A Box Full of Trouble

by Carolyn Haines

  Julia asked, “Is there anything else you can tell us about that visit? Sometimes something that seems quite ordinary can have unknown significance.”

  Rocco shook his head then stopped. “The phone rang. I heard it just as Trip was closing the door behind me when I left.”

  He sat quietly until Julia again broke the silence. “Tell me about the Malevich and Aloyis.”

  “The Malevich? God, that’s been ages ago. It hangs at the Telfair Museum, you know.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  Rocco smiled for the first time since they entered his establishment. “Of course you do.” He shook his head. “She made me with that painting. I found this dusty, ill cared for, peasant scene in an estate sale in one of those small Victorian houses to the South of the historic district. I looked up the signature but couldn’t find anything on the artist. I thought I could clean it up and sell it for a few dollars.”

  “How did Aloyis come into the picture,” Mitch asked.

  “I wrote her. This was in the days before any and everything you wanted to know could be found on the internet. There was something about the painting. I can’t explain it but I had it in the shop and every time I looked at it I thought it was special.” He lifted his hand dismissively. “I never thought I’d get an answer to my letter but a few days later a limousine pulled up to my shop door and out stepped Aloyis. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Just like that,” Mitch interjected. “Why do you think she came? You said you couldn’t find anything about the artist.”

  “The signature. Malevich was known by his Russian name in art circles but he always signed his work with his Polish name. There were a lot of Russians in Paris in the late twenties and early thirties. She realized who the artist was immediately.”

  “I don’t understand. Was he Polish or was he Russian?”

  “He was born of Polish parents but grew up under Russian domination due to the partitions. Essentially there was no longer a Poland at that point in history.”

  “Huh.” Mitch sat back in the chair and gave this some thought then he stood and Julia and Rocco followed suit. “You didn’t broker the Fechin sale to the Peltiers, did you?”

  “No. They found the painting while in Miami and dealt with the dealer there. They did call me and inquire about the reputation of the gallery. I assured them it was held in high esteem. Perhaps I did them a disservice with that advice.”

  “They contacted you before they made the purchase?”

  “Yes. But don’t think that gives me any more prior knowledge than half of Savannah. They couldn’t stop talking about it at the reception they held for the opening of the Historic Homes Tour. They were thrilled to have found the perfect wedding gift for Fiona.”

  “Do you know Doug Heinz?”

  “No.”

  “Also known as Viktor Letov.”

  “Again, Deputy, no.”

  Mitch gave a small nod of his head and turned toward the front of the shop. “Thanks for your time. You’ve been very helpful.”

  They walked down Bull Street toward Mitch’s car. He held the passenger door open for Julia. “Did Rocco and Chappie know each other well?”

  “Yes. Everyone who’s involved in the arts or local history knows Chappie. I’m sure they’ve been on various boards together between the museum and other civic functions. And as I’ve explained, Savannah is a small town.” Julia slid onto the seat and watched Mitch as he rounded the front of the car and got behind the wheel. “Why?”

  “Just trying to make the pieces fit.”

  They rode in silence for a couple of blocks.

  “Why do you think they spared your Fechin?”

  “Probably because very few people know about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “After my great-grandfather died Mame moved to the West coast. She liked the warmth of the South but she wanted to escape the smothering scrutiny. After a number of years she ended up in Taos. She didn’t return to Savannah until I was born.”

  “Where did she live when she came back?”

  “Where I live now. She gave me the house in her Will. The painting was a graduation gift several years before.”

  “How old was she when she died?”

  “Ninety-eight.”

  “Has it always hung there in the office?”

  “No. I had it in the safe during the renovations and only put it up once I moved in three years ago.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Where are we going?” Julia asked.

  “The museum. I’d like to see this famous painting.” He glanced over at her. “And I thought you were anxious to go there.”

  “I am.”

  “Care to tell me why?”

  “The shipping crate. The one from the Fechin theft arrived in pristine condition apparently. There were no indications it had been opened prior to arriving at the Peltier’s home. All the packaging was as it should be but the painting wasn’t inside.”

  “How do you think that happened?”

  “There are only two scenarios that I can think of that would fit. The thief had an identical crate with all the seals, markings, and weight that shipped instead. In that case the Fechin is still in Miami.”

  “And the other scenario?”

  “Someone on this end managed to switch the original crate for an identical substitute somewhere along the route.”

  Mitch thought about that for a moment. “Either case suggests an inside accomplice.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you know that the packaging is still at the museum?”

  Julia shook her head. “No. I can only hope. Chappie called the police when they opened the empty crate. They in turn called in the FBI since art theft is a federal crime. I have copies of all the photographs taken at the time but I want to see the actual crate. Even with high definition images, it just isn’t the same as seeing it with your own eyes.”

  “Go to the original source when you can.”

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  They parked on the street in front of the museum and went inside. The docent working the Sunday afternoon shift greeted them near the front door. She knew Julia and when she learned what they wanted, she glanced at her watch then led them into the rotunda gallery where the painting was on display.

