by Ken Brigham
“Oh,” Blythe answered, “I was about to leave a voice mail.”
“Right. Sorry I was slow in answering. My mind was elsewhere, I’m afraid.”
“You can probably guess that I’m calling about the status of the Fitrzwallington paintings.”
“Sure. Offhand, I can’t think of another reason for your call.”
“Yes.” It sounded as though Blythe cleared her throat, maybe steeling herself for engaging in a conversion that she did not anticipate would be very pleasant. “Yes. I understand that there have been some developments in that situation that may influence the fate of the paintings, and I thought that we should discuss some possibilities.”
Athena wondered what Blythe Fortune knew and where her information came from. Athena also wondered if this had anything to do with Parker Palmer’s creative story. She would wait to see where Blythe was going with this before responding.
“Please go on,” Athena said.
“Well, I presume that like everyone else, you have been proceeding on the assumption that the Fitzwallington daughter was his sole heir and so would control what happened to his paintings and collect whatever cash their sale earned.”
There was a long pause. Athena was determined to wait Blythe out, but her resolve failed her after an inordinately long silence and she said, “That’s true.”
That had been true until the call from Parker Palmer. Athena was beginning to wonder whether truth in this situation was proving unreliable. It was starting to seem prone to change without notice.
“I have it from a reliable source that such is not the case,” Blythe said.
“I don’t understand. How can that be?”
“My source says that the woman is not the artist’s daughter after all, and so is not his heir.”
“So, who is?”
“That, I gather, remains to be seen.”
“And your source?”
“Can’t tell you that. But he’s a reliable source.”
Another long silence. This time Athena was determined to leave the next move to Blythe if it took all night. It didn’t.
“Since our two galleries seem to be the leading players in the Fitzwallington game, we ought to be able, between us, to capture the rights to sell his remaining work. I am told that there is quite a cache of paintings to be sold. The commission for selling them could amount to a sizeable sum, I would guess.”
“Yes, go on.”
Athena was running out of patience with the New York woman.
“What I mean is this. If you and I can agree on a fair split of whatever paintings there are to sell between our galleries, we should be able to convince whoever controls their fate to deal with our two galleries as exclusive agents.”
“And what do you consider a fair split?” Athena was starting to smell a rat.
“Since my gallery has been the major agent for the sale of Fitzwallingtons for some years now, we surely should get the majority of the works. I can’t imagine any other arrangement that would seem fair to any objective observer.”
Athena suddenly shuddered with a paroxysm of intense anger. This New York woman with her fancy Upper East Side gallery thought she could just steamroll over the Nashville rube. Well, to hell with that. And, what if Parker Palmer’s story held water? What then? Miss Blythe Fortune and her pretentious Galleria Salinas might turn out to be just shit out of luck!
Athena held the phone for a few moments without speaking. She thought she heard sounds of deep breathing emanating from the big city. She hung up the phone with no further comment. Almost immediately, the phone rang. Athena did not answer it. When it switched to voice mail Blythe Fortune spoke. After a short time, Athena checked the message.
“So sorry, Athena. We must have gotten cut off. Can you call me back? We really need to discuss this.”
I have nothing more to discuss with that woman, Athena thought. She closed the books on her desk, took her coat from the rack by the door, turned off the open sign in the window, drove home, put on her classic recording of The Elixir of Love (the one with Joan Sutherland and a young Pavarotti), poured a generous glass of her favorite Italian red, and sat in her living room staring out the large window at nothing, really…thinking.
Shane knew that Pat Harmony was always at his Wall Street bar long before the official five o’clock opening time. Since Shane wanted as much privacy as possible when he interviewed Issy Esser, the arrangement was made for the two of them to meet at the bar at four-thirty. Shane arrived a little after four and settled in at his regular spot—his Wall Street office. Pat produced the bottle of Lincoln College sherry from its special place in the bar cabinet and set a glass in front of Shane. They greeted each other just barely. Pat was busy getting set up for the nightly onslaught of current and former representatives of Nashville’s finest and Shane was lost in his thoughts.
Issy Esser stood for a few moments just inside the door, his eyes darting about the largely empty room, as though he was expecting to see something threatening in his peripheral vision. He was essentially as Shane remembered him from the earlier interview. The port-wine birthmark that meandered about most of his face was difficult to ignore. And he was thin, very thin with a grayish tint to his skin that didn’t look normal. Shane wondered whether the young man was ill. Shane motioned to Issy and he walked over to the bar and sat down beside Shane.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Esser,” Shane said. “Would you like a drink?”
“No sir, thank you.”
Both men seemed content to forego any introductions. They each knew who the other was, and they both knew the reasons for their meeting. Contrary to Issy’s tentative appearance and his reluctant entry into Wall Street, once seated beside Shane at the bar, the young man seemed confident, self-assured, even. If he was nervous at all, it wasn’t obvious.
“I’m sure, Mr. Hadley,” Issy broke the brief silence, “that you wish me to relate what I know about the happenings of the evening before I discovered Mr. Fitzwallington dead.”
