“What’s your reason?”
Shannon shrugged. “Just a gut feeling—but even the autopsy says it appears to be suicide.” He paused. “I guess his wife’s not happy with that verdict either?”
“No. Anyway, we’ll go over everything. Are you okay about answering further questions?”
Shannon pursed his lips. “Only off the record. Galbraith—he’s my partner—and Farthing are perfectly happy with the outcome. One less case to worry about—if you get my drift.”
Nat nodded, knowing only too well a cop’s feeling of relief to get a case solved in record time—because there were always too many cases waiting.
Shannon straightened. “Got to go.”
Nat rose from the chair and tucked the buff envelope under his arm. “Thanks again.”
“Farthing goes to lunch around 11:45,” Shannon said pointedly.
• • •
AN HOUR AFTER he’d picked up the photographs at the police station the next day, Nat and Maggie had spread them and the reports over his desk.
“What do you make of the autopsy findings?” Nat asked as he laid down Shannon and Galbraith’s report.
“They make a good case for suicide,” Maggie answered. “The entry wound was starred and there was soot around the bullet hole, which indicates the gun was held right up against the skin. The bullet was a .45, which accounts for the exit wound and the terrible damage it did to the man’s face, and the gun had only his prints on it.” She placed the document back on the desk.
“Did you notice anything else on the autopsy report?” Nat persisted.
Maggie nodded. “He had fractured his left leg and right arm at some earlier time. But I can’t see that making any difference to the findings.”
Nat reached over and picked up the paper. “I saw that, too,” he said as he started rereading. Then he sat back in his chair. “I think we’d better have a talk with Alice about that.”
“But why? It’s not going to make that much difference to the verdict . . .” Then it dawned on her. “His right wrist!” She rolled back her left sleeve. “I slipped on the ice and broke my wrist, see? It must’ve been at least five years ago—and I still can’t bend it very well.”
Nat leaned over and picked up the telephone and dialed. “Hello, Jane. Is Alice there?” He waited until Alice came on the line and then said, “I just read the autopsy report. When did Jonathan break his wrist?” He listened to her reply. “The autopsy report states that it was a severe fracture. I see . . . And did it curtail his sculpting or other activities? . . . I’m not sure if it’s any help, but we’ll get back to you . . . Hold on a minute. Maggie is asking me something . . .”
“Find out how long ago and also the name of the doctor who set the fracture,” she called out.
“We were just married—so it must have been a good eight years ago,” Alice answered, hearing the question. “We were visiting his older sister in Calgary and he slipped on the icy pavement outside her house. It was set in a hospital in Calgary,” she added, “but he had to have it reset by Doctor Osborn at the Vancouver General.”
“Thanks, Alice. We’ll get back to you.” He replaced the receiver and then related his conversation to Maggie. “It was such a bad break that it took ages to heal and he was never able to bend it far.”
“What did she say about his painting and potting?”
“She said that he managed quite well, considering. Using the wheel was out, but he preferred hand building, whatever that means, anyway.”
“Shaping with one’s hands and not on a wheel,” Maggie explained, and then she added, “So what’s this got to do with his death?”
“The question is, could he bend his right wrist enough to be able to shoot himself in the head at the angle shown in those photos?”
When they met with him the following day, Doctor Osborn agreed with Nat’s assessment.
“These are the fractures.” In his office, the doctor pointed at the x-ray. “As you can see, he not only fractured the radius and ulna but he had extensive tissue damage to the wrist. Although the break healed well, the tissue damage was another matter and it left him with limited movement in that wrist.”
“His wife said he could still sculpt,” Maggie said, peering closely at the x-ray.
“That’s quite possible, as he still had a lot of movement in his hand and fingers.”
“So,” Nat asked, “was it possible for him to shoot himself in the head? I mean, he would have to twist his right hand like this.” Simulating holding a gun, he raised his right hand to the side of his head. “Here, have a look at these,” he added handing over the photographs.
Doctor Osborn took the photographs and sat behind his desk. “In my opinion it would have been absolutely impossible,” he concluded. “This looks as if he was shot execution style. And I would have thought that if the man wanted to commit suicide, he would have put the gun in his mouth,” he added, handing the photos back to Nat.
“My sentiments exactly,” Nat said, slipping them back into the buff envelope. “Thank you for your help. We may have to call on you again.”
“To testify, you mean?”
“That’s a possibility,” Maggie answered.
• • •
“SO IT LOOKS as if we have a new murder case,” Maggie said as she slid into the passenger seat of Nat’s car. “And we will now have to start delving into Jonathan Standish’s past.”
“But where to start?” Nat answered.
“Alice first and then a long talk with Sheldon White—her little willing helper.”
CHAPTER SIX
“You said you and Jonathan had been married for eight years,” Maggie said as Alice placed a cup of coffee in front of her. Nat and Maggie were seated opposite the two sisters in Alice’s comfortable second-floor apartment overlooking English Bay. Maggie felt that, if she lived in this apartment, she would be sitting at the window all day gazing at the scenery. Sailboats dotted the harbour, cargo boats swung lazily on their anchors, and gulls screeched and plunged to scoop up morsels from the shore.
