by Rick Homan
“Hi Sandra. Thanks for getting back to me so soon.”
“No problem.”
“I just left the memorial chapel. When I talked to John Ghent, he asked about selling the paintings, so I told him it would be worthwhile to have the Picasso examined. I never mentioned you or Greenbrae.”
“Thank you.”
“He has agreed to let me take it from his house for that purpose, but he says it has to be this weekend, because he might go away next week. Does that work for you?”
“Hang on a sec.” After a few seconds, she said, “Okay. I’m free, but I’m trying to pick a time when Curtis won’t be around. He’s supposed to attend a meeting and luncheon on Saturday. It’s in Cincinnati, and he’s going there directly. I don’t imagine he could get back to the museum before about two p.m. Could you meet me at Greenbrae with the painting around eleven? That way we’ll be done in plenty of time.”
My deadline just got closer. “No problem,” I said. “I’ll give you a call Saturday morning to let you know when I’m on my way.”
We hung up and I sat in my car waiting for the prickly feeling in my stomach to go away. I couldn’t leave campus on Friday before about two fifteen. That meant I would have to ask John to let me pick up the painting at his house late in the afternoon, or early on Saturday morning.
It then struck me I would be transporting a painting that might be worth nearly a million dollars. I had seen painters bring their work to the gallery on campus covered in bubble wrap and boxed, though their paintings were priced in four or five figures rather than six.
The mapping app on my phone gave me directions to a packing and shipping store not too far out of my way back to campus.
I stopped into the mini-market for a coffee-in-a-bottle and hit the road.
Chapter 19
On Friday morning I received John Ghent’s email saying I could pick up his Picasso at ten o’clock, Saturday morning. That fit with Sandra’s suggestion that I get to Greenbrae by eleven, so I confirmed with her.
Since I still had forty-five minutes before class, I called Detective Murphy.
“Good morning, Detective. Nicole Noonan, Cardinal University. I called you on Monday about the murder of Anne Ghent and the possible involvement of Curtis Diaz.”
“Yes. I recall our conversation. I can’t tell you anything further about that. We don’t discuss ongoing investigations.”
“I understand. I’m calling about another person who may be involved.”
After a few seconds he said, “We’re always happy for any information we receive from members of the public. Go ahead.”
He didn’t sound happy. “Yesterday I attended a memorial service for Anne Ghent. It was at a funeral home. There were perhaps a hundred people there.”
“Yes. I’m aware of that,” said Murphy. “I was there.”
“You were? I didn’t see any police officers.”
“I was in plain clothes. Do you have some information for me?”
“Yes. Before the service started, I was talking to someone in the foyer, and, when I got up to go into the chapel, Dale Milman confronted me, demanding to know about some consulting I am doing for John Ghent. He was very aggressive.”
“I think I remember this. He was speaking to an Asian woman, and, from where I stood, it did not seem like a pleasant conversation.”
“That was me. So, you know about this?”
“I couldn’t hear what either of you were saying.”
“John asked me to advise him on selling some paintings Anne bought. Dale wanted to know what I’d found out about them because his wife, Tiffany, bought a painting from the same gallery that sold Anne one. Of course, I wouldn’t discuss John’s business with him.”
“And he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Is there anything else?”
“Yes. Talking to Tiffany, I’ve come to understand Dale has invested a lot of money in their paintings and is very concerned about anything that might affect their value.”
“That’s understandable.”
“But it’s more than that. He’s a wealthy man. He takes his investments very seriously. If he suspected Anne Ghent knew something about the value of one of his paintings, he would not have hesitated to confront her as he did me. Things could have escalated, and he might have killed her.”
“Alright, Dr. Noonan. I think I have the overall picture. Thank you for calling in.”
“I hope you understand, I’m just saying he had a motive.”
“Of course. That’s perfectly clear. We’ll follow up. Thank you.”
He hung up.
Hearing myself saying all that to him, it sounded much less convincing than it had when I discussed it with Abbie or when I replayed it in my own head. I couldn’t blame him for cutting our call short. At least I had put the idea into his head.
And it was interesting that he had attended the memorial service. If he were completely satisfied that Tyrell Johnson was the murderer, he wouldn’t have bothered. Perhaps my previous phone call about Curtis Diaz got him interested in people from the Ghents’ social circle.
With that resolved, I settled in to have a normal day as a college professor, so much so that I almost forgot my meeting with Dean Vera Krupnik, scheduled for eleven fifteen. I saw it on my calendar when I returned from my morning class, dropped what I was doing and dashed to her office on the second floor.
When I arrived with a minute to spare, the dean of the School of Business, Oscar Bayliss, was already in conversation with the liberal arts dean. He was a big, boney man around 60 years of age with only a fringe of white hair left on his head and he kept that clipped close. He wore a well-cut, tan suit and a white shirt and brown, striped tie, and sat with his legs crossed and one elbow propped on the arm of his chair.
