Girl with Pencil, Drawing
()
About this ebook
Seventeen-year-old amateur detective Annie Tillery is at it again. After she wins a series of art lessons at a prestigious art gallery, Annie shows up for her first lesson to find her instructor, Francesca Gabrielli, in a volatile argument with John DiCristiani, the art gallerys director. He is demanding that she illegally copy art masterpieces. Unwittingly, Annie is about to be drawn into the illicit, treacherous, and unpredictable world of art forgery.
When DiCristiani is found murdered in cold blood, Francesca becomes the prime suspect. She calls upon Annie to help solve the crime along with her NYPD detective aunt, Jill Tillery. They must brave the dangers of an international art fraud ring in an attempt to clear Francescas name. They discover that the key to solving the case revolves around a mysterious brownstone in Brooklyn whose inhabitants present tantalizing and elusive clues.
As Annie and company attempt to stay one step ahead of DiCristianis murderer, they escape one deadly trap after another. The stakes are high in the glamorous yet dangerous world of illegal art trafficking. Annie must solve the crime to save her life and that of her friends.
Linda Maria Frank
Linda Maria Frank decided, after a life-long career teaching science, to mix her love of mystery with her knowledge of forensics. She refers to her books as “Nancy Drew meets CSI.” She also produces The Writer’s Dream—a local access TV show that interviews authors about their craft.
Read more from Linda Maria Frank
Secrets in the Fairy Chimneys Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Mystery of the Lost Avenger Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Buccaneers of St. Frederick Island, Sibby's Secret Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Madonna Ghost Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Related to Girl with Pencil, Drawing
Related ebooks
Forgotten Scars: Scars of Days Forgotten Series, #1 Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Amoura Awakened Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDon't Kiss the Messenger Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Lost Secret of Time: Crystal Keeper Chronicles, #4 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsA Portrait of Marguerite: A Novel Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Fated Dreams (Book One In The Affinity Series) Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Crossed Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDiary of a School Counsellor Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDreamscapes, Ghosts and Other Weird Tales. Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsCall of the Dragon Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsOrfe Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Marked (The Birthright Book 2) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWe're Good People Now: We're Good People Now, #1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsStolen Magic Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Shadow Academy: Shadow Academy, #1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsStep by Step Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsSpellbound Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Case of the Defunct Adjunct: Professor Molly Mysteries Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Silence Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWhere I Belong Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Quicksand: A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery, #3 Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5First Hunt: Renegade Agents of A.R.S.A., #1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Minotaur Sampler, Volume 2: New Books to Make Your Heart Race Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsPhantom Wolves Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsAurora Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Writing Radar: Using Your Journal to Snoop Out and Craft Great Stories Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Falling For My Muse Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Variety of Shorts: Collection of 'Short' Works Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsShadow of a Life Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDiscovering the Real Millie Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5
Mystery For You
False Witness: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Jack Reacher: A Mysterious Profile Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Life We Bury Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Paris Apartment: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Last Flight: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Murder Your Employer: The McMasters Guide to Homicide Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5None of This Is True: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Pretty Girls: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Hidden Staircase: Nancy Drew #2 Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Kept Woman: A Will Trent Thriller Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Summit Lake Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Club: A Reese's Book Club Pick Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Good Daughter: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Hunting Party: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Pharmacist Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Finlay Donovan Is Killing It: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Complete Short Stories Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The River We Remember: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Everyone in My Family Has Killed Someone: A Murdery Mystery Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Pieces of Her: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Did I Kill You?: A Thriller Novel Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Dean Koontz: Series Reading Order - with Summaries & Checklist Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Iron Lake (20th Anniversary Edition): A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Fortune and Glory: Tantalizing Twenty-Seven Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5How to Write a Mystery: A Handbook from Mystery Writers of America Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Woman in the Library: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Still Life: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Murder Under a Red Moon: A 1920s Bangalore Mystery Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Devil in a Blue Dress (30th Anniversary Edition): An Easy Rawlins Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
Reviews for Girl with Pencil, Drawing
0 ratings0 reviews
Book preview
Girl with Pencil, Drawing - Linda Maria Frank
Girl with Pencil, Drawing
LINDA MARIA FRANK
Book Two in the Annie Tillery mystery series
iUniverse LLC
Bloomington
Copyright © 2010, 2013 Linda Maria Frank.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:
iUniverse
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.iuniverse.com
1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
ISBN: 978-1-4917-1117-0 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4917-1119-4 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4917-1118-7 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013918820
iUniverse rev. date: 11/1/2013
Contents
The Saturday Art Class
Annie’s House Guest
Taking The Bull By The Horns
Prime Suspect
Shady Characters
Paolo’s Request
The Crime Scene
Out of the Ashes
Francesca’s Masterpiece
A Message on E-Mail
The Spoils of War
Introducing Horst
Trouble in Brooklyn
The Incident on the Bridge
The Murderer
Mark Pays a Visit
The Saturday Art Class
InteriorGWP6X9BW01conservatory20130929072225.jpgFrancesca spied DicCristiani, When he turned to leave, she said, Please leave the building with me.
