by Rick Homan
Dark Picasso
Nicole Tang Noonan Mystery #3
By Rick Homan
WWW.RickHoman.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First published 2019
Copyright 2019 by Rick Homan
www.RickHoman.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, establishments, events, or locales is purely incidental.
Acknowledgements
I am grateful to my Sisters in Crime (and brothers); my fellow writers and the librarians at the Mechanics’ Institute Library in San Francisco; my designer, Zach McGinnis, and my editor, Adam Gallagher, and most of all to my wife, Ann.
Chapter 1
Pat turned off the interstate, and I gave him directions for the series of turns on state and county roads that led to the Milmans’ home. The dinner invitation did not give a street number. The address was simply “Fairhaven” on Route 378 near mile-marker 17.
We turned where a low brick wall ran along the road marking the entrance to a driveway and drove between a cornfield and a pasture. The cornfield seemed to go on forever; the pasture ended at a stand of mature trees a half mile away.
As we passed the trees, the driveway curved and the house was revealed, still perhaps a quarter mile away. It looked like an English country house, built of red brick, two stories high. I counted four French windows on either side of the entrance with a second-floor window above each. It was big, but its proportions were graceful. Mature trees were clustered at either end to frame it in its hillside setting. It was not something I expected to see in Ohio farm country.
“Do you think that house cost more than all the buildings on campus put together?” I asked.
“Maybe not all the buildings,” said Pat, “but, at least two or three.”
“What are we doing here?”
“Professors at a dinner party in a house like this can mean only one thing, development.”
“Development of what?” I asked.
“Donors.”
He leaned over and kissed me. I took a moment to enjoy the beauty of his sparkling green eyes, sandy hair and pale complexion.
When we reached the stone pavement in front of the house, a young man wearing slacks and a sweater waved us to the left, indicating where to park. “Welcome to Fairhaven.” he said. “This way, please.” We got out of the car and followed him into the house.
He led us through the foyer and into a room large enough to accommodate two groupings of sofa and chairs. One group was upholstered in pale blue and the other in pale yellow. The far wall had three sets of French windows opening to the garden. The room was flooded with late-afternoon sunlight.
From a blue armchair, a woman rose and walked toward us with her right hand extended. “Hi! I’m Tiffany,” she said.
She was a few inches taller than me, five-three or four, and probably in her mid-fifties. She had big blue eyes, a sweet smile, and her curly blonde hair bounced when she talked.
Her long skirt and matching jacket in a pale rose color were accented by a necklace of what I assumed were real stones—sapphires since they were blue. I was feeling a bit somber in my classic “little black dress” with a single pearl on a chain, but I was secure in knowing it could never be inappropriate.
Tiffany scanned my face, taking in my Asian eyes, prominent cheekbones, and freckles on the bridge of my nose and under my eyes. Almost everyone took a moment to study my face when they first met me. My Chinese-American mother and Irish-American father had combined to give me an unusual look.
“Nicole Tang Noonan,” I said. “And this is my friend, Pat Gillespie.”
Tiffany took his hand in both of hers and said, “Welcome. Are you with the college too?”
“Yes,” said Pat, “I’m in the psychology department.”
Tiffany smiled, and said, “Oops! I said, ‘college.’ I still think of it as Fuchs College. I can’t get used to saying ‘Cardinal University.’”
“We’re all still getting used to it,” said Pat.
Last fall, when the new School of Business opened, Fuchs College became a university and changed its name to Cardinal because nobody wanted to wear a t-shirt that read “Fuchs U.”
While they were speaking, I was looking at a pair of landscapes that hung on facing walls. Both showed trees around a pond with low-angled light leaving the scene in partial darkness.
“Oh, do you like my paintings?” asked Tiffany.
“They’re lovely,” I said.
“They’re by a local artist. One is called Sunrise and the other is Moonlight. They’re almost the first ones I bought when we were looking for some pictures to put in this big old place.” She glanced over my shoulder and said, “This is my husband, Dale.”
We turned and saw a tall thin man coming from the corridor on our right. His hair was buzz cut, and he wore thick black glasses, which did nothing to soften his bony face. His green golf shirt tucked into black slacks, worn with black penny loafers, gave a no-nonsense impression.
After Tiffany introduced us, he said, “Great! I’ve been looking forward to meeting Tiffany’s art friends.”
Tiffany shot him a look and said, “They’re not ‘art friends.’ They’re professors at Cardinal University.”
He raised his eyebrows to indicate, “Wow,” without saying it. “Are you both in art?”
“Nicole is a professor of art history,” said Pat. “I’m in the psychology department.”
“Uh-oh!” said Dale. “I’d better watch what I say.”
“Don’t bother,” Pat replied. “I already figured you out.”
Dale let out a belly laugh. “I like this guy!” He slapped Pat on the back.
Pat flinched and seemed to hold his breath for a moment. I knew this was because he’s sensitive about being hit, especially when it’s unexpected. I was glad he was able to control his impulse to hit back. He works out a lot and has big arms and shoulders.
