The Cruel Ever After (20 page)

“Really? And?”

“She’s torn.”

“About what?”

“Oh, you know Jane. She keeps so much inside. But I got the feeling that she believes she had her chance with you and she blew it.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“I think, if you want to get your relationship back on track, that you need to do a little old-fashioned romantic wooing. Take it slow and easy. We all know Jane doesn’t like to be pushed.”

She was impressed that he understood Jane so well. They must have remained close, although if they had, Julia found it curious that Jane had never mentioned his name. “So, what do you think? Should I bury her office in flowers?”

“No, no. That’s too overt. Try inviting her to dinner so she can see your new loft. I guarantee that if you don’t make a pass at her, it will drive her nuts. Then find something only she can help you do. Reel her in inch by inch. Be sweet, caring, giving.”

The approach he suggested was exactly what she had in mind, and yet it was good to learn that Jane was open to something more than the bare-bones friendship they currently enjoyed—or didn’t enjoy, as the case might be.

“You’ll keep working on her, right?” asked Julia.

“Count on it.”

“She must trust you.”

“I don’t want to overstate my influence, but yeah, I think she does.”

“Did you tell her I’m buying the seal and the bull from you?”

“No,” he said, opening the passenger door and looking around before getting out. Facing her over the hood of the car, Chess added, “I keep all business private.”

Just what Julia wanted to hear. Information was power—and power led to getting what you wanted, what you deserved.

They waited for the traffic to thin and then dashed across the street. Julia hadn’t expected the gallery to be in an old duplex, although it shouldn’t have come as a shock. Lots of businesses along Grand in St. Paul were located in houses. This one was a beauty, well maintained, an antique in its own right.

The sign in the window said
CLOSED
, but the door was open. Carrying his leather briefcase, Chess led the way through dozens of tall freestanding displays to the back of the room. The walls were covered with lighted and mounted curio cabinets, paintings, masks, and every sort of ancient art. Classical music set an intimate, cultured tone. Julia was impressed.

A petite, thirty-something woman in a black sheath dress, a gray linen blazer, and a bold black and white scarf tied in a French twist around her neck stood behind a long glass counter. Chess introduced her as Irina Nelson, the daughter of Morgana Beck. Without the high-fashion clothes and discreetly applied makeup, the woman would have been plain as a stump, even mousy. Her hair was wheat blond, straight, and wispy—not quite lank, but not far from it. She was actually rather pretty if you looked carefully, but the deep circles under her eyes made her appear ill.

They shook hands, and then Chess removed the cylinder seal from the small wooden case. Irina took it from him and began her examination.

“This is quite fascinating,” she said, her tone a mixture of surprise and reverence.

“Babylonian,” said Chess.

“No, even older, I think. Sumerian.” She carried it over to a desk, sat down, and turned on a small halogen light. Holding the seal under an enlarging glass, she studied it for several minutes, then removed a book from a shelf next to her and began to page through it. It took a while, but she eventually appeared to find what she was looking for. Before she returned to the counter, she measured the seal, made notations on a legal pad, and then took several Polaroid snapshots and a few digital pictures.

“Babylonian cylinder seals are mostly presentation scenes,” she said, setting the seal on a black velvet display pad. “Earlier seals were much more creative, with a wider range of subject and theme. This one is somewhere between twenty-five hundred and three thousand years old. It’s an extraordinary piece. Flying birds in rows, a temple gate, and what looks like a goddess picking fruit from a sacred tree. The tree is obviously a palm, not an apple tree, but many scholars believe this is where the origin of the forbidden fruit story in Genesis first came from. The palm was sacred in Mesopotamia and the Persian Gulf. For many reasons, civilization wouldn’t have been possible without it.”

“So, what’s it worth?” asked Julia, running a finger along the carved surface.

“Two hundred and fifty to three hundred thousand. You could always take it over to the Institute of Arts, talk to a curator over there if you want a second opinion.”

Julia was relieved that Irina was the one to suggest a second opinion. It put some of her worst fears to rest. “Do you have any sort of accreditation as an antiquities appraiser?”

