He counted paintings: ten, twelve, sixteen. There were at least thirty or forty in the house. Of course, if Widdler was right, many of them had only sentimental value.
Lucas would have bet that none of the sentimental-value paintings were missing…
Lucas found Barker sitting on the floor of Bucher's bedroom, sorting through family photo albums. She was a little too heavy, her hair was a little too big, and she had glasses that were three fashions ahead of anything seen in the Twin Cities.
The glasses were perched on one of the smallest noses Lucas had ever seen on an adult; its carefully sculpted edges suggested a major nose job. Weather would have been interested. She had a whole rap on rhinoplasties, their value, and the problems that come up. Barker had been ill served by her surgeon, Lucas thought.
She looked up when Lucas loomed over her. The glasses slipped a quarter inch, and she peered at him over the black plastic frames. “There are way too many pictures, but this should give us a start.”
“On what?” Lucas asked.
She pushed the glasses back up her tiny nose. “Oh, I'm sorry- you're not with the police?”
“I'm with the state police, not St. Paul,” Lucas said. “Give us a start on what?”
She waved her hand at three stacks of leather-bound photo albums. “Aunt Connie used to have big Christmas and birthday parties. There were Easter-egg hunts both inside and outside, and a lot of pictures were taken,” Barker said. “We can probably get most of the furniture in one picture or another.”
“Great idea,” Lucas said, squatting next to her, picking up one of the photos. Connie Bucher, much younger, with a half-dozen people and a drinks cabinet in the background.
“What about her jewelry?” Lucas asked. “One of her friends said even the bedside jewelry was worth a lot.”
“She's right. Unfortunately, most of it was old, so there aren't any microphotographs.
All we have is descriptions in the insurance rider and those are essentially meaningless.
If the thieves are sophisticated, the loose stones might already be in Amsterdam.”
“But we could probably find out weights and so on?” Lucas asked.
“I'm sure.”
“Have you ever heard of a painter called Stanley Reckless?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Huh. There supposedly was a painting up in the storage rooms that had 'reckless' written on the back,” Lucas said. “There's an artist named Stanley Reckless, his paintings are worth a bundle.”
Barker shook her head: “It's possible. But I don't know of it. I could ask around the other kids.”
“If you would.”
A cop came in with a handful of photographs. “We're missing one,” he said. “The photograph was taken in the music room, but I can't find it anywhere.”
Lucas and Barker stood up, Barker took the photo and Lucas looked at it over her shoulder. The photo showed a diminutive brown table, just about square on top. The top was divided in half, either by an inlaid line or an actual division. Below the tabletop, they could make out a small drawer with a brass handle.
After looking at it for a moment, Barker said, “You know, I remember that. This was years and years ago, when I was a child. If you folded the top back, there was a checkerboard inside. I think it was a checkerboard. The kids thought it was a secret hiding place, but there was never anything hidden in it. The checkers were kept in the drawer.”
“Is it on the insurance list?” Lucas asked. “Any idea what it's worth?” He thumbed his papers.
The cop shook his head: “I checked John's list. Doesn't look like there's anything like it. Checkers isn't mentioned, that's for sure.”
“There are some antique experts downstairs,” Lucas said. “Maybe they'll know.”
He and Barker took the photos down to the Widdlers. Barker coughed when they were introduced, and pressed her knuckles against her teeth for a moment, and said, “Oh, my. I think I swallowed a bug.”
“Protein,” Jane Widdler said. She added, still speaking to Barker, “That's a lovely necklace… Tiffany?”
“I hope so,” Barker said, smiling.
Lucas said to the dealers, “We've got a missing table. Think it might be a folding checkerboard.” He handed the photograph of the table to Leslie Widdler, and asked, “Any idea what it's worth?”
The two dealers looked at it for a moment, then at each other, then at the photograph again. Leslie Widdler said to his wife, “Fifty-one thousand, five hundred dollars?”
She ticked an index finger at him: “Exactly.”
“You can tell that closely?” Lucas asked.
