Death as a Fine Art

by Gwendolyn Southin

  Maggie glanced at her watch. “I’m leaving for home shortly. Where are you?”

  Jane gave a nervous laugh. “Actually, I’m just across the street from you. The phone box in front of the drugstore.”

  “Then I suggest that you come on up. We’re on the third floor. Suite 301.”

  The other woman arrived with what seemed to Maggie to be surpising speed.

  “I’m sorry I called you so late in the day,” Jane said as she entered the office. “I expect you want to get home.”

  “That’s not a problem,” Maggie said as she took Jane’s coat to hang it up. “I’ve often thought about you and your sister since our meeting in Victoria. How is Alice doing?”

  “That’s the reason I’m here,” Jane answered as she followed Maggie into her office.

  “Can I get you anything?” Maggie asked before she sat down behind her desk. “Coffee?”

  “No, nothing, thanks.” She fiddled with her handbag. “You’ll probably think I’m worrying over nothing.”

  Maggie waited.

  “I’ve known all along that something was wrong. I thought that the week’s vacation on the Island would help Alice, but there’s something deeper going on that I can’t get her to talk about.”

  Maggie leaned forward. “How did her husband die?”

  “Shot himself in the head. But for the life of me I can’t see why he did it as they seemed perfectly happy . . . as a couple, I mean. And,” she continued, “the gallery was doing very well.”

  “Did he leave a note?”

  “Yes. I didn’t see it, but Alice was heartbroken when she told me about it. He said that he couldn’t go on living a lie as he had met someone else.”

  “But that’s not a reason to kill oneself,” Maggie said. She sat thinking for a moment. “Was the note handwritten?”

  “No. He used the typewriter in their office. That was where he was found—slumped over the machine.”

  “Was the note still in the typewriter?”

  “No. On the desk.” She gave a little laugh. “Held down by a paperweight that Alice had given him—crystal with the words ‘love you forever’ etched on it. Rather ironic, don’t you think?”

  “And that’s the reason you doubt it was suicide?” Maggie asked.

  Jane nodded. “Exactly!”

  “Were the police happy with the suicide verdict?”

  “I suppose so as nothing else was done. But I’m sure that Alice has a hard time accepting it. She insists they were perfectly happy and were planning a second honeymoon trip to Mexico.”

  “And you say the business is doing well? You mentioned someone called Sheldon when we were on the Island . . .”

  “Ah, yes. Sheldon White. He was Jonathan’s assistant.” She paused and then continued, “You’ve heard of Uriah Heap?”

  Maggie nodded. “The creepy clerk in Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield?”

  “Need I say more?”

  Maggie laughed. “I can’t believe any real person could be that creepy.”

  “Well, I’m probably exaggerating as I can’t stand the man.”

  “I don’t know too much about art galleries. Where does the art sold at the Silver Unicorn come from?”

  “Well, Jonathan’s oils and sculptures and porcelain figurines were and still are the main attractions, and Alice sells quite a lot of her own stuff—mostly watercolours. The rest is work that is sold on commission—there are some wonderful artists in this city.”

  “So what do you want Nat and me to do?”

  “Look into Jonathan’s death, I suppose.” She opened her purse and held out a couple of tickets. “Here are two invitations to a wine and cheese party this Friday evening. Alice is launching a new artist, Caitlin Harrow—she’s quite good, actually—and you could get the feel of the place.”

  Jane stood up. “Perhaps I’m being paranoid, but I know Alice can’t accept Jonathan’s death as a suicide, and there’s something strange going on there . . .” Her voice trailed off, then she said, “I guess I’m too protective.”

  “Alice is a few years younger than you?” Maggie asked, trying to pose her question diplomatically.

  “Twelve years. She’s just fifty-three. We’re half-sisters. My mother remarried after my dad died,” she explained. “Hence the difference in our ages.”

  Maggie quickly flicked her desk calendar to Friday. “Well, it happens that I’m free on Friday evening, and I’m sure Nat has nothing on. We’ll see you there.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The gallery was packed, the noise level high, and Maggie and Nat had trouble even getting near the table where the glasses of wine were being dispensed.

