“How long had you known him?” Maggie asked.
He closed pale blue eyes for a moment before answering. “Six months. But I became his right-hand man, so to speak.”
“And was there any indication that something was worrying him?” Nat asked.
“Well, he was worrying about his wife—she had a very serious operation, you know.”
“She told us,” Maggie said. “An appendectomy.”
“So I was only too happy to take over so that she could recuperate. And contrary to what Miss Weatherby—Mrs. Standish’s sister—thinks, Jonathan was very appreciative.”
“Are you an artist, Mr. White?” Nat asked.
“I dabble in my own small way.” Then he added, with a smile, “Jonathan thought I had real potential.”
“Please tell us about the time just before Mr. Standish’s death,” Nat said. “Did he have any visitors, any mail, telephone calls or anything that might have upset him?”
Sheldon ran his long tapered fingers through his sparse sandy hair. “Now that you come to mention it, he was very upset after receiving a couple of phone calls.” He sat back in his chair and folded his hands on the desk. “I don’t know who it was as he always asked me to leave the office, but he was very short-tempered after each call—which was so unlike the dear man.”
“Let’s go back to the day of his death.”
“I’ll never forget it. It was a Sunday evening—you understand we’re not open on Sundays. Anyway, Mrs. Standish called me and said that Jonathan wasn’t answering the telephone and she was worried about him.”
“Why didn’t she go to the studio herself?”
“Jonathan had taken the car. So I was only too happy to oblige.”
“And?” Maggie prompted.
“The front door was unlocked—which was very unusual as Jonathan was always very strict about that. And there he was—dead!”
“Did you call Mrs. Standish?”
“No. When I saw all that blood and . . .” he gave a dramatic shudder, “I came over very faint and I sort of staggered out into the gallery. It took a few minutes for me to pull myself together. Then I called the police.”
“So who did call Mrs. Standish?” Maggie insisted.
“Oh! I let the police do that. But why are you asking me all these questions? He did commit suicide, didn’t he?”
“No,” Nat answered sharply. “He was murdered!”
“Murdered!” Sheldon’s face blanched. “But who would kill that lovely man?”
Maggie quickly rose from her chair. “Are you okay?” Sheldon looked so ill that she was afraid he was going to have another fainting spell.
“I’m fine . . . it’s just . . . just too awful to contemplate.” Sheldon visibly pulled himself together. “Jonathan was so well liked by absolutely everybody.”
“If you can think of anything else that would help us,” Nat said, getting to his feet, “we’ll be upstairs in the studio.”
“Can I be of help? I know where everything is up there.”
“We’ll call if we need you.”
• • •
“SO WHERE DO we start?” Maggie asked as they contemplated the attic. “Perhaps we should tackle the bookcase first.”
“Good idea. Let’s drag that table over to it and we can pile the books up as we go. I’ll begin with the top shelf and work my way down.”
It was a dusty, messy process, and it was obvious that most of these books hadn’t been touched in years. Maggie, methodical as always, scooped up a piece of paint rag so she could give each book a quick swipe before leafing through it. They soon discovered that most of the books covered various types of art—sculpture, drawing, painting, ceramic sculpture, and woodwork—and although they riffled through each one before placing it on the table, apart from a few rough sketches, nothing of interest fell out of them. It wasn’t until they reached the bottom shelf that Maggie found, wedged between two books, a yellow Kodak folder containing several photographs and their negatives.
“Nat, look what I . . .”
“Found anything interesting?” She turned to see the top half of Sheldon in the open trapdoor. “I haven’t been up here since Jonathan’s death,” he continued, his pale blue eyes sweeping the room as he prepared to come the rest of the way up the steep staircase. “Do you need any help?”
Maggie quickly pushed the packet back between the books. “No, we can manage, thank you. We’ll be down shortly.”
“I second that,” Nat said grimly as he descended the library ladder. “We need a break before we choke to death on all this dust.”
