Clamour of Crows

by Ray Merritt

  “Pervy had been in and out of the suite three times the day Ben died—cleaning up after breakfast, lunch, and late afternoon drinks. And she overheard several ‘argy-bargies’—arguments. One with Mr. Grogaman and another with Dr. Thompson. She couldn’t really recount what they were about, but said both had big rows with Ben. Wasn’t fond of either. Nor was she particularly fond of Kati, whom she less than kindly called Ben’s ‘pikey jam tart.’ She volunteered that Kati was Ben’s source for ‘kisses and hugs,’ which I later found out meant drugs.

  “One thing seems clear. Pervy’s not a suspect. She had access but clearly not motive. I suspect Ben’s largesse was a nice supplement to her earnings. Enough on Pervy.”

  Pulling out the next pad, which had KK on the cover, Drew allowed that she was able to find Kati Krkavec by simply calling a number that Terry gave her. It was Kati’s cell phone. Although apprehensive at first, she agreed to meet Drew at a coffee shop, after Drew explained that she was working on Mr. Baum’s estate and that Kati was included. When she arrived at her appointment, Kati’s brother was with her.

  “Kati is a serious person. I’d guess she’s in her late thirties. Her English is excellent. Can’t say the same for her brother, who looked like every Soviet gangster you’ve seen in the flicks—three days’ growth, about the same length as the hair on his head, black jeans, cheap leather jacket, ugly macho knockoff shades.

  “Kati—unlike her brother—was quite stylishly dressed, although perhaps a little on the flashy side. She was very respectful and open. She listened to my questions and answered them, always glancing at her brother for validation. I expressed my condolences on Ben’s passing. Told her we understood that he was very close to her and admired her very much. She thanked me and confessed she was very much in love with Ben. She said that she was still in shock from his death. I asked her to tell me what happened that day as well as she could. Hesitating for a moment, she said she had a drink with Mr. Baum and his lawyer—I assume she meant Mr. Trombley—and then she and Ben retired to his room, where they rested and talked. Ben was very agitated and she wanted to relax him, but he persisted in talking about Mr. Grogaman. At that point, Ben asked her to ring up the house doctor. She did and Ben spoke to him and asked that he examine him. On his arrival, she returned to the suite’s living room and waited with Evan. After about twenty minutes, the doctor stepped out and announced that Ben had passed away and that he would attend to the body.

  “I then asked Kati if we could speak alone for a few minutes. After a heated conversation with her brother in what I presume was Montenegrin, perhaps Albanian, he went about thirty feet away and lit a cigarette, never taking his eyes off her. He just stood there sulking and smoking.

  “I told Kati that I understood her pain, that I was with my father when he died—the first time I had seen a dead body of someone I loved. Sadly she told me it was not her first and went on to share with me her extraordinary story.

  “She came from Peroce, a little village she described as down from the mountains in Montenegro, and was traveling to Granica in Kosovo. She was on the road with her husband and their four-month-old child when some Serbian militiamen accosted them. They gang-raped her in the snow on the side of the road, forcing her husband to hold their baby and watch, promising her that they would be spared if she didn’t resist and enjoyed it. I’ll read her exact words. ‘You can’t imagine it. After they were done with me, my husband’s pockets were emptied. He was spat on. I watched their spit run down his face. Then the captain shot him and my little boy with his pistol as the others laughed. The bastards! They didn’t keep their devil’s bargain.’

  “She was only seventeen! They eventually dumped her at the Albanian border. There she was forced into prostitution and eventually consigned to an Italian pimp. She finally convinced an English john to help her flee to London, where she was able to locate her brother.

  “She’s quite a survivor. You wouldn’t guess she’d had such a life by looking at her. She’s truly beautiful. Great eyes—the Bette Davis kind. Her hair is raven black without even a trace of curls. That’s the one thing I really envy about her.

  “It was her eyes that were her giveaway. They are deep black. You had the sense that she was watching you, her brother, and every stranger, all at the same time. She was always on guard.

