Trophy Widow

by Michael A. Kahn

  “I had an interesting afternoon with Ellen McNeil.”

  “Oh?”

  “We visited two of the people who bought Sebastian Curry paintings from Samantha’s gallery.”

  “And?”

  I frowned. “I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it sure wasn’t what we found.”

  “Really?” He looked up expectantly, his fingers jammed in the jar of pickled onions. “Talk to me.”

  I described our meeting with Martha Galbraith in her stylish home in Chesterfield. Although the list of purchasers included the name Dr. Peter Galbraith, Ellen decided to call Martha instead. Ellen explained to me that Peter, a urologist with a practice in St. Charles, viewed art the way he viewed stocks: purely as an investment. He relied on his broker to pick stocks and on his wife to pick art. Over the years Ellen had sold the Galbraiths two paintings and a blown-glass vase—and all three times Peter had been unable to mask his boredom as he waited for Martha to make her selection. Martha had superb taste and a connoisseur’s eye, Ellen told me, and thus she was our best candidate to unveil the mystery of the Sebastian Curry paintings.

  But Martha was no help. Indeed, she confessed to being as mystified as Ellen. Peter bought the painting on his own—something he’d never done. Although fifteen thousand dollars was nowhere near as much as they’d paid for other works of art—in fact, as Ellen later told me, the price for one of the paintings she sold them was thirty-five thousand dollars—it was still a lot of money to pay without even consulting his wife. Suffice to say, the good doctor was defensive about the painting from the day he brought it home. He told his wife that Sebastian Curry would be the next big name in the art world, just you wait and see. She waited and she didn’t see. The painting hung on a wall in his home office for a year and then he took it to work, where it hung in the waiting room. At some point that year he got it appraised for insurance purposes. The appraiser valued it at four hundred dollars. A few months later, he donated it to some charity—presumably for a tax write-off in the full amount originally paid. Martha Galbraith couldn’t remember which charity and had no idea where the painting was now. It wouldn’t be worth tracking down anyway, she told them. The painting was—as Martha put it—“decidedly pedestrian and derivative.”

  “Decidedly pedestrian and derivative, eh?” Benny said in a mock-snooty tone. “Well, la-de-fucking-da.”

  I watched him slice off a chunk of that revolting sausage and shove it in his mouth. He chased it with two pickled onions, a wedge of cheese, and a big gulp of beer. Even after years of watching him gorge on all manner of things, I was still astounded and grossed out by his eating habits. He must have caught me staring and misinterpreted my nauseous expression for one of longing.

  “You want some?” he asked, gesturing toward the food, his mouth full.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  “Sure?”

  “I’m just not feeling hungry right now.”

  “You’re missing a real treat here.” He tore off a big piece of bread and took a bite. Chewing, he asked, “So who else did you and Ellen see?”

  “Don Goddard.”

  “The lawyer?”

  “Yep.”

  Don Goddard was one of the name partners in Goddard, Jones & Newberger, a twenty-five-lawyer firm in Clayton that handled corporate, tax, and contract matters for various small businesses. He was a tall, slender, balding man in his fifties with a large nose and an elegant demeanor—a smooth operator, but not quite smooth enough to conceal his social pretensions. Like a lot of corporate lawyers with working-class origins, Don Goddard expended great time and energy on appearance.

  “We went to his office,” I told Benny. “He had the painting in one of the firm’s conference rooms. He was clearly thrilled by the prospect that a painting of his might make it into the show. On the way to the conference room he told Ellen that he’d like the ownership credit for the art show to read, ‘From the Donald E. Goddard Collection.’”

  “So how was the painting?”

  “It was one of those abstract things with lots of bright colors.” I shrugged. “I’m no judge of modern art, but it didn’t do anything for me.”

  “What did Ellen think of it?”

  “She was polite during the meeting with Goddard, but afterward she told me the painting was mediocre.”

  “So what did you learn?”

  “That something fishy is going on.”

  “What kind of fishy?”