“There’s some dusters in that old chest,” Sheldon answered, pointing. “Here, I’ll get them for you.” Before either Nat or Maggie could protest, the man had pulled himself up into the attic. “Here, why don’t I dust the shelves for you and then you can hand the books back up to me?”
“We can manage perfectly well, thank you,” Maggie said coldly.
But nothing fazed the man. “No, no. I’m here to help any way I can.” Open-mouthed, they watched him grab up a cloth, climb the library ladder, and begin to vigorously clean the top shelf. “Okay! You can pass the first batch up.” Dutifully, they handed up the books.
“We’ll tackle the bottom shelf after we’ve had that break,” Maggie said firmly.
Reluctantly, Sheldon climbed down. “Oh, you shouldn’t bother with those.” He indicated the huge volumes on the lower shelf. “They’re too heavy for you to haul out, and they’re only reference books—you know—the life and times of the great masters. I can easily go through them for you.”
“Actually,” Nat said firmly, “we’re all going back downstairs for a much needed drink of some sort.” He waved a hand toward the trapdoor. “After you, Sheldon.”
Maggie made sure she was the last to leave, but before following, she slipped the packet of photographs into her jacket pocket.
“Oh, there you are, Sheldon,” Alice said as she entered the office from the gallery. “I was looking for you to take over in the gallery.”
“Just giving a hand upstairs,” he answered.
“Next time tell me when you’re going to disappear,” she said sharply. “Please go in and relieve my sister.” After Sheldon had gone, she turned to Maggie and Nat. “How are you making out?”
“Okay until your assistant decided to help us,” Maggie replied wryly.
“I can see what Jane means—he never gives up,” Nat cut in. “Is there a chance of a glass of water—it’s so dusty up there.”
“Of course. I’ll put on the kettle for tea.”
“So what were you going to show me?” Nat said as soon as Alice had left the room.
“These.” She pulled out the packet of photographs. “I haven’t had time to have a good look at them, but . . .”
“Family photos,” Nat said, spreading them on the table.
“But what family?” Maggie answered. There were six photos in all. The first one was of a pretty, dark-haired woman in her thirties, holding a girl around eight years old on her lap. The second showed the same little girl building a snowman with a black and white puppy sitting beside her. In the third she was serving tea to a couple of dolls and a teddy bear with the same little dog in attendance. The other three were of the woman alone: tending pink roses in a flower garden, laughing into the camera on what was obviously a windy day, and in the last one, blowing kisses to whoever was holding the camera. On the back were simple notations: “Judith and Jenny.” “Judith and roses.” “Judith and hat.” “Jenny with Tippet and snowman.” “Jenny serving tea.” They were all dated June 1960.
“What have you got there?”
“Some photographs,” Maggie answered as Alice put a tea tray down on the desk. “Do you know these people?”
Alice studied each one carefully. It was several minutes before she shook her head. “No. No, I’ve no idea who they are. Where did you find them?”
“Stuffed between some books. Mind if we take them?”
“If you think it will help. Find anything else?”
Maggie shook her head as she picked up a mug of tea and drank thirstily. “So much dust up there. I sure needed this.” She took another gulp of tea. “Another hour and we should be through.”
As Sheldon had said, the bottom shelf contained reference books featuring coloured plates of many of the old masters as well as more modern ones showing art of the twentieth century. But unlike the books on the other shelves, they were bereft of dust, and there were several bookmarks stuck in them—especially those with illustrations of the more modern paintings. A few minutes later, as they sorted through the mass of papers piled on the chairs, Nat found a number of pencil sketches of Jonathan’s sculptures, including some of the beautiful figurines on the glass shelves in the gallery.
“Where are the photographs we found this morning?” Maggie asked as she removed several of the sketches and carefully flattened them onto the table.
“Downstairs in my jacket pocket. Why?”
“Slip down and get them, would you?” A few minutes later Maggie laid the snaps down on the sketches. “I thought I was right. Look!”
“Well I’m damned! These sketches were all made from the photographs.”
