Madonna of the Apes (Fred Taylor Mystery Series #6)

( 1 )

Overview


Fred Taylor, a veteran of unspecified clandestine services that have caused him to spend hard times in Southeast Asia, finds himself at loose ends in Boston. A late-night chance encounter in the city's Beacon Hill area throws his lot in with eccentric art collector Clayton Reed. Reed has been tricked by a young man as unscrupulous as he is ignorant into examining and considering for purchase a collection of paintings whose presence in the U.S. seems, at best, informal.
Fred, ...
See more details below
Available through our Marketplace sellers.
Other sellers (Hardcover)
  • All (25) from $1.99   
  • New (3) from $3.95   
  • Used (22) from $1.99   
Close
Sort by
Page 1 of 1
Showing All
Note: Marketplace items are not eligible for any BN.com coupons and promotions
$3.95
Seller since 2008

Feedback rating:

(197)

Condition:

New — never opened or used in original packaging.

Like New — packaging may have been opened. A "Like New" item is suitable to give as a gift.

Very Good — may have minor signs of wear on packaging but item works perfectly and has no damage.

Good — item is in good condition but packaging may have signs of shelf wear/aging or torn packaging. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Acceptable — item is in working order but may show signs of wear such as scratches or torn packaging. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Used — An item that has been opened and may show signs of wear. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Refurbished — A used item that has been renewed or updated and verified to be in proper working condition. Not necessarily completed by the original manufacturer.

New
2005-10-01 Hardcover New SHIPS FAST FROM NY.

Ships from: Niagara Falls, NY

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Canadian
  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
  • Express, 48 States
  • Express (AK, HI)
$7.19
Seller since 2009

Feedback rating:

(17)

Condition: New
2005-10-01 Hardcover New Awesome Book-BRAND NEW IN MINT COND. No Remainder Mark.

Ships from: San Jose, CA

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Canadian
  • International
  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
  • Express, 48 States
  • Express (AK, HI)
$23.99
Seller since 2008

Feedback rating:

(570)

Condition: New
Signed by Author Unused. Signed by the author on the title page. Copyright page states "First Edition 2005" and has a full number line. In mylar cover.

Ships from: Narberth, PA

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
  • Express, 48 States
  • Express (AK, HI)
Page 1 of 1
Showing All
Close
Sort by
Madonna of the Apes (Fred Taylor Mystery Series #6)

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • NOOK HD/HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK Study
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$8.99
BN.com price
(Save 10%)$9.99 List Price
This digital version does not exactly match the physical book displayed here.

Overview


Fred Taylor, a veteran of unspecified clandestine services that have caused him to spend hard times in Southeast Asia, finds himself at loose ends in Boston. A late-night chance encounter in the city's Beacon Hill area throws his lot in with eccentric art collector Clayton Reed. Reed has been tricked by a young man as unscrupulous as he is ignorant into examining and considering for purchase a collection of paintings whose presence in the U.S. seems, at best, informal.
Fred, sensing Reed's naiveti in matters of personal security, volunteers to guarantee that security at the same time as Reed's acumen as a connoisseur astounds Fred. How could Reed just walk away from the situation with what he later gloatingly describes as ""a prize worth more than the gross domestic product of Bulgaria.""
What Reed has purchased appears to be a painting by one of the most important artists of the Italian Renaissance. But is it what it seems
Can The Madonna of the Apes be a forgery
How did it come to be, so quietly, in Boston
These questions propel Reed and Fred into an increasingly murderous tangle, guided only by the assurances of a sequence of art dealers who lie as easily as they withhold the truth about the painting, its true nature, and its history.
Nicholas Kilmer is the author of five previous Fred Taylor art mysteries.
Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

Writing a good mystery series about art cops and robbers means walking a fine line between erudition and excitement. The Brits do it well: from Kyril Bonfiglioli's books about shady art dealer Charlie Mortdecai and Jonathan Gash's always readable Lovejoy series, to the three art experts--two Italian, one English--who add zest to Ian Pears' enjoyable books and John Malcolm's excellent series about former rugby football ace Tim Simpson, who now advises a British bank's art fund.

