Murder in Primary Colors

  Chapter 4

  The day before Thanksgiving dawned cool, crisp and cloudless. Chris took a deep breath and looked around when she put Walter out in his run. She hadn't had a moment to enjoy the fall weather, which had returned as if the weekend snow had never happened. Having a day or two off will be a relief, she thought if I can just get through today. She and her son Drew would have turkey and pumpkin pie and watch football. The idea cheered her.

  Drew Haggerty, the product of her early, unsuccessful marriage to Andy Haggerty, was a freshman at Midstate. Since he'd moved into the dorm in August, she'd had to adjust to having only Walter for company. It hadn't been easy. Of course, Drew appeared occasionally to do his laundry or mooch a meal, but it wasn't the same as always having someone sharing her space.

  After a slow ramble across campus from the parking garage by way of the reopened Lotta Latte, looking at the sky and feeling the sun warm her cheeks, she was in a reasonably festive mood when she reached the office.

  Charlie Ingquist leaped up and hustled her into her office, closing the door behind them before she'd had time to say hello.

  "They found it!"

  "Found what?" Chris asked.

  His eyes grew wide and his eyebrows levitated. "The Do-Nothing! The one that was missing from the show!"

  The fact that Chris had said nothing to anyone about the missing sculpture after Ryquist told her not to caused her own eyebrows to raise.

  Charlie went on. "Last night Bjornson was getting something out of one of those bins where they store wood scraps and there it was. Binty Buchanan just told me. Bjornson called the police because they'd been asking about it and they came and took him and the sculpture away. Can you believe it?"

  "Away? As in, away? To jail?"

  "Well, Binty just said they asked him to come with them to show them how it worked and he went. But jeez, how'd it get there? And what if he doesn't come back in time for his classes today?"

  Chris waved that concern away. "Well, it's the day before Thanksgiving. His classes are all in the afternoon. What chance do you think he has of having many students show up anyway? How did it get in there?" she wondered aloud.

  "Good question," Charlie said. "He couldn't have done it, could he? I mean, you said he was really drunk, right?"

  "Close to passing out, I thought." He couldn't have done it, could he? She shook her head. No, he was too drunk. Of course, it's possible to fake being drunk. But why would he kill the woman who had just arranged a successful show for him? No.

  After lunch Detective Sergeant Ryquist sat across from Chris, looking as guileless as he always did. Chris's guard was naturally up.

  "So, how come you haven't opened the Picasso crate yet, Doc?"

  "I've been really busy. Monday you wouldn't let me near it. What's changed?" She tried to make it a casual question rather than a suspicious one.

  "Well, you said it was worth twenty-five mil. I'm not touching it myself." He laughed. "Besides, I'm just covering all the bases looking for a motive to explain why the lady was done in. What if the Picasso was stolen? Ever think about that?"

  "Jeez Louise! No, I never thought about that! Let's go!" Chris was on her feet and moving before Ryquist could respond. She told Charlie where she'd be and waited impatiently while Ryquist put his trench coat back on with maddening deliberation.

  "If it's gone, Doc, it's gone. Nobody could have stolen it since the murder, so we don't need to set the land speed record getting over there," Ryquist huffed as they left the Fine Arts Complex.

  Chris slowed her pace only marginally. "I just never thought... I mean it never occurred to me that.... Oh God! If it's gone the whole Gala will have to be cancelled!"

  "How much trouble would that be?"

  "The invitations are already out to five hundred and fifty members of the A-list statewide. It would be embarrassing at the least and really bad publicity at the worst, I guess."

  "Can't be worse than murder, Doc," Ryquist offered with eminent logic.

  Chris laughed at herself. "Sorry. It's just that I've been charged with taking over Elizabeth's job arranging the Gala and I've been obsessing about it for two days. I wouldn't be totally unhappy if we had to cancel."

  When they reached the museum they found Madge Turner, Docent-in-Chief, sitting at the desk. "Dr. Connery, Ms. Jacobsen has been wondering how long before she can get into Ms. Page's office. She needs some files, I guess." Though her question was directed at Chris, Madge's eyes never left the detective.

  Chris turned to Ryquist. He had released the museum on Tuesday morning with the exception of the director's office. He looked mildly exasperated and then relented. "I'll check with the shop and let you know. Probably this afternoon."

  They descended the four steps to the working level of the museum and walked past the director's office to the first storeroom on the left. Once inside they lifted the crate onto the worktable in the center of the room and hunted separately for Phillips screwdrivers in the many drawers and cabinets that lined the walls. When they were equipped they started unscrewing the lid by working on either side of the table. The crate was over four feet long and nearly that in width. The lid was held in place by screws every six inches. It took awhile.

  When the lid was free, they each took a side and walked it down to the far end of the table. Chris lifted the thin layer of protective glassine paper. Picasso's Still Life with Pipe and Wine Bottle lay face up in the garish light of the fluorescents overhead. Chris had seen very inadequate reproductions of the piece on the Internet. Seeing it in person was a totally different experience.

  "What's it supposed to be?" Ryquist asked after a moment.

  "See the shape of the wine bottle there? And this is a pipe. These collaged newspaper scraps are sort of the table top, or they might be the shadows of the objects."

  Ryquist said nothing more. Chris could read his mind. Twenty-five million dollars divided by 2016 square inches. "Lots of money, isn't it, for just paint on canvas," she commented at last.

  Ryquist nodded. "Well, at least it ain't missing," he said. "You wanna box it back up?"

  "In a minute," Chris answered. "I've been so curious about this piece I can't put it away so fast."

  They took hold from their respective sides and lifted it straight up to remove it from the box. Chris stood back and surveyed it after they'd propped it on an easel. "It's brighter than I thought it would be, but these lights are terrible for seeing color accurately."

  Ryquist folded his arms and stared at it. "You like this thing, Doc?"

  "I know it's a very important piece, but I'm not particularly fond of the style." That was an understatement. She'd never had a personal connection to Cubism, neither the Analytical nor the Synthetic phase. It was overly self-conscious and unlovely to her eye, but there was no denying its impact on the world of European art for fifty years afterward. They lifted the painting and prepared to fit it back into its padded slot. Chris glanced at the back before they laid it flat in the case again. She stopped.

  "See that? One of the most famous art dealers in Europe put that label on there. Kahnweiler was Picasso's dealer." In spite of her lack of aesthetic response to the painting, the sense of time and place the work represented gave her a little adrenalin jolt. She surveyed the back for a moment longer before they carefully laid the painting in the box.

  When Chris returned to the office, Charlie reported that Bjornson was in the building, apparently unarrested for the time being. She went immediately to the sculpture studio to see for herself. Bjornson was staring disconsolately into space when she entered his office. "