Jesus Christ, what a load off his back.
“Charley,” he said, “I’ll go ahead and have that Coors Light now, I think. So tell me, whaddaya think, are the Chargers gonna do any better next year or not?”
By the time Alix got back to the Villa Louisa it was dark. The evening’s outdoor movies were getting under way on the back lawn. With a dozen other like-minded people, she got a cup of decaf coffee from the nearby urn that had been set up, settled into one of the lounge chairs, and watched a loopy old Marx Brothers short, followed by an equally dopey 1930s Barbara Stanwyck seaboard comedy, and thoroughly enjoyed both of them. At the close, when a clerk came out to shut the projector down, he was nice enough to ask if she’d be more comfortable if he went with her when she opened the door to her bungalow.
Although she hadn’t been thinking about it until he brought it up, she took him up on the offer, and then, as an afterthought, asked him to change the code on her lock and make another new key card for her.
He approved. “Better safe then sorry.”
With those words in mind, she double-checked the windows and doors to make sure they were locked, and pulled the blinds. Once into her pajamas, she browsed in a rickety old bookcase along the wall, found a dog-eared Agatha Christie that looked as if it might have been left by Miss Crawford herself, and took it to bed with her, hoping it would ease her into sleep. It did; when she surfaced in the middle of a pleasant dream some nine hours later, awakened by her own laughter, the book still lay open on her chest, turned to page two. Feeling rested and relaxed, she tried to remember what the dream had been about. It had involved Prentice Vandervere and Harpo Marx. They had been going through some kind of lunatic routine with Harpo booping away on his horn to distract Prentice, who was trying to deliver a learned lecture from—
A sudden recollection sat her up, blinking. Not of anything from the dream, but of something Prentice had mentioned over cocktails the previous evening. It had been while they were talking about the Pollock. Alix had observed how much Mrs. B must have wanted the Pollock to have given up nine prize paintings from her father’s personal collection to pay for it. Prentice’s biting reply had been along the lines of: “Well, you know Clark. He can be very persuasive when he wants to be.”
At the time it hadn’t registered. Only now did she realize what it meant. When she and Clark had been discussing the Pollock the other morning, Clark had led her into thinking the painting was a favorite of Mrs. B’s. Her pride and joy, he’d called it, which, according to what Prentice had said, had to be an outright lie. More than that, Clark had mentioned nothing about his own part in bringing it to the Brethwaite, nothing to suggest that the picture was in reality a recent acquisition (which it must have been, since Clark had been there barely four months). Without ever saying so explicitly, he’d managed to leave her with the impression that the Pollock had been in the museum’s possession a long time.
Her mind was racing now. A lot of things had suddenly clicked into place. Or if that was overstating it, then at least she now had some plausible explanations for last night’s attack and for Clark’s behavior. Or if even that was overstating it, then at least she had some possible rationales for them. What if the painting was a forgery? What would happen to his job and his reputation if that were to come out, considering the assets the museum had given up to acquire it? Couldn’t that be why he asked Alix to postpone telling Mrs. B about her suspicions?
Well, yes, but would he really try to kill her over it? It was hard to believe, but suppose she took the speculations a little further: What if he knew it was a forgery and had known it all along? What if he’d somehow engineered the sale to the Brethwaite, knowing it? Why would he have done that if it didn’t benefit him in some way? It would hardly be something new in the art market: A person who orchestrates a sale and for his efforts is paid a “finder’s fee,” or a “referral fee” (or in plainer language, a kickback). If the sale is important, as the Pollock sale was, such a fee can run into six figures; excellent news for Clark.
Except, of course, that having any knowing part in selling a forgery was as illegal as hell, and if it were to come out that it was a fake, he would be facing criminal trial, civil suits, and serious jail time. Now there, she thought with a long exhalation—she’d been holding her breath without knowing it—was the rationale for murder that she’d been looking for, and a plausible one at that.
Plausible enough to call Detective Cruz? Maybe not. Did she really believe it herself? She wasn’t even sure about that. The only solid, physical fact that she could produce to Cruz or to herself was Clark’s puffy, red nose, and she knew Chris was right about that. As evidence went, it was ludicrous. It could just as easily mean he was Santa Claus. Still, she owed it to herself to go to the detective with it. For all she knew, Clark would come after her again. After all, from his point of view, nothing had changed. If there was a reason to go after her the other night, it was still there. And if what she was hypothesizing was right, he had to do it soon, before the time they had set for Alix to go to Mrs. B if she still had doubts about the painting. And that would be Tuesday, three days from now.
Yes, call Cruz. Definitely.
She found the card he’d left with her, dialed his number, got his voice mail, and left a message saying she had some ideas about who it was that might have attacked her. She wasn’t any more specific than that because somehow she felt sillier and more paranoid naming Clark over the telephone than she would in talking to Cruz face-to-face. She would be at the museum most of the day if he wanted to talk to her there, she said, or she’d be happy to come to the police station if he preferred that.
The detective’s car pulled into the Brethwaite’s parking lot an hour later, just as Alix was getting out of hers. “Okay if we talk outside?” she said. “More private.”
