Dark Picasso

by Rick Homan

  “I hadn’t thought of that. You’re not just in the art business. You’re also in the historic house business.”

  She nodded. “And the entertainment business, and the education business, and soon we’ll be in the restaurant business. As Curtis likes to point out, our visitors have to drive out into farm country, get off the freeway, and drive through town to get here. So, we have to make ourselves a destination. I’m sure he’s right, but there are times when it all seems like too much.”

  “Speaking of driving through town, the plaza in Elbridge is really pretty.”

  “What is?” asked Sandra.

  “The green park with the big old building in the middle and the statues.”

  “Oh! Courthouse Square. Yes. It’s lovely.”

  “Are there other towns like that in Ohio?”

  “There are a few, though I think they’re more common in the South.”

  At the bottom of the stairs we turned down the hall and walked back to the kitchen, which still had some original details but showed signs of being upgraded in stages through the 1960s. Sandra put the kettle on and got out mugs, a selection of tea bags and a tin of cookies. We sat at a table in the middle of the room.

  “On the way over, I heard a news report about the murder of Anne Ghent,” I said.

  “That’s a terrible thing.”

  “It said the police have arrested someone from Wickwood. I don’t know where that is.”

  Sandra frowned for a moment before saying, “Wickwood is a small town between here and Columbus. It’s bordered by a creek on one side and by the town of Shawville on the other three sides. In other words, on a map, it looks like someone took a bite out of Shawville and decided to call it Wickwood, which is exactly what happened. Shawville is full of nice, large houses where people like the Ghents live, people who aren’t as wealthy as the Milmans, but are quite well-off. Wickwood was Shawville’s downtown until the 1940s, when the city drew a line around it and made it a separate town whose population happens to be seventy percent African-American.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Technically, there’s no segregation in Shawville or in Wickwood. In either town, anyone can buy a house anywhere they want. Practically speaking, it’s segregation. So, if the news reports say police have arrested ‘a Wickwood man,’ that most likely means a black man.”

  Sandra put tea bags into our mugs and poured water from the kettle. I was glad for the momentary distraction since this information prompted at least half a dozen questions and I didn’t know where to start. I was prevented from pursuing them by the arrival of Curtis.

  “Good news,” he said to Sandra. “We’re in the running.”

  “Congratulations, Mr. Director.”

  He sat opposite me at the table and Sandra made him a cup of tea.

  “It’s just one grant, and we certainly need more, but it’s an important one,” he said, grinning.

  Sandra sat with us and smiled at him. “You and Peter should go out for dinner tonight and celebrate.”

  Curtis glared at her.

  Sandra looked confused, glanced at me, and turned back to him. “Nicole is from San Francisco. I don’t think she’s going to be shocked that you have a boyfriend.”

  “That isn’t the point. Why bring it up? Are you now going to ask Nicole to keep it confidential? Is that your plan?”

  Sandra shook her head. “Nicole isn’t going to run around spreading gossip about you.”

  “Again, not the point. I would like to keep my personal life private, and stick to business when we’re working. Is that so much to ask?”

  Sandra said, “I’m sorry, Curtis,” but it sounded like more like a complaint than an apology.

  Curtis turned to me. “Excuse us for bickering in front of you. I don’t want this to be an issue when I’m talking to potential donors.”

  “No need to apologize,” I said. “I’m really impressed with what you’re doing here. I’d never really thought about all the challenges that come with the donation of a historic house and an art collection.”

  He nodded. “Thank you. There are times when I’m glad I didn’t know what I was getting myself into when I took this job.”

  I glanced at my watch. “I’ll have to get back on the road in a few minutes, but I did want to ask you about something. Did either of you get a good look at that painting by Picasso that hangs over the fireplace in Tiffany Milman’s drawing room?”

  Both nodded.

  “We’ve both seen it on previous visits,” said Sandra.

  “I did some reading on Picasso’s late paintings, and I visited Tiffany again on Tuesday, partly so I could get another look at it. I have a feeling there’s a problem with it, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “I don’t know a lot about Picasso’s late paintings,” said Curtis.

  “I don’t either,” I said, “and really no one does. They’re just beginning to become available to the public. I’m concerned about this one because it just doesn’t seem to have that energy one associates with an artist of his caliber.”

  Sandra said, “Even great painters produce mediocre paintings. But, I know what you mean. I’ve never really liked that painting.”

  “Excuse me,” said Curtis, glaring at Sandra, “It’s not our job to curate private collections.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing, Curtis.” Sandra rolled her eyes as she said this. “Relax! We’re just having a casual conversation with a colleague.”

  “You’re jeopardizing everything I’m trying to accomplish.” He got up from the table. “Thank you for visiting this afternoon, Nicole. I hope you’ll come back soon. Please excuse me.” He left.

  Sandra waited to hear his footsteps on the stairs before saying, “Forgive him. He’s under a lot of pressure right now, and it’s making him overreact.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said as I got up. “I should be going. Thanks for spending time with me this afternoon. This was great.”

