Chapter 17
Dr. Richard Price arrived in Camford late the next day. There was so little activity on the Midstate University campus that the presence of a renowned expert in Cubism, specifically the work of Pablo Picasso, aroused no attention at all. The grapevine remained silent. Chris was extremely grateful, both for that and for the administration's change of heart about having the Picasso vetted.
Wednesday morning she picked Price up at the Camford Inn and delivered him to the museum, introducing him first to Lotta Latte and then to Acting Director Rachael Jacobsen. The Picasso had been taken down and was resting face-up on the padded surface of the worktable in the storeroom.
"I'd prefer to work alone for the time being, Dr. Connery," Price said smoothly, never taking his eyes off the painting as they stood inside the doorway. He put his kit and his laptop on the counter by the door.
"Of course, Dr. Price. You have my number, and Ms. Jacobsen will be glad to assist you in any way." Chris backed out of the room, following Rachael, and closed the door behind her.
"He's all business, isn't he?" Rachael said when they were out of earshot in her office.
"I invited him to call me Chris when I met him at the airport and he said, 'No, thank you.' So it's Dr. Price for the duration."
"Really!" Rachael said, taken aback. "Aren't we the stuffed shirt!"
"He's the reigning expert on the period, so I guess he doesn't have to be charming."
"Do you think he'll be able to settle it one way or the other? I mean, wouldn't it be awful to have spent all this money to get him here only to have him say he can't be sure?"
"Bite your tongue!" Chris said flapping a hand in the air. "President McGinnis would have a stroke."
"I've got my fingers crossed. Poor Mr. Randall must be so worried. I've been thinking about how it could have been substituted, and it really seems like it wouldn't be too hard." Rachael shook her head. "They travel a lot. They have servants. Suppose one of the servants hatches a plot to steal the painting and leave a substitute in its place. They'd have all the time in the world to make a copy while the Randalls were in Europe or somewhere. Tweety Randall told me they always spend six weeks on the Riviera."
"That seems like the stuff of thriller novels, doesn't it?" Chris remarked as she shrugged into her coat. "I mean, think of it: A ring of art thieves who don't smash and grab. They just quietly remove works of art in their owners' absence and replace them with high-quality fakes." She shook her head. "Too bad that can't be what happened."
"Sounds good to me, Chris," Rachael responded. "Why couldn't it work?"
"I guess I have a hard time seeing how a gang of art thieves could engineer it. They'd have to have someone on the inside. They'd need a highly skilled and very expensive forger, and he or she would have to have access to the painting for a long time, maybe months, don't you think?" Chris sounded somewhat wistful that this romantic solution was not likely to be the right one.
"I think they could do it if they had the time to take lots of good pictures of the piece, real close-ups," Rachael said. "If the artist could get access to the piece periodically and work from photos in the meantime, I think they could do it, don't you?"
"It just seems to me it would involve too many people and too much risk. The money isn't good enough. Everyone would get a cut for taking the risks, and in the end they could only sell it for a couple of million. It wouldn't be worth it."
"I thought it was worth more than twenty million!" Rachael responded in surprise.
"I read an article about art theft some years ago, and the author said the going rate for stolen art is only about ten percent of its appraised value. And then consider the investment of time. People like the Randalls don't get their servants by putting an ad in the newspaper. I'll bet anyone who works for them has been thoroughly investigated and is bonded. Wouldn't you think so?"
"Probably." Rachel grinned. "But I'm a lowly development officer. I have never swum in such deep water and I probably never will."
Chris concluded. "So anyone who got into their household would have to have faked wonderful credentials or been a mole for a very long time."
"Maybe their time investment pays off because he's got a very large collection. There could be a lot more fakes, don't you think?"
"Good point." Chris shrugged. "Still seems fantastic though."
"And how else could it have been done?" Rachael asked as she walked with Chris up the stairs. "I can't figure that out."
"It's a tough one," Chris said. She wasn't about to share her suspicions with anyone.
