“Little unusual being on the outside,” noted Francine.
“There’s no key lock on the front door, only a handle. My guess is this is where Harry lived for the most part. Now we need the code to get in.”
Francine opened her notebook and looked at the numbers she had written down there: 14, 25, 19, 9, 25, and 4. These represented the numerical equivalent of each first letter in the phrase Harry had left with his registered agent after leaving out the words “but then.”
“The leftovers for Sesame Street?” said Gibson.
“As in ‘open sesame,’ we hope.”
“Here goes nothing,” Gibson said, as she punched all these numbers into the alarm panel.
The red light on the pad turned green and they heard a click.
Francine gripped the handle and pulled the door open. “After you,” she said to Gibson.
The women walked in and Francine closed the door behind them.
The house was small, the rooms plain but spotless. The kitchen was functional, if rudimentary. They noticed that the windows were simply facades. There was no light coming in from them. The air was cool, and they could hear the hum of the HVAC system.
“The lights and HVAC must be on a program,” noted Gibson. They turned the corner and walked into what looked like the living room, which was the largest space thus far. There was track lighting on the ceilings and the lights were pointed at the walls.
And on the walls—
“Holy shit,” both women exclaimed at the same time.
Arrayed on all four walls were paintings. And not simply any paintings.
They drew closer to one of them. It was a simple depiction of a room: a tile floor, and part of a blue door. But the focus of the work was clearly a wooden chair with a straw seat that held what looked to be a pipe and cloth on it, and—
Francine pointed to the name that appeared on a wooden box sitting behind the chair that contained some vegetables.
“ ‘Vincent’?”
“As in... Van Gogh?” mumbled Gibson. “The NFTs were just misdirection, or maybe a digital sampling of the real thing?”
Francine took out her phone, did a search, and showed the screen to Gibson.
“Van Gogh signed his first name in odd places on the pieces he thought had some merit apparently. This one is entitled Vincent’s Chair. He painted it in December 1888.” She kept reading. “It was housed in the National Gallery in London.” She paused and then jerked her head up. “Until it was stolen eleven years ago.” She looked around. “It wouldn’t surprise me if all of these paintings had been stolen.”
“So Harry bought them from whoever stole them, and housed them here where he’s the only one who gets to enjoy them. And he bought NFTs of all of them and housed them in a metaverse room that is probably a duplicate of this one.” She looked around at what was clearly world-class artwork from a series of masters. “What a dick.”
“Who cares?” Francine leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and let out a long, calming breath. She opened her eyes, looked at Gibson, and allowed herself an ear-to-ear smile. “We just found the treasure.”
Chapter 85
The various museums and private collectors whose works had been stolen were thrilled to have them back in their possession. So happy, in fact, that the finder’s fees paid to Gibson and Francine were quite generous.
On the flight back from meeting with one of the museums, which had had two of the paintings stolen from it, Francine turned to Gibson.
“That night at Stormfield?”
“Yeah?”
“You saved my life.”
“Well, you did the same for me. If you hadn’t warned me, I’d be dead.”
Francine slowly reached over and gripped Gibson’s hand. “Can I ask you a favor?”
Gibson looked at her curiously. “What?”
“Can I...? Oh never mind.”
“What!”
Francine seemed nervous and unsure of herself. “I was just wondering, if I could meet... your kids.”
By Gibson’s expression, this was not what she was expecting. However, she said, “Sure, my parents have been watching them. You can meet them, too.”
“This is my friend, Francine,” said Gibson, introducing Francine to her parents. “She was at Temple when I was there.”
The Rogerses shook hands with Francine. Gibson’s father shot his daughter a glance and mouthed, Francine Langhorne?
She smiled but didn’t answer.
“So how did you know Mickey?” asked her mother.
Francine said, “Well, she was pretty famous on campus. But we were both involved in the theater program. Do you remember her in My Fair Lady? She was fantastic as Eliza Doolittle.”
Rick Rogers looked guiltily at his daughter. “I must’a missed that one. But I saw all her home basketball games.”
“Did you act in plays as well?” asked Dorothy Rogers.
Francine said, “Sometimes it seems like I’ve been acting my whole life.”
“Are you here on business?” asked Rick, with a sly look at Gibson.
“Actually, I am. In fact, I’m sort of in the same line of work Mickey is. Asset recovery.”
“And the kids?” asked Gibson. “Francine wanted to say hello.”
“Naptime is just about over,” said her mother.
Gibson led Francine upstairs and into her kids’ room.
Tommy’s eyes were open and he was looking sleepily around.
Darby’s eyes were still closed. Her thumb was in her mouth, and her other hand was clenched around her favorite stuffed animal, a Winnie the Pooh that had been so “loved” its button nose had worn off.
Francine knelt down next to Tommy and held out her hand. “Hi, Tommy, I’m Francine.”
Tommy glanced up at his mom, who nodded. Tommy put out his hand and the two shook.
“Hi,” he said in a small, uncertain voice.
“Did you have a good nap?”
He nodded.
“You look very strong. I bet you can throw a ball pretty far.”
He smiled and nodded.
“What’s that, I wonder?” said Francine. She reached behind his head and pulled out a Nerf ball and held it up.
Tommy’s eyes popped out as she handed it to him. “Okay, give it a whirl.” She backed up and squatted down like a catcher.
Tommy sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, looked at his mom, who nodded encouragingly, and got to his feet.
He wound up and threw the ball to Francine, who caught it and then shook her hand, pretended it was stinging. “Wow, you really can throw.”
She tossed it back to a beaming Tommy, who neatly caught it.
“Who you?”
They all looked up to see Darby awake and staring at Francine.
She rose, went over to Darby, and knelt down. “I’m Francine. And you’re Darby, right?”
She nodded, her thumb back in her mouth.
“I had a Winnie the Pooh just like that one, and you know what?”
“What?” mumbled Darby.
“He lost his nose, too.” Francine laughed and Darby looked at her Pooh and giggled.
Darby took her thumb out and said, “Pooh can’t schmell.”
“That’s okay. He can still see and hear, right?”
Darby nodded energetically.
“And he won’t have to smell stinky things.”
“Tommy stinky,” said Darby.
“Am not,” protested her brother.
“Well,” said Gibson. “I think she has you there, buckaroo.”
“Can I shake Pooh’s hand?” asked Francine.
Darby held him out.
Francine reached out and shook the bear’s hand and said, “Well, look at that. Did you know Pooh had this?”
Darby quickly sat up. “What?”
Francine held up a locket shaped like a heart.