“I think we’ll keep this to ourselves for the moment,” Maggie answered. “But we’d better take a closer look at those figurines on our way out.”
• • •
“FINISHED UPSTAIRS?” JANE asked as they descended the stairs. She was sitting behind the desk writing in an account book.
Maggie nodded. “Yes. Now I need to go home and have a good soak to get rid of the dust.” She laughed. “But before we go, do you know if Jonathan had a Rolodex or an address book?”
“Yes, I think he kept an address book.” She opened the side drawer on the desk and began searching through its contents. “It’s here somewhere. Ah! Here it is. Anybody in particular?” she asked as she opened the thin, hard-covered book.
“No. We need to look up some of his business contacts. Do you think Alice would mind if we took it with us? We’ll get it back to you tomorrow.”
“She’s slipped out for a while, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
“Do you recognize these people?” Maggie asked on a sudden impulse, placing the photograph of the woman and child in front of Jane.
“No. Can’t say I do,” she answered picking the snapshots up. “But you can see they’re mother and daughter. Who are they?” She turned the photograph over. “Judith and Jenny! Where did you find it?”
“Upstairs on one of the bookshelves.”
“I guess Jonathan could have used them as models. Oh my, yes—they do look exactly like that figurine of the mother and child in the studio, don’t they? Just the way they’re posed . . .” Jane was silent for a moment. “You know, there was a bouquet of roses at the funeral from ‘the two Js.’ I remember I asked Alice who they were, but she had no idea.”
“There were a lot of flowers at the funeral?” Maggie asked.
“Oh yes, there were so many flowers from all sorts of people. So many people loved his art, you know.” She was silent for a moment, and as she handed the photo back, she asked, “Do you think they could be the ones leaving roses on Jonathan’s grave?”
“On his grave?”
Jane nodded. “Yes. There were fresh roses on two of the occasions that Alice and I visited his grave. Alice said they must have come from one of Jonathan’s secret admirers.” She laughed. “And perhaps that’s all these two are—just admirers. After all, they must’ve posed quite a number of times for him.” She picked up her pen again. “Must get back to these books.”
As they got into the car, Nat said under his breath, “We need to find you, Judith and Jenny. Where are you?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Maggie glanced happily around her as she walked Oscar through the small park on Fifth Avenue in Kitsilano. She had never regretted moving into her small house on the same street, but on beautiful late spring days like this one, she knew she had been very lucky to find it. While Oscar happily sniffed and then peed on his usual landmarks, her mind wandered to her own family. Midge and Jason’s wedding was going to be held on June 16th and although Midge had wanted a very small wedding and reception, Harry, Maggie’s estranged husband, had insisted that the couple get married in Vancouver’s Christ Church Cathedral, followed by a reception at the Hotel Vancouver. The thought of meeting up with old friends, neighbours, and business acquaintances who would be sure to attend the wedding ceremony, if not the reception, sent cold shivers through her. I must remember it’s Midge’s special day. Then she smiled as she thought about her very pregnant elder daughter, Barbara, and how angry she was that Midge wouldn’t put off the wedding until after her second child was born. Anyway, Harry will be in his element, giving away his youngest and showing off his four-year-old grandson. She glanced down at her watch.
“Oh blast! I’m going to be late. Come on, Oscar.”
• • •
NAT WAS WAITING for her when she arrived at their office on Broadway. “I’ve managed to get hold of the Standish family lawyer,” he said, beckoning her into his office. “He’s been out of town.”
“That explains why he never called back,” she answered. “What did you say his name was?”
“I didn’t say.” He paused, enjoying the moment. “Does the name Humphrey Crumbie ring a bell?” he asked, grinning.
“Oh no!”
“Yup! Humphrey Crumbie of Snodgrass, Crumbie and Spencer,” Nat said enunciating each syllable.
“Harry’s firm.”
“We have an appointment for two this afternoon.”
“You don’t need me.” She headed for her own office.
