The Art Whisperer (An Alix London Mystery)

by Charlotte Elkins

  “Pat, at this time of the day, you’re not going to find whoever staffs Melvyn’s at six p.m. Better save it till later in the afternoon. But there’s something else you can do now.”

  “Hallelujah,” said Malloy dryly. “I was praying you’d come up with something to kill all this time I’ve got hanging over me.”

  “Those two guys who ran out? We know from them that there was another car near the corner where he was hit, and it backed up and got out of there in a hurry, which tells us that this was a guy who saw what happened and wanted nothing to do with it, so he’s somebody we’d dearly love to talk to. From the information the two of them provided, the lab has come up with the probable make and model: a Mazda MX-5 Miata, 2010 or 2011. Red.”

  Malloy nodded again. “That might conceivably help. Not your common everyday car.”

  “What’s more, they’re pretty sure they’ve been seeing it around the neighborhood, so it’s a good bet whoever owns it lives nearby.”

  “Interesting thought. Which way was it headed again? Before it backed away, I mean.”

  “It was on Santa Rosa, about to cross Patencio going west. So I’d suggest that the place to start looking for it would be to start hitting doorbells on the very next block of Santa Rosa, and circle out from there for a few more blocks. Find a photo of a red Miata and show it around, see if anybody knows who owns one.”

  “Okay.” Malloy stood up. “Just might get us somewhere.” He reached for the remote and closed down the image of Alix’s face, frozen into its heavy-lidded, open-mouthed expression; it shrank to a little white squib and disappeared.

  “Pretty girl,” he said. “Shame to leave her there looking like a goofus.”

  It was an eventful afternoon at the museum as well. In the conference room, the director was conducting a hastily called meeting with her curators. The mood was sober. There were no pastries, no coffee.

  As usual, Mrs. B was doing the talking. Discussion would not ensue until she signaled that it was welcome, which sometimes happened, sometimes not.

  “This will be brief,” she announced. “If any of you wish to call it a day when we’re done, please do. I intend to do the same. Now. You all know about last night’s awful events as well as I do, and if I’m not mistaken all of you have spoken with the police. I see no point in our dwelling on the matter here. I do want to explain what will happen now, however.”

  She had her long, strong, capable-looking fingers clasped in front of her, with her eyes circling the table from left to right, fixing first on one person for a brief, intense moment, then swinging to the next, and so on around the table. Then she would do it again. An observer would have no trouble telling who was the temporary subject of that flinty gaze just by looking at him or her. There would be a subtle change—a stiffening, an immobility. A frozen second or two and it would leave and move on to the next in line. It was like watching a sonic-boom shock wave shimmer around the table.

  “Most of the modifications Clark was in the process of introducing will remain in effect, with the exception of the personnel changes. As of this moment, those will not be implemented. The curators will all remain in their current positions: Prentice as head of Paintings; Alfred, Drawings and Prints; Madge, Costumes and Furnishings; Drew, Decorative Arts. I hope that is to your liking.”

  Several let-out breaths could be heard around the table, and then Drew said, “I would like some clarity on the meaning of ‘as of this moment.’ Are you saying we should take this as a conditional, temporary adjustment, and that Clark’s changes might still be made, or was it just a figure of speech?”

  “Simply a figure of speech, Drew. There are no plans to revisit the matter. Are there any further questions?”

  Jerry Swanson raised his index finger. “I’m a little confused as to what I’m doing here, Mrs. B. I’m running a little behind on the crating, and I would really like to get back to work.”

  “You’re here, Mr. Swanson, because I require your assurance that Clark’s death will in no way impede the auction. I wish it to proceed exactly as planned and right on schedule. Do you anticipate any difficulties there?”

  “None whatever,” Jerry said grandly. “In fact, I would like to take this opportunity to commend you on your decision, which I find to be practical, astute, and essential.”

  Mrs. B was not big on humor in general, and irony (if that’s what this was) was particularly unappreciated, especially at so inappropriate a time. “Do you,” she said. No question mark, but the dismissive nuance went right by Jerry.

