Art and Arsenic (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 2)

by Valerie Murmel

  “What do you mean the art looked suspicious?”

  “Some paintings seemed a little… off. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it back then.”

  Hmmm. Not much to go on so far. And all phrased vaguely enough that I couldn’t prove or disprove it – just some nebulous insinuations about Fred Nordqvist's shady business practices.

  “Of course, I couldn’t really say anything too widely about it, as people would think it was just sour grapes! Especially since I couldn’t really pin-point what it was that seemed off to me. Gossip in this business can be so brutal! People would start saying that I was jealous, that I didn’t know what I was talking about!” She half-sobbed into the phone.

  I looked out the window towards my back yard, where three big dusty-pink tulips were blooming despite the rain and the cold, listened to her breathe in and out to compose herself, then asked:

  “Why do you think I can help you in this situation?”

  “That report you wrote, that’s the key evidence against me. It’s the reason I was there in the first place! I thought… I thought that you looked like a… nice person, and logical too. And if I could explain this to you, you could tell the police I didn’t have anything to do with his death! Please!” Her voice was rising again in desperation.

  I had been told previously that I looked ‘nice’ and ‘harmless’, and it had come in handy when I had to interview employees in cases of security breaches or data thefts that we suspected were internal – people were not as on their guard when talking to me, and I could get more evidence.

  “Please! I’m begging you!” Linda was obviously upset, and, I thought, quite sincere in her desire for my help. But that didn’t mean that she was innocent in Fred’s death.

  “Why did you use DoS as a tactic in the first place? I didn’t think it was a common competitive maneuver in the art sales world.”

  “Oh, that’s simple. Fred wasn’t tech-savvy at all. He wouldn’t have expected it and wouldn’t have known how to fix it. I thought I could get him to panic, to screw up plans for this opening, throw things off-balance. Mess with his head a bit.” I heard her blow her nose.

  “How did you know what to do, where to even go looking for the tools?”

  “I have a lot of clients in the tech industry. I’ve picked up some general info on cyber-attacks in conversation with a VP at Microsoft when I sold him several pieces to decorate his new house. And then there was that big attack from North Korea in the news recently – I read up on the details on the internet.”

  Well, Linda was certainly resourceful!

  “I see. I suggest you get a good attorney, just in case.”

  She gulped. “So you don’t believe me?”

  “I think it would be better, for your own peace of mind, if you have legal advice, and from someone who is qualified to give it – which I’m not.”

  “But will you help me? I’ll pay you if you prove I didn’t do it!” Her voice was shrill and trembling now.

  “I will do what I can to find out what really happened.” That was the truth, and I could promise her that. I chose to ignore her offer of payment, for a whole bunch of reasons.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you! I had nothing to do with the death!” Another gulp and possibly a sob on the line.

  “Well, I have to go now.” I wanted to hang up, research some things, and think.

  I did a web search for the previous exhibit of David Cox landscapes, that Linda mentioned, found a couple of articles in the local papers that talked about “this successful sale establishing Nordqvist Fine Art as a major light on the Kirkland art scene”. Seemed like that previous event really raised the gallery’s visibility, as Fred bragged and Linda complained to me.

  Linda said that the art looked “off” to her at that time. I zoomed in on a couple of photos that accompanied the newspaper articles, and then also did an image search for similar subject matter by the painter. From comparing 10 photos – three from the sale and seven from other galleries’ and museums’ websites, I couldn’t really see anything “off”. But I wasn’t an expert. I did another web search, also looking on Amazon and in my library’s catalog, and put a hold on several books. I would pick them up tomorrow.

  In its own way, what Linda told me made sense. Linda aimed to exploit what she saw as Fred’s weakness, to sow confusion. She definitely intended to harm his business. But did she also aim to harm him personally, hurt him, eliminate the competitor? And when he found a way to deal with the cyber-attack, by hiring my firm to fix things, did she do something to get rid of him, literally? I shivered at the thought that perhaps my work on defending Nordqvist Fine Art website somehow hastened Fred’s death.

  Or maybe she didn’t have any premeditated plans, but their argument Friday night got quite heated?

  Linda also said that she wanted to mess up the plans for the opening of the show. If she were innocent of the murder, did whoever killed Fred have a particular date or timeline in mind?

  That got me thinking about Connie, the almost-ex-wife and now widow. She likely had a good motive to make sure that Fred didn’t proceed with the divorce. She might have been in such a hurry as not to care about ruining this particular exhibit, if she could get a share of the business outright. She might also be a beneficiary of some insurance that might pay out on Fred's death. And I did see her talking to Fred at the opening party for a little bit – it was possible she could have slipped something into his drink. Their interaction looked frosty, and she didn’t look at all thrilled to be at the party. Why was she there at all? To slip some poison to Fred, with a cold cutting remark and an appraising look of the shark eyes?