Chapter 1
The Saturday Art Class
The screech of iron wheels against iron rails trilled through my body, making my teeth ache. I tightened my knees against the large art portfolio as the New York City subway train lurched through a turn, slowing towards the Spring Street station. Not able to control my nervous energy, I left my seat and headed for the sliding doors. I balanced the precious portfolio between my knees and looked at my reflection in the door windows, checking for obvious defects in my appearance.
Boy, I thought, You are nervous, girl. Let’s see.
I ticked off the usual list of suspects causing appearance problems, starting with the new haircut and highlights. I thought it made my face look thinner, and I liked it. Check! I used makeup this morning but hadn’t hidden the sleepy eyes. Who gets up this early on a Saturday? Well check, anyway. My outfit, comprised of a black fitted jacket, black and white plaid scarf, and black earmuffs made my light hair and eyes pop. Check!
My mother’s warning rang in my ears. Annie, stand up straight! It makes all the difference in the impression you make.
For once I didn’t argue with that voice in my head. I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and grabbing the portfolio and backpack, braced for the jolting stop I was anticipating with excitement and dread. Doors opened silently amid the racket of the train station. As cold damp air crept into the car, the few early Saturday morning passenger traveling with me spilled out on the platform.
My legs had a life of their own, carrying me up the ancient grimy stairway to the street above. My first art lesson at the DiCristiani Galleries loomed ahead of me. All the confidence I had felt when I won first place in my high school’s art contest evaporated like the steam swirling up from the manhole covers in the downtown streets of Soho. Here was my chance to prove the talents I hoped I had.
I was anxious to get started and most of all to meet my teacher. The gallery had sent a packet of information about their program of studies, the art studio, and my instructor, Francesca Gabrielli. Her credentials were impressive. The fact that she had been accepted in a program at the Metropolitan Museum here in New York was big.
They had sent me a brochure with photocopies of her work which I admired. I hoped to learn important techniques from her, and go beyond what I had learned in my high school studio art class.
This was going to be an exciting opportunity for me. I tightened my grip on my portfolio and remembering my posture for success
pep talk, moved on down the street.
A fuchsia pennant hanging from a brownstone building furled and unfurled itself in the icy February wind. That brownstone with its steep flight of steps was my destination. Half a block away it posed as a haven from the cold. Even so, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to make the short walk there. I’d have to open my portfolio and show my pieces in a place not likely to be so nurturing to a seventeen year old as my art teachers at Rhodes School.
I took the steps, two at a time, and pushed the heavy oak and leaded-glass door open. What a beautiful place! I admired the wood paneling, the black-and-white marble floor, the art pieces placed around the two-story entrance hall. There was no one around and I wondered where to go. No little signs with arrows posted around the room. The only logical place to go was to follow a hallway leading to the back of the house.
No! I can’t do that! It’s…
The strong words stopped me like a wall. The female voice came from the only open door in the hallway.
I’m not paying you to tell me…
shouted a deep male voice. I lost the rest of the sentence as his angry voice dropped.
The sign above the door said ART CLASS. I stopped, unsure what to do. My instincts prickled, sensing the electric tone of the conflict inside the room.
You’re hurting me!
shrilled the female voice.
With that I decided to barge in Excuse me,
I said smiling. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,
I continued, staring at the man’s hand still grasping the wrist of a young woman. She couldn’t have been more than a few years older than I. In a rough gesture, he flung her arm away, tossing back a warning as he left. I’ll see you later.
His emphasis was on the you.
You must be here for the art class.
Trying to hide her distress, she approached me with an outstretched hand. I’m Francesca Gabrielli. And you are?
Anne Tillery.
I grasped her cold trembling hand and I tried not to stare at the ugly red mark on her wrist. What was this all about? I thought, more than a little confused.
She withdrew her hand, struggling to gain control of herself.
I’m your instructor today. Let’s set you up and get started.
Francesca Gabrielli was a small person, probably not over five feet as compared to my five foot eight. She was pretty with large brown eyes and a mane of curly short dark hair. She really looked like an artist, white poet’s shirt over black turtleneck and leggings. Curling down the back of her neck was one graceful curl bleached red and tied with a black ribbon. Large silver hoop earrings and black suede clogs completed the look. She was elfin in appearance. She could have been one of Santa’s helpers, and this image just added to my confusion.
This was not at all what I had expected to happen on my first day. I felt anger at the man in the office. My curiosity went into full gear as I tried to make the impression of Francesca Gabrielli at my first meeting and her outstanding credentials fit with the ugly scene in the office.