Leslie Widdler handed the photograph back to Lucas. “Mrs. Bucher donated the table-it's a China-trade backgammon table, not a checkerboard, late eighteenth century-to the Minnesota Orchestra Guild for a fund-raising auction, let's see, must've been two Decembers ago. It was purchased by Mrs. Leon Cobler, of Cobler Candies, and she donated it to the Minneapolis Institute.” He stopped to take a breath, then finished, “Where it is today.”
“Shoot,” Lucas said.
The governor called and Lucas drifted down a hallway to take it. “Good job. Your man Flowers was here and gave an interesting presentation,” the governor said. His name was Elmer Henderson. He was two years into his first term, popular, and trying to put together a Democratic majority in both houses in the upcoming elections. “We pushed the Dakota County proposal and Flowers agreed that it might be feasible. We-you-could take the evidence to Dakota County and get them to convene a grand jury. Nice and tidy.”
“If it works.”
“Has to,” the governor said. “This girl… mmm… the evidentiary photos would suggest that she is not, uh, entirely undeveloped. I mean, as a woman.”
“Governor… sir…”
“Oh, come on, loosen up, Lucas. I'm not going to call her up,” Henderson said. “But that, 'Oh God, lick my balls'-that does tend to attract one's attention.”
“I'll talk to Dakota County,” Lucas said.
“Do so. By the way, why does everybody call your man 'that fuckin' Flowers'?”
Earlier that morning, Leslie Widdler had been sitting on his marigold-rimmed flagstone patio eating toast with low-calorie butter substitute and Egg Beaters, looking out over the brook, enjoying the sun, unfolding the Star Tribune; his wife, Jane, was inside, humming along with Mozart on Minnesota Public Radio.
A butterfly flapped by, something gaudy, a tiger swallowtail, maybe, and Leslie followed it for a second with his eyes. This was typical, he thought, of the kind of wildlife experience you had along the creek-no, wait, it was the brook; he had to remember that-and he rather approved.
A butterfly wasn't noisy, like, for instance, a crow or a blue jay; quite delicate and pretty and tasteful. A plane flew over, but well to the east, and he'd become accustomed to the sound. A little noise wasn't significant if you lived on the brook.
Right on the brook-it was right there in his backyard when he shook open the paper, and at night he could hear it burbling, when the air conditioner wasn't running.
Jane was working on her own breakfast, consumed by the music, projected across the kitchen by her Bang amp; Olufsen speakers; it was like living inside an orchestra, and by adjusting the speakers according to the Bang amp; Olufsen instructions, she could vary her position from, say, the violas, back through the woodwinds, and all the way around the violins. It was lovely. She never referred to the speakers as speakers; she always referred to them as the Bang amp; Olufsens.
Jane Widdler, nee Little. At Carleton College, where she and Leslie had met and become a couple, Leslie had been known to his roommates as Big Widdler, which the roommates had found hilarious for some obscure reason that Leslie had never discovered.
And when he courted and then, halfway through his senior year, married a woman named Little, of course, they'd become Big and Little Widdler. For some reason, the same ex-roommates thought that was even more hilarious, and could be heard
laughing at the back of the wedding chapel.
Jane Little Widdler disapproved of the nicknames; but she rarely thought of it, since nobody used them but long-ago acquaintances from Carleton, most of whom had sunk out of sight in the muck of company relations, widget sales, and circus management.
Jane was putting together her breakfast smoothie. A cup of pineapple juice, a cup of strawberries, a half cup of bananas, a little of this, a little of that, and some yogurt and ice, blended for one annoying minute, the whining of the blender drowning out the Mozart. When it stopped, she heard Leslie's voice, through the sliding screen door: “Oh, my God!”
She could tell from his tone that it was serious. She couldn't frown, exactly, because of the Botox injections, but she made a frowning look and stepped to the door: “What? Is it the brook?”
The Widdlers were leading a petition drive to have the name officially changed from Minnehaha Creek to Minnehaha Brook, a combination they felt was more euphonic. They'd had some trashy kayakers on the brook lately-including one who was, of course, a left-wing lawyer, who had engaged in a shouting match with Leslie. Paddling for the People. Well, fuck that. The brook didn't belong to the people.