“On a day like this? What could be better? Lead on.” He seemed to be in the same mellow mood he’d been in the other night, but he looked a lot fresher, with a crisp, blue-checked sport shirt, a newly shaven jaw, and the breezy smell of aftershave still clinging to him.
She took him around to the north terrace, the one that looked out over the wind turbines and the desert, and asked if he’d like some coffee. When he said yes, she went inside to get it from the break room, and on the way back she stopped at the workroom, where the paintings were being prepared for transfer to the auction house. Alfie Wellington and Drew Temple were at one long table, assembling the backs of two of the braced, made-to-measure crates. Each segment had numbers and letters on it to show which piece attached to which, and where. Jerry was at a smaller trestle table next to them, where he had one of the paintings lying face up and was applying a protective “X” of masking tape to the glass pane that fronted it. This was the first step in the final packing process. After that it would be wrapped in newsprint. Then would come bubble wrap, and then the insertion into the partly assembled crate, probably with a few handfuls of foam peanuts thrown in to fill up any empty spaces. Finally, the front of the crate would be screwed on by hand, through the screw holes that had been drilled in advance.
“When do they ship?” she asked Jerry.
“Some today, the rest Monday. That is, if these two clowns can get their act together and manage to do more than one crate an hour.”
“If you’re unhappy with our work,” Drew said, “just say so. It was my impression we were doing you a favor.”
“Touchy, touchy,” Jerry sang.
“What Jerry fails to allow for,” Alfie said to Alix, “is that we’re mere volunteers, untrained in the subtleties of this intricate task.”
“Yeah,” Jerry said, “you have to know not only the whole alphabet, but the numbers too, all the way up to twelve.”
Alix saw now that the object he was working on wasn’t a painting, but the panel with the twelve miniatures. She leaned over to look at it more closely, then tipped it toward her to eliminate the g
lare on the glass crystals. She found elements in the portraits she hadn’t seen before; not just the wonderfully executed details—the silky, elegantly knotted white cravat on the boy, the little girl’s upswept, extravagant head of curls—but the overall texture, the surface quality of the paintings. They shone with a golden glow, almost as if they were backlit.
“Jerry,” she said pensively, “these two Dunkerleys—how sure are you they’re really—”
“Stop!” Jerry cried. “Alix, please, for God’s sake, have mercy; don’t tell me, not at this point, that these are fake Dunkerleys!”
Alix laughed. “No, but you know, I wouldn’t mind getting a magnifying glass from my workroom—”
“Absolutely not!” he cried theatrically, snatching up the panel and clasping it to his breast. “Won’t someone here please control this woman?”
“Seriously,” Alix said, “my friend will probably take your advice and bid on it at the auction, and I’m helping her, so I’m doing some research. You said the other day there was a pretty solid provenance on these two. It’d be helpful to have a look at that. Any problem with that?”
“Nope. They’ve already been sent to Endicott, but I’ll be there next week, and I’ll e-mail you copies. Remind me if you don’t hear from me by, oh, say, a week from Monday.”
“Will do. Thanks, Jerry.”
“Or you can stop by San Francisco if you want to see the originals.” He held the panel up not far from his face. “I’ll tell you, I like these things a lot myself—all of them, not just the Dunkerleys—just beautiful. I wouldn’t mind placing a bid on this thing myself.”
“What? What?” Alfie called, looking up from his screwdriver. “Set the valuation of an object and then bid on it yourself? I believe that’s frowned upon in the business. Although now that I think about it, I must say—”
“Moot point,” said Jerry, “since I couldn’t afford it anyway.”
“Well, that’s your own fault, dummy. You’re the valuator, aren’t you? You should have set the value at something you could afford.”
“Damn, why didn’t I think of that? I wonder if it’s too late to reset it to something I could manage.”
“I doubt if twelve ninety-five is quite what Clark has in mind,” Drew said, straight-faced.
“Enough screwing around, gentlemen,” Alfie said after another slug from his trusty mug. “Drew, you and I better get on with the job. Putting crates together might turn out to be a useful skill for a couple of ex-curators.”
“We are not amused,” said Drew, his nose longer than ever.
Detective Cruz accepted his coffee with thanks, and they both sat on one of the benches, this one with a cheery little bronze plaque on it that said, “In loving memory of our dear husband and father, Max L. Borowski. We shall miss you greatly.”
“Don’t you love these little signs?” Cruz said. “Sure lighten the mood.” He took a mug from her and held it in both hands, elbows on his knees. “So. What do you have to tell me?”
She told him, not leaving out even the most tenuous elements of her reasoning. It was made more awkward than it might have been because he was utterly silent, as he’d been the other night when Officer Campbell was interviewing her, so she was doing lots of explicating and rationalizing. Throughout, his fleshy face wore an intent expression that she couldn’t place. Skepticism, she would have expected, but this was something else. Wariness? Outright disbelief?
