Art and Arsenic (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 2) (11 page)

17

Fred’s body had been released for burial, and the funeral was set for 3 pm Wednesday. I thought of not going – and then surprising even myself, went. To an extent, because I was still working for the gallery, and also because I felt I still owed it to him to find his killer – even though I knew it wasn’t a part of the job I was expected to do there. And because it was the last “official” day of my work for Nordqvist Fine Arts, and the murderer hadn’t been identified yet, I wanted to keep investigating.

Having driven to the cemetery, I started to get out of my car, saw the group of people all dressed in black heading away from the parking lot, and then sat back down in the driver’s seat.  I felt shy and overwhelmed, even if I only knew the deceased for a couple of days. Actually standing at the funeral, listening to the ceremony, and watching people throw handfuls of earth on the coffin would be beyond me. I repeated my silent promise to find out what happened, and sat in my car and thought things over instead.

I had a pretty good motive for either of the Benchams, I thought, but I didn’t have any concrete proof. And Linda certainly had plenty of motives, and involvement, in the case. And I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t disregarding any other potential suspects.

Now that I knew that a likely reason for the Nordqvists’ divorce was Fred hitting on various women in his vicinity, I thought back to seeing Alex and Connie together at the Sounders game last week. Originally, it crossed my mind that they might have been having a clandestine affair – but would Fred have been very upset about it, since it probably gave Connie an incentive to divorce him as soon as possible as well? And if he could use any evidence he had of her infidelity as leverage during the divorce proceedings?

Alex and Connie's relationship could have been an affair, but I didn’t know the reason of keeping it hidden at this point. Of course, they might have told the police already. And how would they go about announcing it to anyone else under the circumstances, anyway? It might be considered “in bad taste”, to say the least. And make them subject of rumors – including probably some saying that they had killed Fred.

Speaking of which: just how implausible would that be?

What if Connie and Alex were in a conspiracy together? I batted the thought around in my brain, like my cat playing with a toy. If it was a murder conspiracy, I couldn’t really see the benefit of the “conspiracy” part of it – neither of them was cleared of motive, means or opportunity, separately or together. So there
was no good reason that I could find for one of them to bring the other into his or her confidence or into planning this – except moral support, perhaps. I guess it might be possible that even wanna-be murderers crave some moral support at times. Or maybe the idea to kill Fred wouldn’t have occurred to them separately? Or perhaps individually they weren't sure that “the end justified the means” in this case, and needed like-minded reinforcement?

From what I’ve seen of her, Connie didn’t look like a woman who would need anyone else’s encouragement to do something that she thought would benefit her – up to and including murder, possibly? Alex might. But again, if Connie had convinced Alex to kill Fred, the plan that they came up with didn't provide an alibi for her at all – the murder as it was committed did not exclude Connie from the list of suspects, since she was at the gallery on Friday. They didn’t do anything together that they couldn’t have done separately. So far I failed to see how this was a beneficial conspiracy, if there was one.

If what I saw going on between Connie and Alex wasn’t a murder plot, then perhaps was Alex told me was the truth and it was some sort of a business deal? That was within realm of possibility. Alex wanted to quit the gallery, and Connie got an offer from Linda to sell her share of Nordqvist Fine Art. Between them, they could have some nice start-up capital out of whatever Linda would pay for the gallery share. And Connie was an accountant, and Alex also worked in financial planning prior to the recession. So it could be plausible that they were thinking of starting something together, perhaps in the accounting services field.

Hold on – the argument between Alex and Fred was about reputation. If Fred hadn’t died, would Alex be able to go back to his old field? I thought about that. Maybe. Or maybe not, if Fred had made good on his threat to ruin Alex and “that woman” (referring to Connie, I assumed). I previously believed Alex's denials that he went back to the inventory room Thursday and continued his heated talk with Fred – but really, it was just his word. He could have gone back. So a motive for Alex and Connie together – based not on a love affair, but on a possible business deal – was back in among my theories.

18

I sat in my car, thinking, until black-clad people started returning to the parking lot. I saw Monica Bencham in the company of the man I assumed to be her husband, a short balding man in round glasses, wearing an expensive-looking coat. Alex, walking briskly, looking down, hands in pockets of his rainproof jacket. Connie, head held high, seemingly keeping her distance from Alex; from afar, her coat seemed to be made of dark-brown shagreen – I had to blink twice to realize it was just subtly patterned (and undoubtedly expensive). I saw Andrew hurrying after the main group of people, and following Christopher to his car. I thought that Andrew wanted to talk to him, since his eyes were glued to Christopher’s figure and he called something out; but Christopher didn’t pause, got into the car and turned on his engine. No Linda Raven, at least that I had noticed.

Detective Johnson, separating himself from the group of mourners, came up to Pauline. She stood in the corner of the lot, pulling her coat closer to her in the cold wind, and looking around. Her black hair flew around her face. From a distance, she looked small and helpless. When he approached, she took a step back, involuntarily.

I watched them talk for several minutes. Her body language (sloping shoulders, hands digging deeper into the pockets, backing away from the policeman) made it look like she wanted to disappear. It seemed like the detective was asking questions and the girl was giving hesitant answers. I felt my entire body tense up watching their conversation.

When the conversation was over, she stomped back to the parked cars in the lot, wiping away tears. I got out of my car and stood by the door. I waved at her, to let her know that if she felt like talking, she could come over.  She headed towards me, visibly upset, her shoulders drooping.

“They suspect me of killing him!”

