Page 21 of Burning Caine
I took the case from her, nodding. “We have a few restoration companies on our approved vendor list. Who did you have in mind?”
She took a business card out of her pocket and handed it to me.
“Parker’s Restoration?” The card was simple, company name and phone number. I flipped it over. There was no address. Was it coincidence I’d met an artist with the last name Parker? “Does Cam-ron Parker work there?”
She scratched the back of her neck in a move telling me I was right, while shaking her head. “I don’t know the names of all the people who work there, but the owner’s name is Parker. He does good work.”
“Fair enough.” Not fair enough, actually. There was a lie in there somewhere. The question was, did it matter?
“You see, Ferraro’s…” She lowered her voice, although we were the only ones there. “Their rates are too high, and they take too long.”
“This painting’s already booked with them, but I’ll vet this company for future—”
“They got their contract with Foster Mutual years ago, but they’re talentless hacks who get by on charm instead of skill.”
“Really?” Cliff wouldn’t recommend them if that were true. However, Cliff didn’t know this industry as well as I did. I’d keep a close eye on the Ferraros. “Thanks for the warning.”
Chapter 8
Samantha
Ferraro’sconservationstudiowason Calabria Street, surrounded by Italian businesses, shops, and restaurants. Black lamp posts along the road held small Italian flags and flower baskets. Official maps listed it as Calabria Street, but the street signs all read Via Calabria, as it would have been called in Italy.
I was on alert, watching for the guy from Saturday night. But I was working, and I had Lucy with me. What would I do if I saw him? Probably run the other way.
Their office was in a white-washed building, with a black sign readingFerraro’sin bold letters andFine Art Restoration and Conservationunderneath. Two large windows along the front allowed a view inside, where a two-tiered reception desk sat off to the right side and small waiting area with black couches and a glass table balanced it on the left. A white wall, dominated with the sameFerraro’ssign in metallic gold, separated the waiting area from the space beyond.
As Lucy and I entered through the glass front door, a sweet, floral scent struck me, from the irises on the waiting room table and the reception desk. Classical music played quietly in the background. Vivaldi’sThe Four Seasons. Sunlight beamed in from the area behind reception. My heels clicked on the floor, and the woman behind the big desk looked up from some papers to smile at me.
“Samantha Caine and Lucy Chapman from Foster Mutual.” I placed the case on the floor next to me.
She stood to shake our hands. “Sofia Moretti.”
A southern Italian beauty with long black hair, deep brown eyes, and olive skin, wearing a sleeveless sheath dress in emerald green which accentuated her curves. I guessed she was in her late thirties, maybe early forties, and I was suddenly self-conscious in my less than remarkable suit. Lucy’s Doc Martens, mini skirt over tights, and yellow blouse stood out even more.
“Where’s Hailey? She normally handles all our business with Foster.”
“Not available today.”
“Funny you should say that. Neither of the Drs. is here right now, either.” Her eyebrow twitched slightly. She was irritated about something. “You can drop the painting off with me. I can do the intake but will require one of them to review it before I can send you the estimate.” She had a faint Italian accent, betrayed by a few words here and there, as though she’d learned English early but grew up with Italian as her primary language.
“Fair enough.”
She moved the flowers to the lower portion of her desk and I placed the case where they’d been. Lucy stood next to me, watching my every move. For someone normally as chatty as she was, she was silent as I worked.
I opened the case from the gallery to revealNumber Veeand pointed out the tear. “You can see the damage here. Four inches long, eighth of an inch slightly to the left from the end of the tear line. I applied a low-adhesive, acid-free bookbinder’s tape acid-free bookbinder’s tape to the back to ensure it didn’t spread.”
She arched an eyebrow at me. “You talk like a conservator.”
“It’s not the first torn painting I’ve dealt with.” I shrugged. “The tear is on the grain of the fabric and the finish is smooth, so it should be relatively simple.”
She retrieved a magnifying glass and small flashlight from a drawer in her desk and took a closer look. She nodded slowly. “You’re right. The color is uniform, which will require more work to find the right shade but no texture from a heavy impasto to replicate. I doubt Dominico or Antonio will be needed for this. Are you sure about the tear taking a turn at the end?”
“Yes, but you can only see it from the back. The paint is holding it together in the front.” I pulled my phone out of my bag and showed her the photos from the back. She lifted it from the side and tilted her head for a quick look.
“Hailey never uses tape.” She placed the painting back down in the case.
I had no intention of going into detail on what I did and didn’t tote around in my truck for art claims. All the same, I said, “I keep some on-hand for cases like this.”