“Yes, that’s true. But before we go there, what exactly was your relationship with the artist? I am told that you were a frequent visitor. He seems to have had several frequent visitors, and I’m having trouble understanding why.”
“Well, I suppose I may as well come clean about this. We were lovers. Or perhaps more precisely, we had sex together. He was surprisingly virile for a sick old man. I hoped that he would assist my aspirations for a career in art, although he didn’t really do that.”
“So why continue the relationship?”
“His paintings. I knew that he had been rather prolific in the past year or two, and it seemed likely that he would leave a number of his works when he died. And it did seem as though his death was imminent. He implied that he would leave some of his works to me, although there was no formal agreement. I encouraged him to make a will and he said he would, but I don’t think he ever did.”
“Hmm,” Shane sipped his glass of sherry and digested this information for a few moments and then continued, “I understand from what I could glean from the Internet that you are a pharmacist?”
“That is correct. I work in the research pharmacy at the university.”
“What does a research pharmacist do?”
“We prepare agents for clinical investigations. If a drug is going to be studied in people, it has to be done ‘double-blind.’ That is, neither the patient nor the involved medical professionals can know whether the subject receives the active drug or a placebo until the study is finished. So, we research pharmacists are responsible for managing pills of placebo or active drug that are indistinguishable, either supplied by the drug manufacturer or formulated by us and keeping meticulous records of which subject got what. We play a critical role in all clinical studies of drug safety and effectiveness.”
“I’m sure you do,” Shane said. “Did you ever have occasion to supply drugs to Mr. Fitzwallington?”
“He wasn’t involved in any of the studies that I had anything t
o do with if that’s what you mean. However, he did take a drug for his hypertension, and as a favor, I would get those prescriptions filled for him.”
“Was he a compliant patient, drug-wise?” Shane called on the terminology that he had heard KiKi use.
“Oh, very,” Issy replied. “Took his blood pressure medication with compulsive regularity.”
“So, tell me about the night before you discovered the artist dead and called 911.”
“Ok. I had been with Bechman that evening. We had sex, and I was preparing to leave when there was a knock at the door. I headed for the back door to avoid being discovered as Bechman went to answer the front door. When I heard the voice of Parker Palmer, I decided to stay inconspicuously in the back hall, where I could overhear most of their conversation. They were shouting at each other.”
“What were they shouting about?”
“Well, I couldn’t make out everything, but the gist of their argument seemed to be that Parker had discovered that SalomeMe was not Bechman’s daughter and that Bechman had started the process of legally adopting her.”
“And why was that such a big deal to Palmer?”
“They both seemed to know that Palmer was somehow in line for inheriting Bechman’s paintings although neither said exactly why they thought that. If Bechman legally adopted SalomeMe, she would be his sole heir. This is what I gathered from their shouting match.”
“How did you react to that information?”
“I never liked Parker Palmer. I suspected that he and Bechman had been lovers at one time, although I’m not sure of that. And I guess I was more than a little angry at Bechman for not including me in any of his deliberations. Yes, I was angry at Bechman.”
“Did you confront him after Palmer left?”
“No. I left out the back door and went home. I didn’t sleep well and so got up pretty early the next morning and went to Bechman’s house hoping to set things right between us. He was dead.”
“But he was alive when you left his house the previous evening?”
“Yes. Or at least I think so. I heard them arguing, and I heard the front door slam as Palmer left. Bechman yelled something just before the door slammed.”
“So,” Shane said, “you were the last person to see Fitzwallington alive?”
“I suppose. Although technically that would have been Parker Palmer.”
“Yes.”
Shane was not at all sure that he bought the details of Issy Esser’s story. It could well be a cleverly constructed alibi. Well, not that clever; there was no way to corroborate his story. Shane rarely accepted one person’s version of the truth if there was no way to verify it.
Chapter 31
Even though he had taken an early morning flight and had slept little, when Vernon LaVista III felt the tremor of the jet’s wheels banging down hard on the BNA tarmac, he was as high as a kite. He was all but certain that he had nailed down a commission for a major public sculpture for the city of Baltimore. It had taken him three days of meetings, pitching the proposal with all of the charm and credibility that he could muster, but he was sure that he had succeeded. He was excited about the project. He really liked the sculpture that he envisioned, and a major public space art piece in an interesting city would be some pretty big-league national visibility.
He burst into the Gulch apartment brimming with enthusiasm and anxious to share his good news with Fiona only to discover that his significant other was in no condition to share his excitement. She lay fully clothed in their bed. There were a couple of empty pill bottles on the bedside table. And she was dead. Vernon called 911 and cursed to himself. Damn Fiona Hayes, he thought. What a goddam selfish thing to do to him.
Hardy Seltzer arrived at the luxe Gulch flat as quickly as he could get there after being informed of the situation by the police dispatcher. He was still in bed when the call came. He dressed quickly and skipped his habitual morning coffee. As a result, when he arrived on the scene, his mental faculties were performing sub-optimally, not quite ready to quickly assimilate the implications of the situation.
The note was written in meticulous script. He read it twice before talking to Vernon LaVista III, the person who had discovered the dead woman and who was, apparently, her companion.