Irina turned and gestured to a framed document hanging above the desk. “I’m an active member in good standing of the ISA, the International Society of Appraisers. I completed their accreditation program in 1999. I travel regularly to international art fairs, such as the BAAF in Basel, Switzerland, and in Brussels. My specialty is Holy Land antiquities. You can find all my credentials and more about me on our store Web site. Again, if you have any concerns, I would urge you to get another appraisal.” Looking up at Chess, she asked, “How much are you asking for the seal?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Then, in my opinion, Ms. Martinsen, you’re getting a deal. Are you a private collector?”

“Not really. Although if I buy this, perhaps I can say it’s the beginning of a collection.”

“A worthy start,” said Irina. “If you have the money, it’s worth every penny.” Glancing at Chess, she added, “May I see the provenance papers?”

Chess removed a manila envelope from his briefcase and handed it to her.

“Ms. Martinsen, do you have a card with your name and address on it? I need that information for the paperwork.”

Julia slipped one from a thin hammered-brass card holder.

Irina appeared to know what she was doing. Even so, Julia studied her for anything that seemed false. As Woody Allen once said,
Paranoia is knowing all the facts
. Words to live by.

“Do you two know each other?” asked Julia, trying to make the question seem entirely casual.

“We met last year when I was in Istanbul on a buying trip,” said Irina, sitting back down at the desk to read through the papers.

“At a cocktail party,” said Chess. “It’s a big world, but the antiquities community is relatively small. If you don’t know the major players, at least you’ve heard of them.”

For the next twenty minutes, Julia drifted around the gallery, examining everything on offer, from bronze axes to Roman amber glass cups to rings and bracelets and necklaces and beads. She was examining a Gnostic magical amulet when she felt a stabbing pain behind her right eye. She knew the signal. She would be spending at least part of the afternoon in bed.

Announcing that she was done, Irina stood again at the glass display counter and slid the provenance documents across to Julia along with her authentication and a two-page appraisal. She’d signed at the bottom and dated it. She asked Chess to sign on the line under her name.

“If you decide to buy the seal, you can sign right here.” She pointed to the line next to
BUYER
. “I wish you the best of luck,” she added, unsmiling.

“May I borrow your pen?” asked Julia, removing her checkbook from her purse.

Chess touched her arm. “Have you talked to your financial adviser about this?”

“He advised me to wait and think about it, talk to a couple of his friends who are collectors. But that’s not necessary. I know what I want, and I want this.” She signed the document with a quick scribble. “If you won’t take a personal check, I’d be happy to go to my bank in the morning and get you a cashier’s check.”

“No, a personal check is fine,” said Chess.

Julia wrote it out, feeling a surge of excitement.

Chess put the check in the breast pocket of his gray linen sport coat. He patted the pocket and then grinned. “I’m thrilled for you.”

“Next up,” she said, smiling broadly, “the Winged Bull of Nimrud.”

23

Sunday afternoon didn’t go quite the way Chess had expected. After Julia dropped him off at the Caribou Coffee on Forty-sixth and Nicollet, he planned to take a cab to Solera, a Spanish restaurant in the heart of downtown Minneapolis, which, according to everything he’d read in the local press, had the best tapas and traditional paella this side of Madrid. He wanted to celebrate the sale of the seal, and what better way to do it than with fabulous food.

However, instead of veal meatballs in a spicy honey glaze, piquillo peppers stuffed with goat cheese, and chorizo-stuffed dates with smoked bacon, he received a call on his cell from Ray Lawless. Ray explained that the police wanted to talk to him again downtown. Unlike yesterday, Ray urged him to make a show of cooperation. He said that he’d sit in on the interrogation and that afterward they could find a quiet corner and have a more complete conversation.

So, less than an hour later, Chess was seated in a small, airless room with Jane’s dad, waiting for Sergeant Taylor to enter and start the grilling.

“Do you know what this is all about?” asked Chess, tapping his thumb and little finger rhythmically against the tabletop. The gesture betrayed his nervousness, but he couldn’t stop himself. He felt keyed up. Apprehensive. The stony look on Ray’s face didn’t do much to alleviate his worry. The silver hair and kindly expression made Jane’s dad appear approachable, even grandfatherly, but he seemed far less friendly today than he had yesterday.

