Dark Picasso

by Rick Homan

  Frank pointed to the email. “It’s on them, not you.”

  “I’m not worried about who will get blamed. I think it’s the wrong thing to do.”

  Frank stared past me, as if he were pondering some eternal mystery. “Up to you,” he said.

  I took the printed copy of the dean’s email from the desk and folded it so I wouldn’t have to look at Krupnik’s words. “I talked to Bert Stemple Monday morning. He’s on the Gallery Advisory Committee.”

  Frank smiled and nodded.

  I went on. “He’s been very friendly all year, but he wasn’t so friendly this time. When I asked him what was wrong, he said the story going around the business school is that I accused Elaine Wiltman of plagiarism, therefore her parents are threatening to sue the school, and the dean is freaking out because she won the Lufton scholarship, which is named after a big donor.”

  Frank looked relieved. “There you are, then.”

  “What do you mean? Where am I?”

  “This isn’t about Elaine’s paper or you. They can’t have the parents suing the school, and they can’t look bad to the donors.”

  I took a deep breath and relaxed so I wouldn’t be too loud when I replied. “Why couldn’t the dean have explained to the parents that I’m not accusing their daughter of plagiarism? No one is.”

  Frank shrugged.

  I recalled Pat’s guess that some classmate had told Elaine she could be accused of plagiarism. So long as that remained a possibility in Elaine’s mind, she wouldn’t say anything to anyone, especially since she probably had paid someone to write the paper in the first place. And so long as Elaine was screaming, “she’s accusing me of plagiarism,” her parents would defend her like a mama bear defends her cub. And so long as they threatened to sue, everyone would give them whatever they wanted.

  I stood up. “Thanks for talking this over with me.”

  Frank smiled. “Anytime.”

  I walked back to my office on wobbly legs, hung my jacket on the hook I had added above the little window in the door so no one could see in, and locked the door. With my desk chair pulled up to the window that took up most of one wall in my office, I feasted my eyes on the pastel colors of spring as they played out on the hillside that descended from behind the building and the woods that spread beyond it.

  This view had been a great comfort to me throughout my three years on this campus. I had watched the velvet green of summer turn to the fiery colors of autumn, which in turn became the black and white of naked trees on a snowy field, before yielding the pastels of spring.

  By the time I finished my survey of spring’s progress, I had regained my composure. I now understood that the values of this academic community had been revealed to me by the deans and confirmed by Frank Rossi. No one else saw anything wrong with what was happening. In this place it was not considered wrong to give a student unearned credit for the purpose of pacifying defensive parents.

  If I graded the paper as my dean instructed, I would always feel like a fraud. If I refused, I would become one of those whistleblowers whom everyone admires, and no one supports.

  I flipped through the files in my desk drawer, took out Elaine’s paper, and placed it in the middle of my desktop. From my backpack, I got the green pen I used for marking students’ papers and exams.

  It wasn’t my job to reform the school. They paid me to teach, and if their definition of teaching included compromising on a grade, then it was my job to compromise. It was not the job I wanted, but it was the job they paid me to do.

  I turned to the last page of Elaine’s paper and was ready to grade it when I had another thought. I returned my green pen to my backpack, and found a red marker in my desk drawer. I used it to write a big red A.

  I got to my classroom a few minutes early for Modern Art and kept busy sorting slides on my laptop while the students arrived in ones and twos. Elaine Wiltman arrived on the hour. I walked back to where she was sitting, held out her paper, and said, “Sorry for the misunderstanding,” hoping to defuse the situation.

  She gave it a wary glance and took it.

  I went back to the front of the room and started my lecture on later twentieth-century art movements that reflected back to the classical tradition from which modern art had departed.

  As I warmed to the subject, I noticed Elaine Wiltman holding her paper with the pages flipped so the last one was showing. She looked to her right and turned the paper toward her friend sitting across the aisle. That student suppressed her smile and gave Elaine a thumbs-up.

