Chapter 6 - THE VARNISH ROOM
I drove straight to the one place Kent would take an old man who needed to believe he was still working.
The old Mercer warehouse in Sodo.
My grandfather had bought the brick warehouse in the seventies to store bulk tonewood—maple and spruce aging for decades. We hadn't used the building in years, mostly because the roof leaked and the neighborhood had gone downhill. But Kent still had a key.
I parked two blocks away, pulling my coat tight against the biting wind. The sky was an ugly, bruised purple, threatening a storm.
I approached the warehouse from the alley. The heavy steel door was locked, but the padlock on the chain was new. Shiny brass against rusted iron. Kent had been here recently.
I picked up a heavy piece of broken concrete from the alleyway, wrapped my scarf around it to muffle the sound, and smashed it against the padlock. Once. Twice. On the third hit, the cheap brass shackle snapped.
I pulled the chain free and eased the heavy door open.
The smell hit me instantly.
Not dust. Not rot.
Turpentine. Shellac. Spirit varnish.
The lights were off, but a single work lamp burned brightly in the center of the cavernous room, surrounded by towering stacks of aged wood.
And sitting at a workbench beneath the halo of light was my father.
He was wearing his old canvas apron. His silver hair was disheveled, and his hands—knotted with arthritis—were meticulously sanding the back of a breathtakingly beautiful violin.
"Dad," I choked out, running toward him.
He didn't look up. His focus was entirely on the wood. "Can't talk now, Sylvia. The deadline is tight. Mr. Ashby said the museum needs this piece restored by tonight."
My heart broke. Kent had weaponized his dementia. He had convinced my father he was doing legitimate restoration work for museums.
"Dad, put the sandpaper down," I said softly, reaching out to touch his shoulder.
He flinched, pulling the violin away protectively. "No! I have to finish the varnish. It's a Guarneri, Sylvia. A real del Gesù. Look at the f-holes. The asymmetry. It's brilliant. I'm just touching up the purfling."
I looked at the instrument. It was magnificent. The arching, the deep red-gold varnish, the aggressive cut of the soundholes. To anyone in the world, it looked like a million-dollar antique.
But I was his daughter. I knew his work.
I gently took the violin from his hands. I turned it over. I didn't look at the fake label inside. I looked at the tailpiece.
I pulled a small magnifying glass from my purse—a tool I never left home without—and squinted at the dark ebony wood at the base of the strings.
There it was. Microscopic. Barely the size of a pinhead, hidden in the grain.
A.M.
"You made this, Dad," I whispered, tears spilling down my cheeks. "You built this from scratch."
My father blinked, his eyes clouding with confusion. "No, sweetheart. It's a 1742. Mr. Ashby brought it to me. He said I was the only one who could fix the crack in the soundpost."
"There is no crack," I said, my voice trembling. I set the violin gently on the bench. I looked around the makeshift workshop. There were bottles of aging chemicals. Nitric acid. Potassium dichromate. Things used to artificially age fresh wood to make it look three hundred years old.
Kent had set up a forgery factory, and my father was his unwitting slave.
"Dad, we have to go," I said, grabbing his arm. "Nadine is worried sick. We're going home."
"But the auction," my father protested, pulling back. "Kent said if I don't finish this, we lose the shop. The bank will take it."
I froze. "Kent told you about the bank?"
"He said you made a bad business deal," my father said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He said you were too proud to ask for help, but if I fixed these museum pieces, he could use his foundation connections to pay off your debt. I'm saving the shop, Sylvia. I'm saving you."
The absolute depravity of it knocked the breath out of me. Kent had not only stolen our father, he had made my father believe he was rescuing me from a failure Kent himself had orchestrated.
"Dad," I said, cupping his face in my hands. I forced him to look into my eyes. "The shop is fine. I am fine. Kent lied to you. He lied to all of us."
Before my father could process the words, the heavy steel door at the front of the warehouse slammed shut with a deafening boom.
I spun around.
Kent stepped out of the shadows. He was holding a heavy iron crowbar. His suit was ruined, his hair wild. He looked entirely unhinged.
"I knew you'd figure out the warehouse eventually," Kent said, his voice echoing in the large space. "You always were too smart for your own good, Sylvia. Just never smart enough to look at me."
"Let him go, Kent," I said, stepping in front of my father.
"I can't do that," Kent said, walking slowly toward us, tapping the crowbar against his leg. "I need the violin. Vance is expecting a masterpiece tonight. If I don't walk into that gala with it, he calls the FBI. And if the FBI looks at my books, they find you."
"I have the ledger," I said, standing tall, refusing to show him my fear. "I have the pawn ticket. I know about the insurance policy. You have nothing on me anymore."
Kent stopped. A nasty, jagged smile spread across his face.
"You think the ledger clears you?" he laughed. "Sylvia, who do you think bought all the tonewood? Who signed the checks for the varnishes? You did. I used the shop's accounts. To the feds, you're the mastermind. I'm just the poor, trusting husband."
He took another step forward. "Give me the violin, Sylvia. I take it to Vance, I clear the foundation's debt, and I get on a plane. You get the insurance money when I 'disappear' over the Alps. We all win."
"You don't win," a new voice echoed from the darkness near the back of the warehouse.
Kent whipped around, raising the crowbar.
May you like
Stepping out from behind a stack of maple wood was Lacy Monroe. And standing right beside her, holding a cell phone with the recording light blinking red, was Harrison Vance.
"I believe," Vance said, adjusting his immaculate tie, "the foundation has heard quite enough."