“Let’s sit down,” said Tiffany, waving us toward the blue sofa and chairs, opposite the fireplace.
Two young women in servants’ uniforms appeared. One brought a tray with glasses of sparkling wine, the other a tray with canapés on little plates.
“I’m glad to have a real art expert here,” said Dale, turning to me. “I’ve been hoping someone can give me some figures for the risk-adjusted return on the different kinds of art Tiffany has been buying.”
I almost choked on my ahi tuna. “I’m afraid I don’t have that expertise. I’m a historian.”
“Dale is in finance,” said Tiffany. “If it’s not about money, he’s not interested.”
“That’s not true. I’m interested in lots of things, but sooner or later everything involves money. Am I right, Pat?”
Pat looked him in the eye and said, “That’s right.”
“Dale, let’s not talk about investments. Art is my hobby,” said Tiffany, turning to Pat and me. “I enjoy learning about it. I want to become a connoisseur.”
I didn’t know whether to compliment her on having high aspirations or ask her if she knew what that word really meant.
The young man who had met us in front of the house brought another couple in from the foyer.
“Here’s Anne and John,” said Tiffany, rising and walking over to greet them.
“A couple of our friends from the club,” said Dale, as he followed her.
Returning to her seat, Tiffany said, “Nicole, Pat, these are our friends from th
e club, Anne and John Ghent.”
Anne was dressed in a sleeveless orange shift, and she carried a white sweater over her arm. She wore her straight brown hair in a severe cut, walked like a runway model, and had the muscles of an athlete. John looked older, or at least more worn, and his tweed sport coat looked a size too big for him.
Before Tiffany could tell them our names, Anne sat in the chair nearest Pat. “Hello there, gorgeous,” she said, sizing him up.
I estimated the distance from where I sat to the chair where Anne sat and wondered if I should aim for her throat with my plate of canapés or hit her right between the eyes.
Chapter 2
As the servants arrived to supply the Ghents with food and drink, Dale looked across at John and asked, “Did you check out that stock I told you about?”
John shook his head. “Too rich for my blood.”
“It went up eighteen percent today.”
John managed a shrug.
Tiffany leaned in and whispered loudly enough that everyone could hear, “I don’t think our guests want to spend the evening talking about investments.”
Footsteps from the corridor announced the arrival of more guests. Dale got up and gave Tiffany a palm-down signal, inviting her to stay with us while he went to greet them.
Tiffany turned to me and said, “Anne is also an art collector.”
I looked across at Anne and asked, “Is there a particular period that you collect?”
She kept her heavy-lidded gaze on Tiffany for a few seconds before turning to me and saying, “Modern painters. I’m not particular. We don’t have that much. Wait until you see Tiffany’s collection.”
“Oh, but Anne,” said Tiffany, “you have some very nice pieces.” Her words were mild, but her cheeks blushed, and she had to suppress a smile. Clearly she liked Anne’s compliment.
Laughter from the corridor got our attention. Dale came into the room with his arm locked around the neck of a heavy-set man dressed in a yellow golf shirt and green slacks. “I keep telling this guy he has to correct that slice, but he won’t listen,” Dale announced.
“Alright, alright,” said the shorter man, patting Dale’s arm in an effort to break free.
Dale released him and said, “The score was even halfway through the back nine, and this guy slices his drive into the woods. Never did find it. We had a pretty good bet on that hole too.”
Anne’s head swiveled to her right so she could speak to Dale over her shoulder. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, Dale? They all let you win so they can stay on your good side.”
The room went silent at this remark. Even at a distance, I could see Dale’s jaw muscles flexing.
Glancing toward the archway, I noticed a petite woman with wavy salt-and-pepper hair. Her eyes focused on a table full of knick-knacks in the corner. She seemed content to wait until someone noticed her.
“For heaven’s sake, Dale,” said Tiffany. “You might want to introduce our guests.” Turning to me she said, “Ernst and Maria Becker.”
Dale pointed at John and Anne as he spoke to the Beckers. “You already know these guys from the club, and these folks are from Cardinal University. They’re . . . um . . .”
“Nicole Tang Noonan,” I said.
“Pat Gillespie,” said Pat as he stood and offered his chair to Maria, who smiled and accepted it.
“Oooh, a gentleman!” said Anne.
Pat said nothing but side-stepped toward me and stood within arm’s reach of my shoulder.
I forced myself to set my now-empty plate on the coffee table in front of me, but I swore to myself: one more remark about my boyfriend and this woman would die.
Pat and I listened politely to some chatter about business, the law firm, and activities at the country club. I was making an effort to look interested when Tiffany heard someone in the corridor, stood, and said, “Nicole, Pat, come with me. I want you to meet some people.”
We followed her to the archway and met a man and woman in their thirties. “These are my friends from the Greenbrae Art Museum,” said Tiffany. “Have you been there?”
