Art and Arsenic (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 2) (13 page)

21

That night, I didn’t sleep well. In my dreams, I kept seeing all-white rooms morphing into narrow and twisting tunnels that allowed traveling into the past, straight into the 19
th
century. Coming out on the other side, like Alice through the rabbit-hole, I saw a pastoral landscape with a small picturesque barn and rugged cliffs in the background, where a group of people (dressed in 21th-century clothes, I noticed) were milling about and drinking wine full of iridescent bubbles. The bubbles kept growing bigger and bigger, floating up, reflecting and distorting everything around them, until they became giant colorful balloons. On one of them an elderly man with a paintbrush in his hand was riding and boasting: “My work’s the real thing!” I kept trying to catch the big balloon, but the man on it was throwing tubes of red paint down on me, and I had to duck them.

Bitty had settled in to sleep next to me. My moving and thrashing around in my dream had bumped her, and she let out a discombobulated “Urr” as she re-adjusted her position. She curled up again and purred softly.

I lay in silence, staring at the ceiling. I thought I knew who the killer was. I did not know why – although I could guess. I had told Detective Johnson my idea, and he sounded skeptical. And the bigger problem was that I didn’t have any proof.

How would I go about proving something like this? Confront the person I was thinking of with the accusation of murder? The suspect would likely deny it. Tell Detective Johnson to get a search warrant and test for traces of arsenic? I had already heard some potential explanations from people as to why evidence of the poison could be on their belongings and surroundings – so likely there would be another possible justification.

No. Try offering a sweet deal. Something that would turn out to be a trap. But I was going to need help with it. I got out of bed, turned on the light and got to planning.

I was sitting across from Christopher at a coffee shop in Kirkland. He was still in town, prohibited by the police from leaving, and I had called him in the morning and asked him to meet me. I could tell that he was nervous, looking around and over his shoulder, his fingers drumming a loud syncopated beat on the tabletop. The man was scared.

To lull his suspicions, I started out by being extra-friendly.

“Thank you for meeting me. What can I get you?” He declined my offer of a drink, paid for his own coffee, and stood at the end of the counter watching the barista make it, then carried it carefully back to the table where I was sitting with my hot chocolate. Almost at the table, he realized that he forgot a napkin – he turned around, with the cup still in his hands, and went to the counter to get it. He seemed like he was afraid to turn his back on me, or leave me unattended with his drink. For good reason, I thought, given that Fred was poisoned less than a week ago.

As he sat down and sipped his coffee, I leaned forward and smiled.

“I know about the paintings. They are fake.” I looked straight at Christopher and kept smiling. He fidgeted uncomfortably.  “And I think you always knew it. It might have been Fred’s idea to sell them as originals.”

I took a sip of my hot chocolate and tried not to make a face – it was too hot. I touched my lips with a napkin and tried to look sufficiently impressive and in control, as I continued: 

“Of course, Andrew was in on that.” Christopher had gone pale while I was talking. “It was a very nice set-up, while it lasted. Fred was smart. And look what it got him”, I said conversationally, continuing to lean forward. “Apparently, it was worth it to you to shut him up.”

Christopher looked at me unblinkingly. “What are you talking about?”

I kept a friendly smile on my face and spoke slowly and clearly. “There is no use denying it. I know a lot already, and I can find out more. You may not know much about me. You wouldn’t, I keep a pretty low profile. But if there is any digital trail, like in your e-mail to anybody, or even you browsing some internet forums, I will find it.”

“Trail of what?”

“That you were fully aware that the paintings were fake. Trail of any agreement you had with Fred to sell the fakes as real works of David Cox.”

Christopher made a motion with his hand as if to wave my words away.

“I have a copy of your original contract with Nordqvist Fine Art, the one you signed before this show. It promised exclusive rights to Calvin Willembauer's entire art collection to the gallery. I know what rates he was playing you, and it wasn't much.” I gave him my best pitying look. I had gotten a scanned copy of the contract from Pauline earlier in the day. “I can't say that I blame you for trying to look for a better deal somewhere else. How much more would you have made if you went with another place, like Ravenswood?”

