by Sofie Kelly
I pictured her, elbows propped on her kitchen table, making a face at my words. “I wish I wasn’t.”
“I’m beginning to think that Mayville Heights is the crime capital of the Midwest,” she’d said. “You’re okay, right?”
“I’m fine,” I had said, shifting my arm a little, which got me a one-eyed glare from Hercules. It evaporated once I began to stroke his ebony fur. I’d decided not to tell Lise about Margo or how the brass statue she’d sent me had been used to kill her.
“That Weston drawing could be worth quite a lot of money,” Lise had said. “Though actually, some experts believe it’s not Weston’s work.”
Hercules had been purring, a low rumble coming from his chest. “If it’s not Weston’s work, then how can it be worth a lot of money?” I asked.
“Because some experts think the drawing was done by Weston’s first wife. She was Native American.”
“Do you know anyone I could talk to who could tell me more?”
“I can tell you more.”
“I didn’t know you were interested in nineteenth-century American art.”
“I’m interested in lots of things,” she’d said, and I had felt her smile through the phone. “Did I ever introduce you to Edward Mato?”
Hercules had lifted his head and looked at me. My hand had stopped moving. “I don’t think so.”
“Back about 1990 the federal government passed the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act—as a way of hopefully returning remains and artifacts buried with them to the Native American tribes they belonged to. Ed’s ancestry is Sioux and he’s an expert on native burial rituals.”
“What does that have to do with the Weston drawing?” I’d asked.
“He’s also interested in native art,” Lise had said. “He’s very knowledgeable. About a month ago we bumped into each other at a cocktail party and I was telling him about the exhibit coming to your library. He’s the one who told me there’s some controversy about who the real creator of that drawing is. I think he actually might have appraised it at some point.”
After I’d talked to Lise I’d pulled out my computer to see what I could find out about Sam Weston and his art. It was a fascinating story.
Sam Weston had been a graduate of West Point and a mapmaker and artist for the United States Army. He’d spent three years at Fort Snelling, which was located near where Minneapolis is today. Weston had learned the language of the Sioux people and created detailed sketches and paintings of their lives. And he had married fifteen-year-old Wakaninajiinwin, or Stands Sacred, leaving her and their daughter behind when he was reassigned two years later.
Weston kept very detailed sketchbooks during his time at Fort Snelling, I learned, but there was also a portfolio of individual sketches and watercolors from that time. That’s where the controversy began. There was a school of thought that believed some of the drawings in that portfolio, including the village scene missing from the exhibit, weren’t done by Weston, but by Stands Sacred, his teenage first wife.
“If there was any kind of proof that those disputed drawings weren’t done by Sam Weston, they could be worth a fortune to collectors of Native American art, not to mention the historical value to the Dakota Sioux people,” I’d said to Hercules, who’d been “helping” me with my research. “Which could explain why someone wanted to steal the drawing.”
The cat had murped his agreement.
If Stands Sacred was the real artist, the drawing would be one of the few intact pieces of native art from that period. And it could call into question the provenance of every other Weston drawing from that time.
I’d told Marcus what I’d learned about the drawing. Now I wondered if Margo had known how potentially valuable the drawing was. Was that why she had had reservations about the exhibit?
Gavin touched my shoulder and I jumped. “Sorry,” he said. “I called your name but you didn’t hear me. Where were you?”
“I got a little distracted,” I said. “Are you ready to leave?”
He nodded. “Big Jule is meeting us at the restaurant.” He glanced at his watch. “And we should get going.”
The Rose and Gray restaurant was on the bottom floor of a restored brick building close to the river in downtown Minneapolis. Inside there was wide plank flooring and high windows overlooking the waterfront. We were shown to a round table in the middle of the room. The ponytailed waiter dressed all in black held out my chair for me. “Would you like coffee?” he asked.
“Please,” I said.
Gavin nodded his agreement and sat down as the waiter headed to the far side of the room. “Big Jule should be here in a couple of minutes,” he said. “He likes to make an entrance.”
The waiter returned with our coffee and I was just taking my first sip when Julian McCrea entered the restaurant.
He was a large man, tall and round in a double-breasted pinstripe suit with a white shirt and a white tie with navy polka dots. His black wingtips gleamed and he was carrying a charcoal fedora. He did make me think of the character from Guys and Dolls, but he could just as easily have been a fashion-forward businessman.
Gavin got to his feet as McCrea approached the table, and I did the same.
“Gavin, it’s been too long,” the big man said, shaking the hand offered. I saw a glint of gold cuff links at the cuffs of the crisp white shirt.
“It’s good to see you,” Gavin replied with what sounded to me like a touch of deference in his voice. “This is my friend Kathleen Paulson.” He gestured to me. “Kathleen, I’d like you to meet Julian McCrea.”
McCrea smiled and took the hand I held out in both of his. “It’s truly a pleasure to meet you, Miss Paulson,” he said. I caught a hint of an accent in his cultured voice—not British or Australian; maybe South African.
