* * *
After I made the phone call, Mary Ann excused herself and went upstairs. Mitchell stayed with me at the bar and complained about his grandmother’s taste in beer.
“Are you familiar with Insight Brewing?” he asked. “I had a beer there yesterday, it was so fruity—grapefruit, tangerine slices, mango. Delicious.”
That, I decided, I would hold against him.
We settled into an uncomfortable silence. Mitchell broke it when he asked, “Are you familiar with my grandfather’s work?”
“Yes.”
“The Scenes, of course, but also his earlier efforts?”
“Yes.”
“The Scenes was the only thing he did that was worthwhile. Before that, it was all about the Benjamins. M. A. would argue differently, of course.”
“You call your grandmother M. A.?”
“She insists. That’s her brand. M. A. understands branding. She understands commerce. She understands what sells. What is art anyway? Ask fifty people and you’ll get fifty arguments, but what sells—now that’s a different matter. In France, buyers seem to like half-naked people. In puritan America, not so much. Some people want to see the brushstrokes, others don’t. Yet there are more commonalities than there are differences.
“The majority of people throughout the world, for example, like the color blue. They prefer spring to the other seasons, outdoor paintings to indoor paintings, and rivers, lakes, and forests over cities. It doesn’t take a genius then to grasp that the most popular paintings are landscapes with open spaces filled with low grasses and diverse greenery interspersed with trees; paintings that include the presence of water, indications of animal and birdlife, and a path, riverbank, or shoreline that extends into the distance. That’s what Randolph McInnis painted with minor variations over and over and over again. They sold like crazy, too. It’s also why he was never truly embraced by the art critics. He became rich and rock-star famous selling work they considered insipid at best.”
“Until Scenes from an Inland Sea,” I said.
“Until Scenes.”
“What do you think made the difference?”
“I never met my grandfather, of course. I only know him from what my father and my grandmother told me and they don’t always agree. If I had to guess, though, I’d say he found a muse that encouraged him to do his best and most creative work. That’s why I’m hanging around. I want to meet the woman my grandfather fell so thoroughly in love with.”
* * *
The Westminster Quarters announced Louise Wykoff’s arrival ten minutes later. Mitchell pulled the front door open and did exactly what I had done when I first met her. He stared.
“I’m Louise Wykoff,” she said. “I believe I’m expected.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Forgive me. Please come in. I’m Mitchell McInnis.”
Mitchell didn’t see the woman standing behind Louise until he nearly closed the door on her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You are…?”
“Perrin Stewart.”
“The ah, the ah, the person from, the ah, City of Lakes Art Museum.”
Smooth, kid, my inner voice said. Very smooth.
“My grandmother has spoken of you,” Mitchell added. “Please come in.”
The three of them stood just inside the doorway and stared at one another while Mitchell struggled to find something clever to say. I remained at the bar and watched. Perrin gave me a little wave. Louise gave me nothing.
“Good afternoon,” Mary Ann said.
Eyes turned to where she stood at the top of the staircase and followed her as she slowly descended. Gone were the jeans and sweatshirt, replaced with a red and navy blue dress that I just knew you couldn’t buy off the rack at Nordstrom. Her hair was piled on top of her head and she was wearing makeup, including a flavor of lipstick that I was sure you could find in one of Mitchell’s beers. She still looked her age, yet she also looked like a woman who had many millions of dollars squirreled away.
“Hello, M. A.,” Perrin said. “You look fabulous.”
“You’re very kind, Perrin. Thank you. And you must be Louise Wykoff. I recognize you from the paintings.”
“I apologize for the intrusion, Mrs. McInnis.”
Louise lifted her hand. Mary Ann turned her back on it and moved toward the sitting room where the fireplace was located.
“Mr. McKenzie,” she said. “Would you care to join us?”
Here we go.
By the time I reached the room everyone was sitting comfortably except Perrin. She looked nervous as hell. I grabbed a spot next to the piano. I wished that Mary Louise Knutson was sitting at the piano and playing slow and quiet; something by Hoagy Carmichael perhaps. It just seemed like that kind of moment.
“It’s been a very long time since I’ve had the opportunity to tell you how sorry I am for the way things worked out after the Scenes were exhibited,” Louise said.
“If I actually believed you were sorry, dear, I might take your apology to heart,” Mary Ann replied. “Only you’re not sorry, are you?”
“No, I’m not. I was merely attempting to be polite.”
“Please don’t do anything out of character.”
“In fact, if I was able to contribute even the tiniest amount to Randolph’s legacy, that makes me very happy indeed.”
“Is that what you think you did—contribute to his legacy?”
“People know the Scenes from an Inland Sea more than they know any of the work that came before it. They know me more than they know you.”
“It must have given you great pleasure these many years then to hear people speak of you the way they did; to have them wonder about you. That Wykoff Woman. Me? I’m merely the wronged woman. Hardly anyone speaks about me—unless they’re also speaking about you. Funny how that works.”
“Grandmother, must we do this now?” Mitchell said.