  “We engaged in some small talk and after a while I felt she was starting to relax so I asked whether they were romantically engaged at the time Ben died. Without any hesitation—or any embarrassment—she said no. She had wanted to, but Ben was too agitated.

  “Here is how she put it,” Drew continued, flipping over her pad: “ ‘ He talked about his enemies, not really to me but more to himself. I think he meant Mr. Luc and his friends. He also said that the “twit”—that was what he called Mr. Abelard—was a “pussy,” not much of a man. And he laughed, adding that his son’s doctor was too much of a man.’ She then said when the hotel doctor stepped out of the bedroom she knew right then—another man she loved had died and again she could do nothing. It was, she said, her sudbina. That means destiny,” Drew added. “I looked it up.

  “Now the important part—for us. She finally asked me whether Mr. Baum had left her money. She told me that Ben had given her the name and number of his banker, Andreas Amaroso, should she ever need help. Apparently she has been unable to reach him. I then told her about the bequest of ten million dollars in trust for her with income paid annually, contingent on her not being pregnant when the Will was probated. If she were, the amount in the Trust would be reduced to one million, with the income on that accumulated and paid out to her child at the age of thirty. She was stunned and asked what probate meant and when it was done. I explained and told her it could happen in about six weeks. She erupted. These are her words. ‘Kopile Ubijin’ or something like that. I’m not sure what that means, but it sounded profoundly nasty. ‘The fucking bastard lied. Damn him. Damn him to HELL. They are all evil! Men—they make the rules; they change the rules. That lying son of a bitch. He will burn and rot in hell. He promised . . . he promised . . . no man will ever kill my child again!’

  “She pushed over her coffee, stood up stroking her stomach, and walked away.

  “And for the record, I agreed with her.”

  28

  Sensing that the three of us could use a break, I called a time-out. Clearly Drew could use a breather. She was obviously stressed by her session with Kati. The ploy proved effective. We all gathered back at the Hobbit Hole, like a clout of cats, eager to hear about Drew’s encounter with the curious Mr. Abelard.

  “Sit back. The story of Peter Abelard will take some time in the telling but it’s worth it,” Drew promised.

  Sensing she had grabbed our attention, she began.

  “I had some luck locating Abelard. I had noticed in the coroner’s report that he listed Brown’s Hotel as his London residence. So I simply rang them up and asked for him. Maybe I caught him off guard . . . whatever. But he was quite friendly and, to my surprise, asked me to join him at the hotel for tea. I took him up on his invite. I had assumed that he wouldn’t talk to us—considering the Tremaine litigation—but he seemed genuine in welcoming me.

  “I knew of Brown’s. I think it’s the oldest hotel in the city—all Chippendale and chintz. You have to love it,” Drew exclaimed. “And it’s in the heart of Mayfair, right near the Bond Street and Regent shops and the theaters and Hyde Park. I’ll stay there next time for sure . . . if I can. It was started by Lord Byron’s valet with money from his wife, Lady Byron’s personal maid.”

  “That must have been a cozy kitchen. I guess there’s hope for Pervy after all,” Dixie noted.

  “You two should know,” Drew paused. “I’m an Agatha-holic. My favorite Christie mystery is At Bertram’s Hotel. She modeled her fictional hotel on Brown’s.

  “Anyway, when I arrived at the hotel, the concierge directed me straight into the tea room. It was, as you might expect, wood paneled, with working fireplace,
Jacobean plastered ceiling, and a baby grand in the corner. The maitre d’ led me to what he called the Abelard table.

  “Peter wasn’t quite what I expected. He is good-looking in a goyish way. He had anchorman hair. And his tan was chemically enhanced to set off his butter face, blue eyes, and caramel hair. He seemed very fit and had a little barbed-wire tattoo on his left wrist. He was manicured to perfection. Throughout the meal he maintained a charming nonchalance. Yet under all this I sensed an ulcerative colitis was lurking. You see it all the time in New York—part flirt, part con, out on the town feeling good about their hair. He is—to use one of Lewis Carroll’s favorite words—slithy, kind of slimy yet soft.

