Dark Exhibit

by Rick Homan

  “I am his executor.”

  “Then we will work together. I think we both want the same things. I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Perhaps this would be easier in person. I would be happy to meet any place that is convenient for you.”

  A few seconds passed. “Tomorrow at two o’clock.” She gave me the address of a diner in Chillicothe.

  “Do you live in Chillicothe?”

  “You don’t need to know where I live.”

  “How will I recognize you?”

  “I’ll recognize you. Now you must excuse me.” She hung up.

  For a moment I felt alarmed at the idea that she somehow knew what I looked like. Then I remembered anyone could find my photo on the college’s website.

  I was exhausted. The evening and morning I had enjoyed in Columbus rested me just enough to allow me to feel how much rest I still needed. My only chance of being ready to deal with Ella in less than twenty-four hours was to get over to the gym and exhaust myself on the indoor track so I might get a good night’s sleep. With that in mind, I started changing my clothes.

  I sympathized with Ella’s situation. I knew she was feeling a loss many times greater than mine, but still I did not understand why she was so defensive. I didn’t think Edgar had ever married or had children, so probably she was his heir as well as his executor. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to protect the paintings themselves as well as Edgar’s reputation, since they might be worth a considerable sum of money for her in addition to what they meant to her. If so, the best way to get her cooperation tomorrow would be to convince her I wanted to protect her interests. It would also be the kindest thing to do.

  Wrapped in my winter gear, I picked up my gym bag and walked out into the dying light of that January afternoon.

  Chapter 20

  I had driven through Chillicothe, but had stopped only a few times. The downtown area had several interesting buildings dating from the early 1800s when it was the capital of Ohio. It was still the county seat, so many of the storefronts were occupied by law offices. Mostly, the paper mill on the river kept this small town alive.

  I found the diner on a street corner in a one-story building with a nifty art-deco clock tower in the middle. It had parking spaces all the way around it. I guessed the building had started life as a service station for cars in the mid-twentieth century. The present owners had painted it white with blue trim and installed lots of chrome and red vinyl inside.

  I walked in, glancing right and left to see if anyone recognized me. A woman seated at a booth by the window facing the street waved, and I walked over to her. She was a feminine version of Edgar: same coffee-with-cream complexion, same iron-gray curly hair, same intelligent, curious attitude, though on this day her face showed the great strain she was under. She wore a purple turtleneck, gray hoodie and jeans.

  We exchanged names, I hung my coat on the pole at the end of the booth and sat opposite her.

  “Thank you for meeting with me,” I said.

  “Of course,” she replied. “I’m sorry I was rude on the phone yesterday.”

  “Not at all. It was too soon. I should have waited a few days before calling.”

  “No, please, I want to apologize.”

  Before she could, the waitress was at the end of the table asking, “Anything to drink?”

  I ordered coffee and a slice of apple pie. Ella asked for chicken soup.

  Picking up where she left off she said, “You have to understand how it was between Edgar and me. He wasn’t just my older brother, he was my big brother. He was three years older, and he was always stronger and more confident. Whatever he tried, he just assumed he would make a go of it. So did Mom and Dad. So did I.”

  Everything she said tallied with my impression of Edgar. “I know what you mean,” I replied. “When I introduced him to the president of the college at the opening, Edgar showed him around the exhibit and talked with him like they were old friends.”

  Ella smiled and nodded. “That’s Edgar. He always did things that way. When he came home during his freshman year in college and said he wanted to be an artist, Mom and Dad never doubted he would be successful at it. I thought so too.”

  “That’s wonderful that he had support from his family.”

  “Yes, although it was also a burden for him. You see, Mom and Dad sent Edgar to college, but they couldn’t afford to send me too. So, there was always a sense that he was going to college for both of us. I tried not to depend on him. When I finished high school, I got my associate’s degree from the community college and got a bookkeeping job. It’s a good job. It pays the mortgage. I also do Edgar’s bookkeeping and tax returns. But we always felt like Edgar’s success belonged to all of us, so over the years, as his paintings became more valuable, we all felt like we were better off.”

  The waitress brought our orders. “Anything else I can get you?”

  We said no. I took a bite of my apple pie. It was a little too sweet, but fresh. I drank the coffee black.

  Ella took a spoonful of soup before saying, “By the way, thank you for the exhibit. He’s had solo shows of new work, but never one looking back at all the things he’s done. I was out with the flu last weekend, but I am going to get out to the college and see it soon.”

  “No hurry,” I said. I tried to think of something else to say, but she was eager to get on with her story.

  “Anyway, mom died ten years ago and we lost dad last year. I knew they wouldn’t always be there, but I didn’t expect to lose them so soon. After I got over the shock, I realized all I had was my job and Edgar. Now that he’s gone, I don’t know what will become of me. Mom and dad left us a house. I live there now. I’m paying off the mortgage, but there’s a lot of upkeep. I don’t have savings. Those paintings are all I have in the world, so I’m scared, and that came out when we talked yesterday. I don’t understand what happens with the paintings now, or if I should sell them or if anyone will buy them now that he’s gone.”

