The Price of Inheritance

by Karin Tanabe

  Line by line, I went through the nearly fifty-page document that Nicole had faxed over. It was full of Adam’s buying and selling records for decades. He had died last year but he’d been buying from Christie’s since the fifties. American furniture, American painting, American photography. The man was more patriotic than Nathan Hale. It wasn’t until 1988 that I saw something that wasn’t American. That year, he not only bought Sargent’s portrait of Mademoiselle Suzanne Poirson but three pieces from a Middle East auction, including a jar from the late twelfth century. I looked carefully at the entry, “Stone-paste painted in black under turquoise glaze H: 31.1 W: 21.6 cm Raqqa, Syria.” Holding my breath, I put the papers back into the manila folder, shoved the folder into my bag without sealing the top, and called Captain Jeff Ambrose back at the Newport police station.

  “It’s Carolyn Everett. I know why he’s going to Houston.”

  “Can we meet? I can come to William Miller’s.”

  “I’m not that close right now. I’m at the Castle Hill Inn. Can you come here?”

  “You do your prying at very tony establishments.”

  “Well, this is Newport. It’s hard not to. I’m on the main lawn; you can’t miss me.”

  I couldn’t sit still as I waited for Captain Ambrose to appear. I walked down to the water. I walked toward the private cottages and when I couldn’t walk anymore, I went to the bar, lapped up a Maker’s Mark on the rocks, and headed back outside. Five minutes later, I saw him walking down the hill, looking for me. He turned my way after a few seconds and waited for me to reach him.

  “How about here,” he said, pointing to two Adirondack chairs together. “This is a very nice place, isn’t it,” he added, taking in the view.

  “It is.” I opened the folder. I knew already what he was going to say after I explained about Elizabeth. He’d say I had a hunch and a hunch wasn’t enough to do anything. But I would try.

  “What is all that?” he asked, looking at the thick stack of paper in my lap.

  “These are buying records from Christie’s, fifty years of buying records, sales all to the same person, Mr. Adam R. Tumlinson. Have you ever heard that name?”

  “I haven’t. Who is he?” He was peering at the sales figures.

  “Was he. He died last year. Before that, he was an important art collector, mostly American art, furniture, portraiture, militaria, but he had a few other interests, too. I asked Christie’s to send me his buying record because I wanted to see if he had ever bought Islamic art, especially pottery.”

  “And has he?”

  “He did in 1988. He bought a significant piece from Syria.” I flipped to the page where I had underlined the entry and showed him.

  “Three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars,” Jeff read out loud. “That’s not chump change.”

  “Well, for Adam Tumlinson that was chump change. I haven’t finished going through this record, but I will and I was hoping you might be able to get his records from Sotheby’s, too. I don’t have anyone who—”

  “You don’t have a mole in there who can send them to you.”

  “This is art. Not Stalingrad. But yes, I don’t know anyone who would send them to me.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. We don’t have anything on Max Sebastian right now except your story, so—”

  “And you think my story is false?” I protested. “Tyler Ford flew to Turkey! He disappeared. You think that’s because we had a bad breakup and he needed a hamam? I’m right about this, I know it.”

  I shifted in my wooden chair and looked back toward the hotel. It had a large turret covered in gray shake shingles that made the property look a little more whimsical than most in the area.

  “I worked with Adam Tumlinson’s wife, Elizabeth, on my last sale at Christie’s,” I explained. “We sold the couple’s storied American furniture collection. One of the pieces in it, a table, was contested after it was sold and returned to a family in Baltimore. Several people said it was stolen and that’s why it was given back so quickly without legal involvement or an attempt on Elizabeth’s part to save face. You don’t just return a table that sold for two hundred and sixty thousand dollars because of one thin accusation. I am sure she knew she owned stolen goods and I’m sure she didn’t care.”

  “Fine,” said Jeff, making a note. “Anything else?”

