by Dorien Grey
He smiled. “I know you are. And you’ll find him, I know.”
*
Wednesday morning I got a call from Marty.
“Got some news for you on the Jefferson case,” he said. “Two things, actually. First, I checked on that guy Jerry Granville. No record. Second, we found out some more background on your Robert Smith. His real name is Clarence Farnsworth—no wonder he turned to a life of crime. Anyway, it turns out he has quite a rap sheet in New York. In addition to a string of arrests for various scams he’s had two arrests for assault—both dropped when the victims withdrew the charges. Definitely a real con artist with a mean streak. They extradited him to New York after his arrest in Atlanta, but he was released from jail a month ago.”
“But no word on whether he might have come here after his release?”
“Nope. Nobody has any idea where he is. He showed up for his first appointment with his parole officer after he got out, then that was it. Nobody’s seen or heard from him since, other than that call to Niles.”
“Thanks, Marty. As always, I appreciate your keeping me in the loop.”
“Works both ways,” he said.
With promises to keep in touch and try to get together for lunch one day soon, we hung up.
*
And suddenly the chorus’ concert was less than two weeks away, and the tension over Grant’s disruptions and death were gradually being replaced by the tension of the approaching performance. Jonathan remained outwardly calm, but I could sense his excitement and was truly happy for him.
As for finding out who killed Grant—well, lots of wheel-spinning but not much progress. Nothing had been heard of or from Smith. I must have contacted at least forty of the fifty members of the chorus, following every rumor-dipped lead to its inevitable dead end or brick wall. Grant supposedly had a little clique of sycophants, but I’d certainly never know it from talking to them. While quite a few were, at best, neutral toward him, there were more who had some real or imagined grudge against him, and the more stories I heard about his arrogance the more I wished Jerry Granville had at least managed to land a few punches before he was ordered out.
But as for anything I truly could consider as being a lead to a specific motive or an individual who might actually have killed him, there was nothing.
Chapter 8
So, when I got a call Tuesday at work from Arnold Glick, the very wealthy former client who lived in Briarwood fairly close to Crandall Booth, asking if I could look into something for him, I agreed to at least talk with him. I normally prefer to work on only one case at a time, but there simply wasn’t enough material to keep the Grant Jefferson flame going twenty-four hours a day. And maybe a slight step away for a moment might be a good thing.
Arnold and his wife Iris ran the Model Men Agency, which had for a time doubled as a high-end male escort service. Our friend Phil had made the transition from hustler to the top model for Spartan Briefs through Model Men. I really liked both Arnold and Iris and was happy to hear from them.
Because Arnold didn’t want to go into detail over the phone, I accepted their invitation for lunch. As I drove toward Briarwood, I found myself looking forward to the visit with pleasure—and especially to one of Johnnie-Mae’s lunches. Johnnie-Mae was the Glicks’ cook-cum-housekeeper, and I had long ago determined that when I made my first ten million dollars, I would hire Johnnie-Mae away from them. Since that looked to be a few hundred years down the road, I had to be satisfied with looking forward to lunch.
Passing the Birchwood Country Club, I spotted their mansion two blocks away. It was hard to miss, even among the mini-palaces surrounding it. I pulled into the driveway and drove past the house to the large parking area beside the fenced-in expanse of the back yard and pool.
It was cool enough for a light jacket, so I assumed we’d not be eating by the pool and went around to the front door, where I rang the bell beside the massive double doors. A moment later, the left side opened to reveal Iris Glick in all her toreador-panted glory. She was wearing a scoop-necked black I-don’t-know-what-they’re-called (they look like a long-sleeved tee shirt), a wide belt with a huge gold buckle, and spiked heels. Her hair was pulled back into a long ponytail. Iris was waging a global-scale war against aging, and she was damned if she was going to lose.
“Dick!” she exclaimed, stepping quickly forward for a hug. “It’s so good to see you! It’s been far, far too long!”