  “I think I can help you with that,” I said. “To start with, the college’s gallery is a non-profit and we do not take any commission when a painting in the exhibit sells. Some colleges do, but at this point we don’t because the president thinks it’s good for the college to have work like Edgar’s available on campus, so he’s fully funding the gallery.

  “That means, when someone sees a painting in our exhibit and wants to buy it, we have a price list available, we mark the painting sold and arrange for the buyer to pick it up when the exhibit closes. The check is made out to Edgar. The college never touches that money. We haven’t sold one yet, but the exhibit has only been open for a week and I’m expecting at least one review to be published. So, it’s to your advantage to leave everything with us for another month. It costs you nothing and you might sell some paintings.”

  There was a warmth in Ella’s expression I hadn’t seen before. She almost smiled. “That is wonderful news,” she said, “Thank you so much. After we talked yesterday, I knew I shouldn’t be making any big decisions right away about those paintings, but I feel better now knowing why. One thing, though, I wouldn’t want to sell all of them, at least not right away.”

  “You don’t have to and I wouldn’t recommend it. Give me a list of the ones you want to keep, and we’ll mark them not for sale.”

  She smiled wider. “This is such a weight lifted off my shoulders. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome. Really, I’m just explaining the situation to you. Whenever you feel up to it, I’d like to talk about some ways we might cooperate after the exhibit closes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m an art historian. It’s my job to make sure that good art is not forgotten. I do it because I love doing it, and because the college pays me to do it. I would like to write about Edgar’s work for publication in art journals, and I’d like to teach my students about it, and share it with colleagues when I go to conferences. To do this, I will need your cooperation.”

 
She was looking wary again. “How would I cooperate?”

  “Mostly keep in touch and let me know what is happening with the work, when a painting sells, when you exhibit the work at another college or at a commercial gallery. I will use that information to let other scholars, museum curators, and gallery owners know that there is interest in the work, and I’ll share information I get with you.”

  “I guess I could do that.”

  “This would also benefit you. Assuming you’re his heir, you have the opportunity to set up a business based on your brother’s artistic legacy. Along with selling the remaining paintings, you can retain the right to license reproductions. For instance, many artists sell laser-prints of their paintings.”

  Ella sat back for a moment and stared out the window as if mentally reviewing something. “I know he was doing some of that, but I would be interested in any ideas you have.”

  “Some time in the future a publisher might be interested in doing a book based on his work. You can visit some artists’ websites and see how they increase their income.”

  “I guess I have a lot to learn.”

  “I’m sure Edgar had a lot of this on file. For instance, he probably prepared sales agreements that allowed him to retain certain rights. You can start with reading through his files, and you can call me anytime to talk about any of this. I’ll be glad to help you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Let me be clear: I’m doing this because it’s a professional opportunity for me. I would like to be the historian who knows the most about Edgar’s legacy and has access to information about it. But you will never pay me anything, and I will never benefit directly from sales of the work and the rights that you own. I work for the college.”

  “Okay. We’ll work together.”

  “Good.” I finished my pie, set the plate aside, and took a sip of coffee. “I mentioned on the phone yesterday that I want to write a brief notice of Edgar’s death and make it available at the gallery. Do you agree that’s a good idea?”

  She sat with that for a moment before answering. “Yes. I suppose we have to.”

  “Okay. I’ll write something and email it to you for approval before putting it out.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I want to be sure that what I write is accurate, so I’ll need to check some facts and make sure my impressions are correct. Are you busy this week?”

  She took in a deep breath and let it out. “Yes. I think the police want to talk to me again. And there’s going to be a funeral. Yes, it’s going to be a busy week.”

  “I understand, and I don’t want to bother you with more phone calls. I could probably find the information I need in Edgar’s notebooks. I know he kept them in a bookcase in his studio. How would you feel about letting me visit the studio on my own this week?”

  She stared across the room as if thinking about things she couldn’t see. “If we’re going to cooperate, we may as well start now.” She opened her purse, pulled out a set of keys, and detached one of them. “Edgar trusted you with his paintings, so I guess I can trust you too.” She pushed the key across the table toward me.

  I picked it up. “Thank you. I will take nothing from the studio without your permission. I will leave everything exactly as I find it.”

  She nodded. “I appreciate that. You’ll also need the alarm code.” She took a notepad and a pen from her purse, jotted down a four-digit number, tore off the sheet and handed it to me.

  The waitress appeared at the end of our table. “Anything else for you ladies?”

  “I’ll take the check,” I said. After the waitress handed it to me, I said to Ella, “This is on me.”

  “Thanks. You’re being so helpful, I hate to ask but I need you to back me up on something.”

  “I’ll do anything I can.”

  “The sheriff asked me a lot of questions about whether I thought Edgar could have killed himself. That’s just not possible. He would not have done that. You knew him. You knew what this exhibit meant to him. Do you think he would have killed himself?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Okay. So, you’ll back me up on that, right?”