  “At this point, I think it’s best to listen to the tape. When I arrived at the table I asked if he minded. He didn’t.”

  She then pulled out her recorder and turned it on.

  I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. I know well the indelicacy of calling on you at this time. You must believe we would not intrude upon your and Mrs. Baum’s grief if it were not a matter of such importance. We are questioning those close to Mr. Baum to help establish the cause of death, or at least rule out certain causes, for insurance purposes, as well as to marshal information on Mr. Baum’s assets for the estate probate.

  I understand.

  Can you tell me about the day Mr. Baum died from your vantage point?

  Well . . . sure. Our office—that’s to say the Baum Foundation and my art advisory business, which is unrelated to the foundation’s work—are located only a few blocks from the hotel where Ben died. That’s why he and Tremaine used that particular hotel. Ben and I usually met there when he was in town. On the day he died, I met with him there and he advised me that he was changing the foundation’s mission purpose in a direction that I wouldn’t be appropriate for. He wanted to concentrate on medical research and helping children. That would not be for me.

  Pausing her recorder, Drew summarized Abelard’s recitation of his résumé—from art lover, to gallery owner, to foundation professional.

  “He loved his job as executive director of the Baum Foundation and explained that its mission purpose is to support art institutions rather than artists individually. He adored London for its art scene, particularly Frieze, which he described as London’s hippest art event: ‘Art Mardi Gras for the Rich and Randy.’ According to him, it’s become one of the most important contemporary art fairs in the world. Hedge fund managers, magnates like Ben, pop stars, sheiks and shiksas, babushka babes and their ‘oiligarch’ billionaires, old, new, and stolen money—his words—all stampede there.

  “Again according to him, Fischl, Struth, and Sherman remain the hotties. As crazy as it sounds, he assured me that this is how the market works. Love it or loathe it, doesn’t really matter. How soon and for how much can you flip the art? That is the question—according to him!

  “When I asked what happened the day Ben died, he responded in a very open manner, telling me more details about his firing, rather matter-of-factly. He made two other visits to the hotel that day—one at about four. He was passing by and thought he’d try to get Ben to revisit his decision to alter the foundation’s mission purpose and lobby that at least a portion of the foundation’s activities remain art-directed. When he got to Ben’s door, he overheard a violent argument raging between Ben and, as he described her, ‘his gypsy whore.’ Feeling nothing positive could come of interrupting it, he left, only to be directed back sometime later by Tremaine when she received news of Ben’s death. She wanted none of Ben’s belongings to fall into the hands of Kati or the hotel staff, particularly the room maid, whom she could not abide, allowing that she was a disrespectful cockney know-it-all gossip. He said that Kati—whom this time he described simply as ‘the escort’—had just left. When I asked why there was no autopsy, he bristled, rather visibly, stating that there was no need, that death in the sack with one’s mistress is in the tradition of Nelson Rockefeller and was commonplace, especially considering Ben’s condition. He refused to elaborate.”

  “Excuse me, Drew,” I interrupted. “Abelard’s and Kati’s stories don’t quite jibe. Remind me to talk to Ben’s New York doctor. We should get a better read on his health than one can get from a hotel physician.”

  “Will do and you’re right. Kati claims that she and Ben did not engage in sex that day. So, back to Abelard. When I asked him about the funeral arrangements, he said he was simply following the widow’s wishes. Claims cremation and burial at sea were a tradition in her family. She remembered that it brought closure when her father, a naval officer, had died. He then volunteered that the last year hasn’t been easy for Tremaine. Ben’s actions were becoming increasingly bizarre and his indiscretions much more public. She had been trying to maintain the appearance of marital normalcy for the sake of Ben’s reputation and his son’s stability. With evident pride, he called her a brave woman.

