Death as a Fine Art

by Gwendolyn Southin

  “There isn’t anyone else.”

  “Oh, come on, Sheldon, there have to be others in on it.”

  “I tell you,” Sheldon shouted back, “Forbes is the only one who’s been here. And,” his face paled, “she’ll kill me if she knows I’ve told on her—look what happened to Alex!”

  “Then,” Nat continued, ignoring Sheldon’s protests, “you carry on painting as if nothing has happened—you don’t tell Tricia Forbes or Alice Standish. But if I find out you’ve breathed a word to either of them,” he paused to let the full effect of his words wash over Sheldon, “I will give Sergeant Sawasky the go-ahead to issue that warrant. Understood?”

  “Has Forbes ever mentioned Saul Wingate being in on this?” Maggie asked.

  Sheldon shook his head. “No.”

  “Does Alice Standish do some of the fraudulent painting?” Nat asked.

  “Alice Standish,” he said witheringly, “knows nothing about art. She’s all show.”

  Nat started for the door. “I think we’re about finished here.”

  “You’re actually going to trust this skunk?” George said, glaring at Sheldon. “I still think you should let me charge him.”

  “He knows better than to cross me again. Don’t you, Sheldon?” Nat asked, towering over the quivering man. “And I don’t advise running away again.” He turned to George. “Can you get an unmarked patrol car to keep an eye on him?”

  George saw Nat’s wink. “Sure can. I’ll get them to start right away. Tonight.”

  • • •

  “DO YOU THINK he’ll keep quiet?” Maggie asked as she climbed into the passenger seat of Nat’s car. It had taken a while to locate the Chevy in the dark as Sheldon had taken Nat’s keys and parked his car down the street and around the corner.

  “It depends on what he’s most scared of—the fear of being charged or Tricia Forbes.” He backed carefully over the scrubby grass of the road allowance and around the corner where George was waiting for him.

  George stuck his head into the open window. “You okay to drive?”

  “Yeh! Don’t worry.”

  “Still think I should have charged that creep and taken him downtown,” George muttered as he turned away.

  “I’ll call you in the morning.” Nat put the car into gear and eased away from the curb. “Where did you leave your car, Maggie?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sheldon’s attack had left Nat with one enormous headache, but as was typical, he wouldn’t entertain the idea of getting medical help.

  “Stop fussing, Maggie. A couple of aspirins will do it,” he muttered irritably when she insisted on inspecting his head. “Go on home. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  She had complied, albeit reluctantly, but she spent a restless night waiting for the telephone to ring and thinking about missing the second half of Swan Lake. Perhaps she could pick up a ticket and see the whole ballet later in the week. When the phone finally did ring on Sunday morning, it took her quite a while to come to and pick up.

  “How about visiting Saul Wingate this morning?” Nat sounded annoyingly awake and surprisingly chipper.

  “You okay?”

  “Of course I am. Takes a lot to get me down. I’ve called Wingate,” he went on, “and he’s expecting us for coffee around eleven. I’ll pick you up about ten-thirty.”

  “Have you heard from George?”

  “He called early this morning,” Nat replied. “Still thinks I’m a fool for not letting him charge Sheldon.”

  “He’s right, you know.”

  “No. I want that little bugger truly scared. He knows a lot more about both Jonathan’s and Alex’s deaths than he’s telling us.”

  • • •

  SAUL MET THEM at the door and led them into his large bright living room and nodded toward a sofa. Nat opted instead for a wingback chair—he remembered the struggle he’d had to get out of that sofa on his last visit.

  “Nat told me about your wonderful view . . . would you mind?”

  “Of course not, my dear.” Putting an arm around Maggie’s shoulders, he led her to the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Be my guest. I’m very proud of our view.”

  Although Nat had given her a good description, she wasn’t prepared for the magnificent panorama that lay before her. It was a perfect early summer day and the North Shore Mountains and the Lions were flooded with bright sunlight. “Oh, my God! I’d stand and look out of these windows all day if I lived here.”