  “While Ellen was busy examining the painting, I started asking him questions—mostly innocuous ones, like you’d need for filling out an information questionnaire. I explained that we’d need some basic facts if we selected his painting for the exhibit. He started getting nervous as soon as I got beyond where and when he bought the painting. Did he own anything else by Sebastian Curry? No. Was he familiar with Curry’s work? Not really. What other works of art were in the ‘Donald E. Goddard Collection’? That one had him fumbling. Turns out the only other items are a couple of pieces of pottery his wife bought in Cancún, an art print from either Monet or Picasso—he wasn’t sure which—and a set of those Lladró ballerina figurines.”

  “Wow,” Benny said, arching his eyebrows. “Sounds like the Donald E. Goddard Collection is almost ready for its own wing at the Guggenheim.”

  “By then he was really antsy. I asked him how he ended up at Samantha’s gallery. Didn’t remember. Had he been there often? Didn’t remember. Had he ever heard of Millennium Management? No, he said, who are they? I explained that Millennium received a big commission on the painting. Never heard of them, he snapped.”

  “You’re right,” Benny said. “There is something fishy going on here. I think I know what the bait is.”

  “What?”

  “Come on, Rachel. It’s obvious. You got a pair of big-money guys who are fairly savvy businessmen but don’t know jackshit about art. Both of them plunk down fifteen grand for pieces of crap by some unknown yutz. What’s that tell you?”

  “I don’t know. What’s it tell you?”

  “That we got two guys choosing art with their dicks.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look who owned that gallery. Samantha Cummings. That girl is a fox. I don’t know exactly what she did to those guys, but I’m betting she aimed her sales pitch somewhere lower than their aesthetic sensibility. The thing she was enlarging wasn’t their artistic taste.”

  “Benny, flirting is not going to make a bunch of guys spend fifteen grand.”

  “Come on, Rachel. We’re talking about the male of the species here. And we’re probably talking about more than flirting. Fifteen grand is pocket change to a rich guy chasing pussy. You got guys plunking down five times that much on a swanky car with nothing more than the hope that a car like that will make some hot chick overlook the dork behind the wheel. Here, though, you’ve already interested the hot chick, who happens to own the gallery, which means you have an easy way to prove you’re a big spender.”

  I frowned. “Why waste your money trying to impress Samantha? She was already taken. She was engaged to Michael Green.”

  “You think guys don’t waste time chasing women who’re already taken?” Benny paused, frowning as an idea took shape. “Hey, what if one of those guys fell in love with her? And what if he was one of those crazy jealous types?”

  I gave him a puzzled look. “So?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time a jealous guy killed for love, eh?”

  I thought it over. “You think that’s possible?”

  He shrugged. “It’s no more bizarre than what the jury said actually happened, right?”

  I tried to imagine Don Goddard, Mr. Smooth, in the role of infatuated, lust-crazed killer. He didn’t fit the role, but there were still plenty of other names on the list. In fact, all twenty-three purchasers had been men. After Jacki had compiled
the list from the gallery’s books and records at Stanley Brod’s office, I’d cross-checked the names against Michael Green’s Rolodex, which was also at Brod’s office. All but two of the buyers had been on his Rolodex. From what I knew of Green’s behavior, he apparently bragged about Samantha to nearly everyone he talked to. Who could judge the impact of those boasts?

  I checked my watch. “I have one more of these buyers to see before dinner. Ellen is seeing one, too, and then we’re meeting for dinner.”

  “Who are you seeing?”

  “Jack Foley. He’s a stockbroker. I’m meeting him at his house at six-thirty. His wife will be there, too.”

  “Ellen’s not going with you?”

  “No, she’s meeting another guy.”

  “Perfect.” Benny was grinning.

  “Perfect?”

  “Ellen won’t be there. You’re going to need an art expert, right?”

  “Oh?” I said, amused. “Would you perhaps happen to know where I might find such an expert on short notice?”

  “If we can swing by my place on the way, I just might be able to rouse one for you.”