  And I should have a word with Monica, I thought as I drank my now-cold tea. I didn’t have any reason to suspect her specifically, only that she spent much of the opening party by Fred’s side and could have ample opportunity to slip something into his drink, if she were so inclined. And it seemed that she knew him well enough, and could provide some answers, at least from the client’s perspective, about Nordqvist Fine Art. I should ask Pauline for her last name and contact info. I brewed some more tea and fired off a quick e-mail with questions to Pauline.

  11

  I dialed Detective Johnson. Since I had promised Linda only that I would do what I could to find who killed Fred Nordqvist, I didn’t feel like I was betraying her confidence in any way by talking to the detective.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Detective. This is Veronica Margreve. Do you have a minute?”

  “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “Linda Raven called me, said that you suspected her of murdering Fred because she was at the gallery that night, and begged me to convince you that she didn’t do it.”

  “I see. What did you tell her?”

  “I suggested she get a good lawyer. If I may ask – do you really suspect her?”

  At the other end of the phone, he sighed.

  “She was the last person to see him alive. The security camera recorded her at the gallery, and her fingerprints were in the office. We know from his phone logs that he called her. “

  “How long was she at the office?”

  “About 15 minutes. On the other hand, this is a poisoning, and the murderer didn’t have to be present when the victim died. So the fact that Linda was the last person to talk to him doesn’t mean anything. He was alive for another 30 minutes, according to the security footage.”

  “What poison was it that caused Fred’s death, by the way?” I knew from the news on celebrity deaths that full toxicology screens could take up to a couple of weeks, but from my internet research on fatal poisons I found out that there were tests that gave you results for some poisons in hours, not days.

  “Arsenic.”

  Arsenic. The stuff of detective novels, poisonings in rambling English county houses full of guests for a weekend, with priceless collections of art and rich inheritances… I wondered whether the murderer thought that fitting, in a way – or whether he or she chose that me
thod because it happened to be convenient, comparatively non-violent, and allowed the guilty party to be removed from the premises at the time of death.

  I mulled that over, then said:

  “She told me that Fred’s gallery held another sale of David Cox landscapes from the Willembauer collection previously, and that some paintings looked a little ‘off’ to her. I looked it up – it was two and a half years ago. From what I could make out of the newspaper photos, there is nothing obviously wrong in the paintings compared to other images I got online. I’m not an expert in this though.”

  Detective Johnson made a sound that might have been disapproval.

  “In art, it’s all one expert’s opinion against another, isn’t it? Us regular people just looking at the picture can’t tell what’s what.”

  “Yes, I suppose… Anyway, that’s what Linda called me about.” I said in what I hoped was a professional tone of voice. I was about to ask about things that were none of my business, and I thought that if our conversation was businesslike in its tone, I might actually get answers. “And what about the special wine from Christopher’s uncle’s collection?”

  “There was very little left in the bottles to check, but what we did get to analyze, we didn’t find much arsenic. And the wine was divided among many people, everyone drank a toast – for that little liquid to cause Fred’s death, the concentration of poison in the bottle must have been at least 10 times the lethal dose, maybe 20. We didn’t find that much in the sediment in the bottles.”

  “But you did find some?” That was promising. I took a sip of my tea and felt the hot caffeinated liquid revive me a bit.

  “Yes. You know, arsenic can naturally occur in soil, and water, and then from those two in wine, and other stuff, like rice. So the fact that we found some in the bottle sediment doesn’t mean the bottles were poisoned.”

  “But you can’t really say that they weren’t?”

  “Most likely they weren’t, but no, we are not absolutely sure yet. And remember, Fred was a big guy – if that small pour killed him, it should have killed or made sick about twenty other people who were there.”

  “Are there any other bottles of this wine remaining that you can test? Or any other bottles that Fred could have drunk?”

  “Christopher says none here. There are still a couple of cases at his home in Walla Walla.”

  “Did Christopher himself drink much of the wine? Before, I mean? I saw him drink a bit of it at the reception. Like, did the wine at the party taste OK to him?”

  “He said it tasted fine.”

  Something was nagging me about the wine situation, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I decided to switch topics.

  “Did you talk to Alex? Did he explain what I overheard on Thursday?”

  “We tried to. He insisted that it had nothing to do with Fred Nordqvist's death, that all he was doing was looking for another job. Wouldn’t give us more details. “

  OK, Alex may have been mixed up in something unsavory – or just knew that the particulars of the conversation wouldn’t look good for him. But would they look worse than not answering, and making people suspect him of anything up to and including murder? And Alex worked as the “office manager” of the gallery – but from what I saw on Thursday and Friday, hanging up paintings, serving refreshments and cleaning up were among his duties. Maybe among the various chemicals and detergents and industrial pest control agents, there was arsenic? I thought I read somewhere that old rat poison and some pesticides used to contain it.

  “Did he take out the garbage from the gallery after the party?”

  “Yes. He told us which Dumpster he took it to. We found it, went through everything. Not pleasant, let me tell you.” (“Yeah, I can imagine”, I agreed.) “No arsenic in any of that stuff.”

  Something else occurred to me.

