Chapter 15 – More Clues
The next day was Saturday and he was at the museum at 8am. He spent five hours carefully reading the two reports, the one about the hack job and the other about the painting. Then he went back to the hotel and took a three hour nap, which finally dissolved the last traces of jetlag, moving from Europe to New York to Charleston. He took the day off on Sunday and spent part of it exploring the southern phenomenon of shrimp and grits. He tried three different versions at three different restaurants, and despite what he’d read in the New York Times about the virtues inherent in the renaissance in southern cooking, he doubted the dish ever would gain traction in the Big Apple. As far as he could see it just was a bowl of nondescript mush.
He also put a moratorium on thinking about the case, which he was able to do given his skill at mental compartmentalization. What he did allow to manifest was a sense of intuition about the case, which is something different from thinking. He attempted to ameliorate the effects of the third bowl of mush by taking a long walk along The Battery, and let the special blend of thinking and feeling that was intuition come to the front. The technical reports fed his intuition, as did his conversations with museum staff, and the days he'd spent wandering the galleries and back rooms of the museum. His sub-conscience processed the sources, and the result oozed into his body and conscious mind. By late in the day he knew what he wanted to do, and he had a semblance of an idea how to do it. He knew he would need help from the Curator to organize and implement it. That evening he finally relaxed, eating a late dinner and watching an old Cary Grant movie on the tube. A deep-seated sense of excitement didn’t prevent him from sleeping well.
On Monday morning he called the Curator into his office. He liked this guy, who had written a book titled Dueling in Charleston: Violence Refined in the Holy City. He had bought a copy in the Museum gift shop, but hadn’t yet read it. He decided he had to take someone into his confidence, and the Curator was the only candidate. He said, “The reports are done. One about the computer system and one about the painting and the woman in it. I read them on Saturday, and both are very interesting.”
The Curator said, “Do we get to see them?
“Yeah, but not just yet. Soon.” He paused. “Ya know that hunch thing I mentioned to you last week? I have one, and I need your help. But for the time being, it’s confidential, and that means you don’t tell anyone.”
“What about my boss? What if he asks me what I’m doing?”
“Don’t worry about him, I’ll square things, tell him you’re working for me for a while.”
“And he’ll accept that?”
“If he wants his painting back.”
“So, what’s the hunch?”
“Let’s go get a cup of coffee.”
When they were seated in the cafe, Tommy answered. “Last week there was a woman in here. She was with a guy and another woman, the other woman dressed like a banshee, very cool and very beautiful. The woman I’m interested in also is very beautiful, and....I think she stole the painting.” He watched the Curator and sipped his coffee.
“A woman stole the painting, and then came back in here, sat with friends? Who is she? How do you know she did it? Is she someone who works here, or used to?”
“I don’t know she did it; I said I had a hunch. But I’m pretty sure it was her because my intuition rarely is wrong, and it’s bonging loudly about her. If I’m right, her name is Gwen June, and she lives in Charleston.”
The Curator said, “Why? What makes you think it was her?”
“It’s pretty simple. First, she looks exactly like Gwendolyn Bedgewood, the woman in the painting; not just a little bit, exactly.” He let that sink in, then said, “And second, she’s a direct descendant of Gwendolyn, right down the line.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I have the genealogy. It’s part of the art history report.”
“This woman looks like Gwendolyn Bedgewood, and she’s in the same family, and you saw her here?” Tommy nodded. The Curator sat back in his chair, looked at Tommy, and then closed his eyes. When he opened them he said, “And her name now is June, but it used to be Bedgewood?” Again Tommy nodded, and again the Curator closed his eyes. When he opened them this time he said, “Holy shit. I think I know something about her. Gwen June.”
“What?”
“There’s a guy in town, a writer named Richard something. Richard Westlake. Has a middle initial in his name, E I think. Richard E. Westlake. And he’s written a few books, made the best seller list. Very funny writer. I’ve read them. I have them. And I’ve heard a rumor he gets his ideas for his books from a couple of locals.”
“What do you mean he gets ideas from them? You mean he talks to them and they give him the ideas?”
“No. Not like that. I mean, the rumor is, these people, this couple, do things, and then Westlake writes up what they do as fiction. But, it’s not fiction, some of it is real. The basic stories of the books are real.”
Tommy said, “Stuff from real life that is fictionalized?”
“That’s not the interesting part.” Now it was the Curator’s turn to pause. “The people that he writes about, according to the local rumor....are the Junes. Roger and Gwen June.”
Tommy thought about that, and said, “Interesting in some way maybe, but how is it interesting to us? To me?”
“The stories are kind of wild, and usually they’re about some crime, or quasi crime. Westlake calls them caper novels. And sometimes the caper is about art stuff. Wait. Now that I think about it, they’re always about art stuff, in one way or another.”
“Do you think the rumor’s true, that the books are about the Junes?”
“No idea. Just a rumor.”
“What are the names of the books? You have them? Can I borrow them? How many are there?”
“There’s like, four or five. I can’t remember all the titles, but I remember a couple: The Ayatollah’s Money and The Kidnapping of Paul McCartney. I think one is something about an opera. No, ballet. I can bring them in tomorrow.”
Tommy said, “So by caper, you mean they’re crime novels?”
“No. They’re about people stealing stuff, but they’re comedies, not hardcore crimes. Cool crimes by cool people, written with a big dose of humor. That’s what capers are.”
“You think stealing your painting was a cool crime?”
“Uh, umm, depends. Not really, but maybe.” The Curator squirmed, wondering where the investigator was going with this. He he put his foot in something?
“What’s it depend on?” said Tommy.
“Well, I’ve seen Gwen June a couple of times, and now that you mention it, she does look like Gwendolyn Bedgewood, and she is a knockout, and....umm, if it was her that stole the painting, then, well, maybe that would constitute cool. And a caper. That would be something, wouldn’t it? Her stealing something connected to her family, her ancestors.”
“The art history report says it was owned by Gwendolyn’s husband, Manigault Bedgewood. Said it came into your collection when he died, way back, early 1800s.”
“Yeah, it did. I remember that part of its history. And, and, now you think Gwen June wanted it back, back in her family, and she pinched it?”
“I think maybe, and I think I’ll know after I read one or two of these books that maybe were written about her, her and her husband. Can you go get them now? It’s important.”
The Curator got them, and Tommy finished reading one about noon the next day, and finished reading another one after lunch the following day, them not being exactly littrature, and while sitting in the hotel bar later on sipping a cognac and soda, he said to himself, ‘It’s you, Gwenny June. It’s you.’