Lydia’s head shook back and forth emphatically, her dark hair swinging out to the sides. “No! Never! I’ve told you that she liked taking risks but she wasn’t stupid. She also hated to lose control of anything, especially herself. She didn’t even drink very much for that reason.” Lydia’s body began to shake. “You can’t be right, though. No one would want to kill her!”
Nick looked out at the ocean and took a deep breath, hoping that Lydia would do the same. He had been trained in all types of interrogation. For this kind, informal and subtle, he knew he wanted her to mirror him. He watched as Lydia looked out across the water and took a deep breath too. Her shaking subsided.
“We believe that she was involved in the theft of artworks. Lydia, what I’m about to tell you was not made public, and for the moment we need to keep it that way.” She nodded in response. “When your sister was found, she had with her a watertight tube that contained a rolled-up van Gogh painting. As you can imagine, it’s very valuable. We’ve just found two more similar items,” he hesitated, not sure whether to tell her where they had been hidden, “that had most certainly been in her possession, but did not belong to her.”
Lydia’s head was spinning. Stay calm, she willed herself. What would Jennifer do in this situation? She looked up at the detective wide-eyed. “A van Gogh? What were the other two?”
Odd question. Why would she care what they were? Nick locked that back in his memory to consider later. “A Jean Cocteau poster and an Alexander Calder sketch.”
“Are those valuable too?” she appeared very innocent.
“Yes. Not as much as the van Gogh, obviously, but still worth quite a lot. Do you know anything about art, Mrs. Davenport-Jones?”
The formal name threw Lydia off her guard. “Don’t call me that!” she snapped. “I mean, please just call me Lydia. I mean…,” she sat back in the chair and began to cry.
Nick sighed. Now he would get nowhere. “I’m sorry to upset you. Can you tell me if you were aware of your sister’s interest in art?”
Lydia sniffed loudly. “I knew she liked it. She liked going to museums. I know she went to some gallery openings, too. But I never thought….”
Nick took out a handkerchief and handed it to her. He never actually used one himself. It was only in his pocket for occasions like this. They were almost never returned so he found himself handing out brand new ones nearly every time. He’d gone through boxes of them. She thanked him and snuffled into it.
“Lydia, I have to ask everyone this question so please don’t take offense. Can you tell me your exact whereabouts on the afternoon and evening before Lydia was found? That would be last Monday.”
“Let me think,” she looked up at him through tear filled eyes. “We had been at Clark’s parent’s house in Boston for the weekend. We stayed over on Sunday night and decided to drive up late in the morning on Monday. We got back here around one o’clock, I think. Yes, near one. We had a late lunch when we got here. Then I just puttered around for the afternoon and took a long walk on the beach. Clark and I had dinner here that night.”
“Can anyone vouch for you other than Clark?”
“One of our neighbors may have seen the car. And someone may have seen me walking on the beach. Oh, and we ordered pizza so the delivery guy could tell you that we were home.”
“That sounds fine. Thanks for being honest with me. I’m sorry to have to ask these questions, but can you think of anyone who would want to kill your sister, for any reason?”
Lydia eyes were red now and beginning to swell. “No. We weren’t very close, but… No.” Tears streamed down her face again. Lydia heard a car pull into the driveway. “Oh god, who is that?”
Nick stood up and craned his neck. “It’s just your husband. I’m going to have a word with him, then I’ll send him out here if that’s all right with you?”
Lydia nodded without looking up.
Nick quickly rounded the porch and caught a surprised looking Clark Davenport-Jones getting out of his shiny BMW. “Everything all right?” he asked.
Nick looked at him squarely. “No, I’m afraid not. I’ve just been speaking with your wife and I’m sorry to say that she’s quite upset.”
“What the hell do you think…?”
Nick put up his hand, stopping Clark before he could finish. He quickly added, “I had to tell her before she saw it publicly announced. Her sister’s death was not accidental. She was murdered.”
Nick watched carefully. Clark took off his cap, rubbed his hand through his hair several times, then put the cap back on. “Can you give me any details?”