On this side of the pond, nobody does it better than Nicholas Kilmer, whose books (""Harmony in Flesh and Black"" and ""Man With a Squirrel"" are two of his more memorable efforts) feature two remarkable art lovers: Fred Taylor, a mysterious man of many physical skills (some of which he refined in places like Vietnam and Thailand) and a roughedged but surprisingly deep knowledge of art history; and Clayton Reed, a rich and eccentric collector whose home on Boston's posh Beacon Hill is full of tasty valuables.

Kilmer's latest book is a ""When Fred Met Clayton"" prequel that starts when Taylor--deciding whether to sleep in the park or go back to the private mission house filled with tattered Vietnam veterans and other formerly homeless street people that he runs in Charlestown--helps Reed take an apparently drunk con man, Franklin Tilley, back to Tilley's nearby apartment, which is stuffed with obvious fakes but also genuine treasures. There Reed sees an old chest, which he buys. Taylor helps him carry it home, and inside they find what they both quickly come to believe is an unknown painting by Leonardo da Vinci--""the subject almost grotesque, the finish exquisite in its precision.""

The painting isthe ""Madonna of the Apes"" of the book's title, and even someone once labeled ""a visual zero"" by a painter friend can share the excitement and erudition of Kilmer's description: ""On the left a woman in blue--the Virgin, clearly, although she bore no halo--sat in a rocky landscape struggling to contain the exuberance of a naked boy child--Jesus, but again lacking a halo--who was twisting away in order to reach for a fruit, a fig, that a crouching ape on the right was offering.""

At another point, Kilmer--a painter and art dealer himself--has Taylor think, ""You knew a work of art in the same way you recognized the killer's scent, because it made your hair stand up, and brought back the fear."" And isn't that why we read mysteries? -- Dick Adler, Chicago Tribune, 10/23/05

Publishers Weekly
Fans of Kilmer's quirky art mysteries will welcome the delightfully inventive sixth entry in this underappreciated series (Harmony in Flesh and Black, etc.), a prequel that explains how art critic Fred Taylor and wealthy, reclusive Boston collector Clayton Reed met. Franklin Tilley, a young man in possession of an eclectic art collection of uncertain provenance and ownership, sets up Reed for a scam or worse. When Taylor intervenes, he's sucked out of his uneasy loner existence into an alliance with Reed that will ripen into a close friendship. Tilley, who knows little about the art he's peddling, offers a dubious masterpiece for $3 million, but Reed, for a much smaller sum, comes away with "a prize worth more than the gross domestic product of Bulgaria." The shocking painting, which Reed is convinced is by Leonardo da Vinci, gives Kilmer a chance to provide a flippant but incisive critique of Leonardo's accomplishments and genius while his heroes ferret out the truth. (Oct.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
After five urbane adventures starring Boston art collector Clayton Reed and his dogsbody Fred Taylor (Lazarus, Arise, 2001), Kilmer shows how they first met. Squiring home Franklin Tilley, the intoxicated young man he's met at a Museum of Fine Arts fundraiser, Reed finds that he needs an extra Samaritan. Enter Fred, who's just left the bed of a woman whose name he can't remember. Together they extricate Tilley from a taxi and get him into his Beacon Hill home-a place lined with paintings he wants Reed to cast his expert eye over. Although Tilley, his drunkenness no more trustworthy than his ownership, insists the best item still awaits delivery, Reed leaves after paying $6,000 for a decorated chest he carts off. The decorations he shows Fred are extraordinary, for inside the lid is a presumed Leonardo da Vinci showing a Madonna and Child posed with a monkey. Now that he has custody of the painting, Reed is ravenous for a provenance. Meanwhile, Tilley wants his prize back and is willing to pay $10,000 for it. And the guilelessly named Suzette Shaughnessy intimates as she snuggles up to Fred that she's eager to purchase the chest for Toledo plumbing heir Tony Agnelli, assuming there is such a person. A mind-boggling but essentially lightweight series of deceptions and alliances of convenience aimed at readers who still aren't sick of Leonardo despite Dan Brown's best efforts.
Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781590581964
  • Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
  • Publication date: 10/28/2005
  • Series: Fred Taylor Mystery Series , #6
  • Pages: 270
  • Product dimensions: 6.22 (w) x 8.58 (h) x 0.90 (d)

