by Rick Homan
“No. It will happen again.”
That took my breath away. “It will? Why?”
“I have PTSD.”
I mentally scanned my memories of our conversations over the last sixteen months. “You never said anything about being in the military.”
“I wasn’t. There are other kinds of trauma.”
“Right, but do they also give you this disorder?”
“Any kind of trauma that is severe and prolonged will do it, or one that happens when you’re young, as mine did.”
I’d been intimate with this man for more than a year and had never heard anything about his having a difficult childhood. I didn’t know what to think. “What happened?’
“My dad abused us.”
I felt numb all over. “How? What did he do?”
“He hit us, my sister and me. My mom too.”
I pulled a package of tissue from my purse and wiped tears from my eyes. When I reached out to squeeze his hand, he let me, but he didn’t squeeze back.
“Were you badly hurt?” I asked.
“Never bad enough to draw attention. It went on for years. We lived in terror. Terror became normal.”
I had to reach for more tissues so I could mop my cheeks.
“Do you still feel scared all the time?” I asked.
“Usually not, but certain things bring it back. They’re called triggers. If I see a man in his forties getting really drunk, I’ll start to shake. A part of me feels like I’m ten years old again and the hitting is about to start. That part takes over. That becomes my reality.”
“Did something happen back at the gallery to make you afraid?”
“There are different triggers. When Jappling put his hands on your shoulders, he triggered a rage inside me, and I felt justified in attacking him. I didn’t even think about it. I acted on instinct, like when a car turns a corner and you run to get out of the crosswalk. It was only afterward, as we left the building, I remembered Dad laying hands on my sister.”
I took a moment to blow my nose and dry my eyes. I took his hand again and squeezed, but there was still no response. “You can’t control this. You’re not responsible for what happened with Jappling.”
“I am responsible for taking precautions.”
“What precautions can you take?”
He closed his eyes and held still for a moment. “I don’t think I can talk about this anymore. I’m feeling hollowed out. I need to rest.”
“Of course,” I said. His face had gone slack, and he spoke in a monotone. This was not the man I knew.
We moved to the seating area around the gate for our flight. I tried to get going on a paperback I’d brought with me, but I kept thinking about what Pat had just told me. I knew PTSD stood for post-traumatic stress disorder. I’d thought it was something only combat veterans had, but obviously I was wrong. I remembered that when I met him over a year ago, he mentioned his research on organized hate groups had something to do with PTSD.
Pat’s description of his triggers and how they work was terrifying. You would think you were coping with a difficult situation and only later recognize your actions were inappropriate. It would be as if you momentarily fought with ghosts. Then the ghosts disappeared and you were fighting with a real person who reminded you of the ghosts.
I didn’t think I could live like that, but somehow Pat managed. Maybe his precautions worked most of the time. This time, however, they didn’t, and he saw that as a failure to take responsibility. That thought brought tears to my eyes again.
It seemed like there had to be some cure for people with PTSD, but as a psychologist Pat would have known about it if there were and would have sought treatment.
I needed a lot more information, and he was the best source, but he’d already told me he couldn’t talk about it just now, so I would have to wait. As soon as he was feeling better, I would ask him all about it and find a way to help him live with it. In the meantime, it broke my heart to see the strong, smart, sexy man I loved looking defeated.
Our flight to Columbus and drive to campus went like clockwork. We focused on getting home safely and, at Pat’s insistence, postponed all other thoughts, feelings, and conversations.
Alone in my Rabbit Hutch, I went through the motions of getting ready for bed, but two thoughts kept nagging at me. I had to report my conversation with Lester Japping to law enforcement, and I had to turn Jappling’s letter over to John Ghent and be done with that business. It was too late to call the Shawville Police Department, so I focused on the second. It was after nine o’clock, but I called Ghent anyway.
He answered. “Good evening, professor. I hope you have some good news for me.”
He sounded so lively I guessed the “orange juice” must still be flowing. “I have some information for you, John.”
“Wonderful! Come on over, and we can have a drink and talk about it.”
“It’s too late for me to make the trip to Shawville. Could you meet me tomorrow afternoon at four? There’s a coffee shop in a shopping center, a little ways south of the funeral home where you held Anne’s memorial service.”
“There’s no need for that. Why don’t you just drop by the house?”
“I think you know why, John.”
He was silent so long I began to wonder whether he was able to connect what I was saying with the remarks he had made to me Saturday afternoon, but when he spoke his grim tone suggested he was. “Alright then, professor, have it your way. I know the place you’re talking about. I’ll see you there, and you’d better not be late. And you’d better have good news.”
He hung up without waiting for a reply.
Despite his confrontational attitude, I felt calm as I put down my phone.
I tucked myself in, and had no trouble falling asleep.
Chapter 27
Monday morning, over breakfast, I went online and read all the news reports posted so far about Anne Ghent’s murder. They all described the murder as an armed robbery gone bad. There had been no change in the direction of the investigation, despite my conversation with Detective Murphy. The Shawville Police Department continued to focus on Tyrell Johnson of Wickwood as the prime suspect.
