Death as a Fine Art

by Gwendolyn Southin

  “Cornelius Krieghoff’s work sells for thousands of dollars,” Maggie said, glaring at Haddock.

  “In that case,” George placed his empty cup on the desk before continuing, “the guy who snatched them must’ve been watching the place, just waiting for an opportunity to get inside.”

  “And he knew that Gloria would be no match for him,” Nat cut in.

  “Do you think these paintings were stolen from that Unicorn place?” Haddock asked. He fished the wad of gum out of his mouth and stuck it under the seat of his chair. “You know, the one where that art dealer offed himself.”

  “It’s called the Silver Unicorn and Jonathan Standish was murdered,” Maggie stated firmly.

  Haddock folded another stick of gum into his mouth. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “There’s a possibility the Silver Unicorn might sell Krieghoff prints, but I think originals would be way out of their league.”

  “Well, they had to be pinched from somewhere,” Haddock persisted, “and it’s now obvious that the murder of this Donitz character and Standish’s suicide are connected somehow. And I’m sure that White character is mixed up in this, too.”

  George, raising his eyebrows at Maggie, stood up and reached for his jacket from the back of his chair. “Let’s go, Stan.”

  “You going to caution them?”

  “I don’t have to spell it out to these folks.” He waited until his sidekick had left the room and then turned back to Maggie and Nat. “Do either of you have any idea how those paintings ended up in Donitz’s apartment?”

  “No. But we intend to find out,” Nat answered.

  “I’m really sorry you’ve been saddled with Haddock,” Maggie whispered to George as they walked back into the main room.

  “You and me both,” George said with a wry grin. “Thanks for the cookies, Henny. Really must get the recipe for my wife.”

  • • •

  “I WONDER WHAT prompted that visit?” Nat followed Maggie back into her room.

  “I wondered that, too. Especially as they seem to know nothing about the paintings. I was even of two minds whether to tell George about them, but I thought they may come back to haunt us if we didn’t. I noticed you didn’t mention the key you found, either,” she added.

  “We should find out if it belongs to that girl, Gloria, first,” Nat answered. He paused for a moment before continuing, “But we do need to talk to Sheldon and Alice ASAP.”

  Maggie nodded and reached for the telephone. “The gallery is closed on Mondays. You got anything on this afternoon?”

  “Nothing I can’t put off. Let’s do Sheldon first and then Alice.”

  A short while later Maggie placed a memo slip in front of Nat. “Sheldon at one. He has students coming around two, and Alice and Jane will be delighted to see us at two-thirty. Oh, one other thing.” Nat looked up expectantly. “The key you found. It doesn’t belong to Gloria. And she insists that if it had been on the floor before that thug attached her, she would have found it.”

  “Then I’ll cross her off the list. Remind me to ask Sheldon about it.”

  • • •

  “SHELDON SAID HE would be in his studio,” Maggie remarked as Nat parked in the driveway. “I don’t know if I could work there myself.”

  “You mean because of the murder?”

  “Yes. It’s even going to be hard for me to go in there.” Maggie led the way around the side of the house and then up the gravel path to the studio. The door was open and they could see Sheldon busy setting up easels. She hesitated at the open door before walking in.

  “You have news about Alex?” he asked.

  “Nothing new,” Nat answered. “We have a few questions, but we won’t keep you long.”

  “I told Mrs. Spencer that I’m expecting students at two.”

  “I’m glad they’re beginning to come back to you,” Maggie said as she perched on one of the high stools.

  “They realize that I’m an excellent teacher. Now what’s happened?”

  “Cornelius Krieghoff.”

  Sheldon gave a start in a way that Maggie thought was too casual. “What about him?”

  “You have any of his paintings?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. How could I possibly afford them?”

  “Your friend Alex Donitz seemed to have done.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maggie—or rather Alex’s girlfriend—found a couple Krieghoffs in his apartment . . .” Nat waited a few seconds before ending, “. . . and then someone rushed in, pushed the girl down, and grabbed them.”

