by Sofie Kelly
I drove Roma home after breakfast, moving Marcus’s SUV out onto the street so I could back the truck out of my driveway. When I got back it was gone and there was a brown paper bag propped on the doorknob of the back door. There was a smiley face drawn on the front with a black marker and one of Eric’s cinnamon rolls inside.
Rebecca called a few minutes after nine o’clock. “I have some information for you,” she said. “Do you have a few minutes?”
“I do,” I said. “Would you like to come over and tell me in person? I have coffee, tea and”—I leaned sideways to look at the counter, realizing as I did that Roma and I had eaten the last of the blueberry scones and I’d demolished Marcus’s cinnamon roll—“sardine cat crackers.”
Rebecca laughed. “As . . . tempting as that sounds, I’m not home. I’m actually downtown in Everett’s pied-à-terre.”
“Ahh, romantic,” I teased.
“Yes, it was,” she said a saucy lilt to her voice.
I could imagine her smile and the twinkle in her eyes. Rebecca and Everett could make the most cynical person out there believe in love and happily ever after.
“So what did you find out?” I asked, pulling my feet up so I was sitting cross-legged on the chair.
“The Holmeses are not the happy family they seemed to be on the outside,” she said.
“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way,” I said.
“Exactly,” Rebecca said. “I think Tolstoy had that right, although I think the unhappy families are that way for the same few reasons.”
“What do you think the reasons were in this case?”
“I think there was only one: money.”
I reached for my coffee. “Charles Holmes’s art collection.”
“Yes. I talked to the wife of one of Everett’s business associates. Clara told me that Marshall Holmes tried to sue his sister over the collection. He thought Diana had used undue influence on their father.”
“You said, ‘tried to sue,’” I said.
“The case was dismissed,” she said. “It seems that before he died Charles had decided to have all the artwork appraised with the idea that he’d divide the collection equally between Marshall and Diana. He died before anything really got started, so the way his will was written, they shared the whole collection.”
“I can see how that caused problems,” I said. I took a sip of my coffee.
“It seems there was enough evidence to show what Charles’s intentions had been,” she said. “Even though Marshall’s lawsuit was dismissed, the judge ordered a complete appraisal of the art at the estate’s expense with the goal being to divide the collection as fairly as possible.”
“So shouldn’t that have solved the problem?”
“Well, dear, you’d think it would,” Rebecca said. “But from what I could gather, it hasn’t. First of all, the appraisal process takes time, not to mention, some of the artwork is out on loan in various exhibits at the moment. And both Marshall and Diana have some limited veto over who’s going to do the actual assessment.”
I took another sip of my coffee and set the cup on the table. “They haven’t started yet, have they?” I asked.
“The only piece that’s been valued is the Weston drawing,” she said. “Charles had that evaluated right before his death.” She made a sound of annoyance. “Both of those young people are very childish in their behavior. On the other hand, this really is something Charles should have settled long before he died.”
I sensed there was a similarity between Marshall and Diana Holmes wrangling over the Weston drawing and Owen and Hercules bickering about the grackle. Nobody wanted to give in first.
“Rebecca, do you think either one of them could have been involved in what happened at the library?” I said.
She sighed softly. “I hate to think it, Kathleen,” she said. “But, yes, it’s possible. Clara told me that both Marshall and Diana are having some—as she put it—cash-flow problems.”
“They’re broke,” I said, stretching sideways and snagging the handle of the coffeepot with two fingers.
“As the proverbial church mouse,” Rebecca countered. “The business and the foundation are doing quite well, but both children have been living way beyond their means for some time.”
“I just have one more question,” I said. “Did your friend happen to mention who did the appraisal of the Weston drawing?” Mentally, I crossed my fingers, remembering Lise’s comment about Edward Mato and the Weston drawing: “I think he actually might have appraised it at some point.”
“I think she said his last name was Mato. I’m sorry. I don’t remember his first name. I’m not sure Clara even said.”
I did a little fist pump in the air. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Thank you for doing all this for me.”
“Oh, my dear, you’re very welcome,” Rebecca said. “I quite enjoyed it. I think I would have made a very good spy.”
I laughed. “I think you would, too. I’m glad we’re on the same side.”
Rebecca laughed and promised she’d be over soon for tea, and we said good-bye.
I got up and stretched. I didn’t have anything I could really share with Marcus, but I felt confident I was on the right track.
I looked at my watch. Lise should be in her office in Boston. I punched in her number.
“Hey, Kath, what’s up?” she said when she answered.
“I need your help with something,” I said.
“Name it. It’s yours.”
“Your friend, Edward Mato. Do you think he’d talk to me?”
“I don’t see why not,” she said. “Are you looking for more information about that missing drawing?”
“I have a couple of questions about its history,” I said.
“Let me call him and see what he says. Is it okay if I give him your number?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll see if I can track him down.”
“I owe you,” I said.