“Yes, but first I need to know where you were last Monday afternoon and evening,” Nick said.
“Wait a second! You don’t think that I…!”
“It’s just routine.”
Clark looked at the ground. “Let’s see. Monday. We came back from my parents place. In Boston. Had some lunch. Lydia went for a walk. I went for a drive. We got pizza for supper. That’s all I really remember at this point. Now can you tell me how she was killed? I thought she ran out of air.”
“Yes, she did. But she was drugged with a substance called ketamine. Have you ever heard of it?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. My dad uses it sometimes with the horses. I remember seeing it in his office medicine cabinet.”
“Does he have a lock on the cabinet?”
“Yes, of course he does.”
“Do you have any interest in art, Mr. Davenport-Jones?”
Clark snorted. “Art? No. None. My mother’s crazy about it. Bores the hell out of me. She insisted I take an art history class in college. Failed it. All I know is that it fills up space on the walls and that’s all I really care about.”
“Do you know why anyone would want to kill your wife’s sister?”
The image of Jennifer on the boat with him flashed into his mind. She had laughed when he couldn’t perform. He had wanted to kill her then.
“No, I have no idea. I didn’t really know her at all. Detective, are we done? I think I need to be with my wife right now.” He moved toward the house.
“Of course. I’ll be in touch,” Nick replied.
‘I’m sure you will,’ thought Clark.
#
Dulcie swiveled back and forth in her office chair scrolling through the contact list on her phone. She had just spoken with curators at three different museums asking them about recent sales they may have heard about, along with who collected Cocteau, Calder, or anything even similar. She had tried to sound very casual, as though she were testing the waters for a new exhibit. So far, she had drawn a blank.
She decided to switch course and contact a gallery owner in Boston who specialized in graphic art pieces and promotional posters. She had not spoken with him in quite some time, so a call out of the blue would not be unusual. She hoped that it would simply sound like she was getting in touch for a collegial chat.
The phone rang several times before she heard, “Zee Gallerie Comedie et Tragadie! How can I be of service?”
“Jean Louis, so good to hear you! It’s Dulcie Chambers. How have you been?”
“Dulciieee! My sweet petit! Your voice, it makes me smile! And god knows, your poor Jean Louis, he has had little to smile of recently.”
Dulcie laughed. She knew otherwise. Jean Louis had just sold a rare work for slightly under one hundred thousand dollars. It had been in all the papers. “Yes, Jean Louis. You’ve had a hard time of it, I know.” She heard his low chuckle. “I just wanted to congratulate you, first of all. What a find, and what a sale!”
“Ah, oui. Your poor friend Jean Louis, he has the luck for one time. I will not have to close the shop, at least for a leeeetle while now.”
Dulcie could tell from his voice that he was smiling broadly. She smiled too. Jean Louis could plead poverty, but he was an extremely savvy businessman. “That’s so good to hear, Jean Louis.”
“Oui, oui! So my dear Dulcieee, what can I do for you?”
> ‘And there’s the businessman coming through,’ thought Dulcie. Get the happy small-talk over with quickly, move on to the real subject, and then close the deal. She liked him for that. “I’m cooking up some ideas for a new exhibit. Something a little different. We’ve had the usual run of seascapes and Homers and such up here. Recently I’ve been thinking about travel and event posters.”
“Right up my alleeeey, my Dulciee!”
“Very much so. You were the first person that I thought of. Would you know of some private collectors who might be willing to loan some pieces? Has anyone bought items from you that are particularly notable in the past several years?” Dulcie held her breath hoping the last bit wasn’t too obvious.
“Hmmm. As you know, zee sales, they must remain confidentiel of course, but I can tell you who I have seen in my small shop, certainement! Let me think...”
Dulcie heard tapping on the keyboard of a computer. “Mais oui! There is Emile Lawson, Stephen Baker, Amelia Davenport-Jones, Carter...”
