The Dead Caller from Chicago

by Jack Fredrickson

  Amanda knew art. She used to write big glossy art histories before her estranged father found the right way to lure her into his electric utility and back into his life. Amanda didn’t write art histories anymore. She no longer taught at the Art Institute. I hadn’t spoken to her since late in the previous year.

  Still, she knew art.

  I did not stop to wonder about motives and needs and what used to be. I dialed her number.

  “Dek?” Vicki, her assistant asked, surprised. It had indeed been months.

  “Alas, the very same.”

  “She called you already?”

  “What?” I asked, confused.

  “You’re on her call list. I was supposed to remind her to call you later this afternoon.”

  It didn’t make sense. “Is she free now?”

  “Hold, please.”

  “Dek?” Amanda asked, after a longer wait than ever before.

  “I have an art question,” I said quickly and preemptively.

  “I know,” she said, stunning me.

  Thirty-four

  She had people … I said I’d be hanging … She said she’d call.

  It was like that with us. We’d not been married long, really only weeks, before we developed senses of each other that were ordinarily reserved for people who’d been together for decades. She knew the endings of my sentences, as I knew hers. Answers to the big questions, though, we never had the time to figure out, and we crashed when I was wrongly accused of falsifying evidence in a suburban mayor’s insurance scheme. I’d looked around for anyone other than myself to blame and saw Amanda, a rich man’s daughter who’d brought me notoriety because of her father’s prominence. Or so I reasoned, through the ninety-proof haze I’d taken to using to blur my shame. It killed my self-respect, her tolerance, and our marriage.

  Our abilities to finish each other’s sentences were taking longer to die. Even the last time we’d spoken, months before, we laughed awkwardly at that last stubborn vestige of our marriage.

  Her knowing that I was calling about an art question, though, went way beyond that.

  The afternoon faded into dusk, and the dusk into darkness. An hour after that someone knocked on the door.

  Cassone wouldn’t knock. Still, I grabbed Leo’s revolver before running down the stairs. I turned on the outside light, raised the gun, and jerked the door open.

  Her beautiful brown eyes, made even darker by the hood on her black parka, went wide at the sight of the gun. She was carrying one of those small plastic-wrapped bundles of firewood that gas stations sold. A little white bag was perched on top. I tugged her inside.

  “What the hell, Dek?” she asked, staring at the gun.

  “What a wonderful surprise, Amanda,” I said, slamming and bolting the door with the hand that wasn’t holding an armament.

  “Don’t give me that.”

  “Damned out of season trick-or-treaters?”

  “Nor that.”

  I jammed the gun, barrel down, in the waistband of my jeans, hoping it would not shoot off anything vital, and took the firewood and the little white bag that most certainly looked like it came from a bakery.

  “Are you in danger?” she asked, in a small voice.

  “Nah.”

  “We’ll talk.” She put a smile on her face, trying to summon up some of the old playful sternness she used to level at me, but her eyes weren’t going along. They were wary, maybe from the gun I’d added to my wardrobe, or maybe from the fact that so many months had passed since we’d last talked. I followed her up to the second-floor fireplace. Certainly there would be no banter about bringing the firewood up to the one on the third floor, opposite the bed. I set the wood down next to the hearth and turned to her.

  She was looking past me, into the huge fireplace. The last time she’d come to the turret, it had been unmarked. For a moment, neither of us said anything.

  “Coffee?” I finally thought to ask.

  “Great,” she said, relieved.

  We walked across the hall. “My,” she said, looking at the cabinets, trim, counters, and absolute lack of new appliances. “You’ve done nothing with the kitchen since I was last here.”

  “I found work, for a time.”

  “Insurance?”

  “Profitable, too.”

  “It’s coming back, finally?” The document scandal had left a long-lasting residue of doubt in the minds of my former clients.

  “Slowly,” I said.

  “Are you going to build a special cabinet in here so visitors won’t have to look at your revolver?”

  “Ah.” I took it out of my waistband and set it on the farthest counter.

  We talked of safe things while I made coffee. The little white bag contained croissants from a Chicago bakery I’d never heard of. We brought them and the coffee back across the hall, and I started a fire with scraps of trim wood I’d conveniently left all over the floor. When those caught, I added three of the split short logs she’d brought. She sat in the electric blue La-Z-Boy, I sat on the tilted red desk chair, and we ate the croissants as the fire found strength.

  “I only brought enough wood for a quick fire,” she said, warming.

  “Always thinking.”

  “What’s with the damned gun?”

  “Extra precaution for a little project I’m working on.”

  “Leo?”

  I paused midbite, a rare enough occurrence. “When I called, you said you were expecting to hear from me. Because of Leo?”

  “Actually, I was expecting to hear from him, not you. He called me a few days ago—”

  “How many days ago?” I cut in.

  “I don’t remember, exactly. It was the day we got a lot of snow, before the last day we got a lot of snow.”

  It was the day he’d sent Ma and Endora away and disappeared himself. “Sorry. Go on.”