Alice nodded in reply. “We married a year after I began working for him. I know that looking at me now it’s hard to believe, but we were attracted to each other right from the start.” She turned away to dab at her eyes. “That was why I couldn’t believe he was having an affair. He wasn’t like that.” She paused for a moment. “I guess I was wrong. But why kill himself?”
“There’s every indication that he didn’t,” Nat said.
“You’re saying he was murdered?” Jane asked sharply. “Can you be sure?”
“It’s the broken wrist,” Nat explained. “There was no way he could have bent his wrist to shoot himself at the angle shown in these photographs.” He drew them out of the buff envelope and turned to Alice. “Can you face seeing these?” he asked as he spread them out on the coffee table.
Alice nodded but Maggie could see it took a lot of effort for her to bend down and study the pictures as Nat pointed out the position of the body, the bullet hole, and where the gun had fallen on the floor.
“But Jonathan’s prints were on the suicide note,” Jane exclaimed. “How can that be if he was murdered?”
“I can’t explain that one yet,” Nat answered, then he turned to Alice “But we do need to look at your husband’s office as soon as possible and interview your assistant, Sheldon White.”
“The gallery is open tomorrow,” Alice answered. “Sheldon usually gets in around ten.”
“But Jonathan’s been dead for nearly three months,” Jane cut in, “and Sheldon’s been using the office since then.”
“Has he rearranged it?” Maggie asked.
“No. Naturally we had to thoroughly clean everywhere.” Alice shuddered. “We threw away the area rug and bought a new leather chair.”
“And the typewriter?” Nat asked.
“I couldn’t stand looking at it so I put it up in the attic. I use my own portable in the office.”
“Any object
ion to us going there this afternoon?” Nat asked.
Alice shook her head. “Do you want me along, too?”
“Yes. We need you to show us around.”
Thirty minutes later Nat, Maggie, and Jane were following Alice out of the brilliant sunshine and into the foyer of the darkened gallery. They waited while Alice opened a cabinet just inside the door and pulled the switch to deactivate the burglar alarm.
“I don’t want to open the shutters,” she explained, flipping on light switches. “The office is at the back,” she added as she led the way, “but wait here for a minute. The back part of the premises is on a separate alarm system.” She opened a small cabinet in the back hallway and pulled a switch. “That door leads to a small studio that Jonathan and I used for painting.”
“Wait a sec,” Maggie said as she opened the studio door. There was no need to switch on the light here as several skylights illuminated the room. A couple of easels, several stools and a table cluttered with paints and brushes and other painterly paraphernalia were the only furnishings. Canvases were stacked against every wall.
Jane, peering into the room over Maggie’s shoulder, pointed to the easels, and said, “You should get back to your painting again, Alice. It would do you the world of good.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Alice answered, “but I don’t seem to have the heart for it.”
Before Jane could continue her advice to her sister, Maggie asked, “Where did your husband create his ceramic pieces?”
“In the big studio on Quebec Street. He shared it with six other ceramic artists.”
“And where does that door lead?” Nat asked, pointing to a door at the end of the short hallway.
“It’s a small workroom where we uncrate paintings and prepare new displays,” Alice explained.
As Alice put out her hand to open the door to the office, Maggie stopped her again. “Don’t go in yet. Close your eyes and think back to when Jonathan worked in there.” Maggie waited a few moments before reaching past Alice to open the door. “Now, open your eyes and tell me if everything is still in the same place.”
Alice opened her eyes and took several steps into the room and gazed around her. “Everything seems the same,” she said, turning to Maggie and Nat. “Except that he isn’t here.” Again she raised a handkerchief to her eyes, and Jane pushed gently past Maggie to put her arms around her sister.
The room was only half as wide as the showroom. Nat, followed closely behind Maggie as she walked past a large leather-topped desk and swivel chair, then stood beside her as they peered through the dusty panes of an eight-foot-window. The scene before them was a dreary backyard with weedy grass and several sorry-looking rhododendrons. Aside from the desk, there was a metal filing cabinet, a bookshelf, and a credenza with a crystal ice bucket and several bottles of liquor. Against the wall was a steep, narrow wooden staircase leading up to a trapdoor in the ceiling.
“What’s up there?” Nat asked.
“Odds and ends. You know, the usual stuff that accumulates when you’ve occupied a building as long as this,” Alice said.
“How long has the gallery been here?” Nat asked.
“Jonathan owned it for at least twenty years before I met him,” Alice answered.
“And that door?” Nat asked, pointing to a door beside the window that looked into the backyard. “Is it used often?”
“Not since Jonathan died. He parked his car out there and always left through that door.”
“Nothing’s been moved in here?” Maggie asked, looking around the office.
“Only the typewriter, and as I told you, I couldn’t bear looking at it so I put it up in the attic.” She paused for a moment. “And I also told you that I replaced the chair and rug.”
“Your assistant Sheldon White uses the desk?” Nat said as he lowered himself into the swivel chair and looked at the neat piles of papers and files.
“He did up to a month ago,” Jane said, “but I’ve insisted that Alice take over the business herself.”