  “You bet I do. If we scrapped the auction now, just think of what might happen! Good God, Endicott might even dock my salary!” He gave her his broadest, brashest grin. Not being an employee of the museum, he was more inclined to be flippant with her than were the others.

  His grin was not returned. Mrs. B. looked at him with narrowed eyes. Few people could stand up to one of Lillian Brethwaite’s raking glares, and even Jerry was not among them. The grin vanished. “Um, so will I be working—directly with you, then, Mrs. B? Now that Clark is, uh, gone?”

  “No, I have more than I can deal with as it is. You will be working with our senior curator.”

  “That’ll be something to see,” Madge deadpanned sotto voce, to Alfie, who sat on her right, “what with the guy dead and all.”

  Alfie leaned sideways to whisper back. “Kind of an improvement, though, wouldn’t you say? All things considered?”

  If Mrs. B heard, she chose to ignore it. She turned to Prentice. “Prentice, I’ve given this matter considerable thought. Your duties as curator of Paintings should be quite light for the foreseeable future. I would appreciate it if you would consider assuming the duties of senior curator, at least for the present.”

  “Yay,” Alfie said, with a single, soft clap of his hands.

  “With a commensurate salary increase, of course,” continued Mrs. B. “I would like you to begin by—”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not sure I want to take that on,” Prentice said. “I’ve put in my time in managerial positions, and I’m extremely happy to be free of such responsibilities now. I really doubt that I’d be the best person for this.”

  “Now you’re being modest, and I think you know it. What would you say to trying it for, say, a month—through the completion of the auction process? If you don’t find it to your liking at the end of that time, I’ll come up with something else. But I honestly suspect you’d find the challenges interesting.”

  Prentice’s slightly twisted posture exuded discomfort. “Perhaps, but—”

  “Prentice, to be perfectly frank, it’s the auction that I’m most concerned with. The arrangements were consuming most of Clark’s time, and I simply don’t have that kind of time to devote to it. Or, I might add, the necessary competencies.”

  “And to be equally frank on my part, Mrs. B . . . Lillian . . . I have found myself in disagreement with almost every proposal made by Clark since the day he came, not least the idea of the auction, which I am very sorry to see taking shape. For me to participate in—to be responsible for—something I find repugnant would be . . . would be . . .”

  While he searched for an adequate word, Jerry spoke up, directing his remarks to Mrs. B. “Actually, the time-consuming part on the museum’s end is pretty much over. Everything’s in place. Should be smooth sailing from here on in. I’m pretty sure I can handle things day to day, and only come to you if something new comes up, which I doubt is going to happen.”

  “Yes, well,” said Mrs. B. She turned earnestly back to Prentice. “This auction is more important to the future of the museum than even you realize. It would be a personal favor to me if you take it on. Prentice . . . I need your help.” Her gaze dropped to her clasped hands. She was embarrassed.

  Madge, Drew, and Alfie exchanged shocked glances. Mrs. B embarrassed? Mrs. B coaxing? This was incredible. “. . . wonde
rs never end?” Drew could be heard murmuring.

  The director’s uncharacteristic pleading had gotten through to Prentice. “Lillian, I’ll do what you ask,” he said with a faint sigh. “I’ll see the auction through. But then I would like to return solely to Paintings.”

  “Thank you, Prentice. I am much relieved.”

  “Jerry,” Prentice said, “I’ll need you to bring me up to speed.”

  “Sure,” Jerry said.

  “It may be harder than you think. I’ve worked at keeping clear of it, you see. I couldn’t even tell you all of the paintings that are being sold—I didn’t want to know. So that’s where your education effort should start, I suppose.”

  “No problem, I’ll run you off a list the second we’re out of here.”

  “Naturally, I’ll need to spend some time with the actual paintings themselves as well. I trust that won’t delay matters?”

  Jerry frowned. “Uh-oh.”

  “It creates a problem?”