  “Grabbed them?” he stuttered. He seemed to be visibly shaken. “Were . . . were these Krieghoffs the reason he was murdered?”

  “Could be,” Maggie answered. “But Sheldon, Donitz was murdered in this very room.”

  “It wasn’t you who grabbed them, by any chance?” Nat asked.

  Sheldon pulled himself together. “I know nothing about stolen paintings,” he answered firmly.

  “Who said anything about them being stolen?” Nat asked quickly.

  “Alex wouldn’t be able to afford a Krieghoff any more than I would. Besides, very few of them ever come on the market so it stands to reason they were stolen.” He paused for a few moments before continuing, “Have you told the police about them?”

  “The police came round to see us this morning,” Maggie answered, not mentioning the fact that the police appeared to be totally in the dark about any stolen paintings.

  “Well, I know absolutely nothing about them. And anyway, I didn’t know Alex Donitz that well.”

  “Enough to rent him space in your studio,” Nat answered. “By the way,” he continued, fishing the key out of his pocket, “is this yours?”

  “No. Where did you find it?”

  “You sure it’s not your front door key?” he answered, ignoring Sheldon’s query.

  “No, man. All the keys to this house are completely different to that one. Check if you like.”

  “We’ll do just that,” he said as he walked toward the door. “Come on, Maggie.” Then he turned and called back to Sheldon, “Perhaps you’d better watch your back.”

  “You think I’m in danger?” Sheldon cried, running after them. “I told you I needed police protection.”

  “You’ve got our number. Call if you think of anything that will help us solve Alex’s murder.”

  • • •

  “NAT, SOMETHING HAS just come back to me,” Maggie, who had waited in the car while Nat had tried all the locks, said to him as he slid behind the wheel.

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you remember the day we discovered Alex dead in the studio . . . ?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “. . . and I was checking out the dining room downstairs while you were upstairs. Well, there was this art book open on the table and I thought the pictures were familiar. Now I realize they were Krieghoffs.”

  “And,” Nat said slowly. “Do you remember way back when Sheldon said his place had been ransacked and told us he’d had a couple of weird calls asking where the Krieghoffs were?”

  “You’re right. I’d completely forgotten that,” Maggie answered. “So contrary to what he’s been trying to make us believe, he is interested in Krieghoff. Perhaps we should go back and have another go at him.”

  “No,” Nat answered slowly. “We’ve got him worried. Let him stew for a bit.”

  • • •

  “HAVE YOU MADE any progress?” Alice asked as she led them into the sun-filled living room. “Jane is making tea and will be with us shortly.”

  Ever the hostess, Maggie thought, sinking into one of the plush armchairs. She waited until Nat had seated himself before asking, “Do you sell many originals in the gallery?”

  “They are all originals.” Alice seemed amused by the question. “We sell works by many artists on consignment.”

  “I mean paintings by long-dead Canadian artists—Krieghoff, for instance.”<
br />
  “Krieghoff? I’m afraid very few of his pictures ever come on the market these days—except in the case of a bankruptcy or estate sale. Besides, he’s well out of our range, though we have sold a few of his prints. Why do you ask?”

  Jane entered with a tray and began pouring the tea.

  “We think that three of Krieghoff’s paintings were taken from Donitz’s apartment.”

  “Who’s Donitz? And what has this to do with my gallery?”

  “You know, Alice,” Jane said, handing cups of tea around. “The young man who was murdered. The one we thought was Sheldon.”

  “Oh, that young man. Came into the gallery a couple of times.” She looked puzzled. “But he was only a Polish immigrant!” She paused. “So he must have stolen them.” She took a sip of tea out of the thin china cup. “Now, to change the subject, have you located that young woman who’s been leaving those flowers on Jonathan’s grave?”

  Maggie, still surprised by Alice’s snobbish remark, took a moment before answering. “We’ve made a little progress, and it looks as if Jane could be right and the girl did some modelling for Jonathan for the figurines in the gallery.”

