Art and Arsenic (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 2)

by Valerie Murmel

  “Nice! So you essentially compared my wine-tasting ability to yours, and yours to this British Master of Wine's?”

  “Yes. So that way I could have an estimate of your palate as compared to hers.”

  “OK, that makes sense. What's your conclusion?”

  “Well, the wine you described seems to taste differently from what it 'should' taste like, even accounting for the differences in your palates. The wine could have been 'corked'.” The bleaching of the cork could have produced certain chemicals in the wine that affected the smell, adding smells like wet newspapers or musty cork to its 'bouquet'.

  “Oh. It smelled OK to me. I guess I could have missed that.”

  “Yes, it is possible. Or maybe the wine you drank before that one affected your sense of smell and taste buds. Now, as for arsenic – it is extremely unlikely that it was present in that wine, in high enough quantities to kill someone. Besides, wouldn't it make sick at least some other people? Someone small?”

  “Yeah, it occurred to me that at least someone else would get sick if the wine were poisoned. OK, thank you!”

  “I'll write this up in an e-mail with a link to the sommelier's tasting notes, so that you can compare the details yourself. And stay safe there!”

  I thanked Krista for her help, promised to be careful and keep her appraised of the investigation results, and we hung up after discussing possible plans for meeting in the summer.

  14

  The next morning I drove to the gallery. It was Tuesday, so the premises were going to be open again, and there were things I wanted to find out. That I was technically still on assignment with them gave me a pretext to visit.

  I parked on the hill and walked through a grassy lawn and a still-dormant garden towards the gallery. Small drops of cold rain were falling on my face, and I hurried down. The Kirkland waterfront looked covered in fragile gray mist, and the Seattle skyline across the lake wasn’t visible.

  The gallery door was wide open. I walked into the white space. Pauline was there, dressed all in black, looking paler and thinner than ever. She looked up from behind her desk. Her eyes were puffy behind the make-up, and I thought she looked a little out of place here, as if she sleepwalked in from the street, in spite of trying to appear as if everything was “business as usual”.

  “Hello, how are you holding up?”

  “Hi Veronica.” She shrugged. “I’m OK I guess. Anything new that you found out?”

  “I talked to Monica Bencham.”

  “How did it go?”

  I gestured for Pauline to come out from behind her desk and join me in the corner of the gallery.

  “Well, she said she heard you and Fred arguing on Friday. Not very loudly, but intensely.” I looked at her.

  “Umm…” She bit her lip, peering down on her hands that were fidgeting with the hem of her black shirt. “Yeah, we did argue.” I looked at her encouragingly, and she continued: “The thing is, I invited my roommate, Grace to the opening.” One of the group of young giggling women I remembered from Friday must have been Grace. “And… and he kept hitting on her the entire time. It was embarrassing, and at first it seemed funny to her, but finally got really annoying and awkward, you know?” She lifted her eyes at me; they had pain and embarrassment in them.

  I nodded in understanding.

  “So she tried to tell him to stop, jokingly, so as not to make a scene, but he continued. She said she had enough, and left almost in tears. That was after you left”, she added, noticing my inquiring look. “I went to talk to him about it.”

  “That must not have been pleasant. What did you say?”

  “Oh, I don’t remember. Something about his behavior, and that it was insufferable and that I couldn’t stand it anymore.” There was agitation in her voice remembering the situation.

  This summary was close enough, I thought, to what Monica had told me.

  “What happened next?” I asked as gently as I could.

  “I put away the dishes and left. Went home. I was just exhausted from everything.”

  “That must have been a rough night for you.” I sympathized. Then tested the waters a little bit: “Is that sort of behavior the reason why Fred and Connie were divorcing?”

  She nodded sadly, and added: “That’s why my parents divorced as well.”

  Obviously, this was a touchy topic for her, and I decided not to dwell on it.

  And this all seemed plausible enough. I could see it happening – Fred had tried to hit on me as well on Thursday.

  “Did you go into the rooms in the back before you left?”

  “Yes, my bag and coat were there.” I thought back and remembered a black bag in the corner and a coat on a coat-rack in the office.

  “Did you run the dishwasher?”

  “Yes, I did.” Pauline looked at me with a challenge in her eyes, a challenge that was barely hiding turmoil. “I didn’t poison him! I had nothing to do with his death!”

  I nodded again.

  “What about Monica Bencham? She told me her husband came by to pick her up.”

  “Oh, right, Dr. Bencham.” Somehow, that memory seemed to bring her out of her emotions, and she practically rolled her eyes at saying his name.

  “What about him?”

  “He's very full of himself. He came in and started asking dad immediately. Now that I think of it, it sounded a bit weird. Something about franks and being kosher. He was sort of pushy.”

  “Was he loud?”

  “No. Didn’t raise his voice. Just kind of aggressive, stood close to him, you know?”

  “Franks? You weren’t serving hot dogs, were you?” I didn’t remember seeing any at the party.