Meet the Author

Nicholas Kilmer, born in Virginia, lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts and Normandy, France. A teacher for many years, and finally Dean of the Swain School of Design in New Bedford, Massachusetts, he now makes his living as a painter and art dealer. In 1964 he married Julia Norris, and with her has four children.

Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt

Madonna of the Apes


By Nicholas Kilmer

Poisoned Pen Press

Copyright © 2005 Nicholas Kilmer
All right reserved.

ISBN: 1-59058-196-2


Chapter One

The snake lay across his chest, brown and rotund. It had eaten. No, that was wrong. It was an arm. Her arm. A woman's arm. Fred could make it out in the fitful light coming in through the window, four floors up over Charles Street. He listened to the sounds of the advancing night, speculating on how much time might have passed. The arm was sinuous and graceful, yes, but that was not what had confused him. It was the snake tattooed around it, an expert and expensive job: the tail toward her wrist (her left arm), so that the beast's head could poise alert behind the woman's shoulder. Sally? Harriet? Something with that short "a" sound.

It was the snake that had wakened him, as they used to do in the narrow space underground he would not think of. And that explained his sweat-too much for this cool room-and the stealthy, trembling quiet that had come over him. They only wanted company. Once they had enjoyed it they would slither off again, passing through openings too narrow for him even to imagine escape.

The woman's arm was lovely, like the rest of her. Earlier, as the occasion warranted, they'd thrown her covers off to the warm breeze of Boston's late May evening. She lay on her front now, as naked as he was, and as naked aseither of them had ever been, one arm, the one with the snake, across his chest, and her left leg cocked across his groin, its weight on his bladder. She breathed as placidly as any snake. Her face he could not see. Her black hair swirled away across the pillows. The window was on his side of the bed-Jackie?-no more than two feet from the bed. The smell of the river came in, cool and a little wild, given how tamed the river was. Tacita? Catherine? Katrina?

He wouldn't sleep again now, and the woman's living space contained nothing to read, not even a house or fashion magazine in the john. His watch, and his left arm, were imprisoned under the woman's body. The dusk of whatever time of night this was allowed him to see the room's spare furnishings. It was as if she lived here only occasionally. Besides the bed, barely big enough for the two of them, there were the bureau holding the small TV, and the big chair where he'd piled his clothes; a little table with two straight chairs next to the doorway leading into the kitchen alcove. Her clothes he couldn't see. They were in a bureau or in the closet he hadn't looked into. He hadn't seen her take them off. She'd taken care of that while he'd stepped into the john. They could be under the bed for all he knew.

Alison? She shifted slightly, becoming both more comfortable, herself, and heavier on his bladder. Live as she was, and large as she was, and heavy as she was on his bladder-her name should be somewhere. It happened still, scraps of things he cared about, disappearing.

The room was painted a dull yellow, somewhat leonine.

He'd never had anything to feed them, nothing they wanted at least, or nothing he could spare. Twice he tried saving wads of his meager portion of rice. But the snakes disregarded rice. The bits of fish or pork, when they came, he could not do without. No, if they wanted anything aside from company, it was the rats he was too slow and weak to catch. The rats against which he must protect his rice.

His trembling was subsiding. Some women it would have awakened, but this one slept on. She was not made uncomfortable by adjacent fear. Her bag was on the table. If he looked through it he would learn her name. But if she opened one glazed round eye and found him looking she would feel betrayed, thinking he meant to rob her. Fred was already easing out from beneath her before he realized his decision to be away. Their odors mingled with those of the river, imitating its murky depth. All life embraces its own decay. Find a French name for that scent, market it in a bottle, and eliminate the need for intercourse. For almost any human contact.

