Dark Picasso

by Rick Homan

  “But, when I showed her the article, she could have covered up the whole scheme just by saying, ‘Oh, sorry, I forgot to name my source,’ and writing it on the last page. I told her she could do that.”

  “Yes, that would have worked, but, since she probably had never seen that article, she wasn’t thinking clearly. She followed her first instinct, which was to deny everything.”

  I stood there feeling stupid for not seeing what Pat was describing. I also felt depressed, thinking of the energy I had wasted trying to turn this into a learning experience for Elaine Wiltman.

  Pat glanced at me and at the chicken lying on the cutting board where I had been working. “We’ll have to put that in the wok first.” He put some oil in the wok and turned on a burner.

  I stepped back to the counter and started cutting. “Now what do I do?” I asked. “If she comes back on Monday, and says, ‘Here you go. I added that end note,’ do I accuse her of cheating?”

  Pat pursed his lips before saying, “That might be tricky since you’ve already told her she can do that.”

  “But she denied knowing anything about the article, and refused to acknowledge it. How could she explain that?”

  “To whom would she have to explain it?”

  “To me.”

  “What if she says, ‘Sorry. I was confused,’ and hands you a paper with the source noted on the last page.”

  “That would obviously be bogus. I can’t accept the paper now.”

  “I’ll remind you again: You already told her she could do that.”

  The oil was starting to smoke. Pat pointed at the chicken, and at the wok, and said, “Let’s make ourselves a nice dinner and enjoy it.”

  He went into the dining room, and I heard him putting plates and silverware on the table. I dumped the chicken in the wok, added seasonings, and kept stirring. As I got into a rhythm of scooping ingredients out of the wok and putting others in and combining the flavors, I felt myself pulling back from the knotty problem of handling a student’s dishonesty and instead embracing the immediate prospect of enjoying a meal with the man I loved.

  And enjoy it we did, while discussing what we might do when we went up to Columbus the next day and where we might stay overnight before coming back on Sunday.

  This being Friday, we allowed ourselves an extra drop of wine and were just sitting back to sip it when my phone rang.

  Chapter 8

  I wondered if my parents in San Francisco were calling as I trotted to the living room and fished my phone out of my purse, but the phone’s screen said, “Private Number.” I had never gotten a robocall that announced itself that way, so I answered.

  “Professor Noonan, this is John Ghent. I hope you don’t mind my calling you. I got your number from Tiffany Milman.”

  “Hello, John. No, that’s fine. And, may I say, I’m very sorry for your loss. Pat and I were very sad when we heard of Anne’s death.”

  Of course, I felt terrible saying that, considering how we joked about it Wednesday evening, as if her being killed were something that happened in a murder mystery, but what else could I say?

  “Thank you,” said John. “I appreciate that. I’m calling to ask a favor.”

  “Of course, John, anything I can do.”

  “Anne bought some paintings over the years, some of them rather expensive. They’re really more suitable for her taste than mine. I’m thinking about selling them, but I don’t really know anything about them. I’m pretty sure we have all the receipts, so I could get in touch with the galleries where she bought them, but I don’t know if that’s the best way to go. Frankly, I’m finding it difficult to think straight about anything these days. I don’t know where to start.”

  “How can I help?”

  “Would you come to the house and take a look at them? I know that’s a lot to ask, and I would insist on paying you a consulting fee. I’m sure you would know at a glance whether or not these paintings are valuable, and perhaps you could advise me on the best way to sell them.”

  “John, I don’t mind coming to look at them. I wouldn’t charge a fee. Service to the university and the wider community is part of my job description. I would be happy to tell you what I know about the paintings. I don’t have experience buying and selling works of art, but I can find out what your options are.”

  “Thank you. You’ve taken a great weight off my shoulders.”

  “When would you like me to visit?”

  “At your convenience. I’m taking some time off work, so I can make my own schedule.”

  “May I call you back later this evening to set up a time?”

  “Of course. Or just send me a text saying when you’d like to visit. We live . . . sorry, I live in Shawville. I’ll send you my address in an email.”

  I offered my condolences once more, said goodbye, and hung up.

  I returned to the dining room to find that Pat had cleared the table and retired to the kitchen to wash dishes. I caught up with him and said, “That was a strange phone call.”

  “Who was it?”

  “John Ghent.”

  Pat stopped washing and gave me his full attention.

  “He called to ask me to help him sell Anne’s paintings.”

  “She had her own paintings?”

  “He said she bought them over the years, and they were not to his taste, so, yeah, I guess they were hers more than his.”

  Pat shrugged and went back to washing.

  I picked up a towel and started drying. “Doesn’t it seem strange that he’s selling her paintings only—how long has it been?—three days after her death?”

  “Not especially,” said Pat. “There’s no such thing as normal when a spouse dies, let alone when she’s murdered. Some people react by keeping themselves busy with all kinds of chores, even ones that aren’t urgent. That way they can postpone feeling the loss.”

  “Keeping busy I can see, but why is he so eager to eliminate all traces of her from their house?”

