Some color rose to Julie’s cheeks. “She was another one of the true-love women. The last, so far as I know. And Dr. Reedy changed after meeting her. He became agitated and untrusting. He even accused me of spying on him when I was waiting outside his office for our weekly meeting.”
“Do you know anything about her? Last name? What she looked like?”
“No. Nothing. Only Ann.”
Julie left, but we stayed in Reedy’s office.
“There has to be something here to help us,” Diesel said. “A Beacon Hill address on a scrap of paper. A map. A phone number for Ann.”
“I imagine it would help if we had the book of sonnets.”
“Only if we knew what we were looking for. Wulf has the book, but I don’t see him moving forward. He’s got Hatchet trying to steal the key. My guess is he needs the key for something more than just opening the book. I’m sure Wulf has already opened the book without the key.”
I sat in Reedy’s chair and studi
ed his desktop. I’d already gone through everything on his desk and in his drawers the other day, but I repeated my search. It seemed to me that if a clue existed, it would be close at hand. Reedy would have been at his desk, taking notes, doing his research. One of the items on his desk was a book on the life and works of Vincent van Gogh. It hadn’t seemed significant yesterday, but today it caught my attention because I remembered the librarian saying the cover on Lovey’s book of sonnets reminded her of Van Gogh’s almond blossom painting. I thumbed through the book and found the painting. Oil on canvas. Branches and blossoms against a blue sky. Completed in 1890. It was owned by the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, but it was currently part of a traveling exhibit.
The page was held by a computer printout of what at first glance appeared to be the same painting, but on closer inspection showed small differences. Someone had circled the differences and written private collection and a Louisburg Square address in the margin.
“I think I might have something,” I said to Diesel. “Come look at this. The librarian said the Lovey book cover reminded her of a Van Gogh painting of almond blossoms. I found this art book on Reedy’s desk, and it looks like there were two almond blossom paintings that were similar but different. One is owned by a museum, but it looks like the second is in a private collection. There’s a Louisburg Square address here, and Julie said Reedy went to see someone in Louisburg Square about the clue.”
Diesel looked over my shoulder and ruffled my hair. “Way to go, Sherlock.”
Beacon Hill is a Boston neighborhood delineated by the Boston Common, the Charles River, and busy Cambridge Street. Streets are narrow, lit by gaslight, and mostly one way. No matter where you want to go on Beacon Hill, if you’re driving, you can’t get there from wherever you happen to be. Sidewalks are uneven from time and tree roots. Residences are primarily Federalist-style town houses, with some Greek Revival thrown in for variety. Charles Street slices through the residential area from one end to the other, with its antiques shops, restaurants, boutique stores, coffee shops, bakeries, and greengrocers. Louisburg Square sits two blocks uphill from Charles. The Square itself is a green oasis surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence and a sprinkling of trees. Houses around the Square are redbrick with black shutters, and usually five floors, with half of one floor belowground, opening out to a tiny backyard. This is high-end Boston real estate, with houses selling for multimillions of dollars. I’d walked the streets as a tourist, from Charles Street, up Beacon, to the Massachusetts State House, so I had a vague understanding of the geography.
Diesel left Storrow Drive for the flat of the hill, found Mt. Vernon Street, and turned into Louisburg Square. He counted off houses and idled in front of a perfectly renovated town house that sat in the middle of the block.
“This is the address on the computer printout,” he said. “According to the text I just got from my assistant, the house is owned by Gerald Belker. He’s president of Belker Extrusion. Has a wife and two adult children. This is one of three houses he owns. It’s not clear if he’s in residence. Reedy was let into the house to see the painting, but that was a couple weeks ago. My assistant called the house and got a machine.”
“What’s your assistant’s name?” I asked Diesel.
“I don’t know. She’s been with me for three weeks, and it’s too late to ask. She’d get insulted and quit.”
“So how are we going to get in to see the painting?”
“We ring the doorbell. If someone answers, we lie our way in. If no one answers, we break in.”
“I don’t like either of those ideas.”
Diesel parked two houses down. “What’s your plan?”
“You treat me to dinner at a nice restaurant, we go home, and we pretend we didn’t discover the computer printout of the second painting.”
“Not gonna happen, but after we break into the house, I’ll buy you a pizza and a beer.”
“I’m not breaking into the house. Look at these places. They all have alarm systems. The police will come and arrest us.”
“No worries. There’s not a jail that can hold me.”
“But what about me? I can’t do the whole Houdini thing you do with locks.”
“Yeah, you’d be behind bars for a long time.”
“Good grief.”
Diesel grinned. “I’m kidding. I’ll take care of the alarm.”
“You can do that?”