  Elaine smiled back.

  I finished class on auto-pilot and walked as fast as I could back to my Rabbit Hutch, looking forward to the trip into Blanton for my meeting with Sheriff Mason Adams. Perhaps a conversation with him would remind me there was still such a thing as right and wrong in the world.

  Chapter 31

  Sheriff Mason Adams had agreed to meet me at Emma’s deli in Blanton. The spring weather allowed us to take an umbrella table on the sidewalk in front. I hadn’t seen the sheriff in over a year, and I was impressed all over again by the easy way he carried himself. He stood head and shoulders above me, and never seemed off balance. He was probably ten years older than me and had the physique of a younger man.

  After putting his cup of coffee on the table, he took care getting himself settled on the folding chair opposite me, took off his campaign hat, and rested it on another chair. “How are things at the university?” he asked.

  I thought about describing the opening of the School of Business, efforts being made to manage the increase in enrollment, and the outlook for changes of curriculum, but I remembered not to take his question literally. “Just fine,” I said. “We’re about to wrap up the semester.”

  Adams nodded.

  I took his silence as a cue to get on with it. “I’ve been meeting with two families who live over in Shawville. They both have art collections, and, to make a long story short, they each have a painting that’s supposed to be by Picasso, but is really a forgery.”

  Adams looked surprised, but said nothing.

  I continued: “This past Sunday, I made a trip to New York and talked to the sales manager of the gallery where both families bought their paintings. His name is Lester Jappling. After some prodding, he told me that one of the women deliberately bought a fake and later forced him to sell another fake to this other family for the price of a real Picasso.”

  Adams shook his head as if giving up on understanding the things people do. “I’m afraid this is beyond my ken,” he said. “We don’t run into art forgeries in Payne County. The police in New York would be your best bet.”

  “I understand, Sheriff, but this is all related to something more serious.”

  Behind me, someone called out, “Sheriff Adams! How are you on this fine day?”

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw a man in jeans and a windbreaker coming our way.

  “Just fine, Earl,” said the Sheriff. “You say hello to your daddy for me.”

  “I’ll do that, Sheriff.” The young man glanced my way and said, “Ma'am.”

  I nodded back. When I suggested to the sheriff that we meet at Emma’s, it hadn’t occurred to me that I’d be sitting at a busy corner with one of the best-known people in the town or the county.

  “Sheriff, do you remember hearing about a murder in Shawville about three weeks ago?”

  He gave it serious consideration before shaking his head. “I can’t say I do.”

  “A woman was shot in the parking lot of a mall on a Tuesday evening.”

  “Right. That sounds familiar.”

  “Her name was Anne Ghent. She was the woman I was telling you about, the one who bought a forgery and arranged for the gallery to sell her friend a forgery.”

  “So maybe the friend who bought the forgery found out about it, and killed her for revenge.”

  That brought me up short. “No. The friend doesn’t know her painting is a forgery.”

  “How can you be s
ure?”

  “I haven’t told her. I just found out on Sunday. I have plans to see her tomorrow, and I’ll tell her then. I’m concerned about the man at the gallery. I think he might have killed Anne Ghent.”

  “I thought he was in on the scheme.”

  “Not really. It’s complicated, but essentially Anne Ghent blackmailed him to go along with her scheme. When I talked to him, he blurted all this out. He seemed desperate and said he never wanted to have anything to do with her again. But she still had the means to blackmail him, so he had a motive to kill her.”

  The sheriff looked up and down the street for a few seconds. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t the police in Shawville arrest someone for this murder?”

  “Yes, a man from Wickwood, Tyrell Johnson.”

  “Then I suggest you find out who’s leading the investigation and send that officer an email, explaining your concerns.”

  “Detective Brian Murphy. I talked to him yesterday. He didn’t take me seriously.”

  Adams sat back and folded his arms. “Dr. Noonan, I’m sure you recall that you and I once disagreed about the direction of a murder investigation.”