Perhaps that would change when I told Murphy that Anne Ghent had given Lester Jappling several reasons to kill her.
I called the department, asked to speak to Murphy, and went on hold for a minute.
“This is Detective Murphy.” He sounded sleepy.
“Good morning, Detective. This is Nicole Tang Noonan.”
“Good morning, Professor. What can I do for you?”
“I met someone over the weekend who had a reason to kill Anne Ghent.”
Murphy fortified himself with a deep breath before asking, “Why do you think this person would have wanted to murder Mrs. Ghent?”
“They were involved in some dishonest business dealings and she threatened to expose him.”
“I see. What is this person’s name?”
“I would prefer to speak to you in person.”
“That’s really not necessary. If you’ll just give me the information . . .”
“I’m not available tomorrow, but I could come to the police station on Tuesday.”
We compared schedules and agreed I would come to the police department in Shawville on Tuesday afternoon to meet with him.
With that decided, I faced the cold reality of setting aside the ongoing drama surrounding these paintings and taking up the routine chores of a college professor. Along with classes to teach, I had exams to plan, and papers to grade. One paper in particular, Elaine Wiltman’s, remained ungraded. I didn’t have anything at stake there, so far as I knew, but I hated waiting for an answer from the deans when I didn’t even understand what the question was.
And then there was the gallery. A glance at my calendar told me it was only last Wednesday that I proposed to the Gallery Advisory Committee an artist to take the place of Mira Robillard for our fall exhibit, though it seemed like month
s ago. At that meeting, Shirley and Greta joined forces to stall the process, and Bert ducked the issue. I needed his support to break the deadlock so I could write to the artist.
I started to look up Bert’s class schedule and office hours so I could find a time to talk with him but remembered I had once seen him at the espresso bar on campus around nine thirty. Perhaps, like me, he was in the habit of dropping by for coffee before morning classes. It was worth a try. I could always look him up later.
I got to the espresso bar by nine fifteen, bought a latte and a biscotti, and took a stool at a tall table in the corner where I could keep an eye out for Bert.
Traffic increased steadily as nine thirty approached, but the baristas kept up with demand. The line for orders was never more than four deep, and a similar number waited for drinks to arrive.
I saw Bert pick up his drink from the near end of the counter. Even at a distance he was recognizable by his tidy haircut. It had to be a toupee. I waited while he stirred something into it and called to him as he walked toward the door.
He paused and scanned the tables on my side of the room with eyebrows raised and a pleasant expression on his face. I waved. He saw me, and his face fell. He looked at the door, glanced at me, and called out “Good morning,” before continuing on his way.
“Bert! Can you sit down a minute?”
He hesitated. I’d been loud enough to draw stares from the tables around me, so he couldn’t pretend he didn’t hear me. As he walked to the stool across the table from me, he glanced at the adjacent tables and checked his watch. “Just for a minute,” he said. “I’ve got class at ten.”
“So do I,” I replied.
He put his coffee on the table, sat, and put on his poker face.
“I checked with Hassan Shebib,” I said.
He looked confused.
“His sculptures are between two and five pounds,” I continued. “That’s including the wooden base which is integral to each piece.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “Well, that’s fine then.”
“So, can I count on your support for moving ahead with the exhibit?”
He pursed his lips and shrugged. “I suppose so. You don’t need our permission. The committee’s largely symbolic, isn’t it?”
“I suppose, but symbols are important. What’s wrong? Earlier this year, you seemed to enjoy being on the committee. Since that last meeting you seem not to want to have anything to do with it.”
“End of the school year, I suppose,” he said. “I guess I’m running out of energy.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to go.”
“I’ll walk with you,” I said. “I’ve never seen your office. Which floor is it on?”
He stopped next to the table. “That’s not necessary.”
“Of course not. I know that, but what’s the objection? Seriously, Bert, what is going on?”
Again, he scanned the adjacent tables as if concerned about who might overhear us.
“You should know, Nicole, you’re not making any friends in the School of Business with the way you’re handling Elaine Wiltman’s paper.”
Even Bert had heard about this. “I wasn’t aware that the purpose of grading papers was to make friends among the faculty,” I said, sounding as ironic as I could.
“I wouldn’t joke about it if I were you,” he said. “There’s a lot at stake.”
“Like what? Help me out here, Bert. Last Friday I had a meeting with my dean and your dean. Your dean questioned me about how I handle instances of plagiarism, which was strange since I’m not currently handling an instance of plagiarism.”
“That’s not what Bayliss thinks and that’s not the story going around with the business faculty.”
There was a story going around. “All I’ve done is tell Elaine Wiltman she has to document the source on which her paper is obviously based. I never said anything about plagiarism.”
“Somebody did because her parents are threatening to sue the school.”
So, Pat guessed right. “Then it’s a misunderstanding, Bert. Why didn’t Bayliss try to work it out instead of coming at me with guns blazing?”
“It’s not that simple,” said Bert. “Elaine Wiltman received the Lufton Scholarship.”
“So what? Most students receive some form of financial aid.”
