by Rick Homan
After changing into my most somber dress clothes, black dress and black blazer, I hit the road with a renewed sense of purpose.
Chapter 17
The funeral home sat beside a four-lane road on the outskirts of Shawville. Though I got there a few minutes after two, there were only a dozen cars in the parking lot. The thought of walking in and introducing myself to a handful of strangers gave me the chills.
Instead of turning into the driveway, I went past and drove through a wooded section before coming to a shopping plaza with a coffee shop. I went in and got a small cup of tea.
Twenty minutes later, I drove back, saw more cars in the lot, parked, and went in.
After signing the guestbook, I looked into the parlor to the left of the foyer and saw perhaps twenty people, clustered in small groups. John Ghent was not among them. Perhaps there was a separate parlor for family members. The only person I recognized was Sandra Carlini. Lucky for me, she was sitting by herself on a loveseat in the corner. I joined her.
“I thought I might see you here,” she said.
“It seemed like the thing to do, even though I met Anne and John so recently. You must have known them for a while.”
“A little over a year,” she replied. “But whenever I saw them it was at events like that dinner party—social, but with a professional undertone. Let’s face it, people like us are always going to be visitors to this social circle.”
Looking across the room, I noticed Curtis Diaz talking to a couple in the corner. “Curtis is here too.”
Sandra suppressed a smile. “Curtis made it clear we both would be on hand to remind everyone that there’s a worthy cultural institution just down the road.”
“Really?”
“He wasn’t that blunt about it, and he won’t be obvious about it here, but he knows what he’s doing: reminding people with money that we’re part of their world.”
I turned so I could talk to her directly. “I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversation at the coffee shop the other day.”
She nodded. “I hope I didn’t throw too much information at you.”
“Not at all. You gave me a lot to think about. You helped me understand why the marketplace makes it so hard to expose forgeries. Now I have another question for you: What happens when one of these fakes gets donated to your museum? Do you ever worry about that?”
“I have nightmares about it, and so does every curator and registrar.”
“So, wouldn’t it be worth trying to take these fakes out of circulation whenever you can?”
“We can’t police the art market. You’ve seen what it’s like at Greenbrae. We’re juggling chainsaws just to keep the place open. And it’s not much different at big museums.”
“But you have a process that makes certain you don’t put a fake in your collection, right?”
“Most of the time.”
I waited a moment for that to sink in. “Are you saying some of these fakes end up hanging on a wall in a museum?”
“Yes.”
“But that must be rare.”
Sandra grimaced. “There’s a lot of disagreement among museum people about how common this is. Let’s just say it happens more often than most people think.”
For a moment I thought I was going to hyperventilate. “As an art historian, this is really starting to upset me. If people see these forgeries in a museum and think, ‘That’s what a Picasso looks like,’ the forger changes our understanding of Picasso’s work.”
“That’s what we’re all worried about.”
I had to restore my sense of reality by staring out the window for a few seconds. When I felt like I was back on earth, I turned back to Sandra. “What about all this technology? X-rays, carbon dating . . .”
“And spectographic analysis, isotope dating, ultraviolet, infrared—yes, all these techniques and more have been applied to authenticating paintings.”
“Then why can’t you put a painting through these tests and prove whether it is real or not?”
“Commercial labs charge a lot of money. Let’s say a museum pays one of them to test a painting. If the lab proves the painting is fake, the owner of the painting can dispute the findings and sue for damages. Introducing technology does not change the fact that there’s always someone who does not want the fake detected. For a lot of museums, usually it’s not worth the expense.”
I thought about what she was saying for a moment before asking, “Would you look at a painting for me?”
She looked surprised. “Which one?”
“The other day I showed you a photo of a Picasso Anne Ghent owned. You noticed it was similar to Tiffany’s, and that’s what made you say they could be forgeries.”
“I was just thinking out loud.”
“I understand, but John wants me to help him sell it, and I don’t feel right about doing that if there’s a good chance it might be fake. Plus, I need to know whether I’m looking at the real thing. I am a historian after all.”
Sandra held her breath for a moment before saying, “I don’t mind helping you, but you must understand a couple of things. First, I’m not a curator. I’m not trained to authenticate, but I’ve worked with curators, and I’m familiar with a lot of their tests, so I could give you a general idea. Also, you must never tell anyone I gave you an opinion on the painting or that Greenbrae had anything to do with this. Curtis is right: That’s not the business we’re in.”
“Understood. I won’t tell John or anyone else you even looked at it.”
“Also, you’ll have to bring the painting to Greenbrae. Obviously, we can’t keep this confidential if I go to Ghent’s house to look at it.”
“I see what you mean. I’m not sure how I can arrange that, but I’ll get back to you.”
“Okay. We’ll pick a time when Curtis won’t be around.”
“I appreciate it.”
She shrugged. “It’s an interesting problem, even if it’s not relevant to Greenbrae.”