  “In the papers, there was talk about certain people Adam worked with. Corrupt dealers. It’s hard to find them now that he’s dead, but there’s been a hum about it since January. A source told the Baltimore Sun that since Adam started collecting in the fifties, he’d been paying people off to acquire items that weren’t exactly for sale.”

  “So they’d steal them.”

  “That’s what I gathered.”

  “You left Christie’s after you worked with Elizabeth? Isn’t that what you said?” asked Jeff, making more notes.

  “Yes. I was fired because of her sale. I didn’t notice what I should have about the table.”

  “And this wouldn’t be some vendetta you’re carrying for the outcome of that sale.”

  “Vendetta? Certainly not. This is me trying not to make the same mistake twice.”

  “But you said Adam is dead. If Max is going to Texas, then who is he going to see? Elizabeth?”

  “Exactly. Max is going to see Elizabeth Tumlinson.”

  Jeff kicked his legs out straight in front of him and leaned back in the chair. “I would like to believe you.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “I mostly don’t. A little part of me thinks it could be something.”

  “You also have to consider the actual sale of her collection in the first place,” I pointed out. “We’re not talking a trestle table and a few Queen Anne chairs. She had the best collection of American furniture in the world and all of a sudden she wanted to sell it, all of it, and fast. Why? She’s not dying, her kids aren’t trying to steal from her, her interests haven’t changed. Why did she need that money, eight figures, all of a sudden? Maybe it was to create a diversion.”

  “Who else are the big collectors of Middle Eastern pottery in Texas?” asked Jeff, writing down my theory.

  “I’m not sure.” I tried to think back to my early days at Christie’s when I was in sales and appraisals. Who was there in Texas? “I can only think of two right now. Afif Adil, he’s Saudi Arabian and works in oil down there, and Jill and Hadi Basir. She’s Texan, he’s from the UAE. He works in oil, too. I remember them in the New York office. I’ve met all three before, but I can’t think of anyone else.”

  “You haven’t gone through all the records and we don’t know what the Tumlinsons’ buying habits were at Sotheby’s, but it doesn’t look like they bought much from the Middle East, right?”

  “No, I don’t think much.”

  “And there are probably many other art collectors in the state of Texas who have bought something, just one or a few pieces, from the Middle East from Christie’s or Sotheby’s.”

  “Sure. It’s a big state. But we’re not talking photography or modern art here. This is Middle Eastern pottery. There are fewer buyers. Plus, those sales are always in London, not New York.”

  “How is Elizabeth Tumlinson any more of a suspect than anyone else who collects that kind of art in Texas?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, crossing my ankle over my knee. “Because none of those other collectors have lied to me.”

  “Can I take this?” said Captain Ambrose, looking down at the folder in my hand.

  I handed it to him and we both stood up.

  “I’ll look into it,” he said, holding the envelope out slightly at me.

  “But you think nothing will come of it.”

  “Probably not. But I’ll still look into it.”

  I didn’t tell him that even I thought I was putting pieces in a row that fit together too
easily. Still, it was possible.

  I watched hours of bad TV that night. Reality TV, old TV, even an infomercial for scrambled egg molds. When my phone rang at 8 P.M., I jumped. It was the detective from the Newport police.

  “Carolyn, nothing at Sotheby’s. Adam Tumlinson never bought one piece or painting or anything from the Middle East department. Never even attended one of their auctions in London,” said Jeff.

  “Really, that’s too bad. Maybe I’m wrong. You can’t do anything about Texas anyway, can you?”

  “How strong is your hunch?”

  “I recognize that it’s a stretch, but I just think there’s a reason Adam never went to Sotheby’s Middle East auctions and only to Christie’s. If you’re working with someone on shady deals, you don’t ever want to be associated with them, even legitimately. I think they kept a professional distance on purpose.”

  “And you really think Max is flying to Houston to sell this bowl to Elizabeth.”

  “I really do think that, yes. What time does his flight get into Houston?”