  “I’ll tell anyone that I do not think Edgar killed himself.”

  “Would you call the sheriff and tell him that?”

  “If he asks me, I certainly will tell him. Whenever we talk again, I’ll mention it if I can.”

  “I can’t have it getting out there that Edgar might have killed himself. I don’t want the sheriff going around and asking people about it. Pretty soon that’s all people will be talking about.”

  “Okay, but the sheriff is not going to stop asking people just because I say I don’t think it’s true.”

  “It might help. Can’t you just make one phone call?”

  “Sure. I will.”

  “And I might need this in writing. I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay. I’ll put it in writing if you need that. Just let me know. But I think the sheriff knows it’s much more likely that Edgar was killed by the person who killed Jessica Fabrizio last weekend.”

  Ella nodded. “When Edgar was out of school and working in Cleveland, she was in college there. They lived together for a while. So, somebody from Cleveland must have killed them both.”

  “I’m not sure about that, but I know the sheriff is looking into it.”

  Ella sighed. “This is all so sad.”

  We were done. We both stood up and hugged. “I am so sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice cracking. She picked up her coat and purse and walked back to the rest rooms.

  I bundled up, handed a few bills and the check to the waitress, said, “No change,” and went out to my car.

  As I left Chillicothe, I briefly considered going to the studio but knew I wasn’t up to it. Something inside me was screaming, “No new information!” Plus, there wasn’t much light left in the sky, and I didn’t want to go there by myself. I drove out of town heading south.

  I wanted to head back to the b-and-b in Columbus, take another luxurious bath, wrap up in their down comforter, and forget about everything for about a month, but I couldn’t, so I did the next best thing. I called Abbie. I knew she usually made the return trip from Pittsburgh before it got dark.

  “Are you back?” I asked.

  “On the road. I’ll be there in about an hour.”

  “Want to do dinner?”

  “Sure. My place this time.”

  “I’m on my way back from Chillicothe. Want me to pick up something at Steadman’s?”

  “No. I’ve got a pan of turkey tetrazzini in the fridge. There’s enough for two. I might even have a bottle of wine stashed somewhere.”

  “You read my mind. See you in a few.”

  Chapter 21

  As I walked in my front door, my phone rang. It was Greta Oswald. I answered anyway.

  “Oh, my God! Nicole, have you seen the news?”

  “Yes. I have, Greta.”

  “It’s Edgar.”

  “Yes, I know, Greta.”

  “He hanged himself.”

  “That’s not true. Or rather the police don’t know that yet.”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? People don’t go around hanging other people, but people do hang themselves when they want to commit suicide.”

  I started to ask Greta where she was getting her information but stopped because I had no wish to prolong the conversation. “Greta, I’m very tired. I’ve been dealing with the effects of his death all weekend. Let’s talk about this during the week.”

  “What effects? What have you been dealing with?”

  “I just said I am too tired to talk about this right now.”

  “Tomorrow then? We should meet. I think the committee should know what is happening. There could be implications.”

  I didn’t have the energy to argue with her. “Fine. Let’s meet.”

  “I’ll set it up for tomorrow, same time, same place, a
s we met two weeks ago.”

  “Fine. Thank you for taking care of that, Greta.”

  “I’m only doing this because . . .”

  “Tomorrow.”

  I hung my parka on the hook by the front door and spent some time picking things up and putting them away, dusting and sweeping, all the while watching out the front windows of my Hutch for Abbie to get back. When I saw her car parked in front of her Hutch, I gave her another fifteen minutes before I walked over.

  I knocked, entered, and found her wearing a green, cable-knit sweater, jeans and two pairs of socks. I could tell by the aroma she already had the tetrazzini in the oven.

  “Thank God you’re here,” she said. “It didn’t seem polite to start drinking before you arrived.” As she spoke, she pulled a bottle of wine from her fridge and got a corkscrew from a drawer in the kitchen.

  I marveled, as I always did, at what a difference it made to have real furniture in the living-dining-kitchen room of a Rabbit Hutch. Given a couple of easy chairs and an oak pedestal table with side chairs upholstered in brocade, one could almost imagine one was lounging in the cozy parlor of a real house. The trade-off was having hardly any room to move around compared with my place with its few sticks of furniture.

  I gratefully accepted a glass of wine, folded myself into one of the easy chairs, took a sip, and enjoyed the full flavor of one of those reliable California chardonnays.

  “How was your weekend?” she asked.

  “It started out great. I decided to pay myself back for last weekend by spending a couple of days in Columbus soaking up art and food.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “But after breakfast Saturday morning, Sheriff Adams called to tell me Edgar Yount is dead.”

  Abbie stood like a statue by the pedestal table where she had been laying out flatware. “Oh no! Nicole, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  “His sister couldn’t get in touch with him, so she went to his studio and found that he had been hanged.”

  Abbie gasped. “That’s horrible. And on top of last weekend when that woman was killed. They knew each other, didn’t they?”