  Saul smiled. “We try not to get too blasé and take our view for granted.” He made it sound as if he had created the scene all by himself. “Ah, here’s Leslie.”

  Leslie, in his mid-thirties, tall with tightly curled blond hair, eyelashes that any girl would give a fortune for, and—to Maggie—devastatingly good-looking, was bending to place a large silver tray on the walnut coffee table. “There’s cream and sugar and I’ve warmed some heavenly croissants that I picked up from the French bakery down the street. The strawberry jam’s homemade, of course. Please do help yourself.” He sank down on the sofa beside Saul.

  “You wanted to talk to me about Jonathan’s death?” Saul had waited until they’d helped themselves before speaking.

  “Not directly.” Nat wiped his jammy fingers on the small linen napkin—he always found balancing small plates and coffee cups very difficult. “Did you write this?” He passed over the list.

  Saul read it and then looked up. “Wherever did you find it?”

  “Actually, Maggie found it.”

  “I did write it, but that was way before Jonathan was killed.” He turned to Maggie. “Where did you find it?”

  “In an old jacket that had belonged to Jonathan.” She paused for a moment. “It was in your studio on Quebec Street.”

  Saul looked nonplussed. “The studio? When was this?”

  Looking embarrassed, Maggie replied, “A few days ago. I was with Adele.”

  “Adele! What were you doing there?” Maggie could tell he wasn’t pleased. “It’s a long story . . .”

  He nodded, waiting.

  “Adele Rousseau called to tell me she had remembered something Jonathan had told her . . .”

  “Adele? But she’s no longer a member of our group.”

  “I know.”

  “Sorry. I won’t interrupt again.” True to his word, he listened until Maggie had finished her narrative and then said, “And you found this list in that old jacket of Jonathan’s. To think it’s been hanging there all these months.”

  “So what’s it all about?” Nat asked.

  Saul waited until Leslie had refilled the coffee cups before he answered. “It was a couple of months before dear Jonathan died. He had called me—you see, I was his closest friend and he knew he could talk to me. He told me that something . . . how did he put it . . . something very fishy was going on. First off, Alice and Sheldon had become very close and secretive and, what was most unusual, Tricia Forbes was becoming quite a frequent visitor to the gallery—even though Alice had always professed her dislike for the woman.”

  “Perhaps they’d buried the hatchet,” Maggie said.

  “Very unlikely,” Saul said drily. “Anyway, Jonathan got suspicious when he noticed that most times Tricia would arrive carrying either a large bag or small flat parcels—that’s the way he described it—like small framed paintings. Alice would wait until he was busy in his studio and then the two women would disappear into that little workroom at the back of the building between the studio and Jonathan’s office. Tricia would always leave the gallery empty-handed.”

  “She could have been bringing in pre-ordered pictures or pottery of some kind,” Nat said.

  Saul nodded. “And that’s what Alice answered when Jonathan tackled her about it. But Jonathan knew his stock, kept methodical accounts of the consignments and the art he had ordered and bought. There was no pay-out to Tricia Forbes or, when he searched the workroom, no canvases or whatever else she was bringing in.”

  “So they
were doing some private transactions.” Nat reached for another croissant. “These are very good. So what was Alice doing with this stuff?”

  “He came to the sad realization that Alice was passing them on to Sheldon to smuggle out the back way, and he was delivering the stuff to private buyers.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Maggie said. “Where was Tricia getting the work that she was passing on to Alice?”

  “She was stealing it.”

  “How did you come to that conclusion?” Nat asked. “She could have been picking the stuff up cheaply at estate sales or auctions, places like that. Then Alice simply sold it for a profit.”

  Saul stood up and walked over to a tall rosewood cabinet. “Come over here.” When Maggie and Nat joined him, he took a keychain from his trouser pocket and unlocked the bevelled glass doors. The cabinet contained dozens of delicate snuffboxes artfully displayed on a bed of black velvet. “The majority of these boxes are very valuable.”

  Maggie leaned closer to see them. “They are really beautiful.”