  “We don’t know that he is. He might be focusing on the paintings simply because he doesn’t like them, as he said. When it comes to her clothes, her jewelry, and other personal possessions, he may wait a while, a long time even. For now, maybe this just gives him something to do.”

  “I suppose. Still, something about it bothers me. It seems cold and calculating, almost as if he had planned to do this when she was gone.”

  “Seriously, Nicole, don’t make too much out of this.”

  I stacked the plates and put them into the kitchen cabinet. “I’m supposed to get back to him about when to visit his house and take a look at the paintings.”

  “Is he in a hurry for this?”

  “No, but I kind of am. I have to admit I’m curious about seeing another private collection. I’m also curious about what kind of house they live in. They are country-club people, after all.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything on the scale of the Milmans’. I don’t think there are many around like that.”

  “No, but still . . .” I wasn’t sure how to bring up what I was thinking.

  “Do you want to get this done this weekend?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Do you want to do it tomorrow?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t. I have some chores to do anyway, and I need to squeeze in another workout. We can still go up to Columbus for the day on Sunday.”

  “Okay. Can I sleep over tonight?”

  “Of course.”

  “And I still get to sleep over Saturday night?”

  “Of course. Saturday is always our night.”

  “Mm. You’re the best.”

  I set out from campus around eight thirty Saturday morning so I could arrive at John Ghent’s house in Shawville by ten. Although I was happy to develop donors for the college and to perform community service, this was my third trip to the area southwest of Columbus in five days. Altogether those three trips would cost me an extra tank of gas. If thi
s kept up, I would have to see about getting some reimbursement from the university.

  From the freeway I took a six-lane highway through a cluster of strip malls. A few miles past the exit which led toward Fairhaven, the highway reduced to four lanes and then to two by the time I saw a marker made of fieldstone and timbers marking the entrance to Shawville. From there on I drove on winding roads just wide enough for two cars to pass. Apparently, Shawville did not encourage the free flow of traffic.

  It was a neighborhood of big new houses surrounded by big old trees. No two houses were alike. Each had a different configuration of roofline, dormers, garage-door placement, porches, and window size. Yet in its relentless variety there was a sameness to the neighborhood. The word “custom” applied equally to all.

  I found the cul-de-sac named in John’s address and parked in his driveway next to a car nearly twice the length of my economy car. I would have needed a step-stool to get into it and a booster seat to see over the steering wheel.

  As Pat predicted, the Ghents’ house was not on the scale of the Milmans’, but was impressive nonetheless. I rang the doorbell and waited.

  Looking around the cul-de-sac, I saw no one stirring, and didn’t even hear a dog barking. If anyone was doing anything outdoors on this fine spring day, they were doing it behind their houses, alone, in their private clearings in the woods.

  I remembered John as a thin man with leathery skin and a stooped posture. When he came to the door, he seemed all that and worse. The strain of the past four days had weakened him. As he opened the door and greeted me by name, he smiled with his eyes but could not lift the corners of his mouth. He wore a white dress shirt and trousers that probably belonged to a suit with well-shined loafers, which gave the impression that he had no business to dress for but couldn’t find a sport shirt and slacks.

  “Good morning, John,” I said. “How are you?”

  He shrugged. “Let’s go through to the family room.”

  From the front hall, we turned down a hallway that took us to a room with a high ceiling and full-length windows opening to the yard and woods behind the house. A leather sectional sofa was arranged to take full advantage of the view.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  He pulled up his cuff and looked at his watch. “A little early, I guess.”

  We sat in two reclining chairs by the window. My feet did not touch the floor.

  His eyes settled on something across the room but it seemed his mind was far away.

  “I heard the police have decided to bring charges against the man they arrested,” I said.

  A spasm went through his arms and his hands became fists. “We aren’t safe from those people in our own community, our own homes.” This was said just above a whisper.

  I had to wonder if in another context he might include Asians when he said, “those people.” Since the thought of justice did nothing to comfort him, I asked, “Will there be a memorial service?”

  He stared at me, startled by the question. “Of course. Next Thursday. I . . . oh, I see . . . I’m so sorry. I must not have sent you an announcement.”

  “That’s alright.”

  “You met her so recently, but . . . you knew her. Of course, you should be there. Only if you wish to . . . you and . . . I’m sorry . . . the other professor who came with you to the dinner party.”

  “Pat Gillespie.”

  “Yes. I’ll send the information to your email address at the college, if that’s alright.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  His eyes drifted to the wooded scene outside the windows. His shoulders slumped even further.

  Afraid he might fall asleep, I asked, “You said there are some paintings?”

  He glanced at me, surprised. “Oh. Yes, of course. In the library.”

  Chapter 9

  We left the family room and went down the corridor to a pleasant corner room on the front of the house. Windows on two sides gave good light for viewing the art on the two interior walls. At a glance I saw a nice collection of half a dozen paintings, less spectacular than Tiffany’s but fine all the same.

  “Are you sure you won’t have something?” he asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Alright then, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll be right back.”