“How did Sheldon take that?” Maggie asked.
“Not well. He keeps insisting he promised Jonathan that he would take care of me and the business.”
“Taking care of himself, if you ask me,” Jane said bitterly.
“How’s the gallery doing?” Nat asked.
“I thought we should be doing better, but Sheldon insists it’s because of the time of the year. Things should pick up once the tourists start arriving.”
“Let’s take a peek in the attic now,” Nat suggested.
The attic was huge, covering the entire gallery and office space below, though not the studio. Rays of late afternoon sunlight filtered through a dusty uncurtained window to show boxes full of books, shelving jammed with more books, and several discarded chairs spilling papers onto the floor. There were several canvases, a couple of broken easels, and a Remington typewriter. Nat guessed it had been Jonathan’s. He reached down through the trapdoor and helped Maggie up.
Walking over to the window, she peered down onto the backyard before gazing around the loft. Both were neglected and sad.
“Nobody has been up here since he died,” Alice said forlornly as she pulled herself through the opening to stand beside Nat. Then her gaze fell on the typewriter. “Except when I brought that up.”
“Do you mind if I take it with me?” Nat asked.
“No. But whatever for?”
“Do you know if the police did a comparison test on it?”
Alice looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh! You mean to compare the type with the suicide letter. I honestly don’t remember.”
“We should clean this whole place up,” Jane said, poking her head through the opening. “In fact, I’ll start on it tomorrow,” she said firmly. “You won’t recognize the place once I’ve finished with it.”
“Would you hold off on the cleaning for a few days?” Maggie asked. “I think Nat and I should really go over the attic thoroughly.”
“Oh, of course,” Jane answered. “It’s waited this long . . .”
“You said that Sheldon will be in tomorrow morning,” Nat said once they were all back on the main floor again and trouping through the office toward the gallery.
“At ten. He’s always very punctual.”
As they approached the door to the street, Maggie turned to Alice. “Did your husband have any children from his first marriage?”
“A son, Aaron. He’s an evangelist minister in one of those born-again churches. I’m afraid his choice of career didn’t sit well with his father.”
“Where’s the church?” Nat asked.
“Near Mission, out in the Fraser Valley. He’s married to a very quiet girl, Irma, and they have two young daughters, Iris and Pansy. But Aaron came to the funeral by himself.” She looked pensive. “I arranged for him to meet Jonathan’s lawyer the next morning, and then he took off and I haven’t heard from him since—he doesn’t exactly approve of me.”
“Did he benefit from your husband’s estate?” Maggie asked.
Alice nodded. “But he didn’t get much because Jonathan left the gallery to me.”
“And the apartment?” Maggie asked.
“No, I own that.” She paused. “I really thought there would be more money but I guess business wasn’t doing as well as I thought.”
“How much did Aaron get?”
“Only five thousand.” She gave a rueful smile. “I got the impression that he thought he should have got everything.”
“Five thousand isn’t very much,” Nat commented.
“And I don’t suppose he makes much being a pastor,” Maggie added.
“No. It’s in a very sparse rural area and I don’t think his church has many followers.”
“That must make it quite a struggle to bring up two kids,” Maggie said quietly.
Alice nodded. “I did offer to help them but Aaron refused. He said he has a part-time job at one of the dairy farms close by.”
“But you couldn’t
have helped him much if your husband only left you the gallery,” Maggie said.
“My sister hasn’t had much luck with husbands,” Jane said tersely. “Neither of them left her any money.”
“The gallery has been fairly successful and it’s worth quite a bit,” Alice answered defensively.
“But if it has been successful for close on thirty years,” Jane insisted, “where’s the money gone? All I can say is that he must’ve been a very poor manager not to have had some assets.”
“I’d love to take another peek at those figurines,” Maggie interceded quickly. “The details are so beautiful—it’s hard to believe anyone could make something so delicate.”
• • •
“I’D ALSO LIKE to know where Jonathan Standish’s money went,” Maggie said later as Nat drove away from Alice’s apartment.
“Didn’t Alice look after the books?” Nat asked.
“Yes. Perhaps a little cooking, do you think?”
“Nah! I can’t see gentle Alice being a crook. Probably just some bad investments. I would think running an art gallery could be quite risky at times.”
“You’re probably right,” Maggie answered pensively.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was another lovely day, and when Maggie and Nat arrived at the gallery a little after ten, the shutters were open and in the daylight the place looked completely different.
“Sheldon is waiting for you in the office,” Alice greeted them before turning back to an anxious-looking bearded young man who was showing her a medium-sized painting.
“Another one of those weird pictures,” Nat muttered under his breath.
“Shush, he’ll hear you,” Maggie whispered back as she opened the door into the office.
Sheldon White stood up from behind the desk and offered his hand to Maggie.
“You were the one who found Jonathan Standish,” Nat said after they had both shaken hands with him.
Sheldon nodded. “Please sit down.” He waved toward the two visitors’ chairs in front of the desk and sat down behind it. “It was terrible. I couldn’t believe he would do such a thing.”
Death as a Fine Art Page 3