The gallant thing might be to cover her. But she seemed more comfortable nude. As Fred came out of the john again and started to collect his clothing she turned over and sprawled to take full possession of her bed. She was quite a spectacular animal, and she'd known enough to stop and let nature have a chance. Other than the snake tattoo there was no other interference, no other mark or piercing: nothing but woman. Janet? Was there a "j"? Luxuriant black hair curled at her groin and under her arms. The snake was coiled now, languidly, above her head.

Fred slid into his clothes, khakis and a blue Oxford shirt, and the loafers he had started wearing without socks once the season permitted. Had he been carrying anything? What did he have? The blue windbreaker on the chair's back must be his as well. Yes, it felt right.

"Fred?" the woman said as he opened the apartment's door. "Make sure you pull the street door closed until you hear it lock behind you, Honey, would you?"

"You bet."

"I don't want to wake up and worry."

Chapter Two

Fred pulled the street door to, firmly, behind him, and checked that the catch was set before he looked at his watch. Just shy of midnight on a mild night. Though the neighborhood's commerce had dwindled almost to a halt, enough people occupied the sidewalks that the place seemed inhabited, if not frolicsome. The pedestrians were mostly young, in couples or in groups. Taxis moved along the street, looking for late fares.

The air smelled of raw sex, because it was spring, and there was a river a block away. In spring a river turns, and its mud basin starts to think of the next generation. Charles was a funky, formerly seedy street running along the foot of Boston's Beacon Hill, separating it from the Charles River. The street was lined with restaurants behind whose locked doors the staffs were mopping up; and with closed shops that sold antiques, or soaps, or the many gift items that fall into the chasm between those two categories.

The woman he had just left-Bambi? No, he would remember that; it would come in time-lived three flights above an antique store whose windows were well lit, either to discourage, or to assist, marauders. The night's thin mist billowed against the lighted plate glass. Fred paused to look. Earlier, his need, or hers, or both, had been too pressing. The shop contained the usual disappointing jumble of pots and crocks and somebody's uncle's hand-done oil painting of a lighthouse or a waterfall: a sword, a Japanese kimono, bird prints back of dirty glass. But nothing sang, or lived; nothing betrayed an intimate connection between the maker's spirit and the shape or marking of the thing that had been made. A work of art should be as wild, and as alive, as was that snake tattoo, racing around the woman's arm before it froze time in its risky grip. You knew a work of art in the same way you recognized the killer's scent, because it made your hair stand up, and brought back the fear. It should be real, too real.

The night was mild enough. If he chose, he could sleep on the bank of the river. He would wake damp, no worse. Or, if he wanted cover, Fred could sack out in Bernie's place. He'd finished the job for Bernie, he and Bernie had hit it off; and Bernie had said, "I'll be in India for a month, maybe two. Use the place if you want to. Keep an eye on the Lagonda." Fred had the keys, and he'd drop in now and then anyway. If he felt like walking, he could walk back to his own place in Charlestown. Or he could exercise past skills and let himself back into the woman's place. But no, she'd feel betrayed. She'd believe, when his weight changed the balance of her mattress, that while he was gone he had left her and her building vulnerable, allowing the street door to remain unlocked.

He'd walk until he found himself doing the next thing. If he found himself stopping at Bernie's, he'd know that's what he was doing, when he did it.

He turned in the direction of Charlestown, walking more briskly than the other pedestrians, who had something to say to each other, or display windows to study; and against the vehicular traffic of the one-way street. If the next thing was to take a taxi somewhere, one was pulling into the curb two blocks ahead. It paused while a man got out and stood swaying, taking support from the taxi's roof while, inside, a second man managed the fare. When the second man reached the sidewalk, he undertook to substitute his own support for what had been offered by the taxi, and as the taxi rolled cautiously in Fred's direction, its two ex-passengers began to grapple clumsily as if they were fighting and neither had ever tried to fight before; or as if they were making love and, again, it was each one's maiden attempt. Neither, both being in business suits, was dressed correctly for either activity. Fred drew nearer to the struggling couple. At the same time, his fellow travelers on the street crossed to the opposite side.