  “Yes, Sheriff. That was two and a half years ago. I was impulsive and should have done a better job of consulting you.”

  “But, as it turned out, you were right.” He smiled. “I don’t know Detective Murphy, and I don’t know what evidence he has. If it’s fairly conclusive, he may not see any reason to open another line of investigation.”

  “He didn’t tell me anything about the evidence.”

  “He wouldn’t at this point.”

  “Sheriff, most of the people who live in Wickwood are African-American. I assume Tyrell Johnson is black. I’m wondering if Detective Murphy is just going with the most obvious suspect.”

  “Sometimes the simplest answer is the right one.”

  “And sometimes law enforcement officers act on their prejudices.”

  Adams frowned. “I wish I could say that wasn’t true. Unfortunately, it is. However, I would be careful what you say about the detective without knowing all the facts.”

  I nodded. “Agreed. But, as you just mentioned, he’s not giving me all the facts. So how can I make sure he or somebody else looks into Lester Jappling’s motive and considers whether he’s a more likely suspect.?”

  Adams stared into the distance.

  A man in a business suit walked by and said, “Good afternoon, Sheriff.”

  Adams nodded to him. “Mr. Whitaker, how’s the family?”

  “Just fine.”

  “Glad to hear it. You have a good day.”

  The man went on his way.

  Adams turned back to me. “Let me do this: I’ll run a background check on the gallery man and see if he has any history of violent crime. If he does, I’ll write to Detective Murphy, telling him we talked, and forwarding the records.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. I hadn’t thought of that. It might turn up something. But even if it doesn’t, Jappling might have killed her. This could be the first time he’s done something violent.”

  Adams showed me his palm. “Let’s see what the records say. Either way, I’ll send you an email tomorrow.”

  I thanked him again. We said our goodbyes, and he got in his patrol car and left.

  I was glad for the possibility Adams had raised but also afraid that nothing would come of it. I felt my body start to slump with the release of tension and decided to get back to campus. I hoped I might get a good night’s sleep so I would be at my best when I broke the news to Tiffany that her painting was not only odd and pornographic but also a fake, and that her friend, Anne Ghent, had set her up.

  As I made my fourth trip to Shawville in six days, I felt my spirits start to recover. For one thing, I was done with John Ghent. Two weeks ago, he’d called me for advice on selling Anne’s paintings. Doing him that favor should have involved a few phone calls, but ended up taking Pat and me to New York where we discovered Anne’s scheme to peddle fake Picassos. Since John was pleased with my report, he might even send a letter thanking me and donate some money to the university. That would be no stranger than what had already happened.

  I felt uneasy about Lester Jappling still being at large. After all, if he had travelled to Ohio to kill Anne Ghent, as I suspected, he could come after me the same way. But, though I hadn’t managed to put him on Detective Murphy’s radar, at least I had the satisfaction of knowing Sheriff Adams might find he had a criminal record that would. For now, that was all I could do.

  I didn’t like the way I’d left things with Pat. I hated seeing him feeling so low. Maybe I could spend an extra night at his house this weekend. Or maybe we could go away to some place quiet and private for Friday and Saturday nights and ease the pain he felt over what he did to Jappling.

  I still had no solution to the problem Dean Vera Krupnik had created by forcing me to grade Elaine Wiltman’s paper. When I closed my eyes, I could still see that big red “A.” I could no longer believe in the integrity of teaching at Cardinal University, but, now that Pat and I found each other, I hated the thought of leaving. Over the summer, I would consider my options.

  My visit with Tiffany Millman would give me a chance to chalk up a win. Although I would have to break the news that her Picasso was a fake, I could give her some hope of recovering her money. Knowing Lester Jappling might be facing arrest, I could suggest that the Redburn might be willing to issue a refund in order to quietly separate itself from his dishonest dealings. If I presented all this in the right way, I might even continue the teacher-student relationship I had with her.

