He regarded Virginia. “Why is it you’re here, Mrs. Clay? Is there something specific you’re looking for?”
She placed a hand on the portfolio but didn’t open it. “I’m really interested in finding out more about Levon Zakarian and Clara Darden. In particular, I’m curious about their techniques. They were quite different, right, since they used different mediums?”
“Completely different,” affirmed Mr. Lorette. “He was masculine, always chipping away at his paintings, scraping and then repainting, big, thick strokes. While she did watercolor, which requires great patience, forethought. You can’t go back and fix a watercolor, you see. If you’ve made something too dark, there’s no way to lighten it. You’re stuck; you have to start over.”
The watercolor by Clyde had strong, dark strokes. A combination of Zakarian’s methods and Darden’s medium. “Would they have shared supplies?”
“Now, that’s an odd question.” Mr. Lorette exchanged a glance with Mrs. Lorette. “What are you getting at?”
She couldn’t hold back any longer. The Lorettes were probably the only people left from those days who might be able to help. She unzipped the portfolio and pulled out the watercolor, placing it on the coffee table. “I discovered this recently. I’d love to get your thoughts.”
Even in the shadowy autumn light, the Clyde painting seemed to leap off the page.
Mr. Lorette leaned forward, his brows knitted together. “This looks like a Zakarian Clyde work. It’s very similar to the one that’s going to auction.”
“But it’s watercolor.” Mrs. Lorette gently touched one corner, as if it were still wet with paint.
Virginia nodded. “I brought it to the curator at the Art Students League, and she recommended I show it to you.” She turned it over. “Here’s why. On the back, there’s a sketch that’s signed and dated by—”
Mr. Lorette cut in. “Clara Darden.”
“Right. That’s why I’m here. Why I asked about them sharing supplies. I’m curious if Levon Zakarian might have done this on the back of her work.”
“Maybe. I really don’t know.”
“There’s something else. A detail that the curator, Janice, and I found intriguing.” Virginia was enjoying herself, building up the drama. She pulled out the auction catalog and opened it to the earmarked page. “Look at the letter C on this signature and on the signature of the drawing.”
The Lorettes did so. Mr. Lorette’s eyebrows raised. “They’re exactly the same.”
“Right. They also match the way Clara Darden signed her Vogue covers.” Virginia surveyed their reactions. “The drawing is dated two years before Clyde’s New York exhibition in 1931. Maybe Clara Darden drew that first, then expanded on it for the watercolor. Maybe Clara Darden, not Levon Zakarian, is Clyde.”
“Quite interesting,” murmured Mr. Lorette. “We’d have to enlist an expert to compare it with the one that’s at auction. Where again did you find this?”
They’d been so helpful and encouraging, she couldn’t lie. “The truth is, I work at Grand Central, in the information booth. I was exploring the terminal and came upon the School of Art. This was behind one of the storage cabinets, in one of the studios.”
“The school is still intact? No one’s rented out the space in all this time?” Mr. Lorette’s mouth dropped open.
She nodded. “Penn Central’s planning on building a skyscraper on top of Grand Central, so there’s probably no point in renting it out. The whole place is a disaster.”
“How utterly sad.” Mr. Lorette’s eyes watered.
His wife patted his knee. “There, there. It was a place and time that’s over and done with. We have our memories.”
“My wife, always the pragmatist.” He beamed at Virginia. “I’m thrilled that you discovered this watercolor. If it is a Zakarian, there’s no family left to claim it.”
“What about if it’s by Clara Darden?”
“No idea about her. But lawyers can always take care of that kind of thing.”
Expensive lawyers, most likely.
“Now, who do we know who might be able to help us?” Mr. Lorette said.
His wife answered without missing a beat. “Sammy!”
“Sammy, yes.”
“Who’s Sammy?” asked Virginia.
“An expert at the Museum of Modern Art. He’ll know how to go about this. But I must call right now, this very minute, as he’s off to Europe soon.” Mr. Lorette disappeared into the adjoining room. Virginia tried to listen in, but his conversation was muffled.
Things were moving too fast. She turned to Mrs. Lorette. “What if I take it to Sotheby Parke Bernet and show them what I’ve found?”
Mrs. Lorette poured herself more tea. “They have a lot at stake, with the auction coming up. I’m not saying they’d do anything unethical, but it wouldn’t be in their best interests to have the provenance of the Clyde painting questioned so soon before the sale.”
“What if Penn Central decides it’s theirs? After all, they own the space where it was found.”
“Art belongs to the public, not a corporation. And certainly not a mercenary one like Penn Central. No need to involve them.”
Virginia sighed. “I almost hate to let it go. My first thought was to hang it in my apartment; I figured it’d make me smile every time I passed by.”
Mrs. Lorette picked up her teacup and saucer and wandered over to a painting above the fireplace, an oil of a woman in a fancy dress standing next to a greyhound. “I know what you mean. You become attached. Every time I look at this painting, I see something different, like a subtle aura around her head that I’d never noticed before, or the way the greyhound’s eyes are flecked with yellow.” She turned around. “But yours needs to be cared for. Poor thing’s been sitting in a dusty room for ages. Sammy will know what to do, how to preserve it, restore it, if need be.”
Mr. Lorette returned, looking triumphant. “Sammy’s quite interested. We have an appointment on Monday at ten o’clock.”
Virginia held up one hand. “I can’t, I have to work then. Can we make it during my lunch hour?”
“He’s off to Europe then, some kind of partnership with the Louvre in Paris.”
“Maybe when he gets back?”
“He’ll be back in the New Year.”
More than a month away. “Do you think he’ll be able to help?” She knew the answer but wanted reassurance.
“Of course. He knows that era well. Best man in town. Heck, in the world.”
Virginia looked from one to the other. According to her temp contract, she wasn’t allowed to take off work until she’d been there a month. A little less than two weeks had passed since she started, and she couldn’t risk losing her job. She’d never find another. She supposed she could leave the watercolor with the Lorettes.
And after that mugging, it would be a relief to have it taken off her hands. But she should warn them. “Just so you know, I got a threatening letter, telling me to put the watercolor back. I think that mugger was after it as well. Someone wants it badly.” She paused. “I worry that giving it to you may put you in harm’s way.”
Mr. Lorette didn’t seem in the least bit concerned. “The ghost of Levon Zakarian, trying to fight for his legacy, perhaps?”
“Or Clara Darden’s.”
His smile faded. “Just goes to show that your instincts are on track. You’ve discovered what might be an important piece of art. We’ll guard it closely and make sure it gets safely uptown to Sammy. Don’t you worry about us. We’ve lasted longer in this city than almost anyone we know.”
They had a point. The Depression, the war years. The Lorettes had seen it all.
Virginia placed it back in the portfolio. “All right. Take it to Sammy, and then let me know what he says.”
“Are you sure you can’t come?” asked Mrs. Lorette. “It could be a fun meeting; we’d learn a lot.”
“Let’s not get our hopes up too high, now,” added Mr. Lorette. “Who knows? We might learn that it’s all a hoax, that a student was copying one of his teacher’s works in progress. Although I certainly hope not. It might be an important piece of the Grand Central School of Art’s history.”