I’d forgotten how good she always smelled. She used cologne sparingly, but to maximum effect.
“It has that,” I agreed as she stepped back to allow me to enter the cavernous marble foyer. Following her to the staccato click of her heels on the marble into the ballroom-sized living room, I took the seat she indicated near the fireplace, which was flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the green expanses of the country club’s golf course.
“Arnold is on the phone, I’m afraid,” she said by way of explaining her husband’s absence, “but he’ll be with us in a moment.”
I looked up as Johnnie-Mae appeared in the arched entry to the dining room. She smiled and said, “May I get you something, Mr. Hardesty?”
I returned the smile. “Thank you, no, Mrs. Dabbs.” I always made it a point to call her Mrs. Dabbs as a gesture of respect, which she richly deserved. “It’s good to see you,” I added.
“And you, Mr. Hardesty,” she said. “Would you like me to take your jacket?”
I got up to take it off and hand it to her with thanks. She smiled, then, looking at Iris, said, “Lunch will be ready shortly.” And with that she turned and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
Iris and I small-talked for a few minutes while we waited for Arnold, carefully avoiding the subject of the case I’d originally handled for them. The Model Men Agency, minus its male escort branch, was apparently doing very well and still represented Phil, even though he was currently under an exclusive contract with Spartan Briefs. She and Arnold had, I learned, been able to do a bit of traveling and indulge in a newly found interest in art collecting. She pointed to a lighted display case with several small Etruscan statues.
“We’re specializing in Etruscan art,” she explained.
Well, if anyone could afford to do it, it was the Glicks. I nodded appreciatively.
I was getting up from my chair to take a closer look when Arnold Glick entered the room, dapper as ever in smoking jacket and ascot. I really didn’t know if this was how everyone in “the other half” lived, but both Iris and Arnold pulled their version of it off very well.
Hastening across the room to shake hands, he said, “I ran into Johnnie-Mae in the hall. She says lunch is ready. Shall we go into the breakfast room?”
Iris got up to join her husband, and we moved through the dining room to the solarium, which like the living room overlooked the golf course. One end was open to the kitchen and set up as a breakfast room. We sat down to mimosas and plates of quartered cantaloupe surrounded by enormous strawberries sprinkled with powdered sugar. The fruit was followed by a fantastic quiche.
And through it all, Johnnie-Mae moved—glided—removing the fruit plates and replacing them with the quiche in one smooth gesture. My admiration for the woman, and my amazement to think that some people could actually afford to live like this, continued to grow.
Dessert was a slice of freshly baked banana cream pie. I momentarily pondered asking the Glicks—or maybe Johnnie-Mae—if they would like to adopt me.
After Johnnie-Mae had taken away the dessert plates and accepted my heartfelt compliments with a pleased smile, we remained at the table, drinking coffee. Arnold lit up a cigar, first offering me one, which I declined.
“So,” he said, after the elaborate lighting process, “I suppose we should get to the matter at hand. I’d like you to check into someone for me. I have no real reason to doubt him, but there is a good deal of money involved, and I always believe in the old better-safe-than-sorry rule.”
“I’ll be glad to,”
I said. “Give me the name and whatever information you have.”
Arnold set his cigar aside long enough to take a sip of coffee, replacing his cup on the saucer before continuing.
“His name is Kenneth Johnson, and he’s a dealer in antiquities we met during our last trip to New York.”
Tell me I didn’t hear that, I groaned inwardly.
“At an auction?” I asked, and Arnold raised an eyebrow.
“Ah, I gather Iris has already told you…” He looked at his wife, whose face reflected her puzzlement.
“No, she didn’t,” I said. “It was an out-of-left-field assumption. I understand you’ve taken up collecting art.”
“Well, dabbling would be a more accurate description. I became interested in Etruscan art many years ago through a collector I knew in New York, but I was always too busy to do anything about it. Then last year we went to Italy, and Iris became as fascinated with it as I’ve always been.