Dr. Richard Price refused lunch and stayed locked in the storeroom for the better part of the day. He asked for an Internet connection for his laptop at one point and otherwise was not seen or heard by anyone in the museum until he emerged at four-twenty to ask for a ride back to his hotel. Chris collected him at the museum and walked with him through the tunnel to the parking garage, making small efforts at conversation. She got little in return.
When she pulled into the curved drive of the Camford Inn and stopped, Price thanked her for the ride and started to get out of the car.
"Do you want me to pick you up again tomorrow morning, Dr. Price?"
He paused with his hand on the door. "Eight sharp, please. I should be able to tell you something by early afternoon."
"Shall I arrange to have you meet President McGinnis and the former owner, Howard Randall, at two?"
He shrugged. "Suit yourself." He slammed the car door and walked into the Camford Inn without a backward glance.
Thanks for nothing, Chris thought and put her car in gear.
The meeting the next afternoon took place in the storeroom of the Midstate University Art Museum. President McGinnis had offered his office as being more comfortable, but Richard Price had refused, saying it was important for the painting to be available.
James McGinnis, Harrison Foy, Howard Randall, Rachael Jacobsen, and Chris Connery were thus crowded around one end of the padded worktable at two o'clock. Price stood at the far end with the painting now resting on an easel. He had an array of computer printouts spread out on the table, and to Chris's amazement pulled a laser pointer out of his pocket. He tapped it on the easel to get everyone's attention.
"I have analyzed the subject painting very carefully," he began. "I haven't had time to get results from paint analysis yet, but I don't think we'll need to wait for those to say something definitive about this object." He looked around his audience, all of whom were holding their collective breath.
"This is a fake, a reproduction if you will, of an important Synthetic Cubist piece." A groan interrupted him and he frowned. "It is an extremely good fake, but it is clearly not original, clearly was never intended to be taken as an original, and I have no idea why I was called out here to look at it when a sophomore could spot its flaws."
Howard Randall stiffened next to Chris. "Now wait just a minute!"
Price silenced him with a look.
"Most obvious are the incongruous newspaper collages and the fact that no attempt at all was made to find canvas of the period. Also, it is my opinion that tests will prove the yellow here is one that wasn't in use before the Second World War." A red laser dot darted around a small area near the top right.
"Why do you say it was clearly not intended to be taken as an original, Dr. Price?" Chris asked deferentially. Hanging on his every word would get farther with him than confrontation, she thought.
"Because, Dr. Connery, I think I know who did it and when."
Howard Randall made a sound in his throat.
President McGinnis said, "Good God!" He turned to look at his companions.
"Please tell us," Chris urged with as much breathless admiration for his skills as she could manufacture.
"When did you acquire this object, Randall?" Price asked abruptly, ignoring her.
"I bought a Picasso from a reputable dealer in 1977. I have the provenance and the bills of sale going back to Kahnweiller." Rand
all was clearly not going to allow himself to be stampeded by this overbearing academic. He leaned forward over the end of the table and fixed Price with a withering glare.
The glare had no apparent effect.
"This painting was made in the mid-Eighties, probably by Egon Starkovich. I don't care how many pieces of paper you have. It's a fake."
"We thought as much," Foy said at last. "Dr. Connery noticed the newspaper discrepancy right away. That's why we hired you to confirm it."
Price glanced at Chris briefly. "Well, good for you, Dr. Connery. I see not everyone out here is naïve."
Randall exploded. "Now wait just a goddamn minute!" He was going to say more, but at that moment the storeroom door opened and everyone turned to see Hjelmer Ryquist filling the doorway, a uniformed officer barely visible behind him.
"I was told I'd find you all here, and here you all are." Ryquist grinned briefly and stepped into the room.
"Who the hell are you?" Price said, looking down his patrician nose.
"Detective Sergeant Hjelmer Ryquist, Camford P. D. You must be the art expert everyone's been waiting for," Ryquist replied equably. "So what's the word?"
Price looked at McGinnis and Randall in turn without saying anything.
"Tell him," McGinnis said at last.