The men were matched in height but not in age. Both were clumsy, the younger appearing to be clumsy with drink, and with the loutish self-confidence drink can exacerbate. The elder man, on the other hand, looked clumsy almost as a matter of policy, like a large flightless bird compelled by circumstance to try a turn in the air. His movements expressed a native diffidence that might have been embedded in the steps of an ancient, very formal dance the other man did not know. As Fred approached them, the younger man took a flobby swing at the older one, whose shock of thick white hair was flung back dramatically when the blow connected with his cheek. Still, at the same time, the elder man struggled to keep the younger from falling into the street or through the plate glass window of a store specializing in old maps.

Fred reached them on the run, propping up the younger man while keeping his flailing arms from making contact. "... into my goddamned britches," the young man was muttering. He fixed Fred with a glassy eye, then lost focus entirely and slumped as far as Fred would let him.

"His keys," the older man said, jingling a small set. "His place should be around the corner. He deserves it, but we can't leave him in the street. It's a great deal to ask. But he's too much, is he not? for one Samaritan."

His speech, though over-precise, did not suggest inebriation. The suit he wore, of a dove gray cut usually reserved for movies depicting the halcyon days of the 1930s, showed no sign of rough weather. The passersby, seeing that things were both apparently under control and potentially interesting, were starting to form small groups across the street, from which to observe events without getting wet.

"Where do we take him?" Fred asked. "What do we call him?"

The older man looked vague. "He did tell me his name," he started. "When we talked. And it turned out we were going in the same direction. Why not share a cab, he said."

"Fourteen Pekham, second floor," the younger man said. He gulped, retched and wobbled. "Love nest. Franklin. 'Preciate it. I answer to Franklin." The man's accent, when he spoke, was soft and rounded. From his accent he might well be from the south, having spent enough time in the north to have the southern excess beaten out of him. Or vice versa.

"We'll get him to bed. Do the keys," Fred told the older man. "I'll do the man. What the hell. When he pukes, keep your suit clear if you can." They got him around the corner and six doors uphill, skirting a row of elegant brownstones, until a polished brass plate at the top of a flight of stone steps told them they'd reached number fourteen. "Figure the keys out, then I'll bring him up," Fred suggested. "That way I'm not waltzing this joker at the top of the stairs. Come to that, I'd just as soon he doesn't puke on me."

Once the older man had found the key that opened the street door, Fred got Franklin up the inside stairs and held him on the landing outside the apartment's door while the other man selected and applied the key. Franklin wobbled and wavered, then stiffened abruptly and powerfully in Fred's grasp. "Alarm," Franklin gulped, lurching forward as the apartment's door opened inward. "You're sweet. The code. My birthday. Let me do it." He jerked away.

Fred's quick foot jabbed into the doorway kept the apartment's door from slamming closed with Franklin inside, leaving the two Samaritans gaping at each other on the landing. Fred followed his foot fast into the dark room.

"What's going on?" all three men said.

Chapter Three

"Alarm hell!" Fred said, making a grab that took Franklin by the belt. He held, fishing for a light switch. The older man hovered at loose ends on the landing. "Come in. Close the door," Fred ordered. "We don't need company."

"There's been some misapprehension," the older man demurred.

"We've been invited and then some," Fred said. He gave a jerk to Franklin's belt. "Somebody plays me for a sucker, plays you for a sucker-you don't know this guy? Right? That's on the up-and-up? Let's find out why."

"I have no wish, no interest, no desire," he began, but the place itself drew the older man inside, past whatever was left of his scruples. The light of the entrance hall allowed them to see a large room, almost without furniture, that gleamed with suppressed fire.

"The drunk's an act, Franklin," Fred said. "Drop it or I'll drop you." He slid his grip around to the back of Franklin's belt and held it tight enough to keep his captive from slipping his hold by unbuckling it. "His plan was to lure you in for a start, following his ass. That's your business. I don't care. It's a honey trap. Sprung too soon, because he didn't figure on the extra Samaritan. Close the door. There'll be a light switch next to it. Let's see who else is here."