  “There you are!” Jane Weatherby, head and shoulders taller than anyone else, bore down on them carrying two glasses of wine. “So glad you made it,” she boomed over the babble. “Come and talk to Alice,” she added, handing them each a glass.

  They followed in her wake to where her sister and a tousle-haired man were gesturing madly at a painting. As they got closer, Nat realized that it could be a twin of a painting he’d seen in a client’s office a few years earlier—and he hadn’t been able to make heads or tails of that one, either. Alice was dressed in a long pale-green dress and flowered silk shawl. She passed the tousle-haired man on to a young woman standing nearby and floated toward them, her face lighting up when she saw who it was.

  “How lovely to see you.” She held out her slim hands and then looked enquiringly at her sister standing behind them.

  “I sent them an invitation,” Jane said. “I didn’t think they would come on their own.”

  “This must be one of your husband’s pieces,” Maggie said, walking toward a nearby black-draped pedestal. The sculpture on it was a unicorn standing on its two hind legs. It was about two feet high and finished in a remarkable glaze that looked like polished silver.

  “His most famous sculpture. We named the gallery after it. It’s not for sale, of course. But my favourite pieces are the porcelain figurines over there.” She pointed to a tall glass stand. “Come and see.” They were indeed beautiful and the model for all of them seemed to have been the same woman.

  “I see what you mean,” Maggie breathed. “Especially this one,” she added, indicating a twelve-inch statuette of a young woman trying to hold a large hat on her head. Jonathan Standish had managed to capture a look of sheer joy as the girl fought the wind for that hat. “Who was the model?”

  “I’ve no idea. I think Jonathan just used his imagination.”

  “But she looks so real.” Maggie ran her fingers over the beautiful face. But Alice didn’t answer and looked so sad that Maggie quickly changed the subject. “Who is this Caitlin Harrow that you’re feting this evening?”

  “Come and I’ll introduce you to her and her watercolours.”

  A few canapés and glasses of wine later, Maggie caught Nat’s eye across the room. He was beginning to get fidgety—she was surprised that he had lasted as long as he had.

  “When can we slip away?” he whispered when she reached his side.

  “We’ll make our way over to Alice,” she replied, taking the glass out of his hands before he spilt the last of his wine on the blue carpet. “I’d like to know which one of these arty young men is Sheldon.”

  “The one Jane likened to Uriah Heap? The only Dickens character I remember is Scrooge.”

  Maggie laughed. “Now that might be him over there.” She tilted her head to where a sandy-haired man was standing next to Alice. “And I can see what Jane means,” she added as she watched him limply shake hands with one of the departing guests. “Come on, let’s get in line.”

  “You’re not leaving?” Alice asked when they said their goodbyes. “We were hoping you two would join us for a little supper at the restaurant across the street.”

  Nat glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late.”

  “We’ll be through here in ten minutes,” Jane urged. “And Alice and I want to discuss something with you.�
�

  Nat raised his eyebrows at Maggie and she nodded in reply. “Okay. But can we help you clear up?” she asked.

  “I haven’t met you, have I?” Sheldon asked, holding out his long, tapered fingers. “Sheldon White. And there’s no need for you to help as I’ll do it after you’ve all gone for your meal.” He turned to Alice. “You know I’m always here for you, my dear Mrs. Standish.”

  Jane gave a derisive snort. “And there’s no need for you to stay, either, Sheldon,” she said curtly to the man. “The caterers brought the stuff in and they’ll take it out. Alice and I are quite capable of locking the place up.”

  “Of course . . . I only want to help.” Maggie caught the look of pure loathing that he shot at Jane.

  “Then I suggest you collect those dirty glasses and take them over to the caterers while Alice and I say goodbye to the last of her guests.”

  “You were a bit hard on Sheldon, Jane,” Alice remarked as he left to collect the glasses. “He was only trying to help.”