Whenever I saw Vera, she made me think of a bird. She had a long thin nose and small eyes. She wore her short hair teased up on top and used lots of makeup. She wasn’t much taller than me but was more substantial, and she emphasized that by wearing bulky tweeds.
Both greeted me cordially. I still couldn’t imagine why two deans wanted to discuss grading a student’s paper with me. When I remembered that the chairman of the Art Department, Frank Rossi, had never heard of such a meeting, I began to feel butterflies in my stomach.
Dean Krupnik began by saying, “Thank you for taking time to meet with us this morning, Dr. Noonan. We’re here for an informal discussion of the problem with Elaine Wiltman’s paper for your class, Modern Art. Why don’t you give us your view of the situation?”
That suggested the deans were already aware of someone else’s view. I thought about asking what that might be, but decided not to be confrontational. After all, I had nothing to hide.
“She turned in her term paper,” I said. “I discovered it had many similarities to a published article on the subject, and asked her to document her source, either within the text or in an endnote.”
“And did she do so?” asked Krupnik.
“No. She denied using a source.”
Dean Bayliss uncrossed his legs, leaned forward and asked, “Dr. Noonan, did you at any time make clear what the consequences would be for the student if she followed your instructions and documented her source?”
“I made clear that the purpose of my instruction was to teach her how to acknowledge a source, as scholars must do. I told her once she did so, I would give her paper a grade.”
Bayliss maintained his poker face as he asked, “And did you tell the student how she could be penalized for failing to acknowledge her source?”
“There was never any question of penalty. I made clear she had to complete the assignment to get a grade.”
I looked to Dean Krupnik, hoping for an explanation of why the dean of the business school was asking about consequences and penalties, but her face was as blank as his.
Bayliss forged ahead with his questions. “Dr. Noonan, does your syllabus include a definition of the word ‘plagiarism?’”
“No.”<
br />
“How much time did you spend in class at the beginning of the semester discussing plagiarism and the proper handling of sources?”
“None, and I’m not aware that it’s standard practice at this university. Modern Art is an upper-level course, so this can’t be the first time these students have heard about acknowledging sources. But why are we talking about plagiarism? That wasn’t an issue with Elaine’s paper.”
Instead of answering me, Bayliss looked to Dean Krupnik, who said to me, “Again, Dr. Noonan, this is just an informal discussion of the situation. We just wanted to hear from you, so we are fully informed.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
As if she hadn’t heard me, Krupnik looked to Bayliss, who nodded. Turning back to me, she said, “I think we’d like to talk this over. If there are any further concerns, we’ll be in touch. In the meantime, thank you for coming in.”
No one said a word as I stood up and left the office.
I went directly downstairs, out the front door of the Arts and Humanities Building, and walked out College Avenue past the chapel, toward the athletic fields. There are fewer buildings out that way, and therefore fewer people to run into. I needed silence so the meeting I’d just left could echo in my mind without interruption. None of it made any sense.
When I got to Fellbach Circle, I turned off and went to Pat’s house.
Chapter 20
After knocking at Pat’s front door, I let myself in. The aromas reaching my nose told me he was making lunch. My spirits lifted.
“Want a grilled-cheese sandwich?” he asked, as I walked into the kitchen.
“I’d love one,” I said, taking a seat at the table.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m not sure what I just saw.”
“Where were you?”
“Dean Krupnik’s office.”
“What did she want?”
“The business-school dean was there too.”
“What did they want?”
“Do you remember last week I told you about the student in my Modern Art class who turned in a paper based on a published article and said she didn’t use any source?”
“Right, and my guess was that someone wrote it for her, and she didn’t know that person was paraphrasing an article. Whatever happened with that?”
“She has avoided talking to me and I haven’t given her a grade. Then I got this email to meet with the deans, and today Bayliss hit me with all these questions about plagiarism. Who said anything about plagiarism?”
Pat walked over to the table with a grilled-cheese sandwich on a plate and put it in front of me. “I’ll take a shot at that question,” he said.
He walked back to the counter by the stove and started making one for himself. “Maybe your student went to the person who wrote the paper for her and complained that the paper was copied from an article. The person who wrote the paper said, ‘Just tell her you forgot to add the footnote.’ Maybe someone’s roommate overheard all this and said, ‘That’s plagiarism! They can kick you out of school for that.’
“So, your student called her parents and said, ‘My art professor is accusing me of plagiarism,’ without mentioning, of course, she had someone write the paper for her. Then the parents called the dean and complained that some incompetent art professor is threatening to ruin their daughter’s career before it even gets started, and, if that happens, they’ll sue the university. So, the dean has to convince himself that you didn’t handle things properly so he can justify letting the student off the hook.”
“How can he let the student off the hook? The paper is for my class.”
Pat shook his head. “You’ve got me there.”
I was too stunned to take another bite of my sandwich. “How do you know this kind of thing goes on?”
“I don’t, really. I was just trying to imagine who might have said something about plagiarism. I guess that’s easier to do that when it’s not my problem.”
“So why is the dean of the business school involved?”