  It wasn’t a large canvas. Mitch studied it trying to see what could have made it touch Rocco Sullivan as it had. It was a peasant scene, the images more shapes than realistic figures.

  “Is this suprematism? It looks like a child’s painting.

  “No. This is an earlier work. His most famous pieces are called Black Square and White on White.”

  “Odd names. What are they of?”

  “A black square and a white square angled on a white canvas.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No. The White on White is at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.”

  “And that kind of stuff is worth millions of dollars?”

  “In this instance, yes.”

  “Christ.” He continued to study the painting a few more minutes and shook his head. “Your great-grandmother got the better deal.”

  Julia laughed. “I agree.”

  The docent appeared in the doorway and told them it was time for the museum to close. Mitch showed his badge. “We’re investigating the theft of the items for the Russian exhibition. Where would we find the original packaging materials?”

  She looked from Mitch to Julia. “I suppose the custodian would know. He’s waiting to lock up after I leave.” She already had her purse on her arm and a sweater over her shoulders in preparation of closing up shop. “Let me secure the front entrance then I’ll take you to him.”

  They found the custodian in a small vestibule beside a panel for the security system. He listened to what Julia and Mitch had to say and looked pointedly at his watch.

  “We won’t keep you long.” Julia turned on her killer watt smile and the custodian
let the docent out the back door, locked it behind her, and turned with Mitch and Julia down a narrow hallway to the behind the scenes of the museum.

  They went down a short flight of steps. At the bottom a keypad opened a massive door with serious iron rods that fit into the door casing when closed. The room they entered was large with a high ceiling. The custodian turned on the overhead lights and showed them to an area to the right that contained a row of a dozen or more tall, cubicle-like walls. Each wall was covered with pieces of art front and back. They were so closely spaced there was barely room to walk between them. In the corner was a small built-out area not more than five by eight feet. Here a table stood in the center with cubbyholes along the walls that held all kinds of packaging materials, some new, some obviously saved for reuse when needed.

  The custodian didn’t know exactly what they were looking for but told them it would be in this area somewhere if it was to be found at all. He would wait for them at the back entrance when they were finished. He had to make his rounds of the museum and be sure no hapless tourist had gotten overlooked and that all was secure.

  “What’s all this stuff?” Mitch asked Julia.

  “It’s the museum’s inventory, things they don’t have room to display.”

  “Why is there so much of it?”

  “People donate things, sometimes something is offered for sale that they feel they can’t pass up, and, they need to be able to keep their exhibits fresh by changing things out occasionally. They also loan pieces to other museums for the same reason.”

  Mitch began poking around in the stacks of lumber and cardboard while Julia shifted through bubble wrap and acid free paper tucked into cubbyholes along the wall behind the work table.

  The occasional noise reached their ears as they worked, a door closing somewhere overhead, the sound of water rushing in pipes briefly. These were the utterances of a building settling into the quiet of disuse at the end of a day. What sounded like a soft scrape appeared to come from somewhere in the room. Both Julia and Mitch stopped and listened.

  “Does this place have rats?” Mitch finally asked.

  “It had better not. Rats, damp, and harsh light are the nemesis of an art collection.”

  “I think this must be it,” Mitch said as he pulled at a wooden crate pinned within the materials leaning against the wall. “There’re the initials NY stamped in the wood. Looks like part of a logo and here’s part of some kind of torn paper seal.”

  Julia abandoned her search and helped Mitch free the crate from the pile of other shipping discards. They lifted the container onto the table. She was scrambling around in her shoulder bag for the file folder with the photographs when the room was suddenly enveloped in darkness. The sound of the door to the room closing solidly and the sigh of the steel rods sailing home echoed around them.

  Mitch spoke in a whisper. “Don’t move and don’t scream. I’m going to reach out and find your hand.”

  The darkness was smothering in its completeness. Even though he had prepared her for it, Julia jumped when he touched her arm. He made his way around the table, put his arm around her, and spoke close to her ear.

  “We’re going to squat and you’re going to get under the table.”

  “Mitch…”

  “I don’t want to shoot you by accident, Julia. Do as I say.”

  He felt the tremble run through her.

  “Is he in here?”

  “I think not but I have to be sure. Stay put. Don’t move until I give the all clear.”

  He felt a flood of relief wash through him when she complied without argument. Once he knew she was safe, he stood and let the darkness and silence settle around him. He rested a hand on the corner of the table and envisioned the space in his mind. When he felt he had his bearings, he set out on a path for the door, gun drawn.

  He brushed one of the pieces of art on a half wall with his shoulder and stood in excruciating silence, listening for movement. Midway into his journey his shoe connected with something he couldn’t define. Finally he felt the door, turned his back against it, lowered himself to a crouch, squinted his eyes, and flipped the light switch.