  “He’d called about the provenance of an obscure set of paintings that had been in the news recently. He wanted to know if I had any sources.”

  “Isn’t that the sort of thing you’d be asking him about, and not the other way around?”

  “Absolutely; origins are his specialty, not mine. I figured he was being extra careful, covering all his bases, because of the publicity.” She smiled softly. “When I told you I wasn’t surprised to hear from you, it was because I’d wondered if Leo’s calling me had been a way of staying in touch. I don’t think he’s ever given up on us.”

  I looked away, toward the fire. “He’s a romantic.”

  “And the most loyal of friends.”

  “You mentioned publicity? A series of paintings has been in the news?” I asked.

  “A big Hollywood divorce. Two wealthy people are fighting for control of a set of paintings.”

  “Wait here,” I said. I went up to the fifth floor, brought down the picture, and set it on the card table. I switched on the Luxo.

  “My, my,” she said, coming over. “Primitive. Not Grandma Moses primitive, just plain awful primitive.”

  I pointed to the signature in the lower corner.

  She started to grin. “Leo B.,” she read. Then the smile disappeared. She bent down and sniffed.

  “I would have said grammar school artistry,” she murmured, “but the paint’s too fresh. He painted this eclectic monstrosity in acrylic, and very recently.” She turned the painting over.

  “See the open seam?” I asked.

  She was already picking at it as I had, gently with a fingernail.

  “That doesn’t belong, does it?” I asked. “It’s been pasted on, as though to cover up the back of the original canvas?”

  She said nothing as she reached for the plastic ruler I keep in a coffee mug, along with pencils. She measured the painting.

  “Amanda?”

  “Leo, Leo,” she whispered, setting the ruler back in the mug with exaggerated slowness.

  “Amanda!”

  “I thought he was talking about one of the three,” she muttered. “One of the divorc
e attorneys…”

  She straightened up, blinking her eyes as though she’d just emerged from a cave.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, wanting to yell.

  “The fourth flower.”

  Thirty-five

  She said she needed something stronger than coffee. All I had was the ancient gallon of Gallo that I’d kept, mostly untouched, since the aftermath of our divorce. Sometimes the old jug mocked me; sometimes it beckoned me. Always it challenged me.

  I got the jug and poured wine into our coffee cups.

  Only after she took a long, slow sip did she begin. “You know of the Nazis seizing famous art before and during World War II?”

  “I’ve read snippets about looting.”

  “It was more than simple looting, and it was huge. Adolf Hitler had the idea to build a grand Führermuseum, a gigantic cultural museum that would dwarf anything in Paris, London, Vienna, or Florence. To stock it, he had his Nazi sickos plunder, loot, confiscate, and, as a last resort, buy all the great art they could find in Occupied Europe. They grabbed so much, they had to store it in multiple locations in Munich, Czechoslovakia, Austria, and other places. Toward the end of the war, as things began going badly, they moved most of it into salt mines near Salzburg. And there it all sat, until the U.S. Army discovered it.” She took another sip of wine. “That brought on new problems.”

  “Not all the art got returned to its rightful owners?”

  “Even now, there’s litigation over the identities of the rightful owners. Remember I said that Hitler’s minions actually paid for some of the pieces?”

  “Yes.”

  “A sale doesn’t make for a proper legal transaction, a rightful transfer of ownership, if it’s the result of a threat, or worse, a drawn gun.”

  “Sell or else?”

  “Exactly, and those happened all the time. Then there are different sorts of issues, ones concerning entitlement. In those cases, a Nazi did indeed pay fair market value for a work of art. The army found the work after the war, yet did not return the work to the Nazi or his family, because the Nazi had been convicted as a war criminal, and his assets had been seized as retribution.”

  “Where would the art go then?”

  “Victims’ groups.”

  She raised her eyebrows to make sure I was following. I nodded.

  “To muddle things even more, there are other cases where ownership records have been lost over the passage of more than half a century.”

  “Making it impossible to determine who truly is the rightful owner?”

  “Yes.”

  “So many complications,” I said.

  “Now let me tell you about the Brueghels. They were a distinguished Flemish family of artists. One in particular, Jan the Elder, was known for his floral still lifes. He was nicknamed ‘Velvet’ for the velveteen sheen of his colors, or perhaps for his fondness for wearing velvet. In the late 1500s, Velvet Brueghel did a series of four paintings, one each of a daffodil, a daisy, a chrysanthemum, and a rose. They changed hands, legally, many times over the years.”

  “The four together?”

  “Only at first. The set of four was broken up in the 1700s. Over the next two hundred years, each flower was separately sold—”

  “Or confiscated, or sold under dubious circumstances, in the years leading up to World War II?”

  “Exactly. Three of the flowers were part of the Nazi trove discovered by the army.”

  “Three of the four? That’s a high percentage to have gotten into Nazi hands.”

  “They had an objective, but don’t get ahead of me. The Daffodil, the Chrysanthemum, and the Rose were the ones recovered, and they were subsequently sold in the late 1940s, each to a different buyer. The proceeds were given to several authorized victims’ groups.”