  “Told you so, Alice,” Jane said triumphantly. “All that worry for nothing.”

  “Worry?” Nat asked quickly. “You thought there was more to it?”

  Alice gave a nervous laugh. “Well, you know there was that suicide note.”

  “Which we now know that Jonathan didn’t write,” Jane cut in, “and you know that husband of yours just adored you.”

  Maggie, thinking back to their conversation with Judith, wondered how true that statement was.

  “I really would like to have the young woman’s name and address,” Alice continued, “so that I could thank her for the flowers.”

  “We’ll see what we can find out and let you know,” Nat hedged.

  “Alice,” Maggie cut in quickly, “I know we’ve asked this before, but have you any idea what was worrying Jonathan? You see,” she continued, “Sheldon said he was very worried about something at the time of his death.”

  “Don’t believe anything that man says,” Jane said briskly. “Mark my words, he’s mixed up in both the murders.”

  “Now, Jane,” Alice had reverted to her soft, placating voice, “he was a great help after Jonathan’s death.” She turned back to Maggie and Nat. “Jonathan didn’t seem all that worried to me. Of course, January is always slow in the art business, but he knew it would pick up once the tourist season began.” She looked thoughtful. “It’s odd finding those paintings in that young man’s apartment . . . and you say he was a friend of Sheldon’s.”

  “Now we’ve spoiled your day off from the gallery long enough.” Nat rose from his chair.

  “I know this is going to be a hard question,” Maggie said, also rising. She looked straight into Alice’s eyes. “But are you absolutely sure everything was okay between you and your husband at the time of his death?”

  “Of course it was,” Jane answered for her sister. “That’s why we couldn’t believe that terrible suicide note.”

  As Maggie started to follow Alice to the door, she saw that Jane had cornered Nat and they were talking quite earnestly about something.

  “He was absolutely devoted and faithful to me,” Alice said, fishing a small lace hanky out of her pocket and dabbing her eyes. “I know you’re doing your best, dear . . .” She patted Maggie on the arm as she led her to the entrance door. “But I sometimes wish that we’d left well enough alone.”

  “Don’t you want to find his murderer?”

  “I had accepted his suicide and was getting on with my life . . . Now . . . you and Nat are delving into our lives . . . and the police are back asking questions. Where’s it all going to end? Jane,” she called, “Maggie is ready to leave.” She turned back to Maggie, “Sheldon’s coming back to the gallery tomorrow,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “He wants us to get back to normal—if that’s at all possible.”

  “How does Jane feel about that?” Maggie asked with a smile.

  “Not happy. But he’s much better than Jane with our clientele.”

  “I was just commenting to Jane about the wonderful view you have here, Alice,” Nat said as he joined Maggie by the door. “By the way, this couldn’t be the spare key to the studio, could it?” he held the key out for Alice to look at.

  “No. The studio ones are completely different. That’s a Yale. Similar to the ones to this apartment.” She took it from him and tried to fit it into her entrance door. “It’s not mine. Where did you find it?”

  “Among the dead young man’s effects,” he answered.

  “I see.” Alice pondered for a few moments. “If it had been the studio key,” she said, “it could have meant that he was the one who murdered my Jonathan.”

  “But he hardly knew Jonathan,” Jane cut in, “and what possible motive would he have had to do such a terrible thing?”

  Alice sighed as she opened the door. “You’re right as usual, Jane.”

  • • •

  “SO WHAT WERE you and Jane chatting about?” Maggie asked as they walked down the concrete steps leading to the street.

  “She wants to come and see us privately. I told her tomorrow about ten. Does that fit your schedule?”

  “That’s okay with me. Did she say what’s on her mind?”

  “No. But she doesn’t seem to be a happy camper staying with her sister.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” Maggie’s voice had a sardonic tone to it and Nat gave his partner a quizzical look as he bent to fit the key into the passenger door.

  “What do you mean?”

