by Mike Befeler
“Assuming it wasn’t some argument with another homeless person, we need to find out why someone wanted to murder him.”
“Something is going on with these art dealers. Vansworthy might have been caught in some kind of vendetta, and Muddy Murphy must have been tangled up in something as well.”
“But you don’t know of a motive for sure,” Marion said.
“Not yet. That’s why I need to learn more about this whole art-dealer world.”
We arrived at Brock’s gallery and entered a remodeled red-brick warehouse that now looked like a museum. Colorful paintings lined the walls, and large stone and metal sculptures stood on pedestals, evenly spaced on a polished hardwood floor. Eyeing a series of sculpted stone heads, I felt like I had landed on an Easter Island for pygmies.
“Quite a place,” I said to Marion.
“I’ve meant to visit Clint’s gallery. I’ve heard so much about it.” She pointed to a silver sculpture suspended from the ceiling. “What do you think of that?”
“It’s either an advertisement for United Airlines or a captured CIA spy device.”
The place was unnaturally quiet and our footsteps echoed as we walked across the floor. I smelled the aroma of brewing coffee and shivered in the overly air-conditioned atmosphere.
A pleasant young woman in black jacket and skirt, complemented by dangly gold earrings, greeted us and directed us to a room in the back. We entered and a man I assumed was Clint Brock came out from behind a glass-covered desk to welcome us. He wore dark slacks and a white turtleneck. He gave me a firm handshake and then clasped Marion’s hands in both of his. I thought back to the description I had written of him in my journal. He definitely had that Cary Grant persona, complete with solid chin and generous smile.
“Thank you for making time to see us, Clint,” Marion said.
“It’s my pleasure. You’re long overdue to visit my gallery. Let me give you a tour.”
He led us back into the main room and began describing the Michelsons, Rachlieus and Beauchamps lining the walls. I stared at the weird collection of paint blobs, skewed lines and crosshatched patterns, not recognizing a worldly object or scene in the lot.
“And your Muddy Murphys?” I asked.
“Over here.” He pointed to two large paintings that covered most of a side wall. One looked like horse heads emerging from garbage cans, and the other displayed a group of filmy bodies floating over something that might have been rows of corn.
I squinted at the horse heads. “I’m obviously not communing with this painting.”
Clint laughed. “Muddy Murphy grows on you. He painted in a very broad and eclectic range of styles. These are from his composite period where he mixed touches of realism with an air of fantasy.” He pointed to the painting of the rows of corn. “Notice the blending of colors, the firm brushstrokes and the balance that focuses your attention to the left center.”
“Did he ever paint real pictures?” I asked.
Clint’s eyes sparkled. “Obviously you are a traditionalist, Mr. Jacobson. Muddy’s early works were in a style similar to Andrew Wyeth’s but then he began experimenting and that was when the value of—and interest in—his artwork soared. He has become one of the most popular artists in the California school over the last five years.”
I scratched my head. “Maybe his school let kids pass to the next grade, but I can’t make much of this type of art.”
“I can assure you that if you continue to view Muddy’s works, you’ll become a fan of his.”
I didn’t share his optimism.
Clint led us back into his office and showed us to chairs facing his desk.
“I understand prices for his paintings have increased since his untimely demise,” I said.
“That’s correct. With no future supply, there is increased demand for the existing work.”
“We were told that you were one of the three primary dealers in Mr. Murphy’s work,” Marion said.
“Yes. I have a number of his paintings in my offsite warehouse and the adjoining storage room.” He pointed to a door off the side of his office.
I watched Brock’s face carefully. “What about these two other dealers, Vansworthy and Theobault?”
No change in expression. “Yes. They have been my friendly competitors.”
“I can’t imagine that it was too friendly. When you’re all competing for business, they must be a threat to you.”
I detected a small downturn at the corners of his mouth. “Obviously any time two or more people are seeking sales from the same base of customers, there will be some tension, but we each have separate portfolios of work. You must realize, Mr. Jacobson, that, in our world, personal preference dictates the client’s final decision. My holdings are only as good as the match to the interests of my clientele. Having competitors may divert some sales, but it also directs people to me if my competitor’s selection is not as good as mine.”
“And the breadth of choice these others offer of Muddy Murphy’s work. How do they compare to yours?”
He now gave me a broad smile. “A fair portfolio, but not as complete as I can offer.”
Marion jumped in. “Mr. Theobault seemed to have quite a few Muddy Murphy paintings.”
“Yes. He provides an adequate portfolio. But he didn’t start collecting Murphys as soon as I did. He lacks coverage of the eclectic early stages of his work.”
“And old Vansworthy kicked the bucket. What happened to his collection?”
A glint appeared in Brock’s eyes. “I imagine Theobault will pick it up. They had a partnership.”
“Aren’t you worried that that will give Theobault a better collection than yours with the two businesses now combined?”
Clint gave a dismissive wave. “We’re down to two major sources that people can buy from. I’ll earn my fair share.”
I thought for a moment. “Then Theobault may have benefited from the death of Vansworthy.”
Brock also paused. “He did. There was tension in their partnership, and now Theobault will possess the whole portfolio.”