  “I never tire of looking at them. Leslie’s a consulting engineer, you know, and is often away on business—and many of these are gifts he’s brought back for me.” He smiled at his partner. “About six months before Jonathan died, Leslie had just returned from a trip to Germany and brought me that exquisite enamelled box right there. I was making room for it in the cabinet when I realized that three very old and valuable boxes were missing. Two were silver and inlaid with mother-of-pearl and the other was carved ivory—a beautiful piece of art.”

  “And you suspected Tricia Forbes?”

  “Not at the time. But after Jonathan called with his suspicions about her, I realized that she’d been the only visitor the week they must have gone missing. You see, I was home with a wretched cold and she came to visit with some fruit and a bunch of flowers—I guess she stole them while I was in the kitchen getting a vase.”

  “But you keep the case locked . . .”

  “I didn’t in those days.”

  “Saul was absolutely devastated,” Leslie said from the sofa.

  “Did you call the police?” Nat asked, returning to the wingback chair.

  “What was the use? It had happened at least three weeks prior to my finding they were missing and I couldn’t believe it of her. I now keep the cabinet firmly locked and the key is always with me.”

  “What about the Krieghoffs?”

  “That’s when Jonathan knew that serious stuff was going on—he found the three paintings wrapped in brown paper and stuffed behind some boxes in that workroom next to his office.”

  “Did he ask Alice about them?” Maggie asked.

  “No. But what he did do was pass them over to me for safekeeping.”

  “So that’s what you were referring to in the note?” Nat chimed in. “But at some point you gave them back to him . . .”

  “Unfortunately, yes. They’d obviously been stolen from some private collector and I was very worried about having them in my possession. I gave them back to Jonathan just two days before he was murdered. I often wonder if he’d still be alive if I’d kept them.”

  “But then you could have been murdered, too!” Leslie cried out. “Oh, Saul, why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “Because I didn’t want you getting worked up and worried, too.”

  Nat spread the note on his knee. “So can you explain these other initials to us? I guess they’re CB for Chris Barfield and IB for Ian Buckle.”

  “You’ll see that I put question marks against them. At the time I thought they might have been mixed up with Tricia.”

  “Do you still think so?” Maggie asked.

  Saul shook his head. “No.”

  “And Adele?”

  Saul laughed. “You’ve met Adele. Enough said.”

  “Do you think that’s why Jonathan was killed?” Maggie asked.

  “I do hope not,” Saul answered sadly. “I can’t see Alice or Tricia killing him over three small paintings—even if they are Krieghoffs.”

  “We’ll get going,” Nat said a few minutes later. “Sorry to have messed up your peaceful Sunday morning.”

  “I only hope I’ve been a help in finding Jonathan’s murderer.” Saul led them to the door and shook hands with them.

  • • •

  “A VISIT TO Adele?” Maggie suggested, slipping into Nat’s Chevy.

  “Good thinking.” He glanced at the clock on the dash. “We’ve just time before lunch.”

  “Lunch! You’ve just eaten three croissants with strawberry jam!”

  “They’re very light and airy—there’s nothing to ’em.”

  • • •

  “OH, IT’S YOU.” Adele didn’t seem too keen on seeing them. “It’s Sunday.”

  “Won’t keep you long. Only want to ask you a couple of questions.”

  Adele reluctantly led the way into her living room-cum-potter’s studio. “Just got up and the place is a mess. Worked late last night and left it all to clear up this morning.” She handed them each a rag. “Dust off the worst and take a seat.” She waited until they’d complied before turning to Maggie. “Did you make head or tail of that bit of paper we found?”

  “We came to the conclusion that the initials referred to your artist friends on Quebec Street.”

  “Any fool could’ve seen that! But what did it mean?”

  “Could refer to fraud, stealing, or unlawful copying. We’re not sure. Did you notice anything—uh, unusual going on while you were there?”

  “I told you that the place changed after my . . . Jonathan died.”

  Maggie nodded. “But while he was still alive?”

