Or at least they weren’t at the Arthur Wadsworth Gallery. Miriam was there. I knew the gallery probably had more employees, but I had hoped she’d be there. If not, I’d have had to go to her house. I felt that gave her an advantage. “You,” she said by way of greeting. “Yes, me.” “I’m not answering more of your questions,” she said. “That’s fine. I’ll just go see if I can find good old Arthur himself. Maybe he can answer my questions.” She sneered. “Good luck. He’s been dead for a decade. His wife owns the place now, and she wouldn’t know a cabbage from a Picasso. She leaves managing the gallery to me.” “Fine. Then I’ll head down to the paper. I’m going to ask a rather obvious question that no one has asked yet. How is it that someone who works at a gallery—an art gallery—didn’t notice her own paintings had been stolen and replaced with forgeries?