Christopher scrunched up his nose and sighed. “About twenty-five grand more.”

“And now, with his death – you are obviously a suspect.” I looked at him expectantly, and he winced. “I could come up with a perfectly plausible narrative, putting you in the role of the killer. Isn’t that right? There are probably people you talked to about how to get out of your contract with Nordqvist Fine Art. The police could find them.” I put my hand on my cup again to check the temperature – still too hot.  “And with Fred ending up dead – well, maybe you thought that you could convince Connie to cancel the show, and then take the paintings to a different gallery. But she likely saw the interest the death has generated, and decided to continue with the sale as planned. And in any case, from what I’ve heard, the paintings are selling briskly, for more than originally estimated. So you are making very good money from this show.” I smiled brightly at him from across the table. “You have, shall we say, benefited from this situation. And I can make it sound good enough for the police to detain or arrest you. So – what would you offer me to keep quiet?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes were searching the room, as if trying to dig up the best way to handle this from underneath the carpet.

I decided to add to the pressure.

“You wouldn’t want me to spill what I know, would you?  That you were in on the fakes from the very beginning. I did some research – the Calvin Willembauer collection of art and wine could be worth up to a million dollars, if it was all real. If people knew how you bent the truth for your own profit, it would tarnish your personal reputation. No-one would trust anything from your uncle’s collection any more. Your nice little income stream of selling off parts of it would come to an end. What do you say?”

Christopher’s hands were clutching and un-clutching fists. He was looking down, seemingly unaware of what his hands were doing. I was watching him, and wondering whether I’d pushed too far. The role of the unscrupulous blackmailer was fun to play – a bit too much fun, and perhaps I crossed the line. That would leave me without the proof that I needed.

“What do you want? Money?” he finally said.

“I think I know who killed Fred. I need evidence. And I want you to help me get it.”

He swallowed and his eyes darted around the room again. I tried a little sip of my hot chocolate – it had cooled off. 

Then he nodded. I knew I had the confirmation I needed.

Christopher ran a hand through his blond hair and said: “I had a guess on how it was done. I think someone took a spot of orpimento from the cliff painting on the far wall, and put it into Fred’s wine at the party. The color of the pigment would be yellowish, and it would blend in with the wine.”

“So you’re saying that it would be someone who knew what orpimento was and what it was made of.” During my research, I discovered that orpimento was a yellow pigment made out of arsenic salts, and that it had been used in painting for centuries.

Christopher smiled meaningfully.

“I see…” I nodded. “I think we are on the same page. Here's what I was thinking...”

22

The plan was put in motion. Now I just had to wait for things to happen in their due time. So for the rest of the Thursday afternoon, I went to my actual office, and was investigating an attempted cyber-break-in at another website. It kept my mind occupied and away from art-related topics until it was time to go.

I took the bus to Pioneer Square and grabbed a quick bite to eat at Marcella’s, a small Creole food place on one of the steep side streets going uphill from the square. I sat by the window, listened to the New Orleans jazz playing inside, chewed on my giant muffuletta, and people-watched. The rain drops, diffusing the light cast by the street lamps in the dusk, gave the square a mysterious patina.

Pioneer Square was one of the first Seattle neighborhoods, and definitely looked it – the buildings were mostly red brick and gray stone, some with columns, cornices and fanciful carvings on the facades (the Arctic Club Hotel building had walruses, the Maynard building what appeared to be faces hiding in vegetation). The streets were cobblestone, and elaborate iron railings separated some hidden courtyards. There were passageways, dark and dank, under these buildings. The Seattle Underground tours were conducted here as well, describing the history of the city through the “lens” of its subterranean routes (and the history of its sewage processing), and there were entrances to the underground at several places around the square.

