by Rick Homan
“Yes. In Cleveland.”
“Did someone kill him or was it suicide?”
“They don’t know.”
A timer sounded. Abbie served the tetrazzini, and we sat at the table. The chunks of turkey were still moist and the cheese had a complex flavor.
After a few bites I said, “This is really good.”
“Thanks. How are you holding up?”
“I don’t know. I’m just doing things one after another. I spent some time looking at the exhibit yesterday. I figured it would give me something to focus on other than his death. I had some questions about his influences, so I called a friend of his in Cleveland. He couldn’t tell me much, but he said I should call Edgar’s sister. I ended up spending part of this afternoon with her, talking about Edgar, and her situation, and what happens with his paintings now.”
“That must have been a hard conversation.”
“Actually, it was good. She and Edgar are not from a wealthy family. He got to go to college, but she didn’t. He made a living from his art. She works as a bookkeeper. Now that he’s gone, she inherits his paintings, but she doesn’t really know what to do with them. So, I’m advising her about how she can make a business for herself out of showing his work, selling some of it, and managing the rights.”
“That’s really good of you to do that.”
“I’m glad to help. It also gives me access so I can write about his legacy.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“Not enough to make her independently wealthy, but you never know. All it takes is for the right museum to buy a painting for its collection or for one influential collector to show an interest, and prices go up.”
“Did you say the police haven’t decided whether to call it suicide or murder?”
“Not so far as I know.”
Abbie hummed and pushed her pasta around on her plate.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
She shook her head. “It’s probably just me being my usual, cynical self.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind. You don’t need one more dark possibility to think about.”
“Now you have to tell me.”
She took a sip of wine and cleared her throat. “The scenario you have described gives the sister a motive for both murders, assuming Edgar was murdered.”
I was stunned. I couldn’t imagine what made Abbie think of that. “What? How so?”
“The family sent him to college but not her. She had to resent that.”
“No. She looked up to him as her big brother.”
Abbie nodded. “I can see that. As I recall from his talk in the gallery on Saturday, he had that star quality. He made you believe in him. But over the years, that had to wear thin for her.”
“I don’t think so. She said she does his bookkeeping and tax returns.”
“That gave her a stake in his success. So how do you think she felt when his old lover turned up just when he was having his first career retrospective exhibit?”
“I don’t think she even knew about Jessica showing up. Ella wasn’t at the opening.”
“Let’s assume she found out. How would she feel about the prospect of Edgar getting married just when his years of building a reputation are about to start paying off?”
“She would be happy for him.”
“Oh, Nicole. You’re not nearly cynical enough. If Edgar got married, his sister would inherit a much smaller share of his estate.”
“Yes, but she’s not going to kill a potential girlfriend just to protect her inheritance.”
“Are you sure? This goes back to their childhood. Edgar always came first, always got all the attention, got the money to go to college. She bought into that and even became a partner in his business. How old are they?”
“Edgar was in his forties. She’s a few years younger.”
“So, she’s about forty and doesn’t have time to start over. Is she going to let some floozy swoop in and take what she’s been working for all her life?”
“Jessica Fabrizio was a professor of sociology, a self-supporting woman.”
“Okay, forget that part.”
“If you heard some man call her a ‘floozy,’ you’d go ballistic.”
“Damn right I would. My point is: Edgar’s sister stood to lose a lot of money and influence with her brother, and she had reasons going back to childhood to feel entitled.”
I finished my tetrazzini and took a sip of wine. “Okay. I’ll grant you that. She had a motive. But she wasn’t at the opening. She had the flu last weekend and stayed home. So, she didn’t know Jessica was there, and Jessica was killed very soon after everyone left the gallery.”
“Maybe Edgar left the gallery and sent her a text saying, ‘Guess what: My old girlfriend showed up and we’re going out.’”
“And then what?” I asked. “Are you suggesting Ella found out where Jessica was staying, raced over, and killed her before Edgar could pick her up to go out for dinner?”
“I don’t know. It would depend on where she lives and where Jessica was staying.”
“Also, the sheriff said Jessica was strangled by someone with large hands, probably a man.”
“Ella could have had help.”
“Oh, come on! This is crazy.”
“Probably. I’m just saying she had a motive for killing Jessica.” Abbie stacked our plates and took them to the kitchen sink.
I moved our wine glasses to the table between the easy chairs and got comfortable. “You said she had a motive for both killings.”
Abbie sat in the other easy chair and stretched out her legs on the footstool. “If I’m right about her motivation, she may have figured he was at a high point in his career, his success was bound to attract some floo-, sorry, some sincere romantic interest, so her best bet was to inherit now while it was still all hers.”
“That is just sick.”
“I told you, you weren’t going to like it.”
“You’re describing someone like Lady Macbeth. Ella seems like a very sincere person. I think she really loved her brother.”
“Doesn’t Hamlet say, ‘One may smile and smile and be a villain?’”