“Maybe Elaine’s major is in the School of Business.”
“So where does that leave me?”
“As they say on the news broadcasts, ‘awaiting further developments.’”
Pat sat down with his sandwich and we ate in silence for a few minutes.
“Busy this weekend?” he asked.
“Tomorrow I am. It has to do with that painting that belongs to John Ghent. I’ll be done by mid-afternoon. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow when I’m here for our night.”
“Fair enough. Or we could ban work-related conversations and instead talk about where we’re going to hang out this summer.”
Last summer, when Pat and I had been together about five months, we visited his hometown, Rochester, Minnesota, and my hometown, San Francisco, California. This would have been an unimaginable luxury on an assistant professor’s salary, but I had a standing offer from Mom and Dad to pay my airfare any time I wanted to come home. In this instance, they also paid Pat’s airfare because they were so excited that I had a boyfriend with serious potential. They seemed to think it was important for me to form a lasting relationship by the time I reached thirty.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked.
“How long do you think your parents would have us?”
Last summer, Mom and Dad let us stay in the studio apartment behind the garage on the ground floor of their attached house in the Inner Sunset neighborhood. Almost all the houses on the west side of town have such an apartment. They’re called “in-law suites.”
“Let’s think about that,” I said. “Whenever I call home, Mom asks about you, and how your classes are going, and if you have any new recipes for her to try.”
“Your mom is really sweet.”
“Yes, she is. I have to remind her that I also have classes that are going well, and sometimes I come up with new recipes too.”
“I’m sure she’s just being polite.”
“Also, the last time I was on the phone with them, Dad wanted to know if you had watched that game when the Giants beat the Reds, and also ‘What does Pat think about the Reds’ new left-hander?’”
“Your dad’s a great guy.”
“Yes, he is. So, based on our phone calls, I’d say Mom and Dad would have us for as long as we want to stay.”
“Okay then,” said Pat. “We’ll spend the summer in San Francisco.”
“Not the whole summer. We have to visit your family too.”
Pat frowned. “I’ll stop by for a few days on the way back to campus.”
“No. I want to spend some time with your mom and your sister.”
“Okay. We’ll both stop by, but, really, we don’t have to spend a lot of time there.”
“Why not? I liked Rochester. I thought it was interesting.” I’d never been to the Midwest except to attend the annual College Art Association convention when it met in Chicago.
Pat winced. “Farm country.”
“Rochester is not exactly a farm town. It has the Mayo Clinic. And I enjoyed the Rochester Art Center. Small museums have some amazing exhibitions. And Minneapolis is only ninety minutes away.”
“Well, we don’t have to decide right now.”
“Alright, Mr. Gillespie, you’re off the hook for tonight, but don’t think we’re skipping Minnesota.”
I got to John Ghent’s house a little after ten on Saturday morning. It felt great to be out of the dress slacks and blazers I wore all week at school and to move around in my overalls with a long sleeve t-shirt underneath.
The neighborhood looked as uninhabited as the last time I’d visited. When I came to the door with my big, flat box and roll of bubble wrap, he answered the door almost immediately. As before, he wore a white dress shirt with no tie, wool pin-striped trousers and loafers.
“Good morning, professor,” he said with a smile on his face. “Come on in.”
As I came into the foyer, he held up his tall glass of �
��orange juice,” wiggled it so the ice cubes rattled, and asked, “Can I get you something?”
“No thanks,” I said. “I’ll just pick up the painting and go. I don’t want to be late for my appointment,”
“What time do you have to be there?”
“Eleven.”
“Do you have far to go?”
“I’d rather not say. As you recall, I have to keep this confidential, so I think it would be best not to hint about where I am going.”
He snickered. “Oh, sure. I get it. Hush, hush! Alright, then, right this way!”
He waved toward the corridor that led to the room with the paintings and I walked ahead of him. I had come prepared to comfort the grieving husband, but I could see that was unnecessary. He was again taking his comfort in liquid form.
The library had chairs for reading and a small writing desk, but no large surface for me to work on. I started by unrolling a piece of bubble-wrap twice as long as the painting and spreading it out on the floor. After covering it with a piece of tissue paper, I took the painting off the wall, and lay it face down on the wrapping. On my hands and knees, I pulled the rest of the sheet of bubble wrap over the back of the painting and began taping it in place.
John, leaning in the doorway and sipping his drink, said, “You’re very slender.”
Without looking up, I said, “I suppose so.”
“I guess that’s typical of Asian women.”
I felt a cold shiver down my spine. I was vulnerable on all fours, but, if I stood up, I couldn’t get on with the job, and it would look like I was open to conversation. I sat back in a kneeling position.
“I don’t think this tape is going to be strong enough for sealing up the box,” I said, holding up the little roll I was using, “Do you have some package-sealing tape?”
He took a sip and said, “I just might.”
He went down the hall, and I could hear him rummaging in his study. I worked as fast as I could and had the picture wrapped by the time he came back.