  “Well . . . no, not really. Most of them have already been crated, but they’re still in the workroom. I guess we can get them back open again if you really think it’s necessary.”

  “I’m afraid I do. I’m sorry for the additional trouble. I’ll help you with them.”

  “Aw, no, that’s okay, it’s not that hard. But the other thing is, a few of them have already been shipped to San Francisco. Five of them, I think, but none of the major pieces. The stars of the show are all still here.”

  “Ah. Well, let’s start with those, then. When would be a good time to begin?”

  “Any time, prof. Right now, if you want.”

  “And that,” said Mrs. B, in better spirits than she was when the meeting had begun, “would seem to be a perfect place to call a halt to these proceedings. Thank you all. Prentice, thank you again.”

  Mrs. B left first, and then Prentice and Jerry went out together, leaving Madge, Drew, and Alfie still at the table.

  “Well, there’s a load off our minds,” Drew said, actually looking happy for once. “Sanity has been restored.”

  “And not a moment to soon,” Alfie agreed. “Indeed, a historic meeting.”

  “I’ll say,” Madge chimed in. “He actually called her ‘Lillian,’ did you hear? Twice! And she never blinked.”

  “The times, they are a-changin’,” Alfie sang with what he must have thought was a Bob Dylan twang.

  None of the eating places that Alix and Chris saw in Mecca caught their fancy, so they stopped at a gas station convenience store and bought some mixed nuts and cold apple juice to tide them over as they drove back, keeping their eyes open for places that appealed to them.

  “There!” yelled Chris near Indio, about halfway back to Palm Springs. “What could be more perfect than that?”

  She was pointing at the gigantic wooden figure—crude and two-dimensional, but even taller than Marilyn—of a blue knight brandishing a prominent yellow shield (on which was inscribed “Shields”), and pointing imperiously across the road at the long, low, shedlike front of Shields Date Garden and Cafe. It was like one of those roadside attractions that had once upon a time symbolized the long, open stretches of Route 66. Various makeshift placards and signs informed visitors that Shields had been right there since 1924, that their world-famous Medjool date shakes were to be had inside and that the café featured date pancakes, date burgers, and jalapeño- and prosciutto-stuffed dates. Also that “the world’s longest-running movie,” The Romance and Sex Life of the Date, was showing continuously in the theater, as it had been doing for the last half-century and more.

  Once inside, they both had chicken club sandwiches in the café, followed by date shakes consumed on stools at the old-fashioned soda fountain, and strolled for a while in the surprisingly large and beautiful date gardens, among old trees and ponds. Afterward, they wandered through the store, where Chris bought a half dozen boxes of stuffed and candied dates and had them shipped to Seattle. They even watched The Romance and Sex Life of the Date, which they agreed had been informative, moderately interesting, and definitely G-rated. All told, they spent another three hours at Shields.

  “You were right,” Alix said contentedly as they climbed back in the car. “Couldn’t have been more perfect. I couldn’t feel less stressed.”

  “Genuine funk,” said Chris. “That’s what was so nice and relaxing about the place. Not this cheesy, phony funk you see everywhere else these days.”

  By the time they got back downtown it was getting dark and Chris joined Alix to end the day at the Villa Louisa for the evening’s outdoor movie, And Then There Were None, a 1940s version of Agatha Christie’s tale about a party of people staying at a mysterious mansion, where they are bafflingly eliminated one by one. Chris and Alix got there as one of the employees was winding up his sonorous, over-the-top introduction: “Where will the killer strike next?” he was declaiming. “Who will live? Who will die?”

  “And who,” came an equally booming voice out of the darkness, “will care?” Everyone laughed, and it was that sort of mood in which the movie was then watched, with viewers, Alix and Chris included, occasionally throwing in droll asides of their own to general laughter and applause.

  All in all, thought Alix , she’d had a lovely day—especially given the way it had started.