I swallowed the last of my wine. “I give up. You’re right. She’s a homicidal maniac.”
“I’m not saying that. I agree with you: There are lots of practical reasons why she probably didn’t do this. But be careful and don’t take people at face value. Someone out there is killing people, and it seems to have something to do with the opening of your exhibit.”
I felt my stomach clench. “This just gets worse and worse.”
“Seriously, Nicole, until this is settled, think about who you can trust and take precautions.”
“All right. I trust you. Will you come with me to Edgar’s studio this week?”
“Sure. What for?”
“I want to look at his notebooks for insight about some of his paintings. It will help me write about them.”
“Do you have to do it this week?”
“It’s either that or go crazy thinking up reasons people have for killing each other.”
“Okay, when do you want to go?”
“Tomorrow’s shot: I have morning and afternoon classes, and the Gallery Advisory Committee is going to meet. I can’t tell you how I’m looking forward to that, probably because I’m not.”
“Cheer up, Noonan, this is why they pay you the big bucks.”
“Oh, right,” I said with heavy irony. “I’m thinking of retiring early.”
I pulled out my phone and checked my calendar. “Tuesday afternoon is good. How’s that for you?”
“I’m free after two. How far away is this place?”
“Less than an hour. It’s this side of Lancaster.”
“Sounds good. This should be interesting. I’ve never seen the inside of an artist’s studio.”
I got up and grabbed my parka from the coat tree where I had left it. “We’ll leave fro
m here. Thanks for the dinner.”
“You’re welcome. Be careful walking home.”
“I’m sure I won’t fall more than once. Good night.”
Chapter 22
“I hate to say this, Nicole—I really do—but the issue must be faced.” Greta shook her head as she said this. She was looking relatively sedate today in an orange jacket with a pink blouse over an olive-green skirt.
The four members of the Gallery Advisory Committee were again gathered in the seminar room which was already feeling claustrophobic. “What issue is that, Greta?”
“Have we put the gallery and maybe the college in jeopardy by bringing this artist to campus?”
“I don’t see how.”
“Well, that’s why we’re here,” said Greta, nodding to our colleagues, Millard Haflin and Matt Dunkle. “To advise you on these issues.”
Millard gazed at the wall opposite him as if beholding realms beyond our mundane existence. Matt looked as confused as I felt.
“You see,” said Greta, “all this could have been prevented.”
Obviously, that was not true, but I knew better than to argue with a crazy person. I decided to let her blow herself out before replying.
Greta opened the file folder in front of her and refreshed her memory from a written outline. “To begin with, this Edgar Yount was obviously an unstable individual. You only had to look at his paintings to see that.”
I had to clench my teeth to keep from yelling at her when she said that. I was more than prepared to bring down the full wrath of my expertise in art history to demolish not only the idea that anyone can diagnose an artist’s mental health by looking at their work but also that there was anything “unstable” about Edgar’s paintings. But I remembered that I had to conserve my energy.
“The members of this committee will recall . . .” Here she paused to look around the table, making it clear she was addressing all three of us. “. . . that I proposed several other artists whose outlook is, shall we say, more cheerful. At that time, the committee decided not to consider them and of course it had every right to do that.”
I doubted she believed we had that right since her left eyelid developed a tic while she said it.
“Now, however, we must deal with the repercussions of that decision.”
I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Greta, what exactly is this issue you’re concerned about?”
“We brought a murderer to the campus.”
This again. “No. We talked about this. Just because the sheriff questioned Edgar does not mean he was under suspicion and certainly does not mean he is guilty.”
“But now it’s obvious.”
“What are you talking about? What is obvious?”
“He killed this poor woman and then out of remorse took his own life.”
“Nothing you just said is a fact.” For someone whose discipline, biology, was based on empirical method, Greta was awfully quick to assume. “Why will you not wait until the sheriff has concluded his investigation before drawing conclusions?”
“With these latest developments, I’m afraid that’s a luxury we don’t have.”
Once again, I was stunned into silence.
Having regained the upper hand, she pressed on. “I very much doubt that the family of this murdered woman will wait before filing a lawsuit against the college. As director of the gallery, Nicole, you may also be in legal jeopardy. I wouldn’t be surprised if we as members of the Gallery Advisory Committee were also sued.”
I looked to my right and saw that Millard’s thoughts were still far away. I hoped he was recalling happier times. I looked to my left and saw Matt Dunkle looking me in the eye with an oddly amused expression on his face. Was he enjoying this torture?
I turned back to Greta and asked, “Why in the world would her family sue the college or any of us?”
“Wrongful death. Negligence. I’m not an attorney, so I can’t be sure what the charges might be.”
“Charges? You imagine some law enforcement agency might bring criminal charges?”
“I don’t know. It might be a civil suit.”
“This is premature and you have no facts to back up what you’re saying.”
Greta glanced at her outline and apparently found no help there. “At this time, I think we should open this up for discussion. Millard?”
The old gentleman glanced at her. “What are we discussing?”
