Buttoned Up (13 page)

Bart McCromb looked more like a fight promoter than an art gallery owner. He wasn’t much taller than me (which, for the record, is not very tall) and he weighed at least two-fifty. He had broad shoulders, a short neck, and a nose that sat crooked on his face, as if it had been broken a couple times and reset in a hurry. His mouth was broad, but then it had to be to accommodate lips that reminded me of bologna slices. The moment I walked into the door of the Mango Tango Gallery, he stuck out one massive hand in greeting.

“Welcome.” The diamond stud in Bart’s ear winked in the light of the spots trained on the huge oil painting that dominated one wall of the gallery. Tropical flowers. Maybe. Or it might have been a painting of fish. Whatever, bright splashes of color flashed across the canvas, orange and purple and blue and chartreuse. I appreciate color. I did not, however, own a wall anywhere near big enough for a painting that size. I wondered who did.

“You’ve visited us before?” Bart asked.

“No. First-timer.” The gallery walls were brick and painted a particularly vivid shade of yellow that provided a showy background for the other, smaller paintings displayed all around us. The one just over my right shoulder showed a village scene with a pink adobe church in the background and a fountain, brick walkway, and flower carts out front. It would look great over my fireplace, and I noted the price and promised myself a little shopping therapy was in order. After all, I had been up since before the crack of dawn and I’d worked hard all day.

“It’s a beautiful gallery,” I said, more to myself than to Bart, but he heard and grinned like a Miss America contestant. “I’d heard—” I didn’t want to put him off, not when I hoped he could help me make sense of everything that happened at the Chicago Community Church, but I couldn’t help myself. Naturally, I thought of Richard and how he’d claimed he’d moved Forbis’s exhibit from Mango Tango to the church because this gallery was—

“Somebody told me Mango Tango was a dump,” I said. “Obviously, they were not talking about the same place.”

“I’m glad you like it.” There was an open bottle of Cabernet on a glass-and-stainless-steel table in the corner and Bart poured a glass and offered it to me. Luckily, Mango Tango had evening hours on Thursday and I was able to come back to Wicker Park after the Button Box was closed. It had been a long day, and I planned to head right home when I left the gallery. I gladly accepted the glass of wine.

I sipped and strolled, admiring the paintings, the art glass, and a couple of small wood carvings. I was the only customer at the moment, so with his own glass of wine, Bart walked along at my side. He was as subtle as the silver tie he wore with his charcoal suit—there to answer questions if I had any, but not pushy at all.

If only he knew my questions weren’t going to have anything to do with art.

And everything to do with Forbis.

I was studying a photograph of a beat-up bicycle leaning against a graffiti-covered wall when I decided it was time to make my move. “I know you were out of town. I stopped in last week.”

“Ah, St. Croix.” Bart tipped back his head and smiled. “Sunshine, blue skies, and gorgeous beaches. Off season, of course, but that’s not such a bad thing. Fewer tourist means more peace and quiet.”

“I thought . . .” Another sip of wine, just so I didn’t seem too eager. “I stopped by last week because I thought there was supposed to be an exhibit here,
Vudon Me Wrong
.”

It wasn’t my imagination. Bart’s shoulders went rigid and his chin shot up. “
Supposed to
being the operative words in that sentence. Do you know about that exhibit?”

“Do you know about the murder?”

We had strolled our way around the gallery and were back where we started from, at that glass-topped table. He set down his wineglass and crossed his arms over a chest as wide as the Dan Ryan Expressway. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not really here to talk about art?” he asked.

I set down my wineglass, too. “I’m glad we don’t have to dance around the subject,” I said, and I truly was relieved. “I don’t like to play games.”

“So you are here to talk about Forbis Parmenter.”

“Well, yes. And to buy that painting.” I pointed toward the village scene. Hey, when in search of information, it doesn’t hurt to spread around some goodwill, and some cash. “We’ll worry about the painting later. For now, I was wondering if you could tell me why Richard Norquist told me Mango Tango was a dump.”

Bart laughed, but not like it was funny. “Richard’s the one who said that? I guess I’m not surprised. The guy is a first-class jerk.”

This did not tally with the considerate, kind, and fun-to-be-with man Laverne had told me about.

“I’m glad I came over to see the gallery for myself,” I said in an attempt to smooth Bart’s ruffled feathers. “Richard was wrong.”

“About a lot of things.” He refilled both our glasses and though I hadn’t finished mine in the first place, I knew a peace offering when I saw it. I sipped and thought about the right way to approach the subject. It was obvious Bart was an upfront kind of guy. And it was just as obvious there was no use beating around the bush.

“Forbis Parmenter’s exhibit was supposed to here,” I said. “It got moved to the Chicago Community Church. Can you tell me why?”

“Can you tell me why you care?”

“I can tell you I’m working with the police to try and figure out what happened to Forbis.”

He lowered his chin. I couldn’t say for sure, but I had the feeling this was his way of acknowledging the fact that if I had the authority and I was asking the questions, he’d be willing to answer. There was only one way to find out.

“Who decided to move the exhibit from here to the church, Forbis or Richard?”

“It sure wasn’t Forbis’s decision. Forbis was . . .” He glanced my way. “You met him?” he asked, and when I said I had, he smiled. “Then you know what I’m talking about when I say he was the stereotypical artiste. Forbis didn’t much care where his work was shown, as long as the spotlight was on him. And he didn’t handle the arrangements for the exhibit to be here in the first place. Richard did that.”