  “When are you going to see through the little sneak?” Jane answered. “Oh, come on, let’s get over to the restaurant.”

  • • •

  “YOU SAID YOU wanted to talk to us,” Maggie said after they had ordered.

  “It’s about Jonathan’s death,” Alice answered. “Jane has convinced me that we should get you to look into it. But I honestly think it’s too late.”

  “Nonsense!” Jane cut in. “You told me right from the start that Jonathan wasn’t the type to take his own life.”

  “But the police were convinced,” Alice answered sadly. “The coroner at the inquest insisted there was no reason to think otherwise.” She shrugged. “I’m beginning to think they are right.”

  “Did you ever find out if he really was having an affair?” Nat asked. He leaned back to let the waitress place a plate in front of him, then sighing contentedly, he reached for one of the corned beef sandwiches that nestled beside a pile of fries and a large dill pickle.

  “Never,” Alice said, and she began chasing a piece of lettuce around her plate with her fork before continuing. “I had no inkling that he was seeing someone else. He . . . he wasn’t that kind of man. But,” and she looked down at her plate, “I suppose the wife is always the last to know,” she added pathetically.

  “If you’re serious about us making an investigation,” Maggie said, “we’ll have to ask you a lot of personal questions . . . and we will need to draw up a contract for you to sign.”

  Alice glanced fleetingly toward her sister. “Do you think we should go ahead, Jane?”

  “Of course,” her sister answered sharply.

  “When is a good time for you to come in?” Maggie asked.

  “The gallery is closed on Mondays.”

  “You free Monday morning?” Maggie turned to ask Nat.

  “Nothing until one in the afternoon. Can you make it around ten?”

  “We’ll be there,” Jane said firmly.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Now tell us about your husband.” Alice and Jane were in Nat’s office. Maggie sat beside him with an open notebook. The two sisters faced them in Nat’s comfortable visitors’ chairs.

  Alice smiled. “Where to begin?”

  “How long were you married?” Maggie asked.

  “Eight years. I met him when I was recovering after a disastrous marriage. He was kind, considerate—everything my first husband wasn’t.”

  “How did you meet?” Nat asked.

  “Hugo, my first husband, died suddenly and left me pretty destitute. I answered an ad for a part-time position in Jonathan’s gallery—I’d taken fine arts in college so I was sure I could handle the job—he took me on and the rest is history. We were attracted to each other right from the start,” she added.

  “That’s why that suicide note just doesn’t ring true,” Jane cut in. “Jonathan adored Alice.”

  “Was Jonathan married before?” Maggie asked.

  Alice nodded. “She died of cancer in 1951.” She shuddered. “She was only fifty-four at the time.”

  “Jane said your husband shot himself,” Maggie said. “Where did he get the gun?”

  “He bought it for protection after we had a couple of break-ins.”

  “Anything taken?”

  “The alarm scared the thieves off each time.”

  “Do you still have the suicide note?” Nat asked.

  She nodded. “The police returned it to me after the verdict of ‘suicide while of unsound mind.’” She gave a derisive laugh as she handed Nat a sheet of paper. “Jonathan was the sanest man I ever knew.”

  Nat read the typewritten note and then handed it over to Maggie. “I suppose the police dusted it for prints?”

  “Yes. Just like the gun. The only prints on it were Jonathan’s.”

  Maggie leaned toward Alice. “Why did your husband hire this man Sheldon White?”

  “I was having a terrible time recovering from an appendectomy, and it was a month before Christmas and that’s our busiest time. Jonathan insisted that I cut my hours down in the showroom and rest, so he hired Sheldon to help out.”

  “Is he any good?” Maggie asked.

  “He knows his art, I must say that about him. But he does have an unfortunately ingratiating manner toward people. Jane finds him very disturbing.”

  “But you’re recovered now, so why don’t you get rid of him?” Maggie asked.

  “Because it’s hard to find anyone with his knowledge.” She glanced quickly at her sister before continuing. “Anyway, do you think there’s enough reason to look further into my husband’s death?”