“When we were in New York last month, they were having an auction of Etruscan works at the William Doyles Galleries…” He must have read the expression on my face, because he paused and added, “You’re familiar with them?”
I merely nodded. Grant Jefferson had picked up Bernie Niles after Niles had attended an auction at the Doyles Galleries.
“Ah,” he said, then continued talking. “We picked up a small piece Iris had her eye on, and as we were leaving, we were approached by a gentleman who complimented us on our purchase and introduced himself as a private dealer of antiquities, one of his specialties being the Etruscan period. He said he served many collectors, and I asked if he might know my colleague, Theodore Altgeld, who had an extensive collection of Etruscan art and who had, sadly, recently died. He said Altgeld had been a client, for whom he had obtained a number of pieces.
“We stood talking for a while, and then he invited us to join him for a drink, but we were a bit pressed for time and had to decline. We did agree to get together for lunch the next day. He told us he was awaiting the arrival of some pieces he’d been commissioned to handle for the estate of an Italian nobleman and said he’d be happy to show them to us if we might be interested. Naturally, we were.”
Johnnie-Mae appeared with more coffee. I was riveted to Arnold’s story because, while it was unlikely that Robert Smith and Kenneth Johnson were the same man, there were too many coincidences to rule out the possibility.
I said nothing, waiting for Arnold to continue, which he did after taking another sip of his coffee.
“So, we had a very pleasant lunch. He said he was currently working with an Italian nobleman’s heirs to handle the sale of some of the family’s collection and assured us that, while the shipment he was waiting for had not yet arrived, it contained some things he was sure we could appreciate as collectors. We’d told him we were new to collecting, but he was very flattering.” He paused and gave me a raised eyebrow. “I’m always a bit suspicious of people who are very flattering.”
“And that raised a red flag?” I asked.
He shook his head. “None. He appears to be totally above board. He even had a letter of recommendation from Theodore Altgeld.”
“So, where did the conversation end up?” I asked.
Iris spoke for the first time. “Well,” she said, picking up the story, “we were returning home the next day, so we gave him our address and he wrote shortly thereafter to tell us the shipment was on its way and sent us a few photos of some really beautiful pieces. We indicated an interest in one and agreed to take a closer look at it.”
“So, he brought it to you?”
Arnold chuckled. “Not immediately. He told us he had a business trip planned and could stop here with it on his way to Los Angeles.”
“And did he ask for payment in advance?” I asked.
“Only a reasonable amount to cover the fees for bringing it into the country. He was quite up front in telling us that it involved a, shall we say, somewhat circuitous route to shortcut the usual bureaucratic red tape and delays. He assured us this is common practice in the art world and, while perhaps not exactly by the book, not illegal.
“We agreed—a bit reluctantly, I must admit—and wired him the money. He called within a week saying the piece had arrived and that he would be passing through here on a business trip and would be happy to deliver it to us in person. We thought that was very kind of him.”
I couldn’t resist interrupting. “When, exactly, was this?”
The Glicks looked at one another as if for verification.
“Sometime around the middle of last month,” Arnold said, obviously somewhat puzzled. “Why do you ask?”
Not wanting to go into a lengthy explanation at this point, nor feeling I could ask him for a more specific date without having to get into one, I merely said, “Sorry, it’s nothing. I was just curious.”
He didn’t look overly convinced, but let Iris continue without further comment.
“He called when he arrived in town and we invited him to dinner,” she said. “He brought with him the small head you may have noticed in the display cabinet.”
“And you checked its authenticity, I assume?” I asked.
Arnold nodded. “Oh, yes! We took it up to Mountjoy to have it examined by Randolph Gunderson, the head of the Antiquities Department, who verified its authenticity. Johnson showed his good faith in leaving it with us, and we wired him the remainder of the money immediately upon getting verification.