  “How come no-one at Fred’s house noticed he was missing, that he didn’t come home Friday night?” I thought I knew the answer, but was wondering whether the detective paid attention to this circumstance.

  He sighed again.

  “Pauline is living separately, in Capital Hill. And Fred and Connie were apparently having some difficulties. He moved out a couple of months ago.”

  “Right. He told me they were getting a divorce.” It seemed my guess was right.

  “Yeah, we’ll be talking to the Nordqvists’ divorce lawyers, too.”

  12

  After hanging up, I ruminated on seeing Alex and Connie together two days ago. It occurred to me that one of them might have season tickets to the Sounders. If I wanted to talk to them, going to the next home game might be a good way to do it. I looked up the schedule of games on the club’s website – there happened to be a home game that afternoon. That was my chance! I pulled up the seating chart of the stadium and tried to remember where Alex and Connie were sitting Thursday night, when I saw them together. I looked for available tickets in close proximity, or at least in the same section, and didn’t find anything. I placed a quick call to Vinay, asking whether he was planning to attend the game, and if I could make use of a ticket of his. His response was that of course I was welcome to use his tickets, and that he would be delighted to offer them to me.

  As I drove to the stadium, I thought that Fred’s business must have been doing well enough to be able to pay my firm’s consulting rates – or this exhibit was important enough to him to pull in all the available resources and do what’s necessary to make it go off without a hitch. And this show was also special to Alex – at least because he said it would be his last. Maybe he decided to ensure it really was that way? And – if Alex and Fred were mixed up in something shady together, as seemed possible, given Fred’s threats and allusions to what he controlled – then perhaps Fred’s death not only freed Alex from it, but also allowed whatever it was to remain a secret? Fred had talked about making things worse for Alex, and even “ruining his life” – perhaps Alex took matters into his own hands to prevent that form happening?

  Connie apparently didn't try to cover up the fact that Fred was living separately – perhaps because she didn't see any value in doing that, as the police would easily check? Or perhaps because she didn't have anything to do with her husband's death – even if the timing of it was so “convenient” for her?

  The day had become a bit warmer, and the rain had stopped. After making my way through a long line at game security, I got to my seat and was squirming, twisting and turning to look for Alex or Connie. In my glancing around, I noticed a guy couple of seats over. Athletic, tall, attractive, looked to be in his thirties, wearing a Sounders hat, so that I couldn’t really see his eyes. He was sitting in what I assumed was one of Vinay’s company’s seats and probably worked for Vinay’s start-up. He seemed to smile at me, and I thought of going over and saying hi, but then I spotted Alex a couple of rows away, just getting to his seat.

  The police had talked to Alex already, I knew. But there were a few details I wanted to clear up for myself – and I wanted to see his reactions to the questions in person. I sprinted up the stairs towards where he was sitting, wanting to catch him before his companions, if he had any, showed up.

  He raised his head in surprise at seeing someone approaching him, without giving any sign that he recognized me.

  “Hello”, I said, trying to at least seem friendly for the time being.

  At realizing that I was speaking to him, he took white ear buds out of his ears; the white wire snaked into his jacket. He had been listening to music, so probably not expecting someone to join him any second now. Good, that would give us some time to talk in peace.

  “I am Veronica Margreve, I was doing some website work at Nordqvist Fine Art gallery last week.”

  “Hello.” Still no recognition, just confusion on his face.

  I decided that surprise was on my side in this case. The seat next to him was still empty, and I sat down and asked him directly:

  “What were you arguing about with Fred Nordqvist on Thu
rsday?”

  “What? What are you talking about?” He furrowed his brows.

  “I heard you. You came into the inventory room and argued.”

  “What the hell? No, I wasn’t...” He was starting at me.

  “I heard you, on Thursday around 3pm. That was right before someone came into the gallery. You and Fred argued, went out into the main space, and then came back. You said that you weren’t going to work for him any longer. What was that about?”

  “I don’t know what you’re going on about. Leave me alone!” He sat up, looking about ready to bolt. There were people sitting in the rows above and below us, and a couple of seats down, so I thought it would be unlikely that he could get away, unless he was prepared to pole-vault over the crowd.

  I leaned in:

  “I heard you. You also said the money wasn't fair, under the circumstances. He asked whether the show set-up was done, and you said almost, that it was going to be the last one. And he objected, said that he could influence some things. Then you said: ‘Looks like I can’t get out of this as long as you’re around. Damn you.’ That could be interpreted as a threat, given that he died shortly after.”

  He sighed, then slumped down, looking at his hands on his lap, a beer in one.

  I waited for what seemed like five minutes, looking at him. I even started to think that he wouldn’t tell me anything except to go to hell. Then he finally said:

  “First the police, now you. OK, I admit I was there in the inventory room with Fred. I was getting some leads on some jobs, and he refused to give me a reference.” He raised his black eyes to me and spoke urgently. “When Pauline came in, he went out to the main area, and I went out after him. I never went back, and I never threatened him, I swear!”