  “Of course there is!” Jane interjected sharply.

  “We’d have to talk to the detectives who were in charge of the case at that time and get a look at the photographs they took of the scene,” Nat answered.

  “What are your rates?” Jane asked.

  “Maggie can give you all that information,” he answered. “She’ll also get you to sign that contract we mentioned last night. Then we can go ahead.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nat had to go through Inspector Mark Farthing’s division of the Vancouver City Police to get permission to talk to the two detectives who had handled the case. Farthing had taken over Nat’s job as well as his office when Nat had quit the force a number of years before, and the man still resented Nat’s popularity.

  “What are you sticking your nose into now, Southby?” Farthing demanded after Nat had been shown to his office. “I’ve told you repeatedly to keep out of police business.”

  “But your division wrote this one off as a suicide,” Nat answered.

  “If my men said it was suicide, then that’s what it was.”

  “Then to satisfy my client, Alice Standish, you can’t object to my taking a look at the report and the photographs taken at the scene of her husband’s death.”

  Farthing pursed his lips. “Why can’t that woman take our word for it? It was thoroughly investigated at the time.”

  Nat managed to keep his cool. “The widow still wants me to take a look,” he answered. “And if I do come across any more evidence to prove it wasn’t suicide, I’ll share it with you. Otherwise,” he shrugged, “I’ll have to get a court order for you to hand them over.” Nat waited while Farthing weighed the pros and cons in his mind. It was one thing to deny access to Nat, but it wouldn’t look good to deny access to the widow.

  “Okay,” he said at last. “But you read the reports here at the station.”

  “And the photographs?”

  “Those too.” Farthing picked up the phone and barked, “Find out who the detectives were on the Standish suicide. End of January.” He looked up at Nat. “My girl will give you the names and then it’s up to them if or when they’ll see you.”

  Nat was in luck. Detective Dave Shannon had been a rookie when Nat had been on the force, and he happened to be in the squad room when Nat stuck his head in there after leaving Farthing’s office.

  �
��Yeah!” he said to Nat’s enquiry. “I remember the case. Man shot himself in the head—very messy!”

  “And you were perfectly happy with the verdict of suicide?”

  “Well, there was the note and the only prints on the gun belonged to the guy himself.” He shrugged. “It was pretty much an open and shut case. Anyway, don’t take my word for it. I’ll make you a copy of the report on our new Xerox machine.” Nat didn’t mention the fact that Farthing had stipulated he had to read the report at the station.

  “What about the photographs. Can you get me a copy of those, too?”

  Shannon gave a quick look around. “Not supposed to. But,” he grinned, “seeing it’s you, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks. I’ll owe you one.”

  Fifteen minutes later Nat was sitting staring at the gruesome pictures of Standish’s death while he waited for Shannon to make a copy of the report. The first picture showed the back of the man’s head slumped over the typewriter, the second was a side shot showing where the bullet had entered and the resultant mess over the desk, walls, and floor. The third was a picture of what was left of Jonathan Standish’s face—which wasn’t much. Nat shivered and was glad the prints were in black and white and not glorious Technicolor. The fourth showed the gun on the floor next to Standish’s foot where it had supposedly fallen from the man’s hand. It certainly looked like suicide, but Nat wanted to speak to the detective and, if possible, see the autopsy reports before going any further.

  “Don’t tell you much, do they?” Shannon placed a buff envelope next to Nat.

  “Thanks. I understand the suicide note was on the desk?”

  “Yep! With a paperweight on it.”

  “What about the autopsy report?”

  “There’s a copy in there, too.”

  Nat looked sharply at Shannon. “Do I get the feeling you weren’t happy with the suicide verdict?”

  “Let’s just say that a second look at things wouldn’t go amiss. But,” he looked around before lowering his voice, “I’d rather my partner doesn’t get to hear I made you a copy of the report. And,” he added as he scooped up the photos, “I’ll see what I can do about these. Pop in tomorrow, okay?”