  One of Anne’s paintings was of a cafe scene in springtime, judging by the blossoms on the vines. The style was definitely impressionism, and the subject recalled Renoir, but this painter’s touch was heavier. The signature was sketchy, but I think it said “Johansen.” I jotted the name in a little notebook along with a brief description and estimate of the size.

  I did the same with the other paintings before focusing on the one that had caught my eye the moment I walked in. It was a Picasso, less than half the size of Tiffany’s. It depicted a mother and child. Both were nude and the mother sat with her knees apart so that her genitals and anus were visible. Their faces were white discs with simplified features painted on them.

  As I had learned, the crude, explicit detail and the cartoonish exaggeration were typical of his late work. Like Tiffany’s Picasso, the whole thing felt forced.

  I was starting to write in my notebook when I heard John Ghent behind me.

  “These can all be sold. They were hers. Some of them are nice, but they just don’t mean much to me.”

  I noticed he was holding a tall glass of what looked like orange juice over ice.

  “They are nice,” I said. “Do you recall where she bought them?”

  “These,” he said, gesturing toward four small paintings to the right, “all came from different galleries here in Columbus. I made copies of the invoices for you.” He handed me a manila envelope.

  “Thank you.” I took it and tucked it under my arm.

  “That one, she bought when we were on vacation in upstate New York,” he said, pointing to a large one on the left. “And that one,” he pointed to the Picasso, “came from a gallery in New York City.”

  “Do you recall which one?”

  “Yes, the Redburn Gallery. The invoice is in there,” he said, nodding toward the manila envelope. He took a long drink of the orange juice and followed it with a deep sigh.

  “It’s easily the most expensive,” I said.

  He smiled as he settled himself on a small sofa, leaned back, and crossed his legs. “I’d like to get top dollar for these. Should I take them all to one dealer or will I have to sell one here and another one there?”

  “I suspect there’s quite a range of value here. Some dealers concentrate in the higher end of the market, while some serve a broader clientele. I’ll ask some friends.”

  “I don’t want this to take up too much of your time,” he said, making an earnest attempt at courtesy.

  “This won’t take long,” I said. “A few phone calls. Would you mind if I took a photo of the Picasso?”

  “Be my guest.” He waved his arm to indicate I was free to photograph any and all of the paintings. He now seemed to be enjoying our visit.

  After I took a picture with my cell phone, he got up from the couch. He had finished his drink, and now stood straighter and had more color in his cheeks. “Can I offer you some lunch?” he asked. “Now that I think of it, we could run over to the club for a bite.” He checked his watch. “It’s a little early but it’s Saturday, so I’m sure they’ll be serving.”

  “Thank you, but I have to get back to campus,” I said. “So much to do at the gallery.” Actually, I had nothing to do at the gallery, but I couldn’t imagine going with him for lunch when he was both emotionally fragile and on his way to being drunk.

  “Alright, then,” he said and waved me toward the corridor.

  As I walked toward the front hall, I saw a door open that had been closed when we walked to the library. I glanced in, as I went by, and saw that it was nicely furnished as an office, but had file folders strewn across the desk top and cardboard file b
oxes all over the floor and even perched on the seats of the chairs and sofa.

  We said our goodbyes, and I got in my little car and drove back out to the highway.

  As I started on my way, I thought about how I would do what I had promised John Ghent. It wouldn’t be difficult. Two members of my department were painters and would be familiar with local galleries. They could tell me who to talk to. Also, Sandra Carlini must have been involved in putting together Greenbrae’s auction and would probably be willing to put me in touch with whoever they used. I was fairly sure I could have an answer for John within a few days.

  More puzzling was the appearance of one very expensive painting in Anne’s otherwise mid-to-low-price collection. The more I thought about it, the more eager I was to get home, open that manila envelope, and take a look at the receipt for Anne’s Picasso. Like Tiffany’s Picasso, Anne’s had been purchased from the Redburn Gallery in New York, both paintings showed all the characteristics of Picasso’s late work, and both lacked the vitality one associates with a master. That seemed like a lot of coincidences.

  However, if both paintings had the same provenance, all this became more believable. If, for instance, both paintings came from the same owner, and that owner was the heir of a person who received both paintings from Picasso himself, then everything made sense. Picasso might have dashed off a pair of paintings with minimal inspiration and given them to a friend. Decades later, the heir needed to raise cash and sold them both through the same dealer. Provenance should be easy to check. A phone call to the dealer should do it.

  Instead of turning left to go back through the shopping malls to the freeway, I turned right. Directions on my phone told me that was the way to Wickwood. I wanted to see the city with a majority black population that, on a map, looked like someone had taken a bite out of Shawville. I wanted to know who John Ghent was talking about when he said, “those people.”

  Before leaving home that morning, I’d read news accounts of the arrest of Tyrell Johnson. On the night of the murder, he finished his shift at a store that sold everything for the home and garden and walked to his car. He saw an ambulance and police car nearby and walked over to see what was going on. When officers questioned him, Johnson said he was leaving work and pointed to his car to back up his explanation. The officers searched his car and found a handgun in the glove compartment.