Mary Ann glared at him for a few beats. I had no idea what she was thinking, yet from her expression I concluded that they were not happy thoughts. Finally, she forced her mouth into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“As Miss Wykoff noted earlier, it’s been a long time. It is Miss Wykoff, correct? You’ve never married? Pity. Such a pretty girl. Mr. McKenzie, I believe you arranged this meeting. What’s on your mind?”
“A public announcement should be made in your name offering a reward for information leading to the safe return of the missing paintings. The announcement should include the number of a burn phone that I’ve activated.”
“Burn phone?” Mitchell asked.
“Just a cheap phone I picked up at Target. Something we can toss after we’re done with it. Something that can’t be traced to my front door. After we make the announcement I’ll go back up to Grand Marais and we’ll wait to see what happens. If the thieves bite, we’ll make arrangements to swap the reward for the paintings. If possible, we’ll manage it in such a way that will allow us to not only recover the artwork, but capture the criminals.”
“I don’t care anything about that,” Louise said.
“I do. A man was killed, remember? However, if the thieves take precautions that preclude capture, we’ll pay the money and call it a day.”
“Why pay the money?” Mary Ann said. “If they have the paintings that means they stole them.”
“What if the guy says he found them in a Dumpster behind the local Dairy Queen? You’d have to prove he’s lying.”
“I don’t want to pay for what was stolen from me.”
“I don’t blame you, but here’s the thing—publicaly stating that you are offering a reward for something is basically considered a legally binding contract. If you offer a reward in return for an object, for the paintings, and someone provides you with that object, you are obligated to follow through. If you refuse to pay the reward, the person in question has every right to take you to court. You need to make the decision right now that you’re going to pay up, like it or not.”
“McKe
nzie has done this sort of thing before,” Perrin said.
“Perhaps one day you’ll tell me about that,” Mary Ann said. “All right. How much money?”
“We need a figure that will convince the thieves that a swap is worth the risk,” I said.
“That would be…?”
“At least a quarter of a million dollars.”
“The paintings are worth ten times that much at least,” Mitchell said. “Twenty times. Perhaps thirty.”
“Not to the thieves,” I said. “Not if they can’t sell them at auction. I think $250,000 is more than enough bait.”
“In cash?” Mary Ann asked.
“Hard to say. The thieves might demand an electronic transfer of the funds from your account to an account overseas. They might decide to deal in Bitcoin or some other cryptocurrency. It depends on how sophisticated they are.”
“You’re betting that they’re not sophisticated.”
“I’ve been wrong before. It’s best to plan for every contingency.”
“All I know is that you’re betting with my money.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry. Yes, M. A.”
“What will the FBI or the BCA think of all of this?” Mitchell asked.
“They won’t like it and they’ll tell us so in no uncertain terms. They might even make some noise about the penalty for receiving stolen property. They won’t interfere, though, especially if we promise to give up whoever tries for the reward.”
“Can you guarantee that I’ll get my paintings back?” Louise asked.
“I can only guarantee to do my best.”
“They’re not your paintings, dear,” Mary Ann said.
“They are mine,” Louise said. “Randolph gave them to me.”
“So you say.”
“I do say. They were the last things he gave to me before he—before he … You don’t care. You only want the paintings so you can sell them.”
“That’s what Randolph painted them for.”
“Who are you going to sell them to? Bruce Flonta?”
“If he’s interested.”
“So he can put them in storage somewhere?”
“You’ve always been naïve.”
“Storage?” I asked.
“Many people today buy art as an investment,” Mitchell said. “They don’t necessarily want to hang it on their walls or exhibit it in a museum. All they care about is keeping it safe until it grows in value and they can resell it for a profit. So, a lot of art ends up being stored in these vast warehouses usually located near international airports called ‘free ports.’”
“Free ports?”
“If you buy a painting in London and send it to a free port in New York, it doesn’t actually enter New York. Instead, it ends up in a kind of customs-free no-man’s-land between countries. It’s all about tax evasion. You don’t have to pay taxes on the artwork until you actually take it out of the warehouse. These free ports weren’t created to be tax havens, of course. They were originally designed in the nineteenth century to promote the trade of commodities like grain and tea, and later manufactured goods. Producers were allowed to store their goods until someone bought them, then they paid their taxes. Now, though, people use them to store not only artwork, but also gold, jewelry, wine—whatever they want to avoid paying taxes on. They’re also used to hide illegally acquired assets and launder money. Isn’t that right, M. A.?”
“Is that what they taught you at that fancy California college?” Mary Ann asked. “You know everything about art except how to make it.”
“Randolph’s paintings need to be seen,” Louise said.
“Exactly what the art world needs—more nudes.”
“Ladies,” I said, “we don’t actually have the paintings, yet.”
“No, we don’t.” Mary Ann set her eyes on Louise. “McKenzie said he needs you to describe the paintings.”
Louise shifted her eyes to me. The way she nodded ever so slightly I was given the impression that, since she had already told me what they looked like, she understood I was looking out for her interests as best I could given the circumstances.
“I know why I’m here,” she said.
“Well then, describe them, dear. Better yet, you’re not a completely incompetent artist. Perhaps you can favor us with a few sketches.”