  “He leaves London at nine A.M. It’s a ten-hour flight and London is six hours ahead, so if there are no delays, he’ll land in Texas at one P.M. Maybe we should see if London will alert someone at the airport, look for it in his luggage when he goes through security.”

  “Not worth it. Max Sebastian is not that stupid. He clearly had a buyer in the U.S., which is why he had an American marine bring it back here. He got it back in Newport, and he definitely hasn’t taken it out of the country. I bet the bowl is already in Houston or someone will bring it there.”

  “You’re probably right. That is, if he’s planning on selling it in Houston, but we don’t know that.”

  “No, we don’t.” I stopped to think about Elizabeth. It didn’t make perfect sense when I explained it to Jeff, but it did if you knew Elizabeth. She was artful. Her deceit had been executed with precision during the auction, and even in this case, Max was the one who was slipping, not her.

  “What if you just had someone watching her house in the afternoon tomorrow? Just in case Max does go there.”

  “Because you have a hunch.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “I seriously doubt I can make that happen. It’s outside of my jurisdiction and it’s not a lead, it’s a guess.”

  I didn’t reply but I knew he could imagine my pleading face.

  “Fine. Give me her address just in case. I’ve reported it to the FBI’s art crime team, which is how London began to move. They have a keen interest in cases like this. They might follow up, but remember, this isn’t exactly the Gardner heist.”

  I recited Elizabeth’s address and phone number from memory.

  I didn’t sleep that night. I bit my nails until there wasn’t anything to bite. I opened all my windows so I could convince myself that I wasn’t suffocating. I checked prices on plane tickets to Houston and had to remind myself that I couldn’t exactly place Max Sebastian under citizen’s arrest if I was right. When the sun started to rise, I drove to Sachuest Point, to the beach close to where I’d gone to school, and watched the day break. I’d been doing it a lot lately, thinking about Tyler. Greg had tried to contact me once to talk about him, but I hadn’t answered. I’d avoided going anywhere I might see Greg and if I saw a flicker of red in anyone’s hair, I went quickly the other way. I knew what he would say, his boastful face, his dismissal of Tyler. I couldn’t bear to have that conversation. I knew I couldn’t talk to him, didn’t know when I’d see him, but I wished then that I at least knew where Tyler was watching the sun rise.

  I stayed on the beach all day. I looked on as tourists put up big colorful umbrellas and lathered their children in sunscreen. I watched a group of girls point toward the school and I wondered if they were getting ready to go to St. George’s in the fall. I put my feet in the water and let the cold seep into me. After 2 P.M., 1 P.M. Texas time, I kept my phone ringer turned on as high as it could go and checked it every five minutes. At 8 P.M., I watched the sun set. I’d been on and around the beach for fourteen hours. I hadn’t eaten, my face felt burnt, and I hadn’t heard from Jeff. I turned my ringer down, put my phone in my bag, and drove home.

  Four days later, I finally got a phone call. It wasn’t from Captain Ambrose with Newport police or Brian Van Ness with NCIS. It was from a man named Ryan Barton, from the FBI art crime team.

  “Do you want the bottom line or do you want all the details?” he asked immediately. He had one of those hard voices where the intonation almost never changed.

  “I want both. Start with the bottom line and then give me the details if that’s okay.”

  “Bottom line. Adam Tumlinson was a huge crook. Max Sebastian is an even bigger crook.”

  “And Tyler Ford?”

  “Tyler Ford is a small- to medium-size crook. But more than anything, he was a kid being very stupid. Actually, I should tell you all this in person. I’m in Newport. Would you like to meet? There’s a coffee shop next to the police station on Broadway. Do you know it?”

  “Do I know it? This is my town.” I hung up the phone and for the first time since Tyler had left Newport, it did feel like my town again.

  I nearly killed three pedestrians getting to Broadway, and when I parked and ran out, a man in his late forties with a thick build and a bald head was sitting by the window with two coffees. He handed me one when I came in and then introduced himself.