During the time I’d lived in the Seattle area, I had seen Pioneer Square go from a bad neighborhood full of questionable nightclubs, to a hip locale for up-and-coming bands, and crowds gathering for games of the local teams, and happening start-ups (I even worked nearby for a while), then back to a dismal place filled with abandoned buildings when the economic crisis hit. Now there were some new restaurants, eclectic shops and hot-yoga studios taking up residence in the historic spaces behind the “For Lease” signs, and a couple of condo conversions / developments were advertising on big posters on the street corners.  Throughout all of this, the homeless and people using the services of several missions in the neighborhood were a constant presence – as were the open-at-10-am and always full of clientèle bars where, if you had to patronize them, you’d rather get a strong drink, in the hopes that the alcohol would disinfect any germs you might encounter. The area also hosted sports bars with big-screen TVs frequented by the fans of the Seattle Sounders, Seattle Seahawks, and the Seattle Mariners before, during and after the home games.

This was the neighborhood where several of the city’s most prominent art galleries resided, attracted, in particular, by the historic architecture around the Square. The monthly First Thursday Art Walk was a popular and fun event that brought the arts-curious crowd to the district. On this rainy spring evening, it looked typically Seattle – as if it has always been here, and always will be; the wet sidewalks reflecting the yellow street lights, the alleyways echoing the steps of passers-by.

I was wrapped up in my ancient black leather jacket – very soft with age and so worn that it practically looked colorless in places. On my feet I was wearing the Martin Margiela snakeskin-print booties again – I thought that they gave me a sufficiently “artsy” look.  (And I needed to bring their “cost-per-wear” metric down!) So far, they’ve been holding up fine on the rainy streets. I had my “Swiss army” bag – a small leather hard-case cross-body bag that I bought from a seller of army memorabilia in a small town in the mountains of Switzerland. It fit my keys, phone, wallet and a small notebook with pen perfectly – and I had never seen anyone else carry one like it. Black skinny pants completed my look. I was wearing black leather gloves to keep my hands warm, as they tend to get icy-cold (blood circulation has never been my strong suit). My hair was up in a ponytail, and no gray was visible. Overall, I was looking like someone who appreciated art and hung around it all the time, I thought – even if I did say so myself.

I looked at my watch – it was almost 7 pm, time to go. I still had half of my sandwich remaining. It was delicious, and I thought it would be enough for another full meal for me, so I asked for it to go and paid my bill. But as I got up to leave, I realized that I would need to carry the paper sack with me for the rest of the evening, as it didn’t fit into my small bag.

Across the street, I saw one of the homeless – a man of an indeterminate age (I thought he could be anywhere from 35 to 55), dressed in baggy black raincoat and brown pants, with a dirty backpack. He was walking slowly up a wet street, away from me, and had on a leash a small white dog. On impulse, I crossed the street.

“Hi, I thought you’d like a sandwich” I handed him the paper bag containing the rest of my muffuletta.

He raised his eyes to me as he took it. “Thank you.”

Turning around, I hurried on to meet Andrew at the agreed-on place: a red-brick 1900s building backing up to an abandoned lot. The ivy-covered structure now housed the famous Wolfgang gallery, specializing in early-20
th
century German and Austrian art. Andrew was already there, under a black umbrella, leaning against a street light reading a flyer for an art show. His shadow on the ground made me think of Fred Nordqvist on the floor of his office, and I shuddered.

I came up to him and thanked him for meeting me, and we started our “art walk”. After studying the ground-breaking and anxiety-filled works at Wolfgang (in brown and yellow tones, executed during World War I, full of contorted human figures), we went to Cranes, a gallery of Japanese art, full of delicate and simple objects (“perfect in their imperfection” was the cliché that came to mind). Then we visited a place that sold primarily European decorative art (quaint and dainty tea pots and porcelain figurines), then one that dealt with Native American artists, then a shop of hand-made recycled objects d’art from found wood.

Andrew kept a running commentary of the art. He pointed out the way the artists used color or lines, frequently mentioned that he was “no expert in this particular area, but found this piece especially interesting”, and so on. I took the opportunity to learn more about him:

“You have such a wealth of art knowledge! Is European art your specialty?”

“It is. That’s what my master’s thesis was on, and that’s the area I’ve been working in for almost my entire career.”

“Do you work at the gallery full-time?”

“No, I also consult and free-lance, and write a column for 'Belle Epoque Collector Quarterly'”.