  “No, nothing like that. Maybe franks isn’t right? I don’t really remember. I didn’t really pay attention, I was mad, and gathering up my stuff to go. I forgot all about him until you mentioned him.”

  “Did Fred have any dietary restrictions, do you know? Kosher, gluten-free, or anything like that?”

  She shook her head.

  “No, nothing. Or at least nothing that came up any time we had lunch or dinner together.”

  “Do you happen to know if the Benchams have any dietary restrictions?”

  “I never noticed anything specific before. I don’t think they ever made a big deal about anything food-related.”

  I thought of Monica mentioning that she enjoyed her drink.

  “What about wine – did they have any special preferences in wine?”

  “Umm… I don’t know.”

  “Who would remember more of the conversation on Friday, do you know?”

  She thought for a moment. “Andrew was nearby, he might have heard something.”

  “OK, I’ll ask him. I am curious about Dr. Bencham. What do you know about him in general?”

  Pauline shrugged.

  “He’s a short man, very self-important. Thinks he knows everything best. I think my dad used to give him some investment advice before.”

  “Is he rich?” I asked. The mention of investment advice made the topic of money an obvious one.

  “Yeah, I guess so. He has a private practice, and lifestyle-wellness offices somewhere on the Eastside and in Seattle.”

  “OK, thanks. By the way, on Thursday, when you got to the gallery, did you notice anyone going to the back with Fred?”

  She thought for a moment.

  “On Thursday, while we were hanging stuff up? Alex was there. In the back. When he came out, we got busy with the prep for the show.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Pauline shrugged. “I don’t remember. Andrew was here, and Connie. We were setting up the space for the show and for the party, people were coming in and out.”

  “Did you go back there?”

  “At some point yes, probably. I don't remember.”

  “Speaking of wine and party prep – what did the gallery normally serve at the opening parties, drinks-wise, do you know?”

  “From the time I’ve been here, I
only saw some champagne, and then a red and a white wine.”

  That confirmed what Alex had said.

  “But this wine – I heard dad ask Christopher on the phone to bring him some.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last week I think, when they were hashing out the details for the opening. Dad was saying: ‘You won’t forget the Leflaive for me, will you?’”

  Interesting. If Fred specifically requested the wine, then Christopher might have thought that he intended to drink most of it himself.

  But that didn’t really matter, did it? The amount of wine that Fred drank of the Domaine Leflaive Chevalier-Montrachet was about the same that I drank – and I didn’t have any ill effects after Friday’s party (if you don’t count trouble sleeping in recent nights, more related to Fred’s murder than to anything I consumed). I was certainly still up and about.

  “So Fred had some specific interest in this wine? Was that common for him?”

  She shrugged.

  “I don’t think I’ve heard him mention Domaine Leflaive specifically before. Dad knew a lot about wines and investing in them, he even followed some wine auctions.”

  “Wine auctions? For bottles or futures?” A trade on wine futures was when you bought a case or more of a future vintage of wine at a predetermined price, that was likely lower than what you’d pay when that wine was finally released for sale. This method was especially popular for French wines, like the “Grand Cru” Bordeaux, the most famous and prestigious of the Bordeaux vintages.

  “Umm… both, I think. I remember hearing him mention some.”

  It seemed Fred was confident in his wine knowledge and willing to wait a while to realize a profit.

  “How many bottles did Christopher bring, do you know?”

  “He brought just those two into the gallery.” She creased her brow. “You know, here’s a funny thing. Someone from Vegas called for Fred this morning, said he was returning his call, and that Fred was asking about a box of wine he bought at the auction. Said Fred was right about it, and hung up. I didn’t even get a chance to tell him… about dad.” A tear appeared in the outer corner of her left eye.

  I felt awkward and out of place again, so I decide to turn the conversation to practical matters.

  “I actually stopped by to see whether I could help with something else. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”

  “OK, thanks. I don’t think there is anything right now.” She wiped the tear with the back of her hand.

  “If anything computer-related comes up, please let me know.” I paused, and then asked about one of the topics I was curious about. “By the way, is that true that Fred was not very tech-savvy?”

  Pauline nodded.

  “He could enter stuff into our inventory tracking and accounting software, but that’s about it. Couldn’t even install a printer,” – she moved her chin towards a printer in the corner of the office – “had to ask Connie for help.”

  OK, that confirmed what Linda was saying.

  “I see. So Connie set up all the tech stuff around here, then?”

  “Yup”.

  “Was she very involved with the gallery?”

  “Yes. She did the advertising, promotions and the accounting. No art-related stuff, she’s not into art – that was all dad.”

  I thought of the opening Friday night and how Connie was standing to the side with her drink, as if she wasn’t related to hosting the evening in any way. The personal relations between the Nordqvist spouses must have been very chilly by then.

  Chilly enough to kill, I wondered?

  As if in answer to my thoughts, came a sharp voice from the back offices of the gallery:

  “Who is there?”

  I walked towards it, until I could see through the open door to Fred’s former office, Connie sitting there, surrounded by the big furniture.

  “Hello. I came up to see whether I could help with your website in any way.”