"It is not a Picasso, in my opinion," Price said stiffly and frowned at McGinnis. Chris was positive he was more upset about being upstaged than about the budding confrontation with the painting's former owner.
"Interesting," Ryquist said. "Mr. Randall, we have some questions for you in light of this new information. I need you to come with us for an interview."
Everyone in the room exchanged wide-eyed looks. Randall seemed to Chris to inflate like a puffer fish. He stood red faced, fists clenched, bouncing on the balls of his feet. The uniformed officer moved around Ryquist to stand behind the donor.
"Best you just come with us. Shouldn't take more than a couple of hours," Ryquist said cheerfully. "Officer Ekert here will see you to the car."
When they were gone the group that remained in the storeroom was fixed in place as if stupefied.
Price was the first to recover. "So, shall I go on?" he asked the room in general.
"God, no," McGinnis snapped. "Just give us your report in writing as soon as possible." He surged out of the room, heading for the stairs.
"Thank you so much for clearing this up for us, Dr. Price," Chris said into the ensuing silence. Others murmured their perfunctory thanks, and in seconds the room was empty except for Price and Chris. They looked at each other briefly. Price began stacking his printouts and stuffing them into his briefcase. He pocketed his laser pointer.
"I would appreciate hearing what else you found, Dr. Price. Perhaps you can fill me in while I take you to the airport," Chris said at last as she watched him.
"I'm glad someone takes an interest in what I have to say," Price said somewhat stiffly. He took a last look at the erstwhile Picasso. "Starkovich does good work, for what he does." He hefted his briefcase. "Let's go. I have a five-thirty plane to catch."
They were in Chris's station wagon on the road to the airport when Price finally explained. "Egon Starkovich spent ten years in jail in Spain for forgery back in the late Sixties. He is the best I've ever heard of at imitating Nineteenth and Twentieth century masters. Even fooled the Prado, but he got caught when he tried to sell them a painting they already had in storage. When he got out he set up shop as an imitator, creating reproductions. The idea was to allow the real paintings to be held in safe storage while the fakes were displayed in their owners' villas. Supposed to save a bundle on insurance and security. To keep himself out of trouble, he always makes it very obvious that it's a fake, if you know where to look. Interpol has been watching him for twenty-five years and he hasn't screwed up yet."
"How did he screw up this time, do you think?" Chris asked.
"I'm not sure he did. The danger in these things is that once they're out there, you can't be positive someone won't use them for some nefarious purpose."
Suddenly Chris remembered something. "The Rockefellers started that reproduction gallery, didn't they? Sometime in the Seventies? Was that what they were really doing?"
"Not quite. They were making reproductions of their own works of art, things in the family collection."
Chris chuckled. "My professors were still arguing about it when I was in grad school. The Rockefellers maintained that art shouldn't be only for those who can afford it so they made really good reproductions of Monets and Brancusis and such. You say they were things in their own collection?"
Price nodded. "As far as I know."
"They were still pretty expensive, as I recall." Chris shrugged. "I'm not sure they did the humble masses much good."
"They didn't. I suppose if you're a Rockefeller spending a couple of thousand on a so-called Monet instead of several million would seem like a good deal, but it's still too rich for my blood. And besides, it's still a reproduction," he said with a superior sniff.
"Absolutely. But how did that turn into the business of hanging reproductions instead of the real stuff for serious collectors?"
"I'm not sure, but by the Eighties it was a full-blown fad and it's been Starkovich's bread and butter for years now." Price lapsed into silence, staring out the window at the frozen cornfields.
"Well, I hope this helps get things straightened out here," Chris said as they were nearing the airport.
"What's going to happen to the painting now, may I ask?"
"I have no idea. We'll probably hang it with the real artist's name and use it as a teaching tool."
"I'll contact Starkovich and have him send you copies of his records. He's meticulous. He has to be to keep out of jail."
"That would be wonderful, Dr. Price!" Chris said with genuine enthusiasm. "Thank you so much!"
"Call me Richie."