“Umm, I know,” she said with a laugh. “I’ll put it on your tab.”
I knew it could be hours or days before I heard from Edward Mato, if he even agreed at all to talk to me about the Weston drawing, so I was surprised when my phone rang about ten minutes later and it was him.
Edward Mato had a smooth, deep voice and a slightly formal manner of speaking.
“Lise told me it was your library that Below the Falls was stolen from,” he said.
“Below the Falls, that’s the name of the Weston drawing?” I said. I hadn’t heard the drawing called by that name.
“That’s the title the artist gave it, yes.”
“Mr. Mato, you appraised that drawing for Charles Holmes before he died. If it turns out that it was actually the work of his first wife, what would that do to its value?”
“Please, call me Edward,” he said.
“I will,” I said. “If you’ll call me Kathleen.”
“You’ve heard the rumors about the drawing’s origins, then, Kathleen,” Edward Mato said, phrasing the sentence as a statement, not a question.
“Yes, I have. And I know it’s not the only piece by Weston that’s in question.”
“You do your homework.” I thought I heard a note of approval in his voice.
“I like to know what I’m talking about, where I can,” I said.
“Even without incontrovertible proof, a collector could conceivably be willing to pay two, two and a half million dollars for Below the Falls.”
Two and a half million dollars. Two and a half million reasons to steal the drawing and replace it with a fake. Two and a half million reasons to kill Margo Walsh.
“You told Charles Holmes that you believed his drawing hadn’t been done by Sam Weston.”
“That’s correct. Based
on my knowledge of Native American art and techniques from that time period as well as what I know about Weston’s work, I told Mr. Holmes I believed Below the Falls was created by his first wife, not Weston himself.”
“You said Below the Falls is the title the artist gave the drawing. You meant Stands Sacred,” I said.
“Very good,” he said. I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Would your appraisal be enough for a court to give the drawing to the Dakota Sioux people? I know they’ve returned land and other property based on treaty agreements.”
“It’s possible,” he said. “I’ve been an expert witness twice in legal actions.”
So if someone was going to sell Below the Falls to a collector, now was the time.
I thanked Edward Mato for his time and ended the call.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said. There were no cats around and I felt a little silly just talking to myself.
So if Marshall and Diana Holmes were both having financial problems and they were co-owners of a drawing worth more than two million dollars, did it mean that one of them was involved in Margo’s murder?
I walked outside and sat on the steps, hoping that somehow the fresh air would clear my head. I saw movement at the edge of the grass where my yard joined Rebecca’s. Owen came stalking across the lawn. He climbed the steps and sat down beside me. There was a scrap of newspaper hanging cock-eyed from one of his ears.
I snagged the bit of paper and held it up. “Stay out of Rebecca’s recycling bin,” I said, glaring at him.
“Murp,” Owen said.
“You think I don’t know you’re over there all the time,” I said, setting the corner of newsprint on my leg and smoothing it flat with a finger. “You pretend you’re over there to do rodent patrol when really you’re just nosy. It’s classic misdirection.”
He looked at me unblinkingly. Then he lifted a paw and nonchalantly began washing his face.
“Misdirection,” I repeated slowly. Maybe it was the fresh air. Or Owen’s penchant for rooting around in Rebecca’s recycling bin. Or maybe my little gray cells had finally put the pieces together.
22
I called Maggie, and when I explained what I was thinking, she gave me Rena’s phone number. It was looking like she would be able to make a plea deal with respect to the charges against her.
I wasn’t even sure Rena would answer her phone when she saw it was me calling—after all, I had been part of that ambush at the library—but she did pick up on the fifth ring.
“I have one question I’m hoping you’ll answer for me,” I said.
“I’ve already answered a lot more than that for the police,” she said.
I wasn’t exactly surprised by her reaction. She had no reason to help me. “Fair enough,” I said. “I still have your paintings in my office. I can give them to Maggie if that’s better for you.”
There was silence for a moment; then she said, “If I answer your question, will it help catch the person who killed Margo?”
“It might.”
“What is it?”
“Did you and Margo ever talk face-to-face about stealing the drawing?”
“No,” Rena said. “We were never alone face-to-face. All of our conversations were either by e-mail or cell phone. She called herself Madame X.”
“How did you know it was Margo, then?”
“I didn’t at first. But I knew her voice sounded familiar the first time we all met at the library; that and the last-minute invitation to be part of the exhibit are what twigged for me.”
I was on the right track. “Thank you,” I said.
“That’s it?” Rena asked. “That’s going to help somehow?”
“I think so.”
“Well . . . good luck,” she said.
I ended the call and looked down at two furry faces. “We’re right,” I said. “Now all we have to do is prove it.”
I turned my computer back on and began scrolling through the archives for the Lifestyle section of the Minneapolis Star-Tribune. Now that I knew what I was looking for, it wasn’t that hard to find.