“No,” I replied. “I’m new to the area and still have a lot to discover.”
“Curtis Diaz,” said the man, offering to shake hands. “We opened to the public only about six months ago.”
“Curtis is the director of the museum,” said Tiffany.
His gray wool suit hung well on his slender frame, complemented by a white shirt, and yellow patterned tie.
Tiffany continued. “And Sandra is the . . . the what? . . . you’re in charge of all the artwork.”
“Registrar,” said the woman. She had a tanned athletic look and short-cut blonde hair. She offered her hand and said, “Sandra Carlini.”
Before I could ask about the Greenbrae Art Museum, one of the servants approached and told Tiffany, “Dinner is served.”
“I got those from that dealer in Columbus,” said Tiffany from her seat at the end of the table, as I looked over three bright, colorful paintings of outdoor produce markets on the walls of the dining room.
“The same dealer who sold you the landscapes in the reception room?” I asked.
“Yes. I thought . . . dining room . . . pictures of food . . . why not?”
“Very nice,” I said.
The servants came and took away the bowls from the first course, which was a spicy chilled corn soup. While they were serving the main course of Cornish game hens, asparagus, and mashed potatoes, Ernst Becker, seated to my left, said, “I confess I don’t know a lot about art, but I’m fascinated. Did I hear that you are an art professor?”
“Yes, art history.”
He smiled and nodded. “Do you specialize in Chinese art?”
I fortified myself with a sip of the white wine. This was not the first time someone had assumed that, because I look Asian, all my interests must be Asian. “No,” I said. “I’m from California. My dissertation was on California Impressionism.”
“Ah, California,” he said. “I keep trying to get Maria to take a vacation out there. I spend too much time in my office at the law firm. I could use some sunshine.”
“You can’t be spending all that many hours in the office,” said Anne Ghent, who was seated on the other side of Ernst.
Ernst hesitated before saying, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I hear you’re losing clients,” she replied, “and that the firm’s finances are a little shaky.”
Ernst’s table knife slipped from his fingers and rattled on the table top. “We’re doing just fine,” he said. He sounded as if his throat were dry.
Across the table from Anne Ghent, Maria Becker sat with her head leaned to one side and her shoulders slumped, but her eyes were like daggers aimed at the woman who had just insulted her husband.
Across from Ernst, John Ghent slouched in his chair and kept his eyes on the plate of food in front of him. Apparently, he had long ago learned to ignore his wife’s cruelties.
“You don’t need to worry about my buddy, Ernst,” said Dale from the other end of the table. “He’s got all the billable hours he can handle keeping me out of jail.”
“Goodness, Dale,” said Tiffany, raising her voice to be heard from the other end of the table, “since that’s not true, you probably shouldn’t joke about it.”
Dale drank almost half a glass of wine in one swallow, and said, “Anne, you’re such a tease. When are you going to run away with me?”
Anne shrugged and said, “I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”
In the silence that followed, I concentrated on cutting the flesh of my game hen from the bones, while trying to think of some topic of conversation that wasn’t likely to blow up in our faces. I glanced at the head of the table and saw Tiffany eating her food with a look of detachment on her face, though her hand trembled.
Pat came to our rescue. “I hear there’s been a building boom around Columbus.”
That was all the company needed to start sharing stories of
real-estate deals, new developments, highway improvements, and upgraded utilities. The gossip and speculation kept us from having to focus on ourselves through the rest of the meal, which included lemon meringue pie.
When the dishes were cleared and everyone had complimented the hosts on a delicious dinner, Tiffany rose and said, “Will the ladies follow me into the drawing room?”
Chapter 3
Tiffany opened a door in the corner of the dining room. Sandra and Maria rose and walked through.
Tiffany said, “Why don’t you join us too, Curtis? I have a couple new pieces in my collection I’d like to show you.”
Curtis got to the door at about the same time as Anne, who turned to him and said, “You’re just one of the girls, Curtis.”
It seemed to me his back stiffened as he waited for her to walk through the doorway before him.
As I entered the drawing room, I paused to look out the French windows at the garden, which was just beginning to bloom.
Maria Becker joined me and whispered, “I’m sorry you had to meet Anne this evening. I wish I could say she isn’t always like this, but unfortunately she is.”
I forced a smile and said, “Well, it’s really none of my business.”
Tiffany’s voice rang out from across the room. “Would you ladies care for coffee?”
“Yes,” I replied, glad for the excuse to avoid further gossip from Maria.
I stopped in the middle of the room to take in the collection of artwork on the walls around me. At a glance it was obvious the collection represented a substantial investment in modern paintings. I saw three landscapes in the style of the Barbizon school.
Elsewhere, the unmistakable style of Marc Chagall caught my eye in a dreamy scene done in gouache involving a horse’s head, a flying woman, and stars. A painting of boats in a harbor might have been by Seurat. A simple painting of a vase of flowers showed the influence of early Picasso, but was probably not by him.