  Sandra saw me off and I drove back through town to the freeway.

  As I settled in for the hour-long drive back to campus, I felt a nagging irritation about the conclusion of my visit to Greenbrae. Thinking over our conversation in the kitchen, I kept coming back to the moment when Sandra told Curtis, “You and Peter should go out for dinner tonight and celebrate,” and Curtis made it clear he preferred not to be out at work.

  This reminded me of the moment at the dinner party on the previous Saturday when Tiffany invited the “ladies” to come with her to the drawing room, and also called on Curtis to see a new addition to her collection. As he walked to the door, Anne Ghent remarked that he was “just one of the girls.”

  In other circumstances, such a comment would have been a mildly humorous way of easing any tension that might arise from one man joining a group of women in a social situation. But, in light of what I’d just learned, Anne’s remark, delivered at a gathering of wealthy people, might have felt like a threat to his ongoing efforts to attract support for Greenbrae.

  As Sandra said, he was under a lot of pressure. Was the pressure great enough that Anne’s remark would have motivated him to seek revenge? When I asked myself that question, the reason for my discomfort became clear. A few minutes earlier, I might have been sitting across the table from a murderer.

  Once I had thought it and said it aloud to myself in the privacy of my car, it sounded ridiculous. The thought of a well-dressed, well-educated man like Curtis somehow getting a gun and lurking in a parking lot to shoot and kill someone who taunted him seemed at first laughable. But if I laughed at that possibility, I was joining everyone else in turning to Wickwood for likely suspects, a mental habit that was as morally corrupt as it was convenient.

  Since I couldn’t stop thinking about this, I decided to search online for news stories about the murder of Anne Ghent and the arrest of Tyrell Johnson. At least I had to find out who he was and why he was at the mall two nights ago.

  Chapter 7

  When
I got home from my visit to Greenbrae Art Museum, I checked my calendar and was glad to see I had nothing planned for tomorrow except my classes at eleven and one. I could feel the school year winding down. There would be another frenzy of activity as we approached final exams, and once the year ended I would dive into research for an article on one of our recent exhibits, but for now there was a lull. I hadn’t talked to Pat about plans for the weekend. Maybe we would spend a night in Cincinnati or Columbus.

  Filling my backpack for tomorrow morning, I came across the articles I had downloaded about the origins of abstract expressionism. They reminded me I had to make a decision about Elaine Wiltman’s paper so I could hand back papers in tomorrow morning’s Modern Art class. I chose the article with the most likely title, read the introduction, and recognized it as the source of her paper. Clearly, she had used this article but had not mentioned it in the body of the paper and had not added a footnote or endnote to acknowledge it.

  This was frustrating, but not unusual. Many students thought research meant finding something on the internet and putting it in their paper, sometimes simply by cutting and pasting. Looking over Elaine’s paper, I saw she mostly had summarized the article, though there were sections of close paraphrase.

  I had explained to the students that a research paper that reported what others had already said without adding anything original would be graded C, or maybe B if it was well-written, which Elaine’s was. But before I could write that grade on the paper and hand it back to her, she would have to acknowledge her source.

  Instead of writing a grade on her paper, I attached a sticky note that read, “See me after class.”

  On my way to class Friday morning, I stopped by the espresso bar, which anchored one corner of the plaza in front of the new business building. It was essentially a glass house with a free-standing service counter in the middle. I had become fond of picking up a latte and taking it to my office, so much so that I allowed myself to indulge on Mondays and Fridays only.

  As I stood in line, I gazed out the back wall of the cafe and took in the new home of the School of Business. Its mostly glass facade allowed the passerby to look into the atrium at the center of the building and see everyone moving between classrooms, lecture halls, and offices.

  There was nothing else like it on our little campus. The original buildings from the 1920s were collegiate gothic. The Student Center was early shopping mall, and the Arts and Humanities Building, where I had my office and taught, was in the international style.

  I glanced toward the head of the line at the man ordering and recognized Bert Stemple by his perfect hair. After placing my own order, I caught up with him at the end of the counter where we waited for our drinks.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am we now have this place,” I said.

  Bert deadpanned. “Without it, the university couldn’t have hired faculty for the School Business.”

  I smiled. “Thank you for raising our standards.”

  He smiled back. “Thank you for bailing me out at our meeting yesterday.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t usually get tongue-tied like that, but I was caught off-guard.”

  “Shirley was out of line. Now that I think of it, if a man had done the same thing to a woman on the faculty, she’d have filed a complaint.”

  He shook it off. “Nothing to worry about. Seriously though, I’d be happy to help with the marketing for the gallery. When you have a sense of how you’d like the gallery to grow, just let me know.”

  “Thank you, Bert. I’ll do that.”

  He picked up his drink and headed for the Business Building.