“Doesn’t it seem suspicious that Vansworthy was murdered and then Theobault benefits?” Marion asked.
“An astute observation,” Brock said. “I’m sure the police are looking into that motive.”
“So Vansworthy bites the dust, and you and Theobault have one less competitor. What I still don’t understand is how Muddy Murphy’s paintings jumped in value so quickly after his death.”
“It’s very simple, Mr. Jacobson. When a tragedy like this occurs, word gets out immediately in the art community. People who have contemplated buying a Murphy work suddenly realize that the supply is limited. Rather than waiting, they’re willing to pay a premium before someone else steps in.”
I thought back to what I had read in my journal. “But I understand Murphy had given up painting.”
“He had, but there was no telling that he wouldn’t pick up his brush again at any time. His death punctuates the finality of his creative stream.”
I felt like he was describing the demise of a popcorn machine rather than the death of a human being.
“I still don’t comprehend why he stopped painting,” Marion said. “If he was so popular and able to command high prices, why would he give it up?”
Clint sighed. “The idiosyncrasy of the artistic mind. Muddy Murphy was a genius and like many geniuses, a little unbalanced. He developed a paranoia toward art dealers, myself included, and refused to contribute any more works for sale. It was his decision, and he stuck to it.”
Marion turned toward Brock. “At the church last Sunday, you and I were talking when Paul had a shouting match with a street person. You must have overheard that.”
“I did.”
“That was Muddy Murphy,” Marion said.
“It was,” Brock replied. “An example of how unhinged he had become.”
I grimaced at the reminder of my link to Muddy and his ultimate demise.
“But
if he loved painting, how could he just give it up like that?” Marion asked. “Putting the economics and personal issues aside, I would think an artist would be driven to keep working.”
“Some people suspect that he was still secretly painting. I, for one, think he was spiteful enough to quit.”
“So he stops painting cold turkey to piss off you, Theobault and Vansworthy,” I said. “Pretty extreme.”
Brock grit his teeth. “Look at how he lived. He could have chosen the lifestyle of a wealthy man with an upscale apartment or mansion and all its trappings. Yet he decided to sleep on the streets and hang out with the local bums. Not your typical approach to being an acclaimed artist.” Brock clenched his fists.
I stared at him, noticing the chink in the armor of his composure. “Did you try to talk him into painting again?”
“Several of us made the attempt, to no avail. He had made his mind up and could be extremely stubborn.”
“So who could have benefited from the deaths of both Muddy Murphy and Vansworthy?”
Brock paused for a moment, regaining his pleasant demeanor. “That’s easy. Theobault. Why so much interest in this whole affair, Mr. Jacobson?”
“I’m just a nosy old coot. Since I’m now a Venice resident, I’m trying to understand our local culture.”
“In that case you might enjoy an exhibit opening on Saturday.” Clint handed each of us a three-by-eight-inch card. On one side were two color pictures of wild and splashy abstract paintings with the words “Brock Gallery presents paintings by Muddy Murphy.” I turned it over. This side elaborated: “Brock Gallery presents the paintings of Venice’s renowned artist Muddy Murphy. Please join us from 6 to 8 p.m. Saturday, July 29. Refreshments and the music of the Kiernan Quartet.”
Marion looked at me. “Sounds like something we’d enjoy attending. Thank you, Clint.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to leave for an appointment in Beverly Hills.”
We shook hands, and Marion and I found ourselves escorted out of the office. We took one last spin around the gallery as I kept my hand on my wallet. I viewed one more atrocity, a sculpture that reminded me of snakes tied in knots, and then we headed out to the street.
“What did you think of that?” Marion asked.
I rubbed my chin. “He acted like a pretty smooth operator. But something bothers me. He obviously had some negative feelings about Muddy Murphy, yet he stands to profit from Muddy’s death. And having an exhibit the Saturday after Muddy’s death . . .”
“That’s obviously been planned for some time with the color cards already printed. But you’re right. He did have a reaction when we talked of Muddy Murphy. That was the one time he exhibited a lot of emotion.”
“The Vansworthy and Theobault connection is very suspicious. I wonder if my good buddy Detective Quintana has found out anything concerning the relationship between those two?”
“If he has, he’d never share it with us.”
“That’s the damn problem. I’m in the middle of this thing and it’s like pulling hen’s teeth to track down any useful information. This art-dealer outfit doesn’t pass the sniff test, but I can’t piece it together yet. How well do you know Brock?”
“He’s just a social acquaintance.”
“Do you trust him?” I asked.
She looked at me thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I’ve never had any problem with him, but I’ve never witnessed his business dealings.”
* * * * *
Back at the old bungalow, Marion disappeared into the powder room and I plunked my aging frame down in a kitchen chair to contemplate if I’d have something to eat or try to resolve the other pang in my gut over the art-dealer world. I decided to munch on an apple while I analyzed what we had learned from Clint Brock. He seemed like a nice-enough fellow, but I had been fooled before. Way back when, I thought a lawyer was helping me and he turned out to be collecting information for litigation and proceeded to sue me, causing me months of hassle and expense, before the whole damn thing was tossed out of court. Had never trusted lawyers since.