  “And the Daisy?”

  “It was never recovered by the army.”

  “It’s valuable?”

  “In and of itself? Of course, as much as any of the other three, simply because it’s a Brueghel. But let me add one more piece to the puzzle. The descendents of a Nazi captain successfully sued in Germany for the return of a collection of paintings he purchased.”

  “But he was a Nazi. Wouldn’t his paintings have been subjected to claims from victims, just like all the others?”

  “He’d been rumored to have helped outfit the death camps, but so far, that’s never been proven. What’s known for sure is he was only a captain, and he didn’t acquire the paintings for the Reich. He bought them for himself, always paying with his own personal funds, always making sure he got a receipt. That’s why his heirs won their lawsuit.”

  “You think he used his Nazi credentials to scare owners into selling cheap?”

  “I have no doubt, but that can’t be proven.”

  I was getting confused. “Included in his collection were the Four Flowers?”

  “No. Remember I told you three had been recovered by the army, sold after the war, and their proceeds distributed to victims’ groups?”

  I nodded.

  “Our Nazi bought only the long-missing Daisy, from a reputable dealer who had it on consignment from a man without heirs, who perished at Dachau. The dealer himself is long dead, and his records are lost.”

  I turned to look for a moment at the painting on the card table behind us. “Who has the Daisy now?”

  “Where’s Leo?” she asked.

  Thirty-six

  I hesitated too long before I lied.

  “On vacation,” I said. The less she knew about what was going on, the safer she’d be.

  “It must be one hell of a vacation; he’s not even answering his cell phone,” she said softly. She’d recognized the lie.

  “Recently there’s been a new twist in the saga of the Four Flowers,” she went on. “There is a particularly nasty divorce playing out in Los Angeles. A movie producer and his wife are battling over who gets to keep Brueghel’s painting of the Rose, among other things.”

  “One of the Four Flowers?”

  “Yes, but more interesting, the movie producer and his wife jointly hold purchase options on two more: the Daffodil and the Chrysanthemum.”

  “Bringing them effective control of three of the Four Flowers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just like the Nazis?”

  “Precisely, but remember: The objective back then was to unite all four in the Führermuseum.”

  “Our own nasty little Nazi knew about the Reich’s objective?”

  She nodded. “That’s my supposition. He hustled in, bought up the fourth flower for himself, and looked to make a killing if he could find a way of selling it anonymously to his own people, once the war was over.”

  “If the fourth flower, the Daisy, can be located, it would dramatically increase the value of the other three?”

  “Tenfold, if all four flowers can be reunited and sold as a complete set. That’s why the divorce story hit the National Enquirer and People magazine a couple of months ago. Both ran a picture of the long-missing Daisy, since enormous money would be at stake if the fourth flower was ever found. So far, that notion has just been a fantasy; excellent magazine fodder, nothing more.”

  It hadn’t been happenstance that had brought Snark Evans back from the dead. He’d come across a People, or a National Enquirer, he’d seen the picture of the Daisy, and he recognized the painting he swiped from Rudy Cassone and passed off to Leo on his way out of Rivertown. Millions would be his if he could get it back from Leo.

  Those same news flashes out of Hollywood had roused Rudy Cassone to take another run at Tebbins. I’d found the triggering event.

  “How was Leo when he called you? Did he mention the Daisy specifically?”

  “He was trying to sound casual, but there was tension in his voice.”

  “You really think it’s the Daisy under that?” I asked, pointing at the picture on the table.

  “Leo would certainly know how to camouflage it.”

  “Paint o
ver a masterpiece?”

  “It used to be done all the time, back when masters reused canvases. Of course, they didn’t know they were going to become masters. Otherwise, they would have splurged on new canvas. Besides, Leo’s painting was done in acrylic. It’s water soluble. It can be removed.”

  “How do we find out?”

  “I assume you want to investigate this very quietly?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s not like Leo to not have called himself.” Her eyes were unblinking on mine. She wanted an explanation.

  “I’m handling this for him.”

  She leaned across the table. “Where’s Leo, Dek?”

  I couldn’t lie, nor could I tell her a truth that would put her in danger.

  “Safe,” I said.

  We both looked at the fireplace. The fire had died.

  She stood up. “I know someone who can X-ray what’s beneath Leo’s pink cows,” she said, standing up, “but Leo already knows what’s under there.”

  “I’ll pass that along.” I got up, too, and we walked downstairs.

  “Tell him everything is in the envelope.”

  “You sent him an envelope?” I grabbed my coat and started walking her outside. I needed to see her safely to her car and headed for home.

  “I dropped it off on my way here.”

  My throat dried in an instant. “Drive straight back to your building. Don’t let anyone into your condo.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Tell your building’s security people you need a special watch on your place for the next few days.”

  “Damn it, Dek. What are you doing?”

  I opened her car door. “Straight home, no stops.”

  I followed her out to Thompson Avenue. Only when she turned east toward Chicago did I cut through the side streets to Leo’s house.