Dulcie cut him off, “Who was that last one? Amelia Davenport-Jones?”
“Oui! Yes! She collects many things. She is, what is the word? Insatiable!”
Dulcie laughed. “I think that’s the same in English, Jean Louis. I’m sorry to interrupt. I had lunch with her the other day and had no idea. Go on, please.” Dulcie heard none of the remainder of Jean Louis’s list. He finished, and she politely thanked him, then pretended someone had come into her office so she could quickly say goodbye.
She put down the phone and leaned back in her chair, then spun around several times. Certainly a coincidence that the Davenport-Jones name would crop up. She was a collector after all. It really could not be that relevant, could it?
Perhaps another lunch with Amelia was in order. ‘No,’ thought Dulcie, ‘I can’t stand an entire lunch. Maybe I’ll just meet her for a drink.’ She looked up the number and dialed.
#
Ross Davenport-Jones had no idea what to do about the horse. He also had no idea what to do about the situation with Jennifer. Should he come clean? Should he walk away? He was driving up the winding dirt road toward Winterhaven Stables. The goldenrod grew in large patches all around. Ross sneezed hard, twice, almost turning the car into the ditch the second time. He pulled over and stopped, fishing out a handkerchief.
Lexi Kent was trotting up the road but slowed her horse when she saw the car. She knew who Ross was now. She stopped Hadrian, who kicked at the pebbles beneath him. “Are you all right?” she asked Ross.
He looked up, startled. He hadn’t heard her while honking into the handkerchief loudly to clear his nose. “Yes, yes. Damned goldenrod!”
“There does seem to be quite a lot of it this year. It’s very pretty, actually.”
“Unless you’re allergic to it,” Ross groused. He shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket.
“Are you coming to check on one of the horses? I think you were with Attagirl last time I saw you here. Is she doing any better?”
Ross started the car to cover his unease. “I have to check on several, actually.” He looked up at her. “Do you ride here often? I haven’t seen you around very much.”
Lexi laughed. “Yes, considering that Donald Winters is my uncle.” She could have sworn Ross looked startled. “He bought me this horse,” she patted Hadrian’s neck, “for my birthday this summer. I love to ride. I’m around quite a bit now.” She cocked her head sideways, looking at him. “Didn’t I see you at the funeral for that poor girl who drowned? What was her name… Jennifer Hully?”
Ross had seen Lexi there and had taken pains to avoid being seen by her. Evidently he had not been successful. “Um, yes. A tragedy,” he muttered.
“Did you know her well?”
It was an innocent enough question. He stared at her for a moment. “Her sister is married to my son,” he said simply.
“Ah, yes. That’s right. Clark Davenport-Jones. I know Clark from college. I was in the area when I heard about the accident, so thought it would only be right to offer my sympathies.” She smiled warmly at Ross.
“That was kind of you,” he muttered. Why was it that he didn’t believe her?
Hadrian tossed his head and pulled on the reins. Lexi giggled. “It looks like I must be off now. Hadrian’s really been needing some exercise. Good to see you again.” She kicked her heels into Hadrian’s sides and set off on a quick trot.
Ross eased the car back onto the road and drove slowly. Now he knew that she had seen him in Attagirl’s stable. She had probably guessed every detail of his plan. She had come to Jennifer’s funeral services just to torment him. Why? What did she want?
#
Portland’s waterfront restaurants vied for both local and tourist dollars. The establishments were in abundance along the narrow streets of Portland’s busy Old Port section. The tourist literature liked to refer to it as quaint or cozy. ‘Without the crowds, it would be,’ thought Dulcie as she sat at the bar of one of her favorites, an upscale Irish pub. Someone bumped her arm as they squeezed by her. She nearly spilled pinot noir down the front of her dress. ‘This is why I wear dark colors,’ she thought.
Dulcie loved Maine summers, but they had always involved the beach and boats and the water. Portland was certainly very nice during the summer, but by August she found herself yearning for January when everyone was gone.