“Thank you for making time to talk to us,” I said.
“Gavin told me what happened at your library,” he said. “I don’t know if I can be of any help, but I’m happy to answer your questions.”
We took our seats again. McCrea set his fedora on the empty chair between him and Gavin and turned his attention to me. “Tell me a little more about the exhibit. I didn’t get a lot of details.”
I gave him a brief background on how the library had come to be one of the stops on the exhibit of mid-nineteenth-century artwork and explained how Margo had convinced the museum to include a contemporary local segment of artwork at each stop on the tour. Gavin sat silently, nodding on occasion but letting me do all the talking.
“I met Margo several times, socially,” McCrea said. “The art world—at least here—is a very small world. I was sorry to hear what happened.” He reached for his menu, which had appeared at his elbow along with a cup of tea about thirty seconds after he’d sat down. Our waiter had to have been watching and waiting for his cue.
“Do you like fish, Miss Paulson?” he asked.
“Yes, I do,” I said.
“Then I suggest the fish cakes with lemon dill sauce.”
“They sound delicious.” I closed my menu and set it back on the table.
The waiter appeared at McCrea’s elbow again, almost as though the big man had given some kind of signal. He took our orders, refilled my and Gavin’s cups and headed for the kitchen.
McCrea talked in general terms about the art scene in Minneapolis while we waited for our food. He was well spoken and clearly knowledgeable about his subject. The man was charming but in a different way from Gavin. Gavin’s charm was all about pulling you in. Julian McCrea’s was all about keeping you at arm’s length. I didn’t think I was going to get any information from him unless I could find a way to bring that wall down.
The fish cakes were delicious, a mix of catfish and salmon, with a thin, crispy bread-crumb coating. “These are excellent,” I said, raising my fork in acknowledgment to the art dealer. “The last t
ime I had fish cakes this good was in a little roadside diner just outside of Rockport, Maine, when my parents were doing Noises Off.”
“Your parents were involved in community theater?” McCrea asked.
I shook my head. “Summer stock. They’re both actors, although they also teach at a private school and my mother has been doing more directing lately.”
His blue eyes focused in on me. “May I ask their names? I’m wondering if I may have seen either of them on stage.”
“John and Thea Paulson,” I said. “If you’re a Shakespeare fan at all and you’ve seen any theater at all on the East Coast, it’s possible you’ve seen them.”
Julian McCrea’s eyes widened and a smile stretched across his face. “Thea Paulson is your mother?” he exclaimed.
It wasn’t the first time my mom’s name had gotten that kind of reaction. She’d just recently wrapped up her third visit to the daytime drama The Wild and the Wonderful. My father liked to tease that they couldn’t go anywhere without at least one young woman coming up to tell her she rocked.
“And men half my age stare at her,” Dad had said, laughing and shaking his head. “And the kind of looks they give her aren’t because they’re looking at her like she’s a mother figure.”
“Yes, she is,” I said in answer to McCrea’s question.
His smile grew wider. “I saw her maybe a dozen years ago as Portia in The Merchant of Venice, and two years ago as Ella in Last Love, in Boston. She’s very talented.”
“Yes, she is,” I said, smiling back at him. “Thank you.”
“What about you, Kathleen?” he asked. “Do you act?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid the talent gene skipped me.” I speared a forkful of arugula. “You clearly enjoy the theater. Have you done any acting?”
“I’ve played the role of Big Jule in Guys and Dolls,” he said. I noticed that he sat up a little straighter as he said the words.
“It’s one of my favorite musicals,” I said. That was true. I’d loved watching my dad rehearse his role as Sky Masterson and I really could do the choreography for “Luck Be a Lady.”
I gave Julian McCrea a quick once-over. “I can see you as Big Jule,” I said.
He patted his midsection. “I do have the ‘big’ part.”
“I was thinking more that you have the presence to play the role. It’s very easy for the character to turn into a caricature.” That was also true. I’d heard my mother express her dissatisfaction with the way the part had been cast a couple of times because the director had turned Big Jule into comic relief instead of using him to move the story forward.
We spent the rest of the meal talking about musical theater. Gavin didn’t say a word. When the waiter arrived with the bill, discreetly presented inside a small black folder, he indicated with a flick of his gaze that it should be given to him.
“Thank you, my friend,” McCrea said.
“Thank you for taking the time to talk to us,” Gavin replied.
The art dealer turned to me. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any help to you. I can promise you that no one is shopping that missing drawing around this area. If someone were, I would know. Unfortunately, you’re just going to have to take my word for that.”
“It’s good enough for me,” I said.
I hesitated. McCrea must have seen the uncertainty in my face. “Is there something else, Kathleen?” he asked.
“The name Devin Rossi has . . . come up in the investigation,” I said, hoping I’d chosen my words wisely.
He turned his head to look at Gavin for a moment before bringing his attention back to me. “Interesting,” was all he said.
“She acquires art for her customers.”
The big man tented his fingers over his midsection. “You’re very diplomatic,” he said, an amused expression on his face.