He followed her. “Yes, I do,” he answered firmly. “You have to face up to things like this happening—it’s part of the job. Anyway,” he added with a wicked grin, “this could be fun. Is he as stuffy as Harry?”
• • •
THE LAW OFFICES hadn’t changed since Maggie’s last visit. Luckily, Humphrey Crumbie had his own suite of rooms so she didn’t have to face Harry’s bitchy secretary, Miss Fitch-Smythe. But she remembered as they entered Crumbie’s reception area that Amelia Randall, his watchdog, was just as snooty and bitchy.
“Yes. Can I help you?” After looking Nat up and down, her gaze took in Maggie without a sign of recognition.
“Southby and Spencer to see Mr. Crumbie,” Nat answered.
“The detective persons.” She looked down at her appointment book. “He’s with a client. Take a seat.”
• • •
“MARGARET, MY DEAR!” Humphrey Crumbie was now in his seventies. Short, bespectacled and wearing a grey herringbone three-piece suit—the buttons on the vest seriously straining in their effort to hold everything together—he walked over and took Maggie’s hands in his and gently raised them to his lips. “My dear, what a wonderful surprise. And this is . . . ?”
“My business partner, Nat Southby.”
“Business partner! I didn’t realize . . .”
“Southby and Spencer, Private Investigators,” Maggie answered. She dug into her purse and handed him one of her business cards.
“Harry did mention that you were in some kind of business, but . . .” His voice faltered. “Anyway, come into my office, my dear, and tell me what I can do for you.”
“Did Alice Standish call you?” Nat asked after they were seated.
“Alice? Oh yes . . . of course.” Looking even more confused, he turned to Maggie. “That was so sad, Jonathan . . . ahem . . . killing himself like that.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Nat cut in. “We are certain he didn’t kill himself.”
“You don’t mean he was murdered! Oh, my!” Crumbie sat looking down at his pudgy pink fingers before reaching for a cigar, then raising his eyebrows at Nat, he indicated the box. Nat gave a quick glance at Maggie before reaching for one. “But who would do such a thing?” Crumbie asked as he
carefully cut the end of his cigar with a silver knife. “Though I can see that would make a difference.” He leaned over and handed the knife to Nat.
“A difference to what?” Maggie asked, looking daggers at Nat as he lovingly cut the end of his fat Cuban.
“Why, the insurance, of course.” He gave a tremulous laugh. “Please forgive me, Margaret, but it is so unusual for you to be asking me the questions.” He leaned back and drew on his cigar. “Now, back to the insurance. Alice couldn’t claim because of the suicide clause, but if it can be proved that he was murdered—then that is a different kettle of fish, as it were.”
“Yes, it would be,” Nat said. “Alice says you talked to Jonathan’s son, Aaron, after the funeral.”
“Yes. Rather a surly type of man. He’s some kind of preacher. Wasn’t too happy that his stepmother got to keep the gallery.”
“So we heard. You handled all of Jonathan Standish’s affairs?” Maggie asked.
“He’s been with us for years just like his father before him. Why do you ask?”
“Do the names Judith and Jenny mean anything to you?”
“Judith and Jenny?” He paused before continuing. “No. Should they?”
Maggie wondered if she had imagined hearing the slight hesitation before he answered. “We found some photographs with those names on the back,” she continued.
“Probably models. Jonathan used a lot of different models for his work over the years.”
“We thought about that, too,” Nat said as he withdrew the photographs from the manila envelope and placed them in front of Crumbie. “These two were definitely used for the figurines we saw in the gallery.”
“Well, there you are then.” He gave the snaps a cursory glance before handing them back to Nat.
“We tend to think there was more than just a painter/model relationship.”
“I very much doubt it. I hope you haven’t asked Alice about this.”
“We showed the photographs to her but she didn’t recognize either of them.”
“Jonathan’s death is still fairly recent, so I wouldn’t push that aspect if I were you.” He glanced at the ornate clock ticking on the mantelpiece. “Was there anything else?”
Death as a Fine Art Page 4