“Edgar Yount.”
“Yount? What department is he in?”
Greta nearly snapped her pen in half.
I put my hand on his forearm. “The artist, Millard. Greta is concerned the college might be sued.”
Millard nodded. “That happens from time to time. It usually gets settled without going to court.”
Matt responded without being asked. “Greta, you’re blowing this all out of proportion. Nicole’s right. We have to wait for the sheriff to finish his investigation. There was no reason to meet today. I move we adjourn. We can meet again when we have some facts.”
I appreciated the support, but thought Matt might have been more diplomatic.
Greta looked from him to me and back to him. “I see,” she said. “If that’s how it is, I guess we may as well adjourn.”
Though I wanted exactly what Matt suggested, I was afraid getting it this way might provoke Greta to take her complaint outside the committee, and I didn’t want the president to be bothered with committee infighting. “Why don’t I do this,” I said. “We have an associate vice president who handles legal matters for the college; I could send him an email and ask if he sees any legal implications for the college at this stage. I could also ask if he thinks any of us should talk to a lawyer.”
“That might not be a bad idea,” said Greta.
“I will report back to all of you as soon as I hear something.”
“By all means send us an email, but I think we should meet to discuss what the associate vice president has to say.”
I remained calm. “Why don’t we wait and see if that’s necessary? When I have his response, and you’ve all read my email, if anyone feels it’s necessary to meet, we’ll call a meeting.”
Greta was already opening her laptop as she said, “While we’re all here, I think we should get it on the calendar. I’m free on Friday at this same time.”
“That’s starting to cut into the weekend,” said Matt.
“We’re just penciling it in,” said Greta as she typed on her laptop. “We may not even need it, but let’s all reserve the date.”
“Very good,” I replied. “We’ll all keep Friday at two thirty open. Thank you all for being here. We are adjourned.”
Greta had her things packed by the time I finished speaking. Millard followed her out.
Matt turned to me and smiled. “We make a great team.”
This was a side of him I hadn’t seen. “I appreciate your help on the committee. Your point of view seems to balance out Greta’s. That makes for a good discussion.”
He chuckled. “That’s one way of putting it. Seriously, you can count on me to back you up.”
I packed up my things. “Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”
I went to the door, and he followed me. As I turned down the corridor, he said, “We should get dinner sometime.”
I was glad he was a step behind me and couldn’t see the expression of horror on my face. “Sometime,” I said over my shoulder. I picked up my pace.
“Do you like German food?”
“I haven’t really had any.” I stopped at the foot of the stairs. “My office is on the third floor. Are you heading back to Science?”
“Yeah. Listen, there’s a place in Lancaster that serves an amazing sauerbraten. Unbelievable!”
“Gee, that does sound good. Why don’t I get back to you? I’m so busy right now with the gallery and now this legal business.”
He hesitated. It seemed he wanted to say more.
“I’ll call you,” I said.
Af
ter he turned and walked away, I started up the stairs, trying to imagine what I might have done to give him the idea of asking me out. When I got to the landing, it hit me. That chemistry professor I had lunch with on Friday had assumed I was fishing for information about Matt’s personal life. She must have told him I was interested. Worse yet, she may have gossiped about it with others, and it made its way around to him.
Chapter 23
I went as fast as I could up the stairs without running, trying to burn off the adrenaline I felt pumping in my chest. By the time I reached the third floor, I was breathing normally. I let myself into my office, shut the door, dropped everything on my desk, and walked to the window. I let my eyes wander over the hillside below. A dusting of new snow had turned the bare trees from black to gray. For all its icy peril, winter had its way of making the world look less harsh.
My effort to learn more about Matt had taken a wrong turn. I had learned nothing, and now I had to keep my distance from him. But I still wanted to find out what I could as the sheriff asked me to do.
There had to be a way of getting information about him without letting him see me doing it. Though he wasn’t on BudStem, there might be other people there who knew something about him. People who knew Jessica from SUNY at Albany would know him if he and Jessica were acquainted during those years. I didn’t know who those people were, but there were several ways to find people on BudStem.
I opened a browser window on my laptop and signed into my BudStem account. I planted a new stem, named it, “Remembering Jessica Fabrizio,” and attached the first leaf to the stem. It said that all who knew her were mourning the loss of the brilliant, young sociology professor, that law enforcement officers were already in touch with her family and with friends who knew her in Louisville and Cleveland, and that I wanted to reach out to those who knew her during her undergraduate days in Albany.
I hoped that, when her buddies saw this stem, they would attach leaves sharing their memories of her. If they did, I would scan those leaves for any mention of Matt Dunkle. If there were none, he probably had no prior association with her.
Even though everything I said on my leaf was true, I felt uncomfortable about having an ulterior motive for bringing bad news to dozens of strangers. On the other hand, I could not see how I was doing them any harm. They all had to find out sooner or later. And, if I could remove my colleague from the sheriff’s list of suspects, that was good for everyone.