But it wasn't the creek, or the brook, that put the tone in Big Widdler's voice.
Leslie was on his feet. He was wearing a white pullover Egyptian long-staple cotton shirt with loose sleeves, buttoned at the wrists with black mother-of-pearl buttons, madras plaid shorts, and Salvatore Ferragamo sandals, and looked quite good in the morning sunlight, she thought. “Check this out,” he said.
He passed her the Star Tribune.
The big headline said: Did Murders Conceal Invisible Heist? Under that, in smaller type, Millions in Antiques May Be Missing.
“Oh, my gosh,” Jane said. Her frowning look grew deeper as she read. “I wonder who Ruffe Ignace is?”
“Just a reporter. That's not the problem,” said Big Widdler, flapping his hands like a butterfly. “If they do an inventory, there may be items…” The Bang amp; Olufsen slimline phone started to ring from its spot next to the built-in china cabinet, and he reached toward it. “… on the list that can be identified, and we won't know which ones they are. If there are photos…”
He picked up the phone and said, “Hello?” and a second later, “Uh, Detective? Well, sure…”
Jane was shaken, placed one hand on her breast, the other on the countertop. This could be it: everything they'd worked for, gone in the blink of an eye.
Leslie said, “Hello, yes, it is… uh huh, uh huh…” Then he smiled, but kept his voice languid, professional. “We'd be delighted to help, as long as it wouldn't prejudice our position in bidding, if there should be an estate auction. I can't see why it would, if all you want is an opinion… Mmm, this afternoon would be fine. I'll bring my wife. Our assistant can watch the shop. One o'clock, then. See you after lunch.”
He put down the phone and chuckled: “We've been asked to advise the St. Paul police on the Bucher investigation.”
Jane made a smiling look. “Leslie, that's too rich. And you know what? It's really going to piss off Carmody amp; Loan.”
Carmody amp; Loan were their only possible competition, in terms of quality, in the Cities. If C amp;L had been asked to do the valuations, Jane would have been royally pissed. She couldn't wait to hear what Melody Loan had to say about this.
She'd be furious. She said, “Maybe we could find a way to get the news of the appointment to this Ruffe Ignace person.”
Leslie's eyebrows went up: “You mean to rub it in? Mmmm. You are such a bitch sometimes. I like it.” He moved up to her, slipped his hand inside her morning slacks, which were actually the bottoms of a well-washed Shotokan karate gi, down through her pubic hair.
She widened her stance a bit, put her butt back against the counter, bit her lip, made a look, the best she could, considering the Botox, of semi-ecstasy. “Rub it in, big guy,” she whispered, the smoothie almost forgotten.
But as Leslie was inclined to say, the Lord giveth, and the Lord is damn well likely to taketh it away in the next breath. They spent the morning at the shop, calling customers and other dealers, dealing with bills, arguing with the State Farm agent about their umbrella policy. At noon, they stopped at a sandwich shop for Asiago roast-beef sandwiches on sourdough bread, then headed for St. Paul.
They were driving east on I-494 in Jane's Audi A4, which she now referred to as “that piece of junk,” when another unwelcome call came in. Jane fumbled her cell phone out and looked at the screen. The caller ID said Marilyn Coombs.
“Marilyn Coombs,” she said to Leslie.
“It's that damned story,” Leslie said.
Jane punched the answer button, said, “Hello?”
Marilyn Coombs was an old lady, who, in Jane's opinion, should have been dead a long time ago. Her voice was weak and thready: she said, “Jane? Have you heard about Connie Bucher?”
“Just read it in the paper this morning,” Jane said. “We were shocked.”
“It's the same thing that happened to Claire Donaldson,” Coombs whimpered. “Don't you think we should call the police?”
“Well, gosh, I'd hate to get involved with the police,” Jane said. “We'd probably have to wind up hiring lawyers, and we wouldn't want… you know.”
“Well, we wouldn't say anything about that,” Coombs said. “But I got my clipping of when Claire was killed, and Jane, they're just alike.”