“Richard came to you and asked you to host the exhibit?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. As a matter of fact, I’m the one who originally approached Forbis about an exhibit. I’d heard the buzz, you see. Anyone with their ear to the art rail had. About a year ago, I heard about this wild artist who covered things in buttons. I saw pictures of his pieces and I’ll tell you what, I was intrigued. Buttons are a little out there, of course, but—”

In the interest of full disclosure I told him buttons were what had drawn me into the investigation. “I’m something of an expert,” I said.

“Then it makes sense you’d want to know more about the chain of events.” He rolled the wineglass in his hands. “I first met Forbis down in Nashville. Like I said, about a year ago. He had an exhibit down there at a small gallery and I’d heard so much about him, I wanted to see for myself if it was all true.”

“Was it?”

“His playful use of color? His eye for detail? His wild abandon when it came to buttons? Yes, every word of it was true. That particular exhibit was the one where Forbis covered household goods with buttons, and I took one look at the kitchen table and KitchenAid mixer covered with buttons and I was hooked. I knew my customers would be, too.”

“So you asked Forbis to come here to Chicago and show his work.”

“He was thrilled. He was more than thrilled. Nashville is all fine and good, you understand, but it’s not exactly a city known for its art or its galleries. Chicago, on the other hand . . . Forbis knew if he had a major show in Chicago, his future as an artist was pretty much assured. Forbis told me he didn’t actually bother with the day-to-day details of the business, so he handed me off to Richard. I met with him and we agreed on dates for the show and that was that.”

“Except it wasn’t.”

“Exactly. A few weeks ago, I made a trip down to Jekyll Island to see the vudon exhibit before it left Forbis’s studio. You know, so I could think about how best to display things and lighting and such. I wasn’t disappointed by what I saw. Those ceremonial drums . . .” Bart’s eyes twinkled with the fire of artistic appreciation. “And that loa in the box!” He looked my way to make sure I knew what he was talking about.

I put out a hand, my palm flat. “I don’t need to be reminded of that particular piece,” I told him. “That’s where Forbis’s body was found. I was the one who found it.”

“I’m sorry.” He laid a hand briefly on my arm. “I read about the whole thing, of course, and even if I hadn’t, every gallery owner here in Chicago is buzzing about it. I got plenty of calls while I was down in St. Croix, and I heard the details, but I never stopped to think that a body just isn’t found. Somebody finds it. That must be a terrible experience.”

“And not something I like to think about.” I shook my shoulders to get rid of the cold chill that had settled there. “So you went to Jekyll Island . . .”

“That’s right. And I saw Forbis’s pieces and I was thrilled. Richard and I made an appointment to meet the next day and get everything finalized.”

“So it sounds as if things were working out well.”

“They certainly were.” Bart looked at me over the rim of his wineglass. “That’s a very long-winded way of answering your question. You asked who moved the exhibit from here to the church. Was it Richard? Or was it Forbis? Well, I don’t know who actually trolled for another exhibit space and ended up with the church, but I can tell you I know who told Forbis and Richard to get lost. That was me.”

“You cancelled? Richard told me—”

“Let me guess. That’s where the dumpy gallery comment came in.”

I nodded.

Bart shook his head in disgust. “Leave it to Richard. I guess he had to save face.”

“Because you told him they couldn’t have the exhibit here. But why, if you loved Forbis’s work so much?”

Bart finished his wine and set down his glass. “How much do you know about galleries?” he asked.

“You mean other than that I always see something in them that I want to buy? Very little.”

“We may spend our days surrounded by wonderful art, but gallery owners have to have a practical side, like all small business owners. When an artist displays at a gallery and makes a sale, the standard cut is anywhere from a third to a half. My cut is fifty/fifty. Overhead, you know. Of course I discussed that with Richard. In fact, he signed an agreement that stated it quite clearly. But that last day I was in Nashville . . .” Bart heaved a sigh.

“The last evening I was there, I met Richard for a drink. He got to the bar before I did, and he was on the phone when I arrived. Just so you know, it wasn’t like I was eavesdropping or anything. His back was to me, he didn’t know I was there. When I walked up to the table, I couldn’t help but hear Richard. He was obviously talking to Forbis. He reminded Forbis what a big deal it was to have a show in Chicago. And then he told Forbis that big-city galleries do things a little differently from the other galleries they’d worked with. He told Forbis I was getting a sixty percent cut.”

“But you said—”

“Fifty-fifty standard. That’s right.”

I let this sink in for a moment. “So you cancelled the showing.”

“Right then and there,” Bart said. “Well, as soon as Richard got off his call with Forbis, anyway. That’s why the comment about Mango Tango being a dump doesn’t really surprise me. Richard had to tell Forbis something to explain why the show wasn’t going to be here. He certainly couldn’t tell Forbis it was because I wasn’t willing to go along with his scheme, because then Richard would have to admit he was skimming ten percent off the top of every sale and putting it in his own pocket.”

• • •

I didn’t lie to Laverne. Not exactly anyway.

Not that I wouldn’t have been justified, I mean with the way she’d bought into Richard’s cooked up alibi and the way Richard, apparently, had been living a lie since even before he stepped foot in Chicago.

Instead of making up a story, I told Laverne that I was concerned about the panel on the front of the loa box and the missing buttons (true) and asked her if I could look around the church again (hey, it wouldn’t hurt) and oh, by the way, I wondered if Richard was going to be around since Forbis’s artwork was damaged and I was sure there must be police reports to file and insurance claims to fill out.