Was Brock genuine or two-faced like this lawyer from my past? I couldn’t tell yet. I’d have to keep sniffing around and see what would crawl out from under the rocks I turned over.
My ruminations were interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Come on in,” I shouted.
Andrea strolled in. “I have a message for you.”
“A long lost relative willing me a fortune?”
“No, but the next best thing. Jennifer couldn’t reach you so she called me and asked me to invite you to watch her surf today. She’ll be by the breakwater in front of the plaza in thirty minutes.”
Marion reappeared.
“Well, I better mosey over there. Marion, you up for another stroll?”
“No, Paul. I need to write thank-you notes for our wedding presents. You can find it on your own. Go to the path along the beachfront and head north past the paddle-tennis courts and Muscle Beach.”
I flexed my biceps. “I should be able to find it if they don’t rope me into modeling first.”
Marion picked up the newspaper and swatted me. “Get out of here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter 8
I followed Marion’s instructions, gawking at crowds of people dressed or undressed in every conceivable type of outfit. As I wandered along the boardwalk, I looked up to see a building that looked like the Doge’s Palace: arches over windows with balustrades below, intersecting diamond patterns in brown on an off-white surface. Above the roof fluttered half a dozen flags including those of the United States, United Kingdom and Italy.
I peered at one of the windows and did a double take at the sight of a woman framed there. She looked like a younger version of Marion. On closer inspection I saw it was a painted image and not a real person. Damn. Artists sure went wild in this town.
I found a plaza with an enthusiastic group of young men playing basketball on a blue court. As I moved toward the beach, I spotted a skating area with people of all sizes and shapes twirling around and just beyond, a graffiti wall with spray-can-armed minor criminals doing their thing. I noticed off to the side a small building that looked like a concession stand on steroids that had a blue sign hanging from the roof that read “Police.” Over a large window, a yellow banner had been attached that said, “Now Hiring! Join.” How would Detective Quintana react if I submitted an application?
The wide open plaza was full of people. Off to the north a row of twenty-foot-tall palm trees swayed in single file like troops preparing to invade Santa Monica. Lumbering above the trees appeared a metal sculpture that looked like the letter “K” designed by an artist who drank a little too much bubbly. I was sure the Venice Beach art dealers would wax poetic on the beauty of the gawd-awful rusted and weathered structure.
The graffiti wall was a piece of work. Two cement cones, each the size of an Apollo space capsule, stood atop supporting concrete wall slabs, projecting out underneath. Then the pièce de résistance. A nearby seven-foot-high cement wall that stretched twenty yards across the sand amid a clump of palm trees. Every wall, cone, trash can and palm tree in the immediate vicinity was blanketed from ground level to ten feet up with dabs, streaks, logos, script, zig-zags, and initials in every imaginable color of the rainbow and then some.
I shook my head. Spray-can maniacs would have a field day here. And they were. A group of young men sprayed and dabbed to their hearts content, defacing old art with their new creations. No women engaged. I guessed they were too smart.
I surveyed one section of the wall that had what appeared to be dancing white ghosts amid a background of black and red ghouls. Next to this rested a garbage can embellished with initials and warped smiley faces in blue and green. One of the cones displayed large white letters “PPT” over a background of schizophrenic pink waves. Someone had scaled to the top of the cone to paint “ADDE 626.” I’m sure that was significant to some weirdo.
As I continued to stroll through the warped artists’ paradise, I watched a hirsute young man in paint-spattered jeans complete yellow letters outlined in black that read “HITNRUN.” That summed it all up. Hit the wall with the spray can and take off before the sight gave you the runs.
I meandered down to the beach and sat down on the sand, enjoying the heat of the sun on my old joints. Out in the ocean, waves broke, and half a dozen surfers sat on boards waiting for their perfect waves. I could have nodded off with the sound of waves breaking and the gentle ocean breeze running through my hair but didn’t want my memory to do the Jacobson whiteout.
“Hi, Grandpa,” came a shout behind me.
I turned to see a young girl decked out in a black wet suit, struggling toward me carrying a large surfboard.
“You look like a seal trying to carry a tree,” I said.
“I’ll make it. It’s not much farther.” She dropped the board next to me and plopped down on the sand.
“So you’re going to show these Californians how a Coloradan surfs?”
“You bet, Grandpa. Watch me catch some good rides. These waves are perfect for me.”
“The only waves perfect for me are the ones who are in the Navy. You’ll never get me out in that water.”
Jennifer clicked her tongue. “Grandpa, I don’t know what to do with you. You live near the beach now. You need to change your ways and learn to appreciate the wonders of the ocean.”
“Not likely at my age. But I’ll be happy to watch you surf while you enjoy the seven seas. You go play porpoise, and I’ll fight the sand fleas.”
Jennifer looked around and pointed. “You should go over to that pile of rocks. That’d be a good place to watch me. It’s higher up and closer to where I’ll be surfing.”
“You’re right. From there I’ll be able to see you fine. It’s a good thing my eyesight is much better than my memory.”
We both stood up. Jennifer lifted the front of her surfboard and dragged it the remaining distance to the water.