After about an hour I stood up and stretched. Owen had wandered off, but Hercules was sitting by my chair. “I know who did it, how they did it and why they did it,” I told him, scooping him up into my arms. I swung around in a circle, holding the cat to my chest, and then did a little victory dance.
Hercules gave me a loopy eyes-crossed look. “We’re going to catch some bad guys!” I said.
Catching bad guys wasn’t that simple, it turned out. I’d talked to Marcus three times by the time it was time for tai chi, and I was tired and frustrated. My form was wonky and I wanted to stop in the middle and go home, but I made myself keep going.
Ruby gave me a hug after class. “You’re just having an off night,” she said.
She didn’t know the half of it, I thought.
Maggie walked over to us. “The St. James?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
I nodded. “Yes.”
The hotel bar was quiet, not surprising for a Tuesday night. Gavin Solomon and Marshall Holmes were at a table in the center of the room. Gavin looked up when we walked in. “Hi, Kathleen,” he said, getting to his feet. “I was just going over the insurance company’s plan for returning the artwork to the museum with Marshall. Can you join us? I can bring you up to date.”
Marshall smiled up at us. “Please,” he said, gesturing at the table.
“Thank you,” I said. I looked at Gavin. “Could we do that in the morning? It’s been long day.”
“Sure,” he said, frowning slightly. “I’ll call you.”
“Good to see you,” I said to Marshall.
“Good to see both of you,” he replied.
Maggie had already taken a seat at a nearby table. We each ordered a glass of red wine. Maggie propped both elbows on the table. “Okay, what’s going on?” she said.
I rubbed the back of my neck with one hand. “You know how Abigail and Susan have been helping out keeping the different groups running in your studio?” I asked.
Maggie nodded. “They’ve been great. It wouldn’t have worked without them.”
“Everett said the board would pay them for that time if I could get the paperwork in before the board meeting tomorrow.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Maggie asked.
“It would be if I could get into my office to get the actual paperwork.” I sighed loudly.
“So, get Marcus to let you in.”
The waiter came back with our wine. Maggie smiled at him. He was so captivated with her smile he tripped over his own feet on the way back to the bar.
“He won’t,” I said playing with the little coaster my wineglass had come with.
Maggie held up her glass, studied its contents and then took a sip. “Why not?” she asked.
“My office is sealed until they finish searching the building.”
“So get the paperwork from Lita.”
It was hard to keep my feelings from showing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Gavin put away his cell phone, stand up and shake hands with Marshall Holmes. “I can’t. She’s out of town on some kind of family emergency.”
“So you’ll get the money approved at the next board meeting,” Maggie said with a shrug.
“Both Abigail and Susan could use the money now. The library has been closed,” I said. “They aren’t getting paid.” I folded one arm up over my head. “Why does Marcus have to be so unreasonable?”
Maggie raised an eyebrow at me. “C’mon, Kath. It’s a police investigation. I thought you wanted them to catch whoever killed Margo.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly before I answered her. “I do. But how is me getting a couple of forms from my office going to interfere with that? It’s not like he hasn’t let me into
the building before this. I thought now that we’re together things were going to be different, but Marcus is just sliding back into his same old rigid ways.”
Maggie set her glass down. “That’s not fair. He’s just doing his job. And it’s not like you to expect some kind of special favors.”
“I’m not asking for ‘special favors,’” I said. I could feel the tightness in my jaw and hear it in my voice. “I’m just trying to make sure Susan and Abigail get paid for doing their jobs—actually, for doing more than their jobs.” There was a knot of anxiety gnawing at my stomach. “It’s not like you to take someone else’s side, Mags.”
Maggie sat up very straight in her chair. “I’m not taking any side, Kathleen,” she said. “I think this whole business at the library has been really difficult and I think you may have lost your perspective.” She looked at me for a long moment. Then she pushed her chair back. “I think it would be better if I left.”
I looked down at the table. “I think you’re right,” I said. Maggie walked away. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. When I looked up, Marshall Holmes was standing by the table.
“Kathleen, are you all right?” he asked. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding.”
“You’re not,” I said. “I, uh, it’s been a difficult day.”
Marshall smiled. “I’ve had a few of those.” He gestured at Maggie’s empty chair. “May I sit down?”
“Please,” I said. I picked up my glass and set it back down again. “You had to have heard me arguing with Maggie. I’m sorry about that.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” he said, pulling out the chair and sitting down. “The theft of the Weston drawing and Margo Walsh’s death have put a lot of people on edge, myself included. I know it’s easy to get overwhelmed.”
I sighed softly. “I’m beginning to think the police are never going to solve this.”
“I thought they were searching the library again,” Marshall said.
He was wearing jeans and a jade green sweater over a pale blue shirt with the sleeves pushed back. I thought about how many picture books I could have bought for Reading Buddies with the money he’d probably paid for that sweater.