“My mother always says you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” I countered. I didn’t add that she also said you could get the best result by spreading a little bull around.
“I’ll put out a few discreet inquiries,” he said. “If I find out anything I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”
He pushed back his cuff, glanced at his watch and then got to his feet. Gavin and I did the same. McCrea took my hand in both of his. “It’s truly been a pleasure to meet you, Kathleen,” he said. “I hope to see you again.”
I smiled. “I’d like that.”
“It’s always good to see you, Gavin,” the big man said, reaching for his hat.
They shook hands and McCrea headed for the door.
Gavin flashed a credit card to the waiter, who had been hovering nearby. “He plays his cards very close to the vest, but you made a good impression on him. He may very well ask around.”
“Good,” I said.
He gave me a sidelong glance. “You played him like a five-string banjo.”
I shook my head. “We both like the theater. I meant everything I said. I’m guessing he’s very good in the role of Big Jule.” I pulled out my cell phone. “You tried to play me, though.”
I’d half expected him to deny it, but he didn’t. He gave me his “I’ve been a naughty boy” smile. “I knew Big Jule would be a lot more responsive to your charms than mine. And like you said, you both like the theater.”
“You knew if you just came and asked him directly if he knew anything, he wouldn’t tell you.”
He nodded. “I told you, he doesn’t show his hand for any reason.”
He pulled his car keys out of his pocket. His expression went from lighthearted to serious then. “Kathleen, I liked Margo. It was my job to keep the exhibit and anyone involved with it safe. Now it’s my job to find out what went wrong.”
“That’s a job for the police,” I said, not unaware of the irony that I was the one saying those words.
“From what I’ve heard you don’t always follow your own advice,” he said.
“Do you think Julian can help?”
Gavin’s mouth twisted to one side. “Truth? I don’t know. I do know that he knows the art world in this part of the country better than anyone else.”
“I guess we’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed,” I said. I held up my phone. “I just need to make a quick call.”
Gavin nodded. “I’ll wait for you at the car.”
Marcus answered on the second ring. “How was lunch?” he asked. “Did you learn anything?”
“Just that Julian McCrea is a fan of my mother and as far as he’s heard, no one is trying to sell the Weston drawing and no one had been putting out feelers about the piece before it was stolen.”
“You’re on your way back now.”
“Uh-huh.” I could see Gavin standing next to the car, talking on his own cell. “We’re just about to leave.”
“Can you stop at the library when you get here?” he asked.
“I can do that,” I said slowly. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was in his voice that told me he’d found something, but somehow I knew he had. “What’s going on?”
I heard voices in the background. “I’ll explain when you get here,” he said. “I have to go. See you soon.”
He was gone. I put my phone in my bag and headed outside.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that once we were back in Mayville Heights, things were going to get a lot more complicated.
13
Gavin asked me more about my family on the drive back. I noticed that when I tried to steer the conversation into his personal life he’d deftly move it back to me, the way he had when I questioned him about being rebellious.
I hadn’t told him about my conversation with Marcus. When we turned off the highway he glanced at me. “Where can I drop you?” he asked.
“The library, please,” I said. “
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Gavin nodded as the car hugged the curve of the exit ramp. “I’ll come with you. I did promise your detective I’d report in.”
In the parking lot of the library I recognized the car Hope and Marcus used when they worked together. Gavin followed me up the steps to the building. The first set of doors was unlocked and the old-fashioned wrought-iron security gates were also open. I tapped on the inside door and after a moment Hope came to let me in.
“Hi,” she said. “Marcus said you were on your way. You made good time.”
“And stuck to the speed limit, Detective,” Gavin said. “More or less.” His eyebrows went up and a small smile played on his face.
Hope rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Why do I think it was less rather than more?”
Marcus was standing by the circulation desk. He smiled as he caught sight of me and I couldn’t help smiling back as I walked over to him. Curtis Holt was doing a circuit of the exhibit area, checking the windows—part of his security guard duties, I guessed.
“Before you ask, we didn’t find out anything useful,” Gavin said.
I turned to look at him over my shoulder. “Yes, we did,” I said. I shifted my gaze to Hope and Marcus. “Julian McCrea told us that he hadn’t heard anything about anyone being interested in the Weston drawing, not before it was stolen and not since.”
“Do you think he was being honest with you?” Hope asked.
“I don’t think he had any reason to lie,” I said. I looked questioningly at Gavin.
“Big Jule doesn’t lie. He might split hairs or shade the truth, but he won’t tell an outright lie.”
Hope looked skeptical.
“He won’t,” Gavin repeated. “He went to Catholic school. He told Kathleen no one had approached him about acquiring the drawing. You can take that to the bank, for what it’s worth.”
“Every little piece is part of the puzzle.” Hope made a gesture like she was fitting two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle together. “You never know which small piece will help you figure out the entire picture.”
“We found something, too,” Marcus said. There was a piece of paper on the checkout desk. He reached over and picked it up.