Pushing these feelings aside and trying to concentrate on the task at hand, I followed Francesca. The studio was in the back of the house in a glass conservatory that must have been the by-gone owners’ year-round indoor garden. That was the style when brownstones were built. The light was perfect. The glass classroom had an abundant supply of easels and small tables for paint and supplies.
Pick your spot, Anne. You’re early. I have to take care of something, but I’ll be right back.
Francesca Gabrielli was shaken and pale as she left the room. My mind wandered as I set about arranging my materials. I wondered what danger, if any, my new instructor faced.
The model walked in taking his place on the stool in the middle of the conservatory. He was an old Asian man with long white hair and a deeply lined face. Automatically I began to plan my strategy for placing his image on my sketch pad. He presented a challenge.
The boy who had set up shop next to me quipped, Hi. Fred’s the name. Paint’s the game.
I laughed and the Asian man offered some of his wisdom to Fred. Yeah, and you should stick to paint, because your humor is from Oz, man.
We all laughed at this unexpected comment.
My name’s Annie,
I said, and along with the other students, began to concentrate on my work.
Another member of the class arrived, a tall girl who might have been Indian. She chose an easel on the other side of Fred. A fourth classmate joined us, introducing himself as Edward. Edward was an impressively tall African-American and set up next to me.
Francesca returned looking much better. She drew a deep breath, pulling her sleeve over her bruised wrist. Since this is your first lesson here at DiCristiani’s, I’d first like you to do your own thing. This way, I can judge where I need to help you.
As she circulated from sketch pad to sketch pad she seemed to grow calmer. Our model sat very still, now giving forth purely oriental mystery. We coaxed his image out of our pads and pencils, while Francesca made comments, correcting technique, making suggestions about lighting and perspective. The time flew and I felt good, confidence building.
You’re doing real good there, Anne. You’ve got to have some talent to get a place here at Mr. D’s.
Francesca’s comment was music to my ears. I watched her as she browsed through my portfolio. She looked young, maybe nineteen or twenty, but was probably in her mid-twenties to have this job.
Please call me Annie. I like that better.
I ventured, That’s not a New York accent.
No, I’m from Boston. I worked there for two years, so that I could come here. I’m working this job to pay for my own art lessons at the Metropolitan. There’s more work here than in Boston. Lots of restoration work.
She ran her fingers through her thick curly hair, pausing, seeming to weigh her words.
Turning back to me, eyes darkened by trouble, she asked, Can you do me a favor when class is over, Annie?
Francesca was twisting an oily rag around her fingers, anxiety apparent in every fiber of her body.
What could I say? I thought.
Sure, if I can,
I replied, wondering if I would regret it, struggling again with the images of Francesca-the-instructor and Francesca-in-trouble.
When class is over, I want to leave with you. I mean, you know, we can go out the front door together. I’ll put my coat near your things, and we’ll just go. Okay?
She waited for a response.
Are you afraid of that guy who was trying to break your arm?
I asked, thinking it all too obvious.
Yeah, that’s Mr. D. We had a dispute about what’s business and what isn’t and I’m getting a little bored with his way of proving a point. The last time we didn’t see eye to eye, the security guard showed up just in the nick of time. He saved me from what I suspect would have been unwanted facial reconstruction.
She rubbed her wrist absently and continued, If I leave with you, he wouldn’t dare to try anything. He looks into all the applications of the students who come here. You’re a cop’s kid, right?
My Aunt’s on the New York City police force,
I shot back. Her knowing about Aunt Jill unnerved me. Aunt Jill’s work as a New York City detective has made her a careful and suspicious mother hen where I’m concerned. Why don’t you quit working here?
It’s more complicated than that. Will you do it?
Again, that pleading look.
Okay.
I shrugged.
That’s right, I thought, He wouldn’t dare try anything with me. I guess. What could happen to us in broad daylight? When this favor
was done, I would get Aunt J to see if she could find out more about Francesca Gabrielli, something more than the information on a brochure. I wanted to continue my lessons, but I also didn’t want to feel that my instructor was in danger, especially if I couldn’t help her. Annie to the rescue, I concluded, shaking my head.
The subject of our discussion stuck his head in the room at that moment, causing Francesca to take a pencil to my work, explaining, This technique works best with the hair.
She never touched my sketch. Under her breath she murmured, It’s really good, Annie. When we have more time, I’ll show you some neat tricks of the trade.
She winked. We continued working on for about a half hour, putting finishing touches on our preliminary sketches.
The class ended, my heart soaring with her comment, and my knees shaking with the prospect of leaving this beautiful place in escape mode. We left the building fast, so fast that we were still slipping on coats as we fled down the steps. We