“I thought Claire was shot,” Jane said. “That's what I heard.”
“Well, except for that, they're the same,” Coombs said. Jane rolled her eyes.
“You know, I didn't know Claire that well,” Jane said.
“I thought you were friends…”
“No, no, we knew who she was, through the quilt-study group, but we didn't really know her. Anyway, I'd like to see the clipping. I could probably tell you better about the police, if I could see the clipping.”
“I've got it right here,” Coombs said.
“Well. Why don't we stop by this evening,” Jane suggested. “It'll probably be late, we're out on an appointment right now. Let me take a look at it.”
“If you think that'd be right,” Coombs said.
“Well, we don't want to make a mistake.”
“Okay, then,” Coombs said. “After dinner.”
“It'll be later than that, I'm afraid. We're on our way to Eau Claire. What time do you go to bed?”
“Not until after the TV news.”
“Okay. We'll be back before then. Probably… about dark.”
That gave them something to talk about. “Is it all falling apart, Leslie? Is it all falling apart?” Jane asked. She'd been in drama club, and was a former vice president of the Edina Little Theater.
“Of course not,” Leslie said. “We just need to do some cleanup.”
Jane sighed. Then she said, “Do you think the Hermes is too much?” She was wearing an Hermes scarf with ducks on it, and the ducks had little red collars and were squawking at each other.
“No, no. I think it looks quite good on you.”
“I hope it's not falling apart on us,” Jane said.
“Most cops are dumber than a bowl of spaghetti,” Leslie said. “Not to worry, sweet.”
Still, Jane, with her delicate elbow on the leather bolster below the Audi's window, her fingers along her cheek, couldn't help think, if it were all coming to an end, if there might not be some way she could shift all the blame to Leslie.
Perhaps even… She glanced at him, speculatively, at his temple, and thought, No.
That's way premature.
Then they met the cops. And talked about missing antiques, including a painting by Stanley Reckless.
On The way out of Oak Walk, Jane said, “That Davenport person is not dumber than a bowl of spaghetti.”
“No, he's not,” Leslie said. He held the car door for her, tucked her in, leaned forward and said, “We've got to talk about the Reckless.”
“We've got
to get rid of it. Burn it,” Jane said.
“I'm not going to give up a half-million-dollar painting,” Leslie said. “But we have to do something.”
They talked it over on the way home. The solution, Jane argued, was to destroy it.
There was no statute of limitations on murder, and, sometime, in the future, if the call of the money was too strong, they might be tempted to sell it-and get caught.
“A new, fresh Reckless-that's going to attract some attention,” she said.
“Private sale,” Leslie said.
“I don't know,” Jane said.
“Half-million dollars,” Leslie said, and when he said it, Jane knew that she wanted the money.
They went home, and after dinner, Leslie stood on a stool and got the Reckless out of the double-secret storage area in the rafters of the attic.
“Gorgeous piece?” he said. He flipped it over, looked at the name slashed across the back of the canvas. Though Leslie ran to fat, he was still strong. Gripping the frame tightly, he torqued it, wiggled the sides, then the top and bottom, and the frame began to spread. When it was loose enough, he lifted the canvas, still on stretchers, out of the frame, and put it under a good light on the dining room table.
“Got a strong signature,” he said. Reckless had carefully signed the front of the painting at the lower right, with a nice red signature over a grassy green background.
“Don't need the one on the back.”
“Take it off?”
“If we took it off, then it couldn't be identified as the Bucher painting,” Leslie said.
“There'd always be some… remnants.”
“Not if you don't want to see it,” Leslie said. He looked at the painting for a moment, then said. “Here's what we do. We stash it at the farm for now. Wrap it up nice and tight. Burn the frame. When I get time, I'll take the 'Reckless' off the back-it'll take me a couple of weeks, at least. We get some old period paint-we should be able to get some from Dick Calendar-and paint over the area where the 'Reckless' was. Then we take it to Omaha, or Kansas City, or even Vegas, rent a safe-deposit box, and stick it away for five years. In five years, it's good as gold.”
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