  The room flooded with light. Mitch maintained his position until he was sure nothing moved within the room. Slowly he stood and began to crisscross the space, checking every nook and hiding spot. When he felt the room was secure, he returned to Julia and helped her from beneath the table.

  She threw her arms around him and pressed her face against his chest. He allowed himself the pleasure of her embrace for a brief moment then disentangled himself. “You’re safe now.”

  “He was in here with us all along, wasn’t he?” There was a slight tremor in her voice but then she seemed to regained control. “It’s the Malevich, isn’t it?”

  “He was lying in wait so he could take it for his Russian collection.”

  “We have to stop him.”

  They moved in unison toward the door only to find what Mitch already knew. It was locked. He examined it to see if there was any hope of tripping the lock. It was as useless a prospect as breaking into Julia’s shoe safe. He pulled out his phone and swore. No coverage. He hit the auto dial for back up anyway but there was nothing.

  Julia read his expression. “It’s the room. Whatever security precautions went into its construction is blocking our reception.” She ran back to the crating station and got her handbag. She took out her phone and found she had one bar. “Maybe I can get a text through.”

  Mitch rattled off a number as he looked around for something to use as a pry bar.

  Julia typed in the text for help and pressed send. All they could do now was hope.

  * * *

  It’s getting late and there’s no sign of Julia. I have a certain level of confidence in the Redhead but it isn’t the same as my ability to keep her safe. Julia thinks she is helping by leaving me behind. Her concern for my injury is admirable but wasted effort. The greater injury will be to my pride if I don’t find a way to escape this confinement and bring the culprit to justice.

  He is a sly one, this thief. The web he has woven is intricate but not so much so that it can’t be untangled by a superior intellect. It has taken time and planning to orchestrate this grand scheme. We are looking for someone on the inside, someone with connections and the trust of all the principles. That narrows the field of players considerably.

  I am frustrated that Julia’s concern has kept me at a distance from all the little nuances of behavior and tidbits of information necessary for a quick resolution to this matter. There is nothing here in these papers that is definitive. It is a waste of my time to paw through them yet again. All I can do is pace the floor and wait for her return.

  But, wait. What is that I hear? I leap onto the window ledge and look below. It is Aunt Ethel arriving like a white knight in her iron horse. There is hope yet that I might save the day.

  Her disembarkation from the automobile is a slow and painful process to watch. She has not the agility and speed needed in a time of crisis. Her ancient Charioteer is even less agile. I must be at the ready if we’re to ride to the rescue, so to speak.

  At last she is at the door. I am ready to streak through the opening the instant it opens but alas, she has proven me wrong in my assessment of her frailty. Before I can slip past her, she has me caught up in her arms. The door closes firmly in her wake. This is perhaps a talent of her physiology, being as diminutive as she is and so close to the ground. I cannot deny that my injury plays a part in my failure to escape.

  How, then, am I to communicate the urgency of our mission?

  “Well, you. I see you’ve been up to your old tricks. Look at the mess in this room.”

  She bends down to collect the papers I have strewn about the floor in an effort to find the one clue that will break this case. This is my chance, then. I must make her see that we should be out the door and on our way to assist Julia.

  Aunt Ethel may be old but she is sharp as a tack. If only I can sho
w her the way. Ah. This is what I need. I separate the delivery slip from the scattering of papers on the floor before she can return it to the file. I bat it around in the direction of the door of the apartment.

  “What are you up to?” She follows after me and snatches up the page. “This is one of Julia’s documents. It’s not a play toy.”

  The insult almost distracts me from the urgency of my mission. As she turns back toward the coffee table and the open file folder, I begin to thread between her legs, obstructing her path, and making forays back toward the door.

  Aunt Ethel pauses and watches me as I pace back and forth from where she stands to the door and back again. She looks down at the paper in her hands and begins to read it.

  “The delivery receipt for the museum.” She stares at the page then looks up at me. “The museum.”

  “Yeow!”

  “Well, all right then.”

  She picks me up and we head out the door.

  Our chariot awaits at the curb and if it were not for the need to arrive at a destination that is unknown to me, I would be off rather than wait for the ancient to make the slow journey around the automobile to facilitate our entry.

  At last we are ensconced in the rear seat of the car and after much checking and rechecking the mirrors all around the vehicle, we pull into the street and are off. I do hope our destination isn’t too far afield or I will have to take a nap before we arrive.

  * * *

  Julia watched as Mitch struggled to find some crack or crevice around the doorframe large enough to give purchase to the claw of the hammer they found in the packaging room. She checked her phone once again. It had only been a few minutes but it seemed much longer. There was no way to tell if her message had gotten through as her phone now showed absolutely no bars.

  Mitch stepped back to view the door from a different angle. “He knew what he was doing. This is someone who knows his way around the museum.” He made a slow one hundred and eighty degree turn surveying the high ceiling and the windowless room. “He wanted to detain us long enough to snatch the painting and escape.”