“I will describe them to McKenzie and no one else.”
Mary Ann smiled like she had when I first met her and turned to Perrin Stewart.
“She’s a smart girl,” Mary Ann said.
“We’re all smart girls,” Perrin replied.
“Still, I insist on having an agreement in place that specifically outlines what will be done with the paintings once they are in our possession.”
“They’re mine,” Louise said.
“Then you pay for them.”
“If I could, I would.”
“There are three paintings,” I said. “How ’bout you each take one and we’ll cut the third in half?”
“McKenzie, please,” Perrin said.
A long pause followed while Mary Ann and Louise glared at each other. Finally, Louise said, “That’s acceptable to me.”
“What is, dear?” Mary Ann asked.
“I’ll take one painting, you take one, and the third we’ll put on permanent exhibit at the City of Lakes Art Museum in both of our names and share the tax deduction.”
Perrin’s eyes brightened, yet she said nothing.
“Finally, a spark of common sense,” Mary Ann said. “I get first choice.”
“No,” Louise said. “I demand first choice. There’s one painting that means—when Randolph painted it—I get first choice.”
“Were you wearing clothes in that one?”
Louise stood.
“It’s my final offer,” she said. “Take it or leave it.”
“Sit down, little girl.”
I wondered when was the last time someone called Louise a little girl, if ever. I doubt that’s what she was thinking about, though. Her fists clenched and her perfect eyes became tiny dots. She leaned toward Mary Ann and snarled, actually snarled. Mary Ann smiled in reply.
“I accept your offer,” she said. “Sit down.”
Louise sat, only she wasn’t happy about it. She perched on the edge of a chair as if prepared to spring upward again at the slightest provocation.
“I’ll have contracts drawn,” Mary Ann said. “It won’t take long. Then—how do we go about making our intentions known, McKenzie? Please understand; I will not be present at any sort of press gathering. I will not consent to be interviewed. It’s bad enough that I will appear a fool without adding the trappings of a clown. Louise, you do it—with my blessings.”
“No.”
“I would think you’d relish the opportunity to…”
“I said no.”
Mary Ann smiled some more. “Somewhere I think Randolph is having a good laugh over all of this.”
“Yes,” Louise said. “I’m sure that he is, too.”
“I’ll make the announcement, M. A.,” Perrin said, “if I have permission to speak in your name.”
I got the impression that Mary Ann didn’t savor the idea of anyone speaking in her name. She nodded, though, and said, “You have permission to speak in the name of the estate of Randolph McInnis.” She sighed deeply and asked, “Should we drink to our partnership?”
“I don’t drink,” Louise said.
“Of course not. How silly of me.”
“I will share a pot of tea with you, though.”
“Why not, dear? We’ve shared so much already.”
THIRTEEN
I announced that there was something I needed to check out that may or may not have anything to do with the paintings, we’ll see, and made ready to depart. Both Mary Ann and Louise looked at me with alarm, like a couple of heavyweights who suddenly realized that there would be no referee available to guard against low blows. Perrin Stewart wasn’t happy about it, either. My departure made her the only ne
utral party in the room. Mitchell, on the other hand, thought watching Mary Ann and Louise snipe at each other was more fun than an HBO epic fantasy.
Twenty minutes later, I was at the Minneapolis City Hall and Hennepin County Courthouse. Apparently, when it was built in 1906, eleventh- and twelfth-century Romanesque architecture was a big thing. It had rose granite walls, a copper roof with green patina, two towers including one with a four-face clock, stained glass windows, and a five-story rotunda featuring a statue carved of marble from the same quarries used by Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo. It also contained Room 108, which was actually a suite of offices that served the Minneapolis Police Department’s assault, robbery, narcotics, forgery/fraud, sex crimes, and homicide units, among others.
I was held up in the reception area until a uniform escorted me down a long, white marble corridor to a dark brown wood door. Once past the door, the elegance of the building was replaced by the furnishings of civil employees hard at work—metal desks, rolling office chairs, and a hat rack that held no hats. I was led to the cramped office of Lieutenant Clayton Rask and was left alone at the open door. Rask was reading something and did not look up. I knocked tentatively on his door, yet he refused to acknowledge my presence for a good thirty seconds. We had that kind of relationship.
Finally, he said, “What?”
“Good afternoon, LT.”
“You want something, McKenzie?”
“Do I need to want something?”
“Yes, and it had better be important if you’re coming to my office and disturbing my work.”
“Here I thought we were pals.”
“You want to go out and get a beer, talk baseball? I can do that, especially if you’re buying. You didn’t come here for that, though, did you?”
“No.”
“You carry an ID that says you’re a retired St. Paul police officer, but as far as I’m concerned, McKenzie, you’re nothing but a buff. If you hadn’t been helpful to me in the past, I’d throw your ass out of here.”
“About that…”
The way I figured it, Rask owed me a favor for past courtesies. Either he agreed or he thought that I might be useful to him yet again, because he leaned back in his chair, laced his hands behind his head, and said, “All right, I’ll bite. What do you want?”
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