To Whom It May Concern, the note began, then continued, I killed Bechman Fitzwallington. I went to his house in the middle of the night and smothered him with a pillow as he slept. I uncovered him, leaving his body completely exposed. I meant that to be symbolic. He was a bad man. From the time his daughter and I were not quite teenagers, he started to sexually abuse us and continued to do that until we were old enough, and he was unwell enough that we could end it. That evil had to be exposed, as I exposed his hideous body in death. The world had to know of this evil. His artistic ability must not be allowed to forgive his sins. He was an evil man. Killing him was a just act. It had to be done and even now, I must confess that I feel fortunate to have been the one to do it.
I was also the person who placed the call to Shane Hadley that resulted in his abduction. I did that as a favor to Wilton Argent, who, you will not be surprised to discover, was my coke connection. I had become rather fond of snow in recent years and, in this city, Wilton is a necessary evil in such matters. And I was Moleskin, a feeble attempt to keep the investigation from heading in my direction. Pretty clumsy in retrospect.
So, there you are! The world is rid of a bad man, and this ought to clear up anything mysterious about it. The only remaining question I can think of is, what took so long? I can’t answer that. When whoever you are reads this note, that will not be my problem.
I’m taking the easy way out. I weaved too tangled a web. Given the possibilities, enough sleeping pills to end this sordid tale seems the better choice.
Good-bye, cruel world (I know, trite, but why the hell do I care).
The note was signed Fiona Hayes, written in big curlicued letters with a pretentious flourish followed by a large black exclamation point.
Cold, Hardy thought. There was little passion here, just a straightforward recounting of the facts. Only a truly cold person can take the final plunge without feeling. Maybe the stuff of a killer. He could believe that. He took out his cell phone and photographed the note before handing it to an officer to be preserved as evidence should that be needed.
Vernon LaVista III was sitting with another officer in the living room, staring out of the expanse of glass overlooking downtown. Hardy took a seat in a leather chair immediately opposite the quiet and surprisingly calm sculptor.
“I’ll need to ask you some questions, Mr. LaVista,” Seltzer said, trying without success to engage the young man’s eyes.
“Sure,” LaVista answered.
“When did you last see Ms. Hayes?”
“Couple of days ago.”
“Where were you during that time?”
“Baltimore.”
“Why Baltimore?”
“I was pitching a proposal for a sculpture to the city fathers. I finished last night and took an early flight to Nashville this morning. When I arrived home, I discovered Fiona as your people found her and called 911 immediately.”
“How did you react to that?”
“Pissed, mostly. I was pissed. I had just landed a major commission, and Fiona had to ruin the occasion by her grand gesture. She was fond of grand gestures.”
“Hardly a gesture, I would say. Had she attempted suicide in the past?”
LaVista got up, walked to the window, and sighed deeply. “Not that I know of,” he said. “She would threaten to kill herself every time we had a spat, but the threats weren’t very convincing. I didn’t think she had the balls for it.”
“Had she been depressed?”
“How the hell could you tell? She was either tripping out on her compulsive exercise program, snorting coke, obsessing over those damn tile paintings, or banging my brains out. What else went on in her head is anybody’s guess.”
“I must say, Mr. LaVista
,” Seltzer said, “that you do not appear particularly upset about the death of your companion. I find that odd.”
“Odd?” the sculptor repeated. “Odd? Oh yes, Fiona was an odd one, alright. And so was our relationship. I didn’t really know her, where she was actually coming from. But, you know, officer, I’m an artist. The only essential relationship in my life is with my art. I don’t care much for people, certainly not in any intimate way. Fiona didn’t need that. That’s what I found attractive about her. At least she didn’t need that from me. And she was one helluva lay.”
“Did Ms. Hayes have any close friends?”
“That ditzy woman who claims to be Fitzwallington’s daughter. They had been friends when they were young, but they weren’t very close lately, I don’t think. That’s why Fiona wanted to keep visiting the old guy. Can’t think of any other reason.”
“Have you read the note she left?”
“I didn’t see it until your people arrived. They discovered it. I don’t really care what the note says. I’m done with Fiona Hayes.”
“I suppose that’s possible,” Seltzer responded. “However, it is quite likely that we will need additional information from you before this is over with. Here is my card,” Hardy slipped a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to the young man. “I, or someone from my office, will be contacting you, but in the meantime, if you remember anything that you think we should know, please call me.”
An ominous chill crept up Hardy Seltzer’s spine as he sat for a few minutes in the LTD without starting the engine. He was trying to digest the ice-cold lump of human indifference that he had just been fed. He didn’t know much about art, but it seemed to him that sensitivity to the human condition should be version one of the artistic temperament. If either Fiona Hayes or Vernon LaVista III possessed an iota of that quality, he had not seen it in a situation that, by all rights, should have laid it bare. Neither of them, dead or alive, gave a tinker’s damn about the human condition except as it affected them personally. Hardy had been dealing with dead people and the ones who killed them for a long time, but he couldn’t remember encountering the likes of these two. Enough to try your confidence in the integrity of the species. He needed some coffee. And a hot shower might help.