  Maggie slipped into the seat. “Let’s just say that Alice is not all peaches and cream.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Is Mr. Southby going to join us?” Jane asked as she settled into the chair across from Maggie.

  “He’ll be here in a few minutes.” Maggie drew a lined pad toward her. “He had a last-minute call so asked if you’d mind meeting in my office.” She smiled at Jane. “It’s a bit smaller,” she added, spreading her arms, “but cosy.”

  Jane laughed. “Give me cosy all the time. I’m interested—do you really like doing this kind of job?”

  “It’s stimulating, sometimes dangerous but never boring.”

  “I think I envy you.” Jane looked up as Nat came into the room.

  “Sorry about that,” he said with a grin as he grabbed a chair, slewed it around and faced the two women. “Now what’s on your mind?”

  Jane sat for a moment gathering her thoughts. “I’m worried about my sister.”

  “In what way?” Maggie asked.

  “I thought I was being useful, but honestly, I don’t think she wants me here. There’s been . . . well . . . several hints about when I will be returning to Victoria.”

  “It could mean she’s ready to get on with her life.”

  “I suppose.”

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?” Maggie said gently.

  Jane looked miserable. “She’s been receiving quite a few phone calls from some man . . . She’s very secretive about them, and when I ask, she says they’re business calls. Then there’s that woman leaving the flowers. She tries to pass that off, but I know she’s very upset about them.”

  “Any idea why?” Nat leaned forward.

  “She seems almost afraid. I keep trying to assure her it’s some lovesick admirer, but I know she doesn’t believe that any more than I do. After all, Jonathan passed away over four months ago.”

  Maggie leaned over her desk. “Jane, going back to the phone calls. Have you any idea who the man is?”

  Jane looked abashed. “I’ve eavesdropped a few times,” she admitted. “I think it’s that Saul Wingate. I did hear her mention some woman called Tricia.”

  “Saul was one of Jonathan’s friends,” Nat cut in, “and he and Tricia are shareholders in that studio on Quebec Street.”

  “Oh! Then that would
explain him calling. But why so secretive?” She paused. “And she was very angry about something he’d done.” She sat gazing past Maggie at the view outside her window before suddenly bringing her attention back to Nat. “I guess you think I’m worrying about nothing. But Jonathan was murdered. Do you think Alice’s life is in danger, too?”

  “Are you planning on going back to Victoria?” Maggie asked.

  She nodded. “I’m leaving at the end of next week.” She stood up. “Oh, about the flower woman. Was she one of Jonathan’s lady friends?”

  “We’re a bit closer to solving that mystery,” Nat hedged. “I’m sure she’s no threat to Alice.”

  Maggie accompanied Jane to the outer office where the older woman thanked her for all they had done. “And in spite of what Alice says, I still think I was right in bringing you two in to investigate.” She reached out for the door handle and then stopped. “Oh, I forgot, here’s my address and phone number in Victoria.” She handed Maggie a neatly folded piece of paper. “Please keep me informed.”

  When Maggie returned to her office, she found Nat gazing out of the window. “What’s with the view out there?” Maggie laughed.

  He shook his head. “Just thinking. There are so many loose ends that are leading us nowhere.”

  “We deserve a break in this case,” Maggie answered, leaning back against her desk. “What about us having another talk with that artistic crowd.” She turned and pulled her desk calendar toward her. “They’re all there on Thursdays, aren’t they?”

  Nat nodded. “Let’s turn up for coffee and surprise them.”

  • • •

  THE PHONE CALL came just as Maggie was about to sit down to a supper of canned salmon salad, and she thought briefly of ignoring it. Probably Harry with another one of his things-to-do lists. But on the other hand it could be something important.

  “I am so sorry to call you in the evening.” Maggie recognized Irma’s panicky voice.

  “What’s wrong, Irma?”

  “I’m so stupid. I know I shouldn’t have told him.”

  “Told him what?”

  “I told Aaron about that woman who claims her daughter is his step-sister and he yelled and yelled and told me I was lying.” She paused for breath. “I had to give him her telephone number.”