Chris drove home from the airport giggling periodically. "Richie," she said aloud and chuckled once again. By the time she arrived back at her own driveway, however, she'd settled once again into the muddled state that she'd acquired slowly since the first murder. It had been building, this sense of foreboding and confusion. Her world had been knocked sideways and she was still reeling. At least the question about the Picasso had been settled—not for the best, but settled. The rest of it, the murders, would probably still keep her up nights.
Surely the police would have to arrive at some conclusion before the start of spring semester. Chris was used to marking time in terms of semesters and breaks. She couldn't imagine how they would start classes with this sword of Damocles hanging over them. She switched off the lights and pulled her key from the ignition. She was out of the car heading for the back door, head down and lost in thought when a motion just within her peripheral vision to the left caught her attention. She stopped and turned to look just as the back door burst open.
Drew bounced down the steps wearing his Campus Security jacket. "Got to get to work, Mom," he said, breezing past her. Chris had been so lost in her dark musings she hadn't even noticed his battered Honda parked next to her station wagon.
"Sorry I missed you, Kiddo."
"Gram's got some wicked cherry pie in there," he added as he opened his car door with a squeal of rusty hinges.
She watched him back out and drive off and then looked toward the clump of poplars where she would have sworn something big had moved not a minute ago. There was nothing there but poplars. She shrugged, climbed the back stairs and went in.
The next morning Chris and Walter drove to the university to pick up the mail and distribute it in the Fine Arts office mailboxes. As far as she knew that would be her only chore, but when she arrived she found Oscar Stullmann, head of the Campus Safety Office, standing by the office door with his hands on his hips, looking thunderous.
Now what? she wondered. Stullmann's contentious relationship with the Art Department was uncomplicated by any understanding or sympathy on his part for their m
ission. He thought them a nest of slovenly bohemians, pure and simple.
"Dr. Connery, you got to get with the program here. I just found the fire doors propped open in Music again. That's the third time since the break started. The rules say they have to be closed at all times to prevent the spread of a fire, and by God I'm here to tell you they will be kept closed. Are we clear?"
Apparently Walter took offense at his tone because he pressed his body against Chris's shins. She looked down in surprise. Bassets aren't famous for being guard dogs. "It's okay, Walter." She bent to give him a pat. When she rose she said, "Mr. Stullmann, I haven't been in the building myself to do more than distribute the mail. I have no idea who could be doing that, but I promise I will let Music know." She juggled the bundle of mail and the leash and fumbled with her keys.
"You better do more than 'let them know,'" he said officiously. "I'm gonna have to report this to your bosses, and if it happens again, we'll have to take some action. And there ain't no dogs allowed in the classroom buildings." He stalked off toward the main door and disappeared.
Chris sighed and hefted her bundle of mail onto one hip so she could unlock the door. Action? What action does he think he can take? Nail them shut? Post a guard? At that moment Antonia Westphall appeared from the Art Department wing and boomed a hello.
"Hi, Antonia. Having a good break?" Chris led the way into the office. Walter wagged a welcome that Antonia returned by bending to scratch his ears.
"Not really, Chris. The police are here twice a day. I wanted to go to the Nutcracker in Farmington and they wouldn't let me." She sounded more frightened than indignant.
"Jeez, Antonia, I had no idea," Chris stopped and regarded her. "They're following you?"
"Apparently so. I got about two miles outside of town and they stopped me." Antonia, though putting on a brave face and speaking with forced courage, was pale and her hands shook slightly as she undid her coat. Then she took part of the pile of mail. "Let me help you with that."
They worked silently for the ten minutes it took to fill the mail slots. When they'd finished, they parted for their separate offices. Assuming he was stuck for a while, Walter sighed pointedly and sprawled in Chris's doorway.
She was listening to telephone messages and jotting notes when someone came into the outer office. Walter stood at attention, tail wagging slightly, but didn't advance on the newcomer. With half an ear on the message and the other half on the outer office, she heard someone rummaging in a mailbox. Then the door whispered shut and they were alone again. She finished with the messages and hung up. She used a large black marker to make signs for the Music fire doors, demanding they be kept closed at all times, then grabbed her coat. Walter tugged enthusiastically, anticipating a walk on campus.