“Ah, there you are.” Amelia Davenport-Jones’s flat voice grated on Dulcie’s ears. The older woman plunked herself down on the barstool next to Dulcie. “And you have a drink. Good. I like a person who doesn’t waste time. And I like a woman who doesn’t hesitate to have a drink. Now, where is that goddam bartender?” She turned and waved at a man in a white shirt across the room. He scurried over.
“Scotch and water. No, make that neat.” She turned to Dulcie. “So, do you have any news for me?”
Dulcie had prepared carefully. She actually did not have any news of the Micronesian bowl that Amelia wanted to buy. She had to tread lightly on that topic and move on quickly. “I’ve been speaking to a number of the trustees and I believe we’re getting close to a decision to sell.”
“Good! Good.” Amelia stared out the window dreamily.
“There is still the stipulation that the bowl be loaned back to the museum for viewing purposes.”
Amelia snapped back around. “What’s that? Oh, yes. Of course. Couldn’t that be worked out after the sale?”
Dulcie eyed her closely. ‘She doesn’t want to!’ she suddenly thought. ‘Once she has it, she doesn’t want to give it up again. Even on loan!’ She smiled at Amelia. “I’m afraid that the trustees would make it a condition of the sale. But there would only be a limited number of occasions when we would want it for display. And nearly all have been scheduled on our calendars already.”
Amelia pursed her lips. She did not like this at all. “Yes, well, we can discuss this when the time comes.” Secretly, she was considering offering more money in exchange for no loans. Once a piece was hers, she hated letting go.
“Of course,” replied Dulcie. She sipped her wine to buy a little time so that she could change the subject. “I’ve heard that you’re a collector of other works as well. Do you focus on any specific genre?” If Dulcie had learned nothing else about the elite class and the art world, she knew that they liked nothing better than to talk about themselves and their collections. She had found few exceptions to this rule.
The bartender approached with Amelia’s drink. She swigged a very large mouthful. “Excellent,” she said without looking at him. She turned back to Dulcie. “I collect what I like. No rhyme or reason other than that. I see something that strikes me, and I buy it.”
Dulcie hoped that the general din around them masked her snort. She quickly took another sip of her own drink. “You’re very fortunate to be able to have so many lovely pieces available to you. I’m surrounded by such beautiful art every day, but none of it is mine.”
Amelia stared at her. What a thought! But
then she remembered Dulcie’s inheritance. “You’ve got money now, that’s no secret. Why don’t you buy something?”
Dulcie laughed. “My problem is that I wouldn’t know where to begin. Plus, I would probably just hang it in my office and there it would be, still in the museum. Tell me, where do you display your works?”
For the second time Amelia stared at her. Display? Why would anyone but her need to see them? “Oh, I just tack them up here and there. Stick them on shelves.”
Dulcie was beginning to understand Amelia’s nature. She wasn’t simply a collector. Amelia she was a hoarder. Dulcie wondered if Amelia even knew what she owned. “We’ve just gone through an exhaustive database update at the museum to make sure our inventory of works was correct. Do you keep a catalog of your pieces?” she asked innocently.
Amelia pointed to her head. “All up here. Well, I suppose the insurance company has one. Ross reports every piece that I buy to them, damn him. Still, I suppose if they went missing I’d appreciate some compensation.”
Dulcie’s immediate thought was, ‘Would you know if anything went missing?’ She wasn’t sure how to ask the question without insulting Amelia, so she let it go.
Amelia tossed back the rest of her scotch. “Good. Glad to hear there’s progress on that bowl. Let me know when we’re getting close. I’ll get some funds transferred.” She smiled hollowly at Dulcie, grabbed her purse and strode out of the bar.
The bartender appeared. “Can I get you another, Ma’am, or would you like the check now?” It was then Dulcie realized that Amelia fully expected Dulcie to pick up the bill. Well, Dulcie had extended the invitation after all, but the usual social niceties of “can I get this?” and “No, no! I invited you!” would have been appropriate. She sighed and reached for her purse.
From the Murky Deep Page 11