“It would cost tens of thousands of dollars to make a fake Lily out of real imperial jade.”
“Nonetheless.”
India took a deep breath and searched her workstation again. I could see the wheels turning behind her glasses. “Okay,” she said, more to herself than to me, and opened a drawer. She thumbed through a few files, grabbed the one she liked, and dropped it on the tabletop.
“This is the Jade Lily,” she said.
She opened the file and started spreading out photographs. Heavenly Petryk was right—it was exquisite. The photographs showed two stalks extending from the base. One held eight blossoms with impossibly thin petals and the other had ten. There was a tiny cuplike flower in the center of each blossom.
“Wow,” I said.
“It’s a carving of a flower called the Chinese Sacred Lily,” India said. “Botanical name Narcissus tazetta v. orientalis. In real life the stems are green, almost as green as the jade. The blossoms are white, and the flowers in the center are the color of gold.”
“Wow,” I repeated.
“The odd thing is, it’s neither Chinese nor a lily. The flower, I mean. It’s actually a daffodil, and it originated in Egypt, of all places. But the Chinese have used it as a part of their New Year’s celebrations for God knows how many generations, hence the name.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Haven’t you ever seen the Lily before?”
“No.”
“It’s more impressive in person.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Anyway, here.” India chose a photograph and slid it in front of me. She took the magnifying glass and held it over the photograph where one of the stalks met the base. “Take a look.”
I took the glass from her hand and bent to the task.
“See where the stalk sprouts from the ground?” India said. “You’ll notice some imperfections from the carving process. There’s a tiny nick that resembles the letter M. M for McKenzie. I can’t imagine anyone carving a reproduction of the Jade Lily—especially out of imperial jade. I certainly can’t imagine anyone adding an M.”
I stared at the M for a while and then moved the glass around, looking for other telltale imperfections.
“Did you appraise the Lily?” I asked.
“No. We don’t do that here.”
“Who did?”
“I have no idea. You’ll have to ask Mr. Gillard about that.”
“Have you met him?”
“Gillard? No, but I’m sure he can tell you who put a value on the Lily. There are a lot of private companies that do that sort of thing, although usually they get it wrong.”
“Value, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant, ahh, what’s the word?”
“Authenticate?”
“Authenticate. Did you authenticate the Lily?”
“Yes. When it came in. That was two weeks ago. There wasn’t much work to do. I didn’t need to perform any tests. The provenance was intact. We could follow the chain of custody back far enough that we were sure we were exhibiting what we said we were exhibiting. I spent a lot of time with it, though. God, it’s beautiful.”
“How did it arrive?”
“A delivery company that specializes in shipping expensive artwork brought it in. Dublin Pack and Ship. We’ve used them before. They provide what they call ‘white glove pickup and delivery.’ In this case they went to Gillard’s place in Chicago, packed the Lily in cushioning foam and an ISPM-15 certified crate, brought it here, and unpacked it. There were always at least three people with the Lily every step of the process. They charged eleven thousand dollars. Do you believe that? That’s a quarter of my yearly salary. I am definitely in the wrong end of this business.”
India had plenty more to say about jade in general—“The Chinese word for jade is yu, which translates to mean noble, pure, jewel, or treasure, take your pick”—and the Lily in particular—“Breathtakingly exceptional quality. It must have been done by one of the finest craftsmen in history, and we’ll never know his name. How sad is that?”—which made me think she didn’t mind being in her end of the business at all.
I have to admit that I am one of those guys who knows nothing about art but knows what he likes, and I liked India’s enthusiasm for the Jade Lily. It must be saved, I decided.
While I was deciding this, the door opened and Perrin walked in, followed by Mr. Donatucci and a man who was a little over or a little under forty, with hair that was thinning on top and clothes that were too tight. He breathed as if he were asthmatic. Either that or he was so out of shape that the simple act of walking down the corridor was enough to leave him breathless. Being a semiprofessional unlicensed private detective, I deduced that he had put on a lot of weight recently and wasn’t used to carrying it around yet.
Perrin introduced us. “Mr. Gillard, this is McKenzie,” she said.
“Ahh, the famous Rushmore McKenzie,” he said. He shook my hand briskly and smiled. “So they talked you into retrieving the Lily after all. Foolish, foolish man.”
