by Rick Homan
The road I was on wound past some older shopping centers and bordered on developments of smaller houses, the kind that went up fast after the World War II. I drove across a steel truss bridge and passed a sign saying, “Welcome to Wickwood.”
Two-story brick buildings typical of small older towns in Ohio lined both sides of the street. This town was noticeably smaller than Elbridge, where I had gone to visit the Greenbrae Art Museum, and even smaller than Blanton, the little town near my university. The business district of Wickwood extended only one block in each direction, and the storefronts were filled with the usual assortment of clothing shops, hair salons, and fast-food franchises.
Having passed through the town’s only commercial intersection, I drove another block and came to a fine two-story school building, built of red brick and trimmed with limestone, sitting on a few acres of lawn, surrounded by an iron fence. The large mullioned windows and sparse gothic ornaments suggested it was built in the early twentieth century.
Turning on the street next to the school, I entered a pleasant neighborhood of mostly two-story, wooden houses, set several yards back from the street, and a few yards from each other. Mature trees next to the curbs shaded the street and sidewalks. On a few of the porches that spanned the front of nearly every house, people sat out, reading, conversing, and keeping an eye on the neighborhood. Children rode bikes on sidewalks or in the streets, depending on their ages. In one driveway, some teenage guys shot hoops.
As I looked around this pleasant neighborhood going about its Saturday-morning business, it was hard to imagine one of these men going to his job at a distant mall, shooting a woman he had never met, and taking whatever was in her purse. It was possible, of course, but it was also possible that Tyrell Johnson had been arrested because folks in this county including law enforcement had gotten used to thinking of Wickwood as the neighborhood where murderers come from.
As I drove more than an hour back to my university, I felt sad about the situation—Shawville and Wickwood—and I felt helpless. Angered by John Ghent’s racist remark, I considered telling him I couldn’t help him after all, but that would have seemed like kicking a man when he was down. I decided to be kind to him and trust that kindness would make the world a better place.
I also decided to call the officer leading the murder investigation according to that news story, Detective Brian Murphy. Perhaps he had sufficient evidence to keep Tyrell Johnson in jail. But, since I had my suspicions about Curtis Diaz, I could at least let him know Johnson wasn’t the only credible suspect.
Chapter 10
When I got home I decided to get the easy stuff out of the way first. In the manila envelope, I found a receipt from the Redburn Gallery for a painting by Picasso. The price was $625,000. I guessed that was easily five times the value of any other painting in Anne’s collection.
I sent Sandra Carlini an email saying I was helping John Ghent get ready to sell some paintings and wanted to know which auction house Greenbrae used and whether it might be willing to work with an individual to sell a few pieces.
As for galleries, I decided to wait until Monday or Tuesday when I would see my colleagues in our department’s offices.
I had just started an online search for the Redburn Gallery’s website when my phone rang. It was Sandra Carlini.
“Hi, Nicole, did you get my email? I just sent it.”
I clicked over to my email window. “Yeah, I see it, but I haven’t read it yet.”
“Don’t bother. Basically, I was brushing you off by mentioning the names of some well-known auction houses and suggesting you call them. I did that because Curtis has a policy of not sharing information about our auction.”
“Really? Why?”
“Down the line, we’re going to apply for accreditation with the American Association of Museums. They frown on museums selling off parts of their collections, so we’re trying to control that information.”
“Alright. Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Not at all. I don’t mind telling you about it. I just didn’t want to put it in an email that came to my Greenbrae address. It’s not that Curtis monitors my emails; I just thought it was better not to put my answer on the museum’s email server.”
“I see. Well, thanks for calling me.”
“No problem. So, you’re helping John Ghent?”
“John called me on Friday and said he wanted to sell some paintings because Anne collected them, and they meant more to her than they do to him. Apparently, she bought them all through galleries, and I suppose he should just take them back to the same galleries, but I thought I would check with you about how auction houses work.”
“Definitely he should look into it. Auction prices can go through the roof if the bidding gets competitive.”
“He has eight paintings. Would an auction house be interested in a collection that small?”
“They might be. I have a file of materials from our sale I could go over with you. Do you want to meet?”
“Sure. Let me look at my calendar and see when I have time to get over your way.”
“Actually, I was thinking I would do the driving this time. You made the trip over here on Thursday, so that only seems fair. Plus, since Curtis is a bit secretive on this subject, I’d rather not meet at Greenbrae or even in Elbridge. It’s a small town.”
“There’s a nice coffee house in Chillicothe. I’ve only been there once, so we’re not likely to run into anyone I know either.”
“Perfect.”
I gave her the address of Klein’s on North Paint Street. We decided to meet at two o’clock the next afternoon and said goodbye.
Then I remembered that Pat had said we would make a day trip up to Columbus on Sunday. Either I had to call Sandra back and reschedule, or I had to renegotiate my plans with my man.
Renegotiating looked like the way to go, so I hopped in my car to make a quick trip to Blanton and buy a nice bottle of wine to have with dinner at his house.
When I got back from Blanton, it was still early for preparing dinner, but I put the slightly-more-expensive-than-usual bottle of Chardonnay in my backpack along with a book on CGI animation and walked over to Pat’s house anyway. If, as I expected, he was in his study, in a trance, analyzing data on his computer screen, I could stretch out on the living room couch and read until he was again ready for human interaction.
As I stepped up onto his front porch, I noticed the cool breeze that often came with evening had not yet come up. The thought of getting comfortable in one of the Adirondack chairs appealed, but when I glanced in the living room window I saw Pat running the vacuum cleaner. I’ve always found it enjoyable to watch a man do housework, so I just stood there.
Within a minute, he glanced at the window. Even at a distance I could see those green eyes sparkling. He shut off the vacuum and came to the door. “Coming in?” he asked.
“No. Just enjoying the show.”
“Get in here, before the neighbors get suspicious.”
“I think we’re way past that point,” I said as I slid past him into the living room and dropped my backpack on a chair.
He wrapped his arms around me and made me feel better than I had all day. I paid him back with a smooch.
I perched on the arm of the couch while he packed up the vacuum cleaner.
“How did it go with John Ghent?” he asked.
“Fine. Anne bought some nice paintings, but, you were right, nothing like Tiffany’s collection.”
“So, you’ve done your good deed?”
“Not quite yet, I have to check with some people so I know what to tell him about working with galleries or using an auction house.”
“Keep notes on all this, or maybe write yourself a memo each time you do one of these, so you can document all this service to the university when you apply for promotion.”
That was obviously the practical thing to do, yet it had never occurred to me. One could not get promoted or tenured simply by saying, “I ta
ught my classes and I published these articles.” One also had to tell a story about how one was useful to the school. Thinking it over, I was pretty sure I could review my calendar for the past three years, and reconstruct convincing documentation, but from now on I would keep notes as I went along. Applying for my first promotion was less than a year away. One more thing for the to-do list.
“Thanks for that suggestion,” I said. “I’m concerned about John. When I got there he seemed weak, confused, unable to concentrate . . .”
Pat glanced up at me. “He has just lost his wife in an especially horrible way.”
“I understand, but there’s more. He kept asking if I wanted something to drink. When I started taking notes on the paintings, he went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of orange juice with ice in it. By the time he had finished drinking it, it was like he’d had a personality transplant. He chatted about the paintings and how and where Anne bought them. He was very gracious about asking me for a favor and offered to pay me. He even invited me to have lunch with him at ‘the club.’”
Pat nodded. “Obviously, there was some vodka in that orange juice.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“He may be killing the pain. A lot of people drink more after they lose someone. With any luck he’ll get counseling or some other kind of support and work through the pain rather than medicating it with alcohol or something else.”
“Is it possible he was showing his true self?”
Pat thought about that for a moment. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“It wasn’t as if he started giving away secrets. He said pretty much what he had said on the phone with me, but his attitude was different. As he talked about selling Anne’s paintings, he seemed to be enjoying the transaction. When he handed me a folder full of invoices, I half-expected him to say, ‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.’”
Pat nodded. “It’s possible he was feeling that euphoria that comes with the first drink.”
“But then, as we walked out, I glanced into his study. He had left the door open. There were boxes everywhere. I wondered if he was packing to move or to put some things in storage.”
“His wife’s death may have provoked him to clean house . . . make a fresh start.”
“Or her death may have been the beginning of his fresh start.”
“Meaning what?”
“Maybe he killed her.”
Pat stared out the window for a few seconds. “I really wouldn’t make too much out of what you saw. We try to see patterns in people’s actions—especially we psychologists. We love to talk about things like ‘the five stages of grief,’ but in reality there are no rules about how people behave. Vague tendencies, perhaps, but human behavior is an endless mystery.”
“By the way, John Ghent said there’s a memorial service planned for next Thursday. I think we should go.”
“We only met them a week ago.”
“True, but we could still support someone going through a difficult time.”
Pat looked confused. “You just said you suspect him of murder. Now you want to support him in his hour of need?”
I batted my eyelashes. “As you said, human behavior is an endless mystery.”
Pat smiled. “Seriously, why do you want to attend?”
“I imagine all the people from the dinner party will be there. It would be interesting to see them together in a different context.”
He folded his arms and looked smug. “So, really, you want to go so you can observe their interactions and make deductions about their motives?”
“Me? Admit it: You’ve thought about whether one of them could have killed her.”
“Of course. We talked about that when we first heard she’d been killed. But I’m not making plans to infiltrate their social circle so I can snoop on them.”
“Neither am I. Although, now that you mention it, maybe someone should look into their motives.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you been following news reports about the investigation?”
“I’ve seen a couple of stories online.”
“The police have arrested a man named Tyrell Johnson from a town called Wickwood.”
Pat shrugged. “I guess I missed that.”
“I drove through Wickwood on my way back to campus this afternoon. It was Shawville’s black neighborhood until someone decided to draw a line around it and call it a separate town. So, basically, the police found a black guy to arrest.”
“It’s also possible they have some evidence against this man.”
“In an ideal world, that would be true. Anyway, the memorial service is Thursday afternoon. Are you going with me or do I have to get another date?”
“Well, when you put it that way, I guess I’ll have to go with you so some other guy doesn’t jump my claim.”
I pulled the bottle of wine from my backpack and handed it to him. “I brought this to have with dinner tonight,” I said, as casually as I could.
He studied the label for a moment. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“What do you mean?”
“This is a nice bottle of wine. If you’re trying to soften me up for something, you’ve succeeded.”
I put my arms around him and kissed his chin. “About that day-trip to Columbus tomorrow: I have a problem.”
Chapter 11
Chillicothe was like many of the towns I’d visited in southern Ohio, only bigger. It had more intersections and some grand buildings from when it was the state capitol in the 1800s. Its neighborhoods fanned out wider and looked better because it was sustained by a paper mill. But it was the same kind of town: red-brick buildings with stores at street level and offices above.
Klein’s Coffee Shop occupied one of those storefronts on North Paint Street and had room for dozens of people. Since Chillicothe was the county seat, there were law offices up and down the street, and I imagined on weekday mornings Klein’s must be full of lawyers in pin-striped suits. On this Sunday afternoon the town was quiet and there were only three tables occupied. I got myself a latte and could not resist the blueberry crumble, which looked like it was made locally.
I had no sooner sat down at a table by the front window than Sandra came in, dropped her coat and tote bag on a chair, handed me a file folder, and said, “I’ll be right back.” She was dressed down for Sunday—jeans, sneakers, and sweater—as I was.
Flipping through the folder, I saw some letters, printed announcements of past auctions including Greenbrae’s, photocopied lists of policies, warnings, and disclaimers, and odds and ends including a take-out menu from a restaurant that, I assumed, must be near the auction house in New York. I took out my notebook and jotted down names, addresses, emails, and phone numbers.
Sandra came back with a bottle of cranberry juice, twisted the cap off, and took a swig. “This is kind of a cute place,” she said, looking around the cafe. “I’ve never been to Chillicothe.”
“Unless you’re passing through on your way to Cardinal or Ohio U. in Athens there’s nothing but farms out this way.”
Pointing to the folder I had open in front of me, she said, “That might be overkill, but maybe there’s something in there you can use.”
“Thanks,” I said. “John Ghent has only eight paintings, mostly mid-nineteenth- and early twentieth-century, European and American.”
“Popular stuff. It really depends on whether his paintings fit in with a sale they’re putting together. If they do, he might sell them in the next few months. If not, he may have to wait a while. Is he in a hurry?”
“I don’t think so. Should I tell him to call the main number for the auction house and say he has some paintings to sell?”
“He could. They’re always on the lookout. That’s how they make money. You could also call the guy who signed those letters and tell him I referred you. Is it high-end stuff?”
“Not like Tiffany’s collection. There are a couple from the Bar
bizon school. A couple are American Regionalist, but not Grant Wood or Thomas Hart Benton. I don’t recognize the signatures. It’s all quality stuff, but there’s only one that might be worth a lot of money and I have some questions about it.” I pulled out my phone and displayed the photo I had taken of the Picasso in the game room of the Ghents’ house.
Sandra scowled for a moment and then took my phone so she could look closer. “That’s interesting.”
“What do you mean?”
“It has some things in common with Tiffany’s Picasso,” she said.
“I thought so too: the crude sexuality, the odd brushwork, the feeling of ridicule. Also, they both have—I may be crazy about this—a lack of energy. They look like Picassos, but I don’t get Picasso’s energy from them. There’s no spark. I’m sorry I can’t give you a better description of what I mean.”
“I think that’s a fair description.”
“You see it too?”
Sandra nodded.
“What do you think it means?”
She thought for a moment. “Didn’t Tiffany say something the other day about her painting being done in Picasso’s final years?”
“Yes. She mentioned that when we were having coffee after dinner at her house.”
“Apparently he wasn’t doing his best work then.”
“A lot of critics said that about the late paintings when some of them were first exhibited.”
Sandra sat back and folded her arms. “Of course, there could be another reason.”
I waited for her to explain.
“Maybe he didn’t paint them,” she said.
“Do you think Picasso had someone working with him in those final years? Perhaps a student or an apprentice made some of the paintings?”