  “I then asked him for a list of all of Ben’s art, allowing that it probably would take him some time. Told him we would need cost and current value appraisals for the estate tax returns. He then dropped a not-so-little grenade. He said that would be easy since the only things in Ben’s name were the three paintings in his New York office and the ‘crap in his townhouse.’ All the other art was gifted by him to Tremaine when acquired, noting that his advisory firm had handled the purchases for Tremaine and billed Ben directly. According to Abelard, Ben didn’t buy significant art until he married Tremaine. That information changes the estate dynamics rather big-time! Tremaine already has a lot more than we’d speculated. Abelard refused to guess at the value. We hadn’t factored that in since Ben’s Will indicated that all art that Dorothy did not want was to go to the foundation. I’m surprised that Abelard was so forthcoming—again with the litigation pending. That may not have been too wise. He didn’t have to provide that info.”

  Dixie chipped in. “He seems a bit like the Donkey—had the right to remain silent but, I suspect listening to you, not the ability.”

  “Shrek,” smiled Drew. “You may be right. He’s not too smart, but I kind of like that in a man.”

  “Time out, kids! My mind is spinning.”

  Even Nip was getting anxious. She does that when she thinks people are arguing. She can’t distinguish anger from good-natured banter. One of her few failings.

  Drew fussed with her hair for a moment, and returned to her debriefing.

  “Peter went on to talk about Tremaine in terms normally reserved for candidates for sainthood—her class, patience, spirit, fidelity, and long-suffering. And he outlined her widowhood plans. Apparently with the exception of the new apartment she bought in New York, she plans to sell everything and settle in Antigua. He informed me that she was there now scouting out places and arranging for her residency.”

  “Clever lady!” I added. “If my memory of international tax law is still correct, a British citizen who does not spend more than six months in England and is also an Antiguan resident is not subject to any tax—in England, the United States, or Antigua. Nice deal for our Lady Tremaine.”

  “She’ll set herself up with barrels of money from the sale of the art goodies—ALL without a farthing for taxes. I suspect she may have been planning this for some time. You need time to have your lawyers and accountants vet a plan like that,” Dixie added.

  “Sorry, Drew, didn’t mean to interrupt your report,” I said.

  “No, that’s OK. In fact, I’m fascinated. Maybe there is more to the merry widow than I thought. Anyway, where was I? . . . Oh, my conversation with Peter was terminated by the arrival of two of his buds.

  “He introduced his guests—Jeremy Lerot and Patrice Lapin. They’re partners in an art gallery and appear to be Peter’s good friends. With their arrival, the tea party could begin and the waiter appeared as if on cue with flutes of pink champagne. Lerot oddly complained before even sitting, ‘No room, no room!’ In fact there was plenty of room for all of us.

  “I must take a moment to d
escribe what the three were wearing. Peter had a pink-collared shirt with white cuffs, a green plaid Edwardian vest, a tweed smoking jacket, and dark purple slacks. I noticed when he crossed his legs that his socks were not matching—one orange, one bright purple. That can’t be a mistake. He had tan suede wingtips and a really hip hat. It looked like a Langston Panama, with black suede trim and a super stingy brim that he wore throughout our meeting. Really cool. You’re going to see a lot of them in New York next spring, I’m sure.”

  “God help us. The chapeauistas will be thrilled,” Dixie muttered. “More Kiddie Lids! Are we all supposed to look like Kid Rock?”

  “I think fedoras are sexy. They’re so old Hollywood—Indiana Jones, Clark Gable, Humphrey Bogart—and I sensed that dressing up was a tradition at these afternoon teas.

  “Lapin was the more serious one. He launched into a ‘state of the art market’ soliloquy. Here’s how he put it: ‘Art is a true commodity now. The number of global millionaires has increased by 200 percent. Investing in art is the most attractive place to park cash. It’s the new gold. It’s tangible and cash-convertible. If you buy the best, it almost always works.’