  “I know a lot about you. Probably an unfair amount, so forgive me when I talk to you like we’ve met before.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Let’s walk,” he said, motioning outside with his head. I followed Ryan onto the sidewalk and we headed away from town.

  “Did you arrest Max Sebastian? Was he at Elizabeth’s?” I asked immediately.

  “It’s a complicated story, but one that’s going to be in the news in a couple of days, so I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

  I looked at him like he was about to tell me that the moon landings were staged.

  “I have to ask, how could you have guessed that Max was going to Elizabeth’s? Did you really guess or did you have a tip?”

  “So he did go there?”

  “Yes. He went there. The bowl was taken from him right outside her gate and he was brought in for questioning. So how did you know?”

  “I didn’t know exactly. It was a mix of things. It was a hunch first. When Captain Ambrose from the Newport Police Department said Max was going to Houston, I immediately thought of Elizabeth because she’s very rich, not very ethical, and could be working on a new collection. But right after I met Jeff a few days ago, I thought of something else. I had mentioned Elizabeth’s name to Tyler a few months ago and I still remember the way he shifted his weight, fidgeted, and stood up when I said it. There was almost recognition. I didn’t sense it then, but now that I look back on it, there was.”

  “The name Noah Kulik. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “No. I’ve never heard that name.”

  “He was a marine, too. He served around the same time Tyler did but they don’t seem to know each other. Or if Noah knew Tyler, he’s not talking.”

  “You spoke to him already? Did Max name him?”

  “Of course. Him and everyone else on earth. He’s trying pretty hard to get a deal.”

  “Will he get a deal?”

  “I doubt it.”

  We turned the corner and stood single file as a group of tourists passed us with shopping bags.

  “So when are you going to tell me everything?”

  “Everything, I can’t tell you everything. It’s a surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, complicated story. How is your knowledge of the Crusades?”

  I looked at him with wide eyes and stopped on the sidewalk.

  “The Crusades? You can’t be serious.”

 
He nodded.

  “My knowledge of the Crusades is rusty.”

  “Then this will be even more complicated. Bear with me.”

  He pointed to a side street that gave onto Easton Pond and we walked toward the water. We slowed down and he looked at me, my expectant face, and started to explain the last ninety-six hours.

  “In the mid-nineties, Adam Tumlinson purchased a letter from Max Sebastian—on the black market, not through Sotheby’s. This letter, which Elizabeth is in possession of and which she claims she only recently found, is extremely rare and very old. It’s from the twelfth century and was written by Maimonides. Does that name register with you at all?”

  “Vaguely. Jewish philosopher and scholar of some sort.”

  “Right. He was a little more than that, but that’s fine for now. Anyway, in this letter, which is in Hebrew, Maimonides is telling a story of working as a personal doctor for Salah al-Din Abu ’l-Muzaffer Yusuf ibn Ayyub ibn Shadi, or just Saladin to you and me, the first sultan of Egypt and Syria.”

  “Wait, this was a real letter, penned by Maimonides?”

  “Yes, we actually have it now.”

  “That must have cost millions. I wonder how Max even got that.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, pointing to a bench near the water that was now empty. I nodded and we walked forward.

  “In the letter, Maimonides specifically writes about Saladin ordering him to bring fruit—specifically plums and pears—and snow to his enemy, Richard the Lionheart, also known as Richard the First of England, to give him relief from fever.”

  “Richard the First. You cannot be serious.”

  “It gets better. Listen.”

  I shut my mouth and let him continue. After another sentence I interrupted him again.

  “I’m sorry but are you saying that at the end of the twelfth century a famous Jewish doctor was working for Saladin, a Sunni Muslim, as his personal physician?”

  “Yes. The letter is from 1192. The Jews and the Muslims got along okay back then.”

  “Fine. So Saladin ordered his doctor to bring Richard the Lionheart—King of England and Crusader—fruit and snow. You know, I actually remember that from studying the Crusades in college. That’s a very famous ‘give peace a chance’ moment. And Saladin was following the Quran. Richard was sick, not a fair fight and all that.”