I opened the passenger–side door of my red car to her and she sat down. “That’s awful!” I handed her a tissue from a package that I specifically put in the glove box for going to the funeral. I listened to her halting sobs, put my hands on the wheel and looked straight through the windshield to avoid looking at her.

In between gulps of air, she told me that Monica told the police that she heard Pauline and Fred arguing loudly at the end of the night. The security tape evidence from that night showed them standing close together, Pauline gesturing a lot. All of this I already knew from Monica herself – and I assumed the police did too. After all, Monica said she’d told them. So why the extra emotional pressure of questioning the girl about it today, and doing it right after her father’s funeral, I wondered?

After a couple of minutes, her breathing and her sobs quieted down. I finally thought that I could stomach looking at her. Pauline had tears streaming down her face, her eyes were puffy and helpless. The red-color blotches on her cheeks made her seem like a small, lost wood elf.

“Was there more to it than the fight about your roommate?” I asked, as gently as I could, handing her another tissue.

She nodded.

“Yes.” She swiped the tissue across her red nose. “I thought of joining a different gallery. My dad wasn’t happy about that, called me ‘an ungrateful brat’. I blew up at him too a couple of times. And now that’s being twisted to make it look like I had a motive to kill him!”

“Which gallery were you thinking of?”

She wiped a tear from her right cheek.

“Ravenswood. Linda Raven made me a good offer – more money, and also more independence. She wanted to incorporate more sculpture and mixed-media art – the stuff that I am interested in and am majoring in. My dad wouldn’t go for those for Nordqvist Fine Art.”

Hmmm. Linda Raven had definitely been trying to poach Nordqvist Fine Art employees. I wasn’t sure how well mixed-media went with 19
th
-century art – but perhaps Linda was going after what she thought would be the next hot thing in the art market?

“When did you talk to him about it first?”

“I don’t know. A couple of weeks ago maybe? And then I brought it up again last week. He got mad every time.” She gulped air once more.

“How come this is coming out now, do you have any idea?”

Pauline looked down at the balled-up tissue in her lap.

“I… I didn’t tell you everything when you asked about our argument on Friday night. Monica didn’t hear everything. We had this fight beforehand, and then I got annoyed at him hitting on Grace. Someone else probably heard us and told the police.”

She started crying louder again.

“This was the last time I talked to my dad, and we had this huge fight!” She was leaning against my shoulder, her body shaking with sobs.

“Someone heard you use some pretty strong language?”, I guessed.

She threw up her hands.

“Yeah, I was mad at him for being mad at me about this. I said something like ‘I can’t stand this any longer’, and that I’d get out one way or the other.”

“What… what was your plan if… if… everything at Nordqvist Fine Art was OK?” I didn’t know how to refer to Fred’s death, and it came out clumsily.

“I would quit at the end of this week. I guess he wouldn’t talk to me for a couple of months and then get over it, eventually.” More tears came as she likely imagined what the world would have been like if Fred were still alive. She buried her face in the tissue. My heart was breaking for her.

Yesterday, she mentioned that Nordqvist Fine Art was really an expression of Fred’s deep interest in art. If so, then he could have taken badly the news that his daughter would abandon the gallery and go work for a competitor. And not just any competitor, but the one who seemed hell-bent on destroying his business. They had a big argument, she said. But – arsenic poisoning?  That didn’t seem like the type of murder weapon that people in the heat of an argument use.  I’d have thought it was a weapon that relied on premeditation. On the other hand – they’d argued about it for a couple of weeks; maybe it felt to her like he’d never change his mind? But then again – she said he’d come around eventually. And even if it took him a while – years, say – it was still not a very convincing motive for murder, I thought.

On the other hand, add in the inheritance and some insurance money, and maybe things start to look different...

I shook my head to chase away those thoughts, and said out loud:

“I am sure you didn’t kill him. And I am sure the police will find who did. I’ll do everything I can to get to the bottom of this,” I promised her, not for the first time. I’d better make good on that promise, I thought, before an innocent person is arrested for the murder, and the toll on the living becomes too much!

Pauline wiped her eyes.

“And they insinuated that I extracted the poison from apricot pits!”

“Oh, seriously?”

“Yeah, me and Grace bought some apricots last week, and I brought some to the gallery to snack on.”

“That’s stupid! The suspicions, I mean, not the snacks.” And heartless of Detective Johnson to bring them up this immediately after the funeral, I thought to myself. Seemed like Johnson was going for cheap emotional manipulation tactics.

“It’s all just nonsense, don’t think about it.” I gave her another tissue, and she blew her nose. “And now, are you ready to go? Where can I drop you?” I turned the key in the ignition.

“The gallery. Enough of the tears. It’s back to work for me.” She smiled faintly.

“Are you sure that you don’t want me to drive you home instead?”

“No, the gallery is better. That way I’ll feel I am at least trying to do something to deal with this.”

“By the way”, I said as I maneuvered out of the lot, “what about your mom? Is she in town?”

“No, she lives in Missouri. But this week she’s on vacation in Puerto Rico with her boyfriend.  I sent her an e-mail telling her what happened. But I’m not sure she’d have come to dad’s funeral in any case.”

Ok, so that was that. The police would have checked on the whereabouts of the first Mrs. Fred Nordqvist anyway.

From my brief sideways glances over at her, Pauline spent the rest of the ride to the gallery leaning against the window and looking at the scenery. I wasn’t sure she saw any of it.

After dropping her off at the gallery, I drove home – where I fed an early dinner to a cute furry little black cat with serious eyes. Bitty was appreciative. Afterwards, she settled in next to me, purring softly, her warm body was curled up against my leg. She closed her eyes contentedly, as I thought about what to do.