“No idea,” said Ray. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Are you sure this is smart? Talking to the police, I mean.”

“If the questions are general, your cooperation will help to establish your innocence.”

Sounded like the party line, not what Chess expected from the man who was supposed to be his advocate.

Taylor entered a few minutes later, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He was so robust, his muscles so pumped, his manner so vigorous, that simply looking at him made Chess feel old.

Taylor flipped a file folder open, studied it for a few seconds, then placed his arms on either side of it and looked up at Ray, then at Chess. “Mr. Garrity, I have some questions I hope you can help me with. First, I want to thank you for coming down this afternoon.”

Chess couldn’t exactly say it was a pleasure, so he said nothing.

“Tell me how you met Melvin Dial.”

He glanced over at Ray.

Ray nodded, giving him the go-ahead.

Forcing himself to remain calm, he said, “I deal in antiquities. I work for a broker in Amsterdam—Jan Ostrander. I believe I first met Dial through Jan.”

“Antiquities,” repeated Taylor, chewing the word over. “Are you familiar with the Morgana Beck Gallery of Antiquities in St. Paul?”

“Sure.”

“Ever done business with Ms. Beck?”

“A couple of times.”

“Do you know her well?”

“She’s a business acquaintance.”

“Did you see her this trip?”

“No reason to.” He didn’t like the direction this was headed but figured he’d play along. At some point, if Ray didn’t stop him, he’d stop himself. Lawyers didn’t know everything.

“The night Mr. Dial was murdered, where were you?” asked Taylor.

He looked at Ray again.

Ray nodded for him to continue.

Chess had already told a bunch of lies to Jane. He decided he might as well stick with them. He explained briefly about playing cards with Dial at his house on Tuesday night, how he needed more cash because he was losing. So he took out his passport, where he always kept a couple of extra hundred-dollar bills—but then what? He couldn’t remember what he’d told Jane he’d done with it. On the fly, he made up another story.

“The card table had a small drawer in it. I slipped my passport into the drawer, just for safekeeping.” Again he admitted that he was pretty drunk but stressed that when he left the house, Dial was fine. It wasn’t until the next day that he realized his passport was still back at Dial’s house. He went to get it around noon, found the front door open, and walked inside. Dial was gone. He thought it was strange that the door was unlocked but figured Dial had just forgotten. He looked in the drawer, but the passport wasn’t there. He figured Dial had put it somewhere else, somewhere safer. He wasn’t worried because Dial had said he’d call on Wednesday afternoon so they could set up another time to play. He jokingly called it a revenge match.

“Dial was being magnanimous,” added Chess with a grim smile. “Said he’d give me a chance to get my money back.”

“How much did you lose?” asked Taylor.

“A thousand, give or take.”

“Were you good friends with Melvin Dial?”

“Cardplaying and drinking buddies.”

“But never business?”

That was a tricky question. “Sure, over the years I’d sold him a few things. He was a collector. You probably already know that.”

“Why are you in town, Mr. Garrity?”

Chess shrugged. “I’m from the Midwest, born in Chicago, went to the U of M for a few years. I wanted to come back and see what my old stomping grounds looked like.”

“A walk down memory lane.”

“If you like.”

“That’s all?”

“I’m always on the lookout for interesting antiquities.” He wasn’t sure, but he had the sense that Taylor was fishing.

Glancing back down at the open folder in front of him, Taylor turned a page and then looked up. “Are you aware that Morgana Beck was murdered on Wednesday night, the night after Melvin Dial was killed?”

Chess used every ounce of his acting skills to look shocked. “I had no idea.”

“Where were you that night?”

He scratched the side of his head, looked down. “I went to a movie at the Riverview Theater.
Slumdog Millionaire
was showing. Seems everyone has seen it but me. It started around seven. I came out about nine.” That much was true. He’d needed something to do that night until he could meet up with Irina and get back into Dial’s house. “I ended up having dinner at a Mexican restaurant right next door. Sorry, I don’t remember the name.”