  ***

  We were in the Foleys’ living room. The Sebastian Curry painting—a large abstract work combining black-and-white splatters and what looked like roller swipes in bright primary colors—was on the floor propped against the fireplace. Benny—or “Benito,” as he’d introduced himself in what sounded like an Italian-Hungarian accent—stood in front of the painting, his arms crossed, expression grave, as he pretended to scrutinize it.

  Benny had, of course, pushed his art critic routine out near the border between impersonation and farce. He was dressed entirely in black: black turtleneck, black jeans, black boots, black beret, black wraparound sunglasses. He’d done more than just change outfits when we stopped by his house on our way over. For an added bizarre touch, which I hadn’t noticed until we stood in the bright light of the Foleys’ front hall, he’d slicked back his hair with what appeared to be Vaseline and powdered his face white, which heightened the contrast with his lips. The black stubble of his beard poked through the powder. Perhaps he hoped the overall effect—black outfit, greased hair, powdered face, black stubble—would shout avant-garde art critic. To me, though, it was shouting overweight transvestite geisha from hell.

  The Foleys eyed him warily as he frowned and grumbled in front of the painting. I tried to ignore him, tried to keep a straight face, tried to keep the conversation focused on the information I was attempting to elicit. It was not easy.

  “So it was in the basement all this time?” I asked.

  “Until today,” Margo Foley said with a perky smile. “Until you called Jack. Isn’t that so, honey?”

  “Right,” he answered stiffly.

  Margo was seated to the left of the fireplace on a white couch with a loose-pillow back. I was facing her across the coffee table on the matching love seat. Jack Foley stood to my left—to Margo’s right—behind a wing chair that faced the fireplace from the far side of the coffee table. Both in their late thirties, the Foleys were the type of couple who’d raise the level of tension in any gathering—Margo with her forced cheer and brittle smile, Jack with his edgy stare and slight stammer.

  “Isn’t that crazy?” she said brightly, looking from me to her husband to Benny, who was still grumbling at the painting. “I mean, I remember that Jack brought it home—what, eight or nine years ago, right, honey?—and put it down in the basement. We had no idea it was so special. Why, we never even unwrapped it until you called today.” She looked at the painting. “It’s certainly, well, brash.”

  And, I thought, completely different from the other works of art in their living and dining rooms, all of which were either prints of famous Impressionist paintings or posters advertising museum exhibitions of works by famous Impressionist painters.

  “What attracted you to the painting?” I asked Jack.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I supposed I must have liked it.”

  “Had you bought other art from the 309 Gallery?”

  He frowned. “I don’t recall.”

  Benny spun around. “You dona recall?” he said in his strange accent. “But surely you recalla de owner, Meez Cummings, ya?” He gave Jack a lecherous wink and put his hands on his hips and thrust them forward twice. “Magnifica, eh?”

  Jack leaned back and frowned. “I don’t remember her.”

  Trying to ignore Benito, I asked Jack, “What exactly appealed to you about this painting?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you view other paintings at the gallery?”

  “I don’t remember. I may have just called over there, asked them if they had a painting by this Curry guy. I remember going by to pick it up. I didn’t really spend much time in the gallery.”

  “What made you interested in Sebastian Curry?” I asked.

  He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with this line of questions. “I think someone told me he was going to be the next big thing. I suppose it seemed like a good investment opportunity.”

  “Did you have it appraised at the time you bought it?”

  “No.”

  “How about since then?”

  “No.”

  Margo asked me, “Do you think our painting is worth a lot of money?”

  “Hard to say,” I told her. “Some of his work may have held its value, but I know of at least one of his paintings that was recently appraised for only four hundred dollars.”

  Margo looked at the painting and then back at me. “That’s not so bad, is it?”

  “Not if you paid less than a hundred dollars for it,” I said, glancing at her husband.

  “How much did we pay, hon?” she asked him.

  He glanced from his wife to me and back to her. “Uh, something like that—or maybe a little more. I don’t remember. It’s been a long time.”