I found myself taken in by the art works and enjoying the evening, in spite of originally undertaking this outing as part of a murder investigation. The crowd around us was everyone from young students munching on cheese and crackers and techies stopping by for 20 minutes to try to make sense of art and have a drink, to groups of friends taking in an art show to interrupt their bar crawl, and obviously well-off couples seriously contemplating what big-format creation to buy for their large homes, to complement the views of the city and the water from their living room windows.

As far as “art to go with my couch” things went that I used as a pretext for this excursion – I found a couple of works that I really liked. One was a thin vertical painting of a passage-way between two houses, yellow and orange in color, with blue sky and a bit of greenery above. The other was a black and white photo that reminded me of beach scenes shot in 1930s by Henri Cartier-Bresson. I got the contact info from the two galleries while Andrew waited.

On the street where we emerged from the last gallery, I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure ahead of us. It was a man, and I knew I had seen him before. In general, it is the hardest to disguise your walk and back, and this is why you can recognize a person when you are still too far to see their features. The figure disappeared into an alley ahead.

As we were walking, I continued asking Andrew questions.

“What are your future plans?” I tried to give my voice the tone of idle inquiry.

“I really enjoyed working with Fred Nordqvist at Nordqvist Fine Art. As far as I know, the gallery will continue operating.”

“You wouldn't consider joining another gallery? I'm sure you've had tempting offers!”

“Oh no, not really!” He waved the suggestion away.

“So you haven't gotten any interesting job offers recently?” I pressed on. “I find that hard to believe, with your knowledge and experience!”

“It's true, nevertheless!”

I was sure that this was something that Andrew was lying about. Linda told me that she had made job offers to the staff at Nordqvist Fine Arts. And Pauline and Alex confirmed that – so no reason for Andrew to be left out. I thought it was Andrew that Fred threatened on Thursday – the comment about reputation, and allusions to ruining someone's career and possibly life, fit that bill. And it made sense that Linda was the woman Fred referred to in that conversation, not Connie – he could indeed ruin Linda's reputation if word of her DoS attempt got around.

And now Andrew was lying, covering his tracks.

I decided to stretch the truth a little.

“I heard that the police tested all of the surfaces in the gallery for arsenic over the weekend. They found significant traces of it in the back room, where people hang their coats.”

“Oh really?” He didn’t look at me, and tried to make his voice sound nonchalant.

“Yes, especially at a height that pockets in a coat would be, if the coat were hanging there.”

I looked at him sideways. I wanted to see what he’d make of that.

“So – someone had arsenic in their pocket?”

“Right. Or in their hands, that they then put in the pocket. How else would it get there?”

“I don’t know. My sister lives in Ruston, near Tacoma – lots of arsenic in the soil there. It was a huge smelter for decades. They’ve tried to clean up, but there’s still plenty. I’m sure my hands and clothes have traces of arsenic on them after I visit her and play with her kids and dog. Ha ha!” His laugh sounded strained.

We turned the corner, and saw the male figure ahead in the darkness again.

Andrew noticed it, and now was walking faster to try to catch up with the person in front of us. My heels were clicking on the stone street, I was accelerating to keep up. Then Andrew suddenly said:

“Excuse me, I need to …” and without finishing his sentence broke into a run, chasing the silhouette ahead.

The person dived into an alley, Andrew a couple of steps behind. I was running after him – but when I turned the corner, in the dusk I saw only his outline turning right into another alleyway. At this moment, I cursed my decision to wear heels.

I followed, running as hard as I could manage in my footwear, but didn’t see anyone when I got to the alleyway. The late-19
th
century brick buildings around me looked quite impenetrable. I kept running, looking into every alley way on my right or left for any signs of my would-be art companion.

Suddenly, as my foot left the ground, I was sliding down a hole into the Underground passage, half-uncovered and half-destroyed. I must have tripped over something, or slipped on the wet pavement.

I put my hand down behind me to steady myself, thankful that I had leather gloves on. Everything was dark. I was not sure where I was. And Andrew – where was Andrew?