"In a minute, fella. We have to put these up first." She used her passkey to get into the music wing. When the signs had been taped to the doors they left by way of the main entrance and started a slow, nose-driven ramble across the campus.
The sky was lead-gray and low. Chris hunched against the wind, which seemed to be picking up. They walked around the small ornamental lake, passing the president's mansion and the soccer practice field. Walter was happily engaged in leaving messages for other dogs on every tree, post and sculpture plinth they encountered.
They were standing before the grim bronze image of President Andrew Jackson North (1874–1875) when the sleet began to fall. He was frowning, Chris was sure, because of the indignity to which Walter was subjecting him. Chris hunched into her coat and tried to urge Walter to get moving. Walter left one last message and they started back for the Fine Arts Complex. By the time they arrived, the sleet was driving into their backs and the sidewalks were getting slick.
"We'd better get home, Walter," she said as they hurried through the building to the loading dock where she'd left her car. Had they started a half-hour earlier they might have had an easier time. As it was, Chris spent five minutes clearing her windshield with a scraper only to have it ice up again in a minute.
The drive home was slow. By the time they finally arrived, the streets were approaching impassability. She'd narrowly missed sliding through one intersection and had opted finally to take alleys to get home because their rougher gravel surfaces gave her marginally better traction. The sleet showed no sign of stopping or changing decisively to either rain or snow. Late December in the Midwest is not for wimps, Chris thought.
When they got home at last she and Walter entered through the kitchen. Walter went straight to his dish as usual. Chris tried to stomp the slush from her feet and called out to Pansy, "It's a real mess out there, Mom. I hope we don't have to go anywhere else today."
"Come say hello to Hjelmer, Teensy. He just stopped by."
Chris joined them in the living room. "I'm sorry to have been bellowing from the kitchen, Hjelmer. If I'd known Pansy had company I'd have been more discrete."
"You didn't say anything indiscrete as far as I'm concerned." He chuckled and returned to his chair. "I was getting tired of trying to drive in this mess so I thought I'd stop and say hello to Pansy, let her feed me some tea."
"We've been having a nice chat about all the clues and what they suggest," Pansy said brightly.
"I thought you policemen were supposed to be tight lipped and taciturn," Chris said. "Here you are letting my mother pry information out of you."
"She bribed me with these snickerdoodles," Ryquist said, reaching for a cookie. "I couldn't help myself. Better than sodium pentothal."
"You should have seen what she could do when I was a kid. I never could keep a secret from her," Chris said as she went to the kitchen for a cup. When she returned she poured tea for herself and settled back. "Okay. Spill it. What clues have you been revealing?"
While they waited for the sleet to stop, either Chris or Pansy had brought up most aspects of the murders of Elizabeth Page and Richard Bjornson. Ryquist was less than forthcoming on the status of the investigation, but they gleaned some facts nonetheless. Ryquist and his people had narrowed the investigation to those who were known to dislike both Page and Bjornson. There were still far too many of those since the police were now starting with the premise that anyone who worked with Page disliked her. They had discounted the glowing praise given her by the citizen members of the museum board since virtually no one on campus appeared to agree.
The list of victims of Richard Bjornson's practical jokes was lengthy, but largely confined to his colleagues in the Art Department with only the occasional attack on someone from Music or Drama. Ryquist said they were concentrating on finding someone who had been abused by both victims in some way.
"What about the Randalls, Hjelmer?" Pansy poured him a third cup of tea. "Chris said you hauled him off to jail yesterday."
"I said no such thing, Mother!" She turned to the detective. "I didn't, Hjelmer. I just said he left with you. What did you find out from him?" That question had been irritating her twenty-four hours.
"I'll keep that to myself for the moment, if you don't mind," Ryquist replied looking studiously into his teacup and swirling the contents.
"You're no fun at all when you act like a policeman, Detective Sergeant Ryquist," Pansy said with a mock pout, then limped to the kitchen for more cookies.