  I left the freeway and followed the side roads to the driveway for Fairhaven. The pasture and the trees along the drive were greener than when Pat and I had come to dinner almost three weeks ago, and the corn was taller. As I rounded the curve where the house was revealed, I let the car coast to a stop as Pat had done that evening. Though I’d visited three times before, the house still amazed me with its size, proportions, and setting.

  As on previous visits, I parked along the circle, heading away from the front door. The secretary opened the door to me, made sure all my needs were met, and left me in the drawing room. I sat on the sofa that faced the fireplace. Tiffany’s Picasso still hung in the space above the mantle.

  Chapter 32

  Within minutes Tiffany came in and walked toward me with both arms extended. “Nicole! So good to see you.”

  I stood to shake hands, hug, or whatever she had in mind, but, before she got to me, she stopped, glanced at the coffee table, looked at me wide-eyed, and said, “Weren’t you offered anything? Not even a glass of water?”

  “Yes. Your secretary asked. I said I didn’t care for anything.”

  Tiffany sighed and seemed disappointed. “Maybe we could have tea. It’s a little early, but I think that would be nice. Would you like that? I have some macarons.”

  “Sure. Why not?” I said.

  Tiffany wrapped me in a hug that almost lifted me off my feet before saying, “Let’s sit down.” She sat in the armchair, facing the couch where I sat, and tapped something into her phone, presumably the order for tea.

  Her outfit was simple and elegant that day, a white silk blouse over pale blue slacks. She was, as always, made up and groomed to perfection, but this did little to hide the effects of the strain she was feeling. I remembered seeing her sobbing at the memorial service for Anne Ghent. Her friend’s death had taken its toll, and, judging by her drooping eyelids and down-turned mouth, she was still feeling the loss.

  “Those books you recommended arrived,” she said, “but I haven’t had a chance to look at them yet.”

  “That’s alright,” I said. “When you do, let me know if you have any questions.”

  “That’s so nice. Thank you. I’ll get around to them. It’s just that lately it’s been hard. I can’t seem to concentrate. But let’s not talk about me. How are you? How are things at the university?”

  “We’re
having the usual end-of-semester panic to get everything done.”

  “Uh-huh. Do you stay there and teach classes in the summer too?”

  “No, I go back to San Francisco and spend time with my family. That also lets me use the museums and libraries there. That way I can get some research and writing done.”

  Tiffany rested her head on the back of her chair and closed her eyes. “That sounds wonderful. I’d love to go away someplace and . . . I don’t know . . . just look at beautiful things, and not have anything to worry about.”

  I glanced at her collection of art and surveyed the wood-paneled room with its French windows looking out to a garden in bloom. I couldn’t imagine where she could go to improve on all this.

  There was a knock at the door. A maid entered with a tea tray and set it on the coffee table in front of me. “Will there be anything else, madame?” she asked.

  “Not right now,” said Tiffany, as she leaned forward and pulled the tray toward her. “Cream and sugar, if I remember correctly?”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Once the tea was poured, I helped myself to one of the macarons. It was heavenly.

  “Well, I hope you aren’t spending all your time on campus,” said Tiffany.

  I’d been waiting until the maid had left the room to get to the subject of my visit, and Tiffany had just given me a perfect lead-in. “No, in fact I’ve been running lots of errands ever since John Ghent called and asked me to help him sell Anne’s paintings.”

  Tiffany paused with her cup halfway to her lip. “Really?” She took a sip and set the cup and saucer on the stand next to her chair. After a few moments of staring into space, she said, “That’s interesting.”

  “He said he had other ways to remember her, and the paintings didn’t really appeal to him.”

  Tiffany seemed lost in thought. I took another bite of my macaron and washed it down with some tea before continuing.

  “I noticed something interesting the first time I went to look at her collection,” I said. “There was a Picasso which is similar to yours in some ways.”