  In the morning she took a grumbling, barely awake Chris to the airport for her seven a.m. ShareJet flight to Seattle and then drove to the museum, where she planned to put in a solid day’s work on the Sargent. Unlike Jackson Pollock, John Singer Sargent was a painter with whose work she very definitely “connected,” and she was both pleased and humbled to have been given the chance to restore Mrs. Jay Chandler Winthrop to something like the clarity and brightness it would have had on the day it came from his easel in 1893. “America’s greatest portraitist,” as he was often called, was born in Florence, trained in Paris, and lived most of his life in London, where he died. But he did make frequent trips to America to take on some of the portrait commissions that poured in from across the sea. And what portraits they were—masterly and lush, in the rich portraiture tradition of Velasquez or Hals. And as with those gentlemen, his finest and most famous ones were of the aristocracy of the day. With Velasquez it had been the Spanish royalty, with Hals the civic dignitaries and rich burghers of Haarlem, and with Sargent the wealthy socialites of London, Boston, and Paris. But with all three painters, whoever the subject might be, he or she was rendered with a liveliness and humanity that could enthrall a viewer from another century, another universe.

  Eager to get started, she had planned ahead and brought a 20-ounce Starbucks caffe latte with her so that she could get to the painting without having to stop in the break room, which she suspected would be buzzing about Clark’s murder, something in which she had no desire to participate. Having successfully accomplished this, she was pleased to see that the binocular microscope had been brought up for her from the storeroom, and there were four slit-open cartons from art supply houses on the worktable: the material she’d ordered a couple of days ago.

  Earlier, she’d removed the frame and made her usual careful examination of the painting, front and back. The wooden stretcher (the framework to which the canvas is attached—by tacks, in this case) was unwarped and in excellent condition. No repair work required there. The front, while by no means in terrible condition, was in need of some TLC. A layer of grime coated the surface, and under it the old varnish had yellowed and darkened. The result was a flattening of Sargent’s three-dimensional effects and a muting of his colors. Alix was sure that the cleaning process would reveal a vivid, living portrait that no one had seen for at least fifty years, and she was looking forward to her coming ah-ha moment, usually accompanied by a shiver of pure pleasure, when Sargent’s original, vivid colors first peeped through, clean and bright.

  But before that, a few minor repairs were necessary. Over the decades a
dozen tiny frayed areas—“pinpoint losses”—had opened up in the canvas’s weave. These defects, although barely visible, had to be fixed so that there was no risk of them opening wider during the cleaning or in the future. For this purpose she would apply a dab of gelatin adhesive to each spot to firm up the edges of the hole and hold them in place; a restorer’s version of Super Glue.

  She took a couple of gulps of coffee, set the cardboard cup a safe distance away, used distilled water to mix a ten percent solution of the adhesive, picked up one of her thinnest brushes, and got to work, starting in the upper left corner, a dimly gleaming sconce on the wall behind the sitter. Except for the movements of her arm and the occasional emergence of the tip of her tongue, she remained stone-still.

  In an hour it was done. Before she could go on to the next step, the adhesive needed to set, so it was a good time to get started on the Eakins; one of his later boxing scenes. And after that the Mary Cassatt still life, which would probably be the trickiest.

  And so the day passed, without incident, without trauma. Without, in fact, speaking more than a few desultory sentences to anyone. When she took a mug of coffee and a couple of packaged oatmeal cookies out to the atrium for a late-afternoon break, she found Jerry and the curators, minus Prentice, having a break of their own around a couple of pulled-together picnic tables. Responding to their amiable waves, she sat down with them at the end of a bench.

  Alfie Wellington was expressing worry about a visit the following afternoon from someone who’d called the museum, saying she was sure she’d found a drawing by Gherardo Cibo while going through her father’s house after his death. With Prentice away for a couple of days, Mrs. B had asked Alfie to take a look when she came in with it for an “expert” opinion.

  “And I never even heard of the man,” Alfie moaned. “Everything I know about him I learned from Wikipedia, and that was this morning. How am I supposed to tell her if it’s the real thing or not?”