  Adele gazed mournfully out the window. A strong wind had suddenly arisen, and the huge maple beside the house began swaying so that its branches scraped against the windowpane. She shuddered before returning her gaze on to her visitors. “There was a . . . a . . . coldness between Jonathan, Saul, and Tricia. It was so palpable it made one feel very uncomfortable. Then Jonathan stopped coming to the studio and even that pompous ass Barfield seemed to breathe easier.”

  “When did Jonathan stop coming?” Nat asked.

  “About a month or so before he died.”

  “Did he tell you what was wrong?”

  “All he would say was there was something bad going on at the studio and the gallery, and that he was determined to get to the bottom of it—and then he was murdered!”

  “Did you notice anything suspicious going on with Tricia Forbes?” Maggie asked.

  “Tricia Forbes? I told you she’s a bitch.”

  “Apart from her being a bitch.” Maggie waited. She didn’t want to put words in the woman’s mouth.

  “I can’t think of anything really suspicious. She was just her nasty self.”

  • • •

  “WELL, THAT WAS a wasted effort,” Nat said, pulling away from the curb. “Where to now?”

  “Back to my place. I’ll make lunch.”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  • • •

  THE TELEPHONE WAS ringing when they entered the house. “They’ll call back if it’s important,” Nat yelled at Maggie as she made her usual dash to get it.

  “Might be Midge.”

  But it wasn’t Midge.

  “You see what’s happened with your constant meddling?” Judith Sloan screamed over the telephone. “Jenny’s gone!”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! She didn’t come home . . .”

  “From where?”

  “Saint Thomas’s. She sings in the junior choir. Oh, my God! I should have been there to pick her up . . .”

  “Judith, take a deep breath. Now, did she walk there? Did she get a lift?”

  “I took her, but she said she would get a ride home with one of her friends.”

  “Have you called the church?”

  “That’s where I am now. No one saw her leave . . .”

 
“Give me the address.”

  “Wait a minute.” Maggie could hear voices and then Judith came back onto the phone. “It’s 2444 East 41st Avenue.”

  “2444 East 41st. Okay, Judith, I know where that is. We’ll be there as fast as we can.” Maggie replaced the receiver and turned to Nat. “Jenny’s gone missing. Her mother’s in one hell of a state.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  As Nat and Maggie drew up outside Saint Thomas’s, Judith rushed to meet them. She was followed by a very young, dog-collared, sandy-haired cleric and an elderly, mustached, grey-haired man, both wearing black cassocks that were flying in the wind.

  “Any news?” Maggie asked.

  The look on Judith’s face answered her question. “This is David Henderson—he’s the rector and . . .” Judith turned to the other man.

  “Norman Lambert,” he supplied. “Choir master.”

  “Let’s go inside,” Nat said, pointing to the church entrance.

  “I drove her here at ten o’clock this morning—she’s in the junior choir—but I couldn’t stay as I had an emergency.” Holding on to the back of a chair, she took a shuddering breath. “Jenny said she would get a lift back with Lillian.”

  “Have you spoken to Lillian?” Maggie asked

  “Right away, when Jenny didn’t turn up for lunch. She said Jenny had told her that I would be picking her up, after all. Oh, my God! Who’s taken her? What am I going to do?”

  Nat turned to the two men. “Did either of you see her get into a car or walk away with anyone?”

  Both men shook their heads. “The young people are always in a hurry to leave, and there’s the coffee hour for the adults after the service. Everyone had gone by the time I locked up.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “They said she’s most likely with some friend and I should call around.”

  “First thing is to question Jenny’s friend again.” Maggie moved toward the outer door. “We’ll follow behind you,” she added to Judith.

  “Please call me when you find her,” David Henderson pleaded. “I feel so . . . so responsible.”

  • • •

  “THIS IS SO terrible.” Morag and Bill McPherson stood at the entrance to their large two-storey house on Oak Street. The smell of the Sunday roast permeated through to Nat, Maggie, and Judith as they stood in the porch, reminding Nat that he hadn’t had lunch. “You’d better come in,” Morag said. “We always have our main meal at midday on Sundays,” she explained, leading the way into the dining room. “I’m sure she’ll turn up at any minute.”