  “Oh, it’s you… No need to. We are fine.” She went back to looking to her screen. Connie seemed to be as charming as ever. I backed out of the office and turned to Pauline.

  “What did Fred do before he opened the gallery?” I remembered that Nordqvist Fine Art was a recent arrival, and that it was the first David Cox show two and a half years ago that apparently established its presence on the local art scene, and that Alex mentioned Fred's previous career in the financial industry.

  “Dad was an investment advisor, focusing on alternative investments – precious metals, foreign currencies and such.” Seeing the expression on my face, she hurried to add: “No, he didn’t advise any super-rich people or anything like that. He worked in one of these storefronts you see in some malls. But he did pretty well. I think he gave people decent advice.”

  There was something in her eyes, something wistful. I thought that the time period she was talking about was when her parents were still together.

  “In 2007 and 2008, he saw stocks tank – but some of the art investments that he had researched for a client still held their value pretty well. And then in 2009 other investments that he specialized in, including oil, went much lower. That was a blow to his reputation. But the art market mostly held. He closed his investment advising business, researched more art and then started this gallery.”

  So Fred Nordqvist was a guy who was used to investing in unpopular things, did his homework – or at least could read a bunch of dry background materials, – could play a hunch, and could sell people things. It sounded like, by definition, his opinion on investments had been contrarian, – and there was money to be made on that if one was in at the right time, and lucky.

  “Is that where your own interest in art comes from?”

  She shrugged.

  “I loved to draw as a child. And I liked looking through art books that we had at home. Here’s the thing – my dad was also interested in art from way back. For him, this gallery was not just a way to make money. It was his passion, too. He thought that people could invest in something that they could derive enjoyment from, and get a good return when they finally sold it, and that he could help them do that.”

  A hint of a tear showed on her left cheek, and she turned her head away. I looked down, giving her a chance to wipe it.

  “What are you planning to do now?” I asked as gently as I could.

  “Keep going, I guess.” She shrugged and looked around. “I don't know what else to do.”

  I thanked her and repeated that I’d be willing to help in any way I could, and then went to look at the paintings once again. I started in the far corner and went clockwise, looking very closely at each of the seven. There were three marine scenes, two sunsets and two landscapes showing wide-open fields. No, I couldn’t see anything “off” with any of them. I went to center of the room and looked at them from a distance. I wasn’t sure what I expected – a red pulsating arrow pointing to what exactly was “wrong” with these works? But nothing like that appeared, and I could detect nothing suspicious.

  I did notice a colored sticker, indicating that the work had a buyer, underneath two of the paintings. Interesting. I was assuming that a death at the exhibit opening would be bad news for the gallery business. But it seemed, based on the purchases, like business was doing well.

  I walked over to Pauline once again. By then she was on the phone:

  “Yes, we’ll be open till 6 today. We’ll see you here.”

  When she hung up, I motioned towards the phone.

  “Clients?”

  She nodded.

  “Business has actually been brisk this morning. And more people are saying that they want to stop by and see the art. This show is extremely popular so far.”

  “I noticed that a couple of the works had interested buyers.”

  “Yes. One of them committed during the reception. The second was interested but on the fence, then called this morning saying that he’d buy it.”

  “Ah, that’s good, at least.”


  I turned back to study one of the paintings closely, a large marine landscape with sun-drenched sea cliffs. I was looking at the mass of clouds in the top left corner, and trying to figure out how the author managed to capture a feeling of uncertainty and doom in a seemingly sunny painting – or was it just me? And who would have thought that a murder and a scandal would serve to drive up the interest, and maybe the prices of the works? That was what appeared to be happening. It is a strange world that we live in.

  “Beautiful lines”, a male voice said nearby.

  “Oh yes, exquisite”, I answered and turned.

  Christopher bowed next to me. He was wearing a brown sports jacket, mustard-yellow shirt and jeans. His thinning blond hair was brushed back. He had a brown leather bag in his hand. Apparently, I was so absorbed in my thoughts on the commerce and ethics of the art market that I didn’t hear him come in.

  “Notice the little sailboat in the corner,” he pointed at the lower edge of the painting. “I am personally quite fond of color of the sea near the horizon.”

  “Yes, yes, it is remarkable. Is that your favorite work from your uncle’s collection?” I asked.

  “Oh yes.”

  “I heard that you, or rather he, had an exhibit here previously, a couple of years ago.”

  “Yes, it was fifteen works. It did quite well.” Pride shone in his eyes as he looked around the walls of the gallery.

  “And I read that it raised the profile of David Cox in the Northwest.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Are there more works remaining?”

  “Yes, there are some. I haven’t decided yet whether to sell them.”

  “They must remind you of your uncle?”

  “No, actually, that’s a funny thing. I really didn’t know of his collection before his death. I knew he was traveling to Europe regularly, of course, and bringing stuff back, but I thought it was mostly wine.” He scratched his head, as if puzzled. “But the paintings came to light only after the will was read. So to me, these works are not connected to him. I have some other things that I am keeping in his memory.”