"Remarkable," the older man said, peering around the dark room as he entered. When the entrance door closed with a click, Franklin said, "I'm alone."

The principal furnishing of the room was a lush oriental rug that covered almost the entire floor, hardwood, but it had been painted white. The carpet's colors-magenta, rose madder and viridian-burned in a dusky glow that leaped to flame when the older man located the switch, illuminating the room from wall sconces. Franklin flipped like a landed trout, hanging from Fred's right fist, while Fred and his fellow Samaritan stared at the walls, where paintings hung in profusion, a wilderness of styles and kinds and colors. For furniture the room held no more than a small gilded table bearing glasses and filled decanters, a carved and painted wooden chest, and a low bookcase filled, it appeared, with art books. The elder Samaritan revolved slowly in the center of the room, gaping frankly, and stroking a necktie on which paisleys, in modest riot, had been deeply shamed by the carpet's regimented orgy. It was too much information, much too fast.

"Nobody else here? We'll see. Meanwhile, let's get the scoop on our host," Fred said. He reached into the man's jacket pocket and, taking from it a leather wallet, flipped it open. But he could learn nothing from it without losing his grip on Franklin's belt. "I'm Fred," Fred told his fellow Samaritan. "What do I call you?"

"Reed. What do you mean, honey trap? What's a honey trap?" He raised a hand to stroke the reddening welt on his cheek, where he'd been hit.

"Oh, come on," Fred said. He lifted the belt enough to set his man swinging, then dropped him to the carpet. "Stay there," he said, and had the freedom of both hands. He said after a minute's study, "Our host carries a Georgia driver's license. Atlanta. Three credit cards in the name of Franklin Tilley. He's a Georgia boy. A Georgia peach. A peach with a sting in its tail. Who's in the back room, Franklin?"

The younger man had landed on his face on the carpet. He lay in a sullen crouch. "Twelve hundred dollars," Fred continued. "In cash. Another ten thousand in blank traveler's checks, in this other pocket."

Reed, continuing to revolve slowly, like a top in its last vertical play, observed, "Fred, there is more going on here than meets the eye. No matter. There is always more going on than meets the eye. Mr. Tilley, a question. As long as I am here. Albeit in grotesquely anomalous circumstances. The unsigned watercolor over your head. Tell me about it."

(Continues...)



Excerpted from Madonna of the Apes by Nicholas Kilmer Copyright © 2005 by Nicholas Kilmer. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Read More Show Less

Table of Contents

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 5
( 1 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(1)

4 Star

(0)

3 Star

(0)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(0)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing 1 Customer Reviews
  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    Stupendous

    In Boston, Good Samaritan Clayton Reed tries to help his drunken companion to his home. Another passerby Fred Taylor comes along and helps. At the apartment, Fred, a former overseas operative, takes charge as he knows the drunk was pulling scam on the innocent Clayton and takes over the situation. The phony drunk is a Franklin from Atlanta and he has some interesting art, if genuine, in his place that should probably not be in the United States. Franklin says he has something truly special coming in to his possession in a few days the tantalizer hooks art collector Clayton who agrees to return................. As they leave, Fred asks Clayton if he is nuts. He responds in kind by hiring Fred to provide him security. A few days later, they are shown a Renaissance masterpiece MADONNA OF THE APES that could have be an original Renaissance masterpiece. Though having doubts on its¿ authenticity, related murders occur that seem to affirm that this painting is indeed a lost treasure worth dying for................... The stupendous sixth Taylor-Reed collaboration is a prequel to the previous art mysteries by occurring at the beginning when they first met and formed their employer-employee relationship. The tale is terrific as the art expert and the former agent work to learn if MADONNA OF THE APES is authentic and uncover who is murdering those associated with the painting. Taylor receives a first hand lesson in art appreciation as dealers willingly lie to make a sale. Nicholas Kilmer refreshes his delightful series with a wonderful ¿first¿ tale............... Harriet Klausner

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
Sort by: Showing 1 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)