The room had become more crowded, and people were starting to move into the chapel through the double doors at the far end of the parlor.
Sandra stood up. “Excuse me. I’d better hit the ladies’ room before the service begins.”
My insides buzzed with excitement over the prospect of having the Ghents’ Picasso examined, but first I had to convince John to let me take his painting out of his house. I could tell him the provenance from Redburn was sketchy, which was true; therefore, an independent assessment would help to convince a buyer to pay top dollar for it, which was probably also true. But, he would want to know who was doing the assessment. I would have to think of a reason why I couldn’t tell him that.
Of course, I couldn’t talk business with him at his wife’s memorial service. I might have to get back to him next week. That would give me time to think through the details.
Few people were left in the foyer, so I stood and walked toward the chapel.
Dale Milman stepped in front of me. “I heard you’re helping John,” he said.
“I’m here to give some moral support like everyone else.”
“I mean with the paintings, the ones Anne bought. I understand he’s selling them.”
The man had no shame. “If you have questions about them, you should talk to John.”
“I just want to know why he called you in.”
“I’m not comfortable discussing that with you or anyone other than John.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Here’s the deal: Anne recommended Redburn Gallery. That’s why Tiffany went there to buy the Picasso we have. So, when I hear John has called in an expert instead of going back to Redburn to sell his painting, it sounds to me like there could be a problem.”
I glanced around hoping to see someone coming our way to interrupt this conversation. Unfortunately, people seemed to be steering away instead.
“First of all,” I said, “I’m not an expert on Picasso. Second, John’s concerns are much simpler than yours seem to be.
But, as I said, you should talk to John about that.”
I started to walk around him, but he side-stepped in front of me.
“What I want to know is, are they legit?” he demanded.
Fortunately, a couple of people had glanced our way, aware of Dale’s confrontational tone.
“I really can’t tell you anything,” I said.
“If there’s a problem, I want to know,” he snarled.
This time, when I tried to go around him, he let me get past.
Dale had just proven what Abbie told me about “guys like him.” They play to win. Clearly, he didn’t mind making a scene at a memorial service to protect his assets, including the “extra” few million he was “parking” in the art market.
But would he kill someone who threatened those assets? He might have thought Anne Ghent was a threat.
This was the second time in a week I found myself wondering if Dale had a motive for murdering Anne. I couldn’t do anything about it, but I knew someone who could. Detective Brian Murphy would be hearing from me ASAP.
Chapter 18
I walked up the center aisle of the chapel and saw John had sat in the front pew on the left, along with a few people his age and several people around my age. I guessed the younger ones must be his children along with their spouses, though I’d never heard Anne or him speak of children.
The several rows behind him were mostly filled. I took an aisle seat halfway back so I could watch which way John went after the service and catch up with him to offer condolences.
The organist had begun to play softly while I was thinking about my situation, and more of the pews had filled up. I sensed movement on my right, turned, and saw that Maria and Ernst Becker had come up the side aisle and were making their way into the pew where I sat. Recalling my conversations with them at the dinner party from hell, I wasn’t eager to chat with either of them. The service was about to start, and that, I hoped, would put an end to conversation.
Maria sat beside me and said, “Some funerals are sadder than others.”
Not knowing what to make of that, I nodded in her direction and looked past her to acknowledge Ernst’s arrival. He sat looking to the front of the room, seemingly unaware of anyone around him. The expression on his face suggested something monstrous weighed on his mind.
I kept my eyes focused on the front of the room as Maria swiveled her head to look past me to the other side of the aisle. “I thought there would be more people here,” she said. “Looks like mostly extended family and older friends. I don’t see many people from the club.”
Fearing she would keep talking until she got a response, I said, “I wouldn’t know. I only met them at the Milmans’ dinner party.”
My strategy didn’t work. After a minute she said, “Is this a busy time of year at your university?”
I turned to face her, said, “Perhaps we can talk about this after the service,” and turned back to the front of the room without waiting for a response.
That won me a few moments of silence, which allowed me to hear sobbing from the aisle behind me. I didn’t want to gawk, but I glanced to my left and saw Tiffany walking by with her arms folded and a handkerchief held over the lower half of her face. Dale walked a step or two behind her, his eyes scanning the pews on both sides.
“I don’t know what she’s so broken up about,” said Maria. “She hasn’t had a good word to say about Anne since she wrecked her knee playing in that doubles tournament. Everybody says she blamed Anne for pressuring her into it, and I guess that’s true, but really it was up to her to know her own limitations.”
“You’ll have to excuse me,” I said, without looking in Maria’s direction. Carrying my hat and my jacket, I walked down the aisle, left the chapel, and found the ladies room. I combed my hair, just to give myself time to calm down, and thought about happier times so my face would lose the expression of disgust I felt over Maria’s malicious gossip.
I thought about going home but decided to stay for John’s sake.