Bert shook his head. “The Lufton family were major donors for the School of Business and they endowed this scholarship. When Elaine Wiltman was chosen as the first recipient, they had a ceremony and took a photo of her with Mr. and Mrs. Lufton in the atrium. How’s it going to play if Elaine is expelled for plagiarism?”
“Expelled? This is crazy. Why is anyone even saying that? How does ‘Add a footnote’ get turned into ‘expelled for plagiarism?’”
“I don’t know, but you’d better hope they manage to keep this under wraps.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to go.”
I was stunned. To jump-start my brain, I reviewed what had happened and saw that up to now none of this made sense. It made no sense when Elaine refused to add a footnote and refused to speak to me. It made no sense when two deans got involved in a routine matter between a professor and a student. And it made no sense when one of them, Oscar Bayliss, accused me of failing to teach my students about plagiarism.
But now it all made sense. The Lufton’s were vital to the School of Business. Elaine won the Lufton Scholarship; therefore she could do no wrong. If she had done something that could be construed as plagiarism, it must be my fault. No doubt Bayliss was congratulating himself on being proactive about protecting a source of funding.
Where did that leave me? Dean Krupnik said she called the meeting because she and Bayliss wanted to be informed of what was happening, and that she would be in touch if they had any further questions. With less than three weeks before the end of the semester, time was growing short for grading that paper. Knowing Elaine Wiltman was the golden girl of the School of Business, I wasn’t inclined to force the matter, but neither could I rewrite the rules of scholarship for her. I would have to talk about this with my chairman, Frank Rossi.
I noticed I had two minutes to get to my first section of Art Appreciation and ran out of the cafe.
Chapter 28
I’d made the trip up Route 35 so many times recently I had it memorized. When a certain forest interrupted the rolling farmland, I knew I would see a white farmhouse and its adjacent sheds when I was past the trees. As I climbed toward the crest of a certain hill, I knew there would be an interchange with a gas station on the other side.
Still, spring kept me entertained. We had nothing like it in the San Francisco Bay Area, where I grew up. In Ohio, the natural world goes from months of looking like a black-and-white photograph to showing small eruptions of color with crocuses, daffodils, and redbud trees. As they reach full stage, buds appear on the deciduous trees, lending the canopy a wispy lime color. As I drove up to Shawville on that day in early May, the world around me had begun to settle into the deep green that would persist until fall, and the forsythia was running riot with its flaming yellow blossoms.
I felt more mellow than I had any right to as I walked into the coffee shop and found John Ghent waiting for me. I bought an herb tea and sat across from him.
“What do you have for me?” he said.
I took the envelope containing Jappling’s letter from my purse and handed it to him.
He pulled it out and read it. “This doesn’t do me any good.”
“I think it does,” I replied. “Knowing Anne did not get a clear provenance when she bought the painting, you should take precautions before offering the painting for sale. You’ll need to consult someone who specializes in Picasso. I can give you some numbers to call. Once you have a professional description and appraisal, you can sell it without worrying that you’ll end up in a dispute about its authenticity.”
Ghent scowled at the letter and rubbed the edge of it between his thumb and forefinger as if further testing its quality. “I don’t believ
e it. You’re saying Anne bought a painting without knowing where it came from. This is not the Anne I know. I’ve seen her interrogate gallery owners as if she was trying to convict them of a crime. She once went into a pharmacy to buy cough drops and ended up sending the clerk to the stockroom for a package with a more recent expiration date. So, no, I don’t believe she paid a six-figure price for a painting without knowing everything there was to know about it.”
In the short time I had known John Ghent, I had never seen him so energized. At the Milmans’ dinner party, at his own home, and at the memorial service, he’d let his comments slip out as if he weren’t sure of what he was saying. By comparison this speech sounded like a call to arms.
“Well, John, I wasn’t there, so I don’t know what went on when Anne bought the painting. I have only Mr. Jappling’s letter to go on.”
“But you went up to New York to get this letter instead of having him send it to you.”
“Given the sensitive nature of the subject, I thought it best to speak with him in person.”
“What did you talk about?”
That caught me by surprise, and I had to think of something to say. “We talked about Anne’s visit to the gallery, the other paintings she looked at. He said he made very clear to her that the owner of the painting offered it with no reassurances.”
“You could have done that in a ten-minute phone conversation. If you want me to pay for your trip, I’ll need a few more details.”
“John, there weren’t a lot of details. It was pretty straightforward.”
“I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”
There was a lot I wasn’t telling him. I had no desire to inflict emotional pain on a man who had just lost his wife, even one who had made coarse remarks to me, but he left me no choice.
“You’re right, John. Anne’s dealings with Jappling were actually much more complicated,” I said. “She started by asking Jappling for referrals in the art world and eventually found someone to paint a forgery. That’s what she bought. Tiffany saw it in your house, admired it, and wanted to know where Anne bought it and how much it cost. So, Anne badgered Jappling into giving her a phony receipt for $625,000, a reasonable price for a Picasso in today’s market. Anne also had her forger make another fake Picasso, a larger one. When Tiffany went to the Redburn and asked about buying a Picasso, Anne forced Jappling to sell the forgery to Tiffany.”