  As I waited for mine, I faced a new set of questions. Up to then, I’d focused on recruiting good artists and researching their backgrounds. I hadn’t thought about how I’d like the gallery to grow. It felt good to be challenged by a new colleague, but I’d have to put off thinking about marketing until summer . . . or maybe fall.

  I waited until the end of my Modern Art class to hand back their papers. Otherwise, the students would have spent the class period thinking about their grades. Also, after class Elaine Wiltman could find out right away why she got “See me after class” instead of a grade.

  She waited in her seat while the others left the room, some pausing to ask me questions. When they were gone she came forward, holding up her paper with my sticky note showing. “Hi,” she said with a smile. “What’s up?”

  “Good paper,” I said, as I pulled the relevant article out of my backpack. “I can see you used this as a source. So, I just need you to acknowledge it, either in your introduction or in an endnote.”

  She scowled as she took the article from my hand. When she had scanned the first page, she looked up and said, “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s okay to use sources like this, so long as you tell the reader you’re doing it.”

  “But I didn’t,” she said.

  I almost couldn’t believe she was denying it. “Elaine, your first paragraph about the origins of abstract expressionism is a paraphrase of the introduction to this article. The examples you use to prove your point are the same ones used in this article. In your conclusion, there’s a sentence that is identical to one at the end of this article except for three-word substitutions. So, obviously your paper is based on this article, and that’s fine, but you have to acknowledge it as your source. That’s what I’m trying to teach you.”

  Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were searching the floor as if looking for something to say. She dropped the article on the table next to my backpack and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just read the textbook and wrote my paper.”

  I felt sorry for her. Something was making her think she had to lie her way out of the situation.

  “I’ll make this easy on you,” I said. “You can use your pen right now to add the word ‘Sources’ to the last page of your paper and add the author’s name, the title of the article, and so on. That’s all you need to do. This is just so we’re clear on the need to acknowledge sources.”

  “No,” she said and hurried out of the room.

  I was stunned. I couldn’t understand why she would deny something so obvious when there was no disadvantage for her in acknowledging it. Fortunately, she had the weekend to think about it. I hoped she would talk to some friends who might explain to her this was no big deal. With any luck, she would show up on Monday with the acknowledgement in place and I could give her a grade.

  Back in my office, I munched on some salad with chopped egg and toast while leaning back in my chair and looking out over the wooded hillside that descended from the back of the Arts and Humanities Building. This view was the architect’s gift to the faculty.

  I kept a windbreaker in my office so I could hang it on the hook I had added just above the little window in my office door. That way the passing students couldn’t glance in, see me eating, decide I wasn’t doing anything important, and pop in to tell me what they had planned for the weekend and ask, “Doesn’t that sound cool?” There was plenty of time for that when I wasn’t eating.

  Alone with the view, I marveled at the pale green blush of the budding trees. Within a month that would turn into a heavy green canopy. Here and there, at the edges of the forest and in clearings, were smaller trees blooming in white and pink.

  This was my third spring in the Appalachian foothills of Ohio, and I still had to remind myself that those flowering trees were native species. This was a powerful lesson for a girl from San Francisco where there are no native trees. When Europeans arrived, the peninsula was sand dunes covered with grasses. Every tree in my hometown was put there by the hand of Man, but Nature was the gardener here.

  I finished my lunch and, before getting back to the business of preparing for my one-o’clock class, sent Pat a text: Dinner, your place, stir-fry chicken and veg?

  That evening, as we worked together chopping things to go into the wok, I told
Pat about my bewildering conversation with the student who preferred to tell an obvious lie, rather than add a note to the end of her paper.

  He agreed her behavior made no sense and asked, “Did you actually show her a copy of the article?”

  “Yes. That’s how I started, and I told her it was okay to use it as a source. I think I even complimented her on it.”

  “And what was her first reaction?”

  “She seemed confused.”

  “About why you were bringing it up? Or did she just not recognize the article?”

  I couldn’t quite remember her reaction. “Could have been either,” I said, “although I think I was pretty clear about why I was bringing it up. Now that I think of it, she stared at the first page of the article for a while before she said anything.”

  Pat nodded. “She probably had never seen it before.”

  “Then how did she write her paper based on it?”

  “She didn’t write the paper.”

  “Then how . . . ?” My brain froze.

  “Someone wrote it for her and based it on the article but didn’t tell her that,” said Pat.

  I was so stunned I had to put down my knife and step back from the counter. “How did I not see that?”

  “Is this the first time it’s happened to you?”

  “I’ve had students hand in work that wasn’t their own—a couple when I was a grad student—but those were obvious because they didn’t bother to rewrite it in their own words or because they picked an article that was mostly irrelevant to the course.”

  Pat popped a slice of green pepper into his mouth and chewed before replying. “So, this was a better class of cheating. Your student probably found someone who writes well, maybe someone who knows something about art, and went over the assignment with them. That person wrote the paper either for pay or for a favor in return. Your student may have read the paper but didn’t ask what, if anything, it was based on.”