“Randolph was a bit concerned that we didn’t have certain paperwork, but Johnson had told us that, since it had been in the private collection of an old Italian family for generations and the Italian government was not involved, there really were no papers. He assured us he would be happy to have the former owner provide us with whatever verification we felt we might need as to its history and line of possession. He repeated that this was a common, if not strictly textbook, procedure.
“At any rate, we were and are delighted with it. He contacted us recently, saying he had acquired a few more pieces he was sure we would like, and that he would be happy to stop by here on his next business trip this coming Saturday.”
“And what would you like me to do for you?”
“I’m quite sure that Mr. Johnson is legitimate—the letter of referral from Theodore Altgeld convinced me of that, and he gave us a couple of references that checked out. But still, if we’re to enter into any sort of long-term relationship with this man, I’ve been around a bit too long not to want to cover all my bets.”
“We’d already planned to have a few friends over for dinner on Saturday,” Iris said, “and since your profession necessitates your being a keen judge of character, we thought that if you would like to join us you might be able to form some objective insights. Your partner is, of course, also invited—we’d love to meet him.”
I hadn’t been in contact with the Glicks since Jonathan entered my life, but I knew they probably had heard about him from Phil.
“That’s very kind of you. And I’m sure Jonathan will be delighted to meet you, as well. We’ll have to find a babysitter, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”
Iris smiled warmly. “Yes,” she said, “Phil told us you have a delightful young…charge.” She didn’t know what word to use and, frankly, neither did I.
“Jonathan’s nephew,” I explained. “He has legal custody of Joshua.”
“Ah. Well, we admire you both for taking on such a daunting challenge.”
I laughed. “Daunting’s an excellent word for it.”
“So, you’ll come to dinner?” Arnold asked.
“Well, I definitely will,” I said, “and I’m sure we can find someone to look after Joshua for a few hours. May I let you know as soon as I find out?”
“Surely,” Iris said.
“And knowing Jonathan, the minute I mention having dinner in Briarwood, he’s going to want to run out and rent a tuxedo.”
“Please assure him that won’t be necessary,” Iris said, laughing. “Casual
is fine.”
Since it appeared our business was concluded, I got up. “Well, then, I look forward to Saturday.”
“About seven?” Iris had risen when I did. “We’ll eat around eight or so.”
I walked over to Arnold, who seemed to be having a bit of a problem getting up. He plopped back down and extended his hand.
“Damned arthritic knee!” he said as we shook hands. “Don’t get old, Dick. It’s not fun.”
“But infinitely better than the alternative,” Iris reminded him, and they exchanged smiles.
Walking me to the entrance to the living room, she said, “Johnnie-Mae will show you out.”
“That’s quite all right.” I sensed that she wanted to get back to Arnold. Besides, the front door was in plain sight. I smiled at her as I took her outstretched hands. “I think I know my way by now.”
She laid a hand on my arm. “Of course, you do,” she said, “but Johnnie-Mae has your jacket…and a little something for you to take home.”
A moment later, Johnnie-Mae appeared carrying my jacket in one hand and what I assumed to be a cake box in the other. Iris gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek then returned to her husband.
“I understand you have a young one at home now,” Johnnie-Mae said with a warm smile. Whether she meant Jonathan or Joshua I wasn’t quite sure, but assumed the latter. “I thought he and your friend might like to have a piece of pie for dinner—and there’s enough for you, too, if you won’t mind having banana cream pie twice in one day.”
I wanted to hug her but resisted. That might be crossing some sort of line—not for me, but for her. “Thank you, Mrs. Dabbs,” I said sincerely. “I do wish I could hire you away from the Glicks!”
She gave me a broad smile. “How would they get along without me?” she asked, and I grinned.
*
On the ride home, I thought over this whole Robert Smith/Kenneth Johnson/Clarence Farnsworth thing. I knew nothing about the art world or art auctions, but wondered how common it was to be approached by someone claiming to be an art dealer immediately after leaving an auction. It was also highly unlikely that two scammers would be working the same auction house.