The more she talked, the more inscrutable his look got. Was he trying his best not to laugh? “Look,” she said with some frustration, “I know as well as you do that this all sounds crazy, and I wouldn’t be coming to you with it if I wasn’t concerned that he might try it again. Or try something else. I would have thought it was your job—”
“Whoa, hold your horses. Let me set your mind at ease on that point. I can tell you with complete assurance that Mr. Calder will not be coming after you again.”
“I don’t understand. Have you arrested him?”
“Alix, he’s dead.”
“What?” The news was so out of the blue that this came out more squawk than speech. “Clark? He’s dead? But I was talking to him just yesterday afternoon . . . I know,” she said in response to the detective’s wisp of a smile, “that’s what everybody says. It’s just—”
“Just that someone who’s going to die any time soon ought to have the decency to look it, and in most kinds of death they do. But not this kind.”
She caught her lower lip on her teeth and expelled a breath, stalling for time to collect herself. “How did he die?” she asked in a whisper.
“Hit by a car a few blocks from where he lived.”
“An accident?” But something about Cruz’s manner told her otherwise.
“Hit-and-run,” he said. He paused, as if considering whether or not to say more, then went ahead. “And not an accident.”
“Are you telling me he was murdered?”
“That’s what the forensics point to. Of course, there’s still an autopsy to be done, and lab work, but I can’t see how they’re going to change that.”
“My God.”
“Listen, Alix—what you were telling me about the Pollock . . . is it possible that that could have something to do with this?”
“With someone murdering him? No, I don’t see any connection there. Most of what I told you wasn’t much more than wild surmise anyway, so no . . . but . . .”
His eyebrows went up. “But?”
“Well,” she said, “he wasn’t very much liked, at least not around here. You probably know that already.”
“We know practically nothing about him, we’ve just started. What can you tell me? Why wasn’t he liked?”
“Well, basically, he’s pretty new here and he’s really been shaking up the organization. For one thing, his new plan is going to mean that some of the curators’ jobs are going to be cut. And some of them are even—”
She hesitated, chewing her lip, and the experienced Cruz adroitly read her mind. “I know. You don’t like the idea of being an informer, you don’t want to get anyone in trouble, you’re not accusing anyone, and so on. I’d feel the same way. But think of it like this: Anything you can tell us, we’re going to find out anyway, but the quicker we learn it, the sooner we can start excluding people as suspects, and the better our chances of quickly narrowing in on whoever did do it.”
More lip chewing. “Look, detective—”
“Call me Jake, will you? It’s only fair; I’ve been calling you Alix.”
“Thank you. But look, I haven’t even been here a week. I barely know these people’s names. I’ve hardly brushed the surface. How about this: You talk to the people directly involved, the curatorial staff—well, and Mrs. Brethwaite, the director—and then if you still have questions that you think I can help with, I’ll do my best.”
She didn’t expect him to accept that, but he did. “All right,” he said comfortably. He reminded her of a big cat now, lapping up his coffee and clearly luxuriating in the combination of sun and crisp morning air.
“Oh, let me ask you one other question now,” he said, as if it had just occurred to him. “Where would you have been last night at six thirty, seven?”
Alix had once been addicted to Law and Order, and she remembered wondering how it felt to be asked that question: Where were you last night? Now she knew. Not good.
“I would have been having dinner with my friend. Chris LeMay. At Giuseppe’s Pizza and Pasta, on East Palm Canyon.”
“Would anybody be able to verify that? Other than her?”
“Well, I’m not . . . oh, that’s right, Chris was kidding around with the guy behind the counter. I know he’d remember her.”
“That’s good. You understand, I had to ask that question. Well . . . other than that, is there anything else you can think of that might lead somewhere?”
He lifted a hand. “You know, I think it might be better if we talked down at the station at this point. You amenable to that?”
“Sure. When?”
“No time like the present.”
“Let’s go. I’ll follow you.”
Instead, Cruz offered to drive her to police headquarters and then back to the museum, and she accepted. For the first few minutes of the drive they were both quiet, cogitating and reflecting, and then Alix said, more to break the silence than anything else: “How many detectives does the department have?”
“Four, why?”
“Well, I was starting to think maybe you were the only one. You’re the only one I’ve seen.”
“No, there are four of us, and we all have plenty to do. I’ve been the lead on the Phantom Burglar for months, which is why I showed up at your bungalow the other night, and as for Clark, the All-Knowing Skull, applying a subtle and complex algorithm, selected me for this one too. I’m partnering with a guy named Pat Malloy, but he’s out in the field this morning, so it’ll just be me today.”
She was frowning. “The all-knowing—?”
“We’re here,” he said before she could finish.
They parked at a curb lined with departmental black-and-whites—three patrol cars and three motorcycles (and two Segways)—and to get to the long, low headquarters building they had to cross a small plaza that was centered by a bronze memorial statue. Beside a semi-abstract open car door, two life-sized, realistically sculpted officers were on the ground: one, obviously grievously wounded, on his back, the other kneeling at his side, tending him, with his cell phone to his face. “Help is on the way” read the identifying plaque, and Alix thought it was stirring and particularly well done.
The Art Whisperer (An Alix London Mystery) Page 14