  “Less than four hundred dollars?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

  “Yeah,” he answered, averting his eyes, “somewhere around there.”

  Benny turned around and announced, “Now Benito ees done.”

  “What do you think of it, Señor Benito?” Margo asked hopefully.

  Benny shook his head. “I am sorry to say zat deesa work eesa—how shall I put eet?—decidedly pedestrian and derivative.”

  ***

  The three of us were having dinner at the Lynch Street Bistro in the Soulard area—Benny, Ellen McNeil, and me.

  “I don’t know about your guy,” Ellen told us, “but Allen Sutter definitely did not have a thing for Samantha Cummings.”

  “How can you be sure?” I asked.

  “Because I met his companion Tony.”

  I looked at Benny. He shrugged. “So maybe Allen swings both ways.”

  Ellen shook her head. “Not this cowboy. Trust me. Allen and Tony have been a couple for a long time. On a wall in their den are framed photographs of the two of them together that go back more than ten years.”

  While Benny and I had been meeting with the Foleys, Ellen paid a visit to Allen Sutter, a psychologist who specialized in designing motivational seminars for corporations. His name was one of the twenty-three on the list. Ellen knew Allen, having sold him a painting about a year ago.

  “So what was Allen’s story?” I asked.

  “He was surprised there was that much interest in Sebastian Curry,” Ellen said. “He told me he regretted buying his painting and eventually gave it to a gallery on consignment. It sold for about three hundred dollars.”

  “Did he tell you why he bought it in the first place?” I asked.

  “Not really. He was about as vague as your guy—said he thought Curry was an artist on the rise. Claims he viewed the purchase as an investment, but that when Curry’s reputation appeared to be going nowhere he decided to cut his losses
and sell it.”

  “What the hell is going on here?” Benny asked. “You’ve got this Sutter dude claiming he made an investment but then bailing out at a huge loss after only a few years. Why not keep the damn thing in storage in the hopes that one day Sebastian Curry gets recognized as America’s answer to Vincent van Gogh? Then you got Jack Foley. That stiff claims that he was making an investment, except he’s so secretive about it that he never even unwrapped the painting during all those years, never told his wife that he shelled out fifteen large for that piece of shit, and acts like he remembers almost nothing about it.” Benny shook his head, confused. “I was hoping that maybe these guys were shtupping Samantha, that maybe that’s why they seemed uncomfortable talking about the paintings, but I have to admit that Rachel’s got a point there. I mean, we’re talking about twenty-three guys in the space of less than two years—and she’s engaged to Michael Green for part of that time. Even if she’s the greatest lay of the century, fifteen grand is still a lot to pay for some nooky. And where does that leave your gay caballero?”

  Ellen nodded. “You’ve got a lot of smart, successful men making the same dumb decision at the same art gallery. Something’s fishy.”

  “I agree,” I said. “It’s one thing to overpay for something you love. I did it once. Back when I was in law school and really scraping by, I went to an art fair on the Boston Common one Saturday afternoon and ended up paying two hundred dollars for a painting of a peasant woman.” I turned to Benny. “It’s the one in my kitchen.”

  He nodded. “Oh, yeah. Two hundred bucks? Whoa.”

  “I couldn’t help myself. I fell totally in the love with the woman in the painting. I made the artist hold it until I could take the T to my bank in Cambridge and come back with the money. It was a crazy thing to do. Two hundred dollars was my food allowance for two months, but that didn’t matter. I had to have that painting. It seemed more important to me than food. It still does. I love it. I keep it in my kitchen so that I can see it every morning at breakfast and every night at dinner and then again when I make some tea before bed. But these guys.” I shook my head. “I don’t get it. They pay fifteen thousand dollars for paintings that they don’t seem to have any emotional bond with. In fact, none of the men that we’ve talked to even liked their painting. Not even Don Goddard. As for Jack Foley, it sounded like he may not have even seen his before he bought it, and that really makes no sense. Even if he was buying it purely for investment purposes, you’d think he’d at least want to see what he was buying before he wrote the check.”