Returning to the chapel, I chose a seat several rows further back and sat behind a tall man to make it difficult for Maria to see me even if she turned all the way round to look for me.
The funeral director began, “We are gathered here this morning to celebrate the life of Anne Ghent and to comfort those she leaves behind.” He read a meditation suggesting our lives on earth are part of some larger cosmic pattern, after which he introduced a friend of the Ghent family, who spoke about Anne’s childhood in Indiana, high school accomplishments, college career, and life with John. The funeral director then introduced a soprano, who sang, “You are the Wind Beneath My Wings,” a favorite of Anne’s. The director closed the service by inviting us to meet with the Ghents in the family reception room. The organist played, and the Ghents walked down the center aisle.
I followed the instinct of herd animals for avoiding a predator. I waited until a good number of people were walking down the aisle and walked among them. It worked. I made it out of there without Maria Becker catching up to me.
In the foyer, most people went directly out the front door of the funeral home. I followed the few who turned up the corridor toward the family reception room. There I found a dozen people, scattered in twos and threes, and at the far end John Ghent sat on a sofa speaking with people on the chairs facing him.
As I edged my way toward John, I heard someone call my name, looked to my left, and saw Curtis Diaz smiling and gesturing for me to join him and the couple he was standing with. “Nicole, I’d like you to meet some people.” Turning to them, he said, “This is Dr. Nicole Noonan of Cardinal University. She’s been consulting with us at Greenbrae, and we’re hoping she’ll help us jump-start our education program, which is central to our mission.”
He told me the names of this couple and their interests, but I lost track of all that because I was trying to think what I would say if they asked me about my “consulting” with Greenbrae, since I didn’t know what Curtis was talking about. Fortunately, they were more interested in themselves, and I had only to continue smiling and nodding until I could excuse myself to go and offer my condolences to John Ghent and his family.
I understood Curtis was trying to enhance the prestige of Greenbrae Museum by suggesting it had ties to universities in the area, but I didn’t appreciate being put on the spot that way. For a moment, I thought how bizarre it would be if he had killed Anne because she threatened his fundraising efforts by outing him at the Milmans’ dinner party and was now using her memorial service to raise funds.
I hovered near the end of the room until one of the people in the chairs facing the sofa got up. While John turned aside to speak to someone next to him on the couch, I took a seat. When he turned back and saw me, he smiled, reached out a hand, and said, “Nicole, thank you for coming.”
His cheeks were pink and his eyes were bright. Apparently, he’d already had his “orange juice.” “You’re welcome,” I said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
He took a moment to absorb that before saying, “Thank you.” He gave my hand a squeeze and let go.
I was about to ask if I might call him in a few days when he asked, “Any ideas so far about selling the paintings?”
I hadn’t wanted to get into that, but I couldn’t ignore his question. “Yes, although there’s one thing we should talk further about. Shall I call you this weekend?”
“What is the issue?”
“I called the Redburn Gallery about the Picasso and spoke to the man Anne dealt with. He wasn’t able to tell me much about the painting’s provenance. Without knowing that, it may be hard to sell it for the best price. So, I’ve spoken to someone who’s willing to look over the painting and tell me if there are any questions a potential buyer would ask about its authenticity.”
“Is this person some sort of expert? Someone who works for a gallery or an auction house?”
“My contact has asked me to keep this confidential, since they’re doing this assessment as a favo
r.”
John thought for a moment before saying, “That makes sense. Thank you for setting this up.”
“I’m happy to do it. One further concern: I will need to borrow the painting and take it to them.”
John waved that concern aside. “That’s no problem. Whatever you think is best.”
“I’ll call you this weekend to set up a time.”
He frowned. “It may have to get done this weekend. I’m thinking of going away next week to stay with my daughter’s family for a while.”
“Alright, then. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“Don’t mention it. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
My chest started to feel tight. I now had a deadline for getting that painting authenticated.
I looked for Sandra as I left the reception room but didn’t see her. She wasn’t in the front parlor either. Before getting in my car, I sent her a text: “Call me when you get a chance.”
As I drove back to campus, my thoughts were jumbled. I was willing to pick up the painting, take it to Greenbrae, and return it the same day, but, if Sandra wasn’t available during the coming weekend, all that would have to wait until whenever John came back from staying with his daughter. If he didn’t mind postponing, there was no reason I should, but I didn’t like the idea. Since the status of his painting was tied up with the status of Tiffany’s, I wanted to get this resolved.
My phone rang, and I managed to pull it out of my purse and tap the answer button and the speaker button without running my car into a ditch.
“What’s up, Nicole?” asked Sandra.
“I’m on the road, but I see a gas station coming. Hold on.”
Though it wasn’t unusual to see people holding phones to their ears while at the wheel, I didn’t want to try it. Having started driving less than three years ago, I didn’t have a lot of confidence. I turned into the driveway of the station, and went to a parking space for the mini-market.