyright 2012 by Helen Osterman

Dedication

In memory of Ann Lang

Fine artist and friend

Prologue

1641

The old artisan’s hands grew numb and cold. The delicate nature of his trade required exacting concentration. The room was austere with no source of heat and only small openings for illumination. A few candles provided added light and little warmth. Finally, after years of work, he had finished the sixth goblet.

He blew on his hands, rubbing them together in an effort to bring back the feeling. He had imbued his work with his own life force. He knew now that his task was finished, his life would soon come to an end.

The artisan surveyed his work critically. Six copper goblets, engraved with tiny characters telling the legend of a brave hero of antiquity. He looked closely at the engravings; fine feathery characters made their way around the outside of each bowl. The faint outline of a rose was inscribed on the inside of the goblet at the bottom where cup met stem.

He checked each goblet to make sure the hollow gold stem twisted off with ease, then nodded—perfect. On the underside of each goblet he had inscribed his name in Arabic and the date from an ancient long forgotten calendar. The old man smiled, wondering if anyone would ever decipher it. His wealthy patron would be pleased.

The six sentinels stood before him. My children, he whispered, you must never be separated. Together you tell a remarkable tale, a part of our eternal history.

He breathed on each goblet. I give you my life’s breath. The very metal of which you are created vibrates with that breath. For a moment the goblets seemed to emanate a life of their own. A faint scent of roses filled the air. Abdul Fasid had done more that create a series of artifacts. He had imbued them with his very own soul.

He stood before them, hands outstretched. Long life, health, prosperity to him who preserves these goblets as one. And to the man who attempts to separate them, he shall be cursed . . .

Chapter 1

1997

The Set Up

Jo Allison walked into the minuscule kitchen of her studio apartment, plugged in the coffee pot , and flipped on the stereo. The monotone of a Gregorian Chant filled the air; sometimes it helped her to concentrate on her paintings; other times it drove her crazy.

She stared at the half- finished canvas on the easel. A child playing in a garden. She seemed to paint the same subjects over and over. Where was her inspiration? All her hopes and dreams of becoming a famous artist. Her mother had faith in her abilities, but Jo put that thought away. It was still too painful to relive the past years.

What was she doing here in this crummy apartment? Right now, it was all she could afford. Now, in her late twenties, she had nothing to show for three years of struggling and working—just enough money to pay the bills.

Jo moved to the window and looked at the decaying neighborhood below. Abandoned storefronts stared vacantly at the street. Litter lay everywhere. An occasional window reflected the scene through dirty glass. A group of rough teenagers, wearing stained leather jackets, lounged against a building as they cautiously passed a joint from one to another.

The sound of an air hammer in the distance clashed with the voices of the Monks. They’re getting closer, Jo thought. Riverton, Illinois had recently begun an urban renewal program on a grand scale. Some buildings were coming down, others were being refaced and refurbished. The area was booming. Soon she wouldn’t be able to afford the rent.

Jo felt an uneasiness creep into her body as if time was running out. Less than a mile away an entire block had been demolished and the beams of new construction rose like sentinels across the landscape. A colorful sign at the corner depicted images of rows of townhouses and condominiums. Totally new concept . . . The prices started at six figures. A number of electronics firms had recently relocated to Riverton, a town of over 100,000 souls. The population was predicted to double in a few years as young people with brand new degrees, SUVs, and high expectations moved into the area.

Located along the Illinois River, Riverton was almost a suburb of Peoria. The entire area was known for its proximity to the meeting of three mighty rivers, the Mississippi, The Illinois, and the Missouri. Towering bluffs lined the roadways that ran alongside the rivers offering scenic vistas for travelers. In the summertime paddleboats took tourists on long excursion rides; in the winter they flocked to see squadrons of Bald Eagles arrive to feast on the fish laden rivers.

The neighborhoods were extending outwards in all directions, but the old city maintained a certain charm and distinction. One interesting factor was the warren of underground tunnels that crisscrossed the town. Long ago the city had been built over mysterious limestone caverns. During prohibition, river pirates had used these passageways to smuggle booze. Over time, some of them had collapsed, but most were structurally sound. A number of homeless people had migrated from Peoria and were living in these mysterious mazes.

The city planners were looking at this area for further development as a tourist attraction. The River Walk, an antiquated structure running along the Illinois was one of them.

All this hype made Jo uneasy. She was struggling to pay her rent for this hole in the wall. Only last month the landlord said the neighborhood was on the upswing; the taxes would go up, and so would the rents.

Jo was determined to increase her income. She looked around the apartment expecting something to call out to her like a voice from beyond. All she saw were the same old things: a lop-sided Oriental screen enclosing the sleeping area, a futon, dresser, cedar chest, and clothes rack. The few garments she owned were nondescript: skirts, blouses, sweaters, and a few scarves. One black silk dress from a second hand shop served for the infrequent dress up occasion.

Canvases lay propped against every wall, some good, some mediocre; not much to show for three years work. Still, she had been making progress. Some of her work was selling that is, until this slump.

With a smirk she thought, I can always marry Grant. It’s almost the first of the month, that was when he usually hinted it was time to settle down.

Maybe someday, she thought, but not now. I’m not ready. Grant was so predictable. All he thought about were numbers and how much money they would need to get established. She couldn’t think of a duller occupation than accounting, but it did pay the bills. The main problem was that Jo was not in love with him. It would be more a marriage of convenience. She didn’t know if he loved her either. Had he ever said it? She couldn’t even remember how they had met. He had always been there, good looking, dependable and . . . boring. Something critical was missing in their relationship.

Grant thought of her art career as a ‘phase.’ Just the other day he had said, Jo, you’re twenty eight years old. Isn’t it about time you did something serious with your life?

He didn’t understand that art was her life. She wasn’t complete unless she was creating. Her paintbrush was the catalyst that put her in touch with her inner self, the realm of ideas and inspiration. Grant would never understand that. He patronized her. Lately they had been arguing about every little thing.

No, marrying him would not solve her problems; it would only create more.

Why do I feel so restless? she said aloud to the cold white walls of the apartment. Her work was selling, but it didn’t satisfy her. At this point in her career, she couldn’t live by art alone. Few of her colleagues did. She worked as a framer at the Graham Gallery which represented her work. Her oil paintings were mostly whimsical, of children and animals and a few landscapes. Her technique was good, but nothing special distinguished them from the work of other artists.

Jo remembered the previous week when Shirley Graham, the gallery owner, said, Why don’t you try something different? Something more challenging? I think you’re ready for a change, need to get out of this rut.

Don’t you like my work anymore? Jo asked, feeling frustrated.

Of course I do. It’s charming, and it sells, but you keep painting the same subjects over and over. If I had your talent, I would broaden my scope—reach farther.

She knew that Shirley was an artist at heart. She had taken lessons for many years, learned technique, but real creative talent was missing. Reluctantly she had turned to the promotional side of the art world. Her niche lay in selling other people’s works. Jo, on the other hand, had all the talent Shirley lacked, but she sometimes resisted the older woman pushing her into projects she didn’t feel ready for.

There’s more inside you, Jo Allison. Don’t be afraid. Paint something great—something different. I know you can.

Shirley’s words echoed in her mind as Jo gazed out the window. Something great, something different . But what? She remembered an old professor of hers extolling the challenge of the still life. Jo always found this subject matter extremely difficult. She never could paint one that satisfied her.

Use any objects you like, classical or modern, even a toilet will do. Study the composition, the lights and shadows; be sure it’s balanced; make it flow; give it life and breath, her professor had advised her.

Life and breath, huh? she thought, looking around for something that might pulsate.

Books, they always looked good in a still life. She studied the shelves lining one wall of the studio. Books of various shapes and sizes were interspersed with old cups and saucers, vases, candle sticks, and various knickknacks gleaned from excursions to the resale shop down the street.

Her eyes rested on an old volume, Popular Monthly , Vol. X. July to December, 1880. Where in the world did I get this? It’s over 100 years old. Treating it with the utmost respect, she curled up on the floor studying the fragile yellowed pages.

The book was made up of bound copies of Popular Monthly Magazine, filled with articles and stories. The illustrations were done in delicate line drawings and engravings.

A picture of a man and woman standing in a rose garden caught her eyes. The woman was demurely looking down while the man tenderly held her hand. Jo sighed. How romantic. Men don’t behave gallantly anymore. After a few more minutes of dreaming of a bygone era, Jo set the book aside and decided to get to work.

She moved an old scarred table with one short leg near the window. Jo stuffed a wad of paper under the leg to even it. She tossed a piece of iridescent rose-colored silk across the surface. Too bright. She tried a piece of creamy lace over one corner hanging down the side—okay, that was better. A backdrop of muted green fabric complemented the rose color. Carefully she placed the old volume between the folds of the fabric. It’s dark green, almost black leather binding caused the silk to vibrate in contrast.

She needed a few more objects. A candle with wax dripping down the side added a nice touch. She stood back and examined the set up , shook her head. No, it needed something more.

Jo searched the apartment and was just about to give up, when she spotted something in the corner of a shelf, nestled among the cobwebs. Cleaning was never her forte. Gingerly she grasped the item she had never seen before. Must have been left by the former tenant, she mused. She grabbed a rag and began rubbing the dust and grime from the stemmed goblet.

This is an interesting piece, she mused. It was made of some sort of metal, about six inches high, with a gold-colored stem. The bowl had a blue-green patina like the oxidation that forms on weathered brass.

Jo squinted on what appeared to be an inscription finely etched around the outside of the bowl. She couldn’t read it. Even when she brought it close to the window in a brighter light, it was illegible. Was it Arabic or Hebrew? She had no idea. On closer inspection she noticed a delicate rose pattern in the bottom of the bowl.

She pulled back. Was that a vibration she felt as she turned the goblet around? No, just static electricity. After a thorough cleaning and polishing, the goblet took center stage in the still life.

Jo stood back. Wow, that looks great. Now let’s see what I can do with this canvas. She chose her colors with care and put her best brushes on the paint stand. She couldn’t start now, it was too dark. I’ll start in the morning when the light is right, she promised herself.

She looked out at the setting sun, casting long lonely shadows between the shabby buildings. The muted light softened their outlines. The pages of a newspaper skittered across the sidewalk below like an animated cartoon.

Jo turned away from the window, shivering, remembering the winter winds that would soon creep through the ill-fitting window frames. The temperature rarely rose much above 60 degrees in the apartment during January and February. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t spend another winter here. But—this was the price she paid for her lifestyle. Maybe Grant was right.

Jo nestled in a chair feasting on left over spaghetti and sipping a glass of wine. She studied the still life. The set-up looked good. If only she could reproduce it exactly on canvas.

Carefully she picked up the book so she wouldn’t disturb the folds of the silk. Her eyes rested again on the goblet. Where had it come from? She didn’t remember buying it.  It must have been in the apartment when she moved in. She had just never noticed it before. She shrugged it off as unimportant, wrapped herself in an old afghan, curled up in the chair, opened the book and began to read. The story was entitled The Blue Rose by Abigail Hamilton. Jo waded through the Victorian prose.

The story was depressing, about a wealthy young girl whose passion was growing roses. In a corner of her garden was a mutation with a true blue flower. Her father brought in a young botanist from the Horticultural Society. Predictably, the girl, Harriet, fell in love with the botanist who was equally enamored. The story continued to its inevitable conclusion. The father objected to the marriage. He had already betrothed his daughter to the son of a wealthy banker. In despair, Harriet took her life with a poisoned draught.

Jo glossed over the description of the goblet the girl used to contain the poisoned liquid. It was made of copper with a faint hint of roses emanating from the metal. The stem was gold. The story went on to describe how Harriet unscrewed the hollow stem and poured out the fatal powder.

What a waste, she thought. I’m certainly glad we don’t live by those standards anymore.

As she replaced the book in her arrangement, she noticed the bunch of silk flowers she had thrown in a vase a few weeks earlier to brighten up the small apartment. A small blue rose was among them. She placed the rose across the lace, its delicate petals facing the open page of the book. Now, it was a perfect set up.

Chapter 2

A Ball of Spaghetti

Jo painted incessantly for weeks. She could think of nothing but the canvas. She worked and reworked every object until she threw down her brushes in frustration.

She had to put this aside for a while. She was too close to it, almost ready to pitch it in the trash. She moved the canvas to another easel, turned it to the wall, and promised herself not to look at it for at least two weeks.

\\\

How’s your new painting coming along? Grant asked. They sat in their favorite Italian restaurant in a neighborhood that still retained the flavor of the old world.

It’s so frustrating, Jo said with a deep sigh. I can’t explain it to you. Something just isn’t right, but I don’t know what. I put it aside for a bit. Then, I’ll either finish it or trash it, whichever comes first. She rolled a ball of spaghetti around her fork against a large spoon and plopped it neatly in her mouth.

How do you do that? Grant asked, marveling at her dexterity. I always have strands hanging down and splash the sauce all over.

Yes, I can see little specks on your shirt, Jo said, suppressing a giggle. Grant was so fastidious, never a hair out of place. My mom’s friend, Josephine Santori , taught me to do this when I was a child. Look, take your fork in your right hand and the spoon in your left . . . She gave him a step by step demonstration, but he faltered all the way. Finally they gave up, laughing and enjoying the moment, as Jo continued to roll her spaghetti expertly on her fork.

Let’s take a walk, Grant said as they left the restaurant.

Jo knew what was coming. She was tired and frustrated and the last thing she needed to hear now was a marriage proposal. I’m kind of tired. I think I’d rather just go home.

Jo, we have to talk—now.

All right. Let’s go down to the River Walk, but just for half an hour.

The night was picture perfect: a full moon was suspended in the sky like a giant beach ball, a few clouds hugged the horizon and a mild breeze blew across the river. It was one of the last balmy evenings of the fall.

For a while neither of them spoke. Then Grant stopped walking and turned her toward him. You know, our relationship is going nowhere. We’ve been seeing each other for two years and still have no definite plans. He raised his hand, ran it through his hair, and looked into her eyes. He seemed to be begging for an answer.

Do we have to make plans, now? Can’t we just go on like this until we’re both ready? She really didn’t want to have this discussion.

The point is, he said, "I am ready. I have been for a long time. He took her hand in his and shook his head. Jo, I want a home and family. I want to marry you."

A cool breeze blew across the river raising goose bumps on her arms. She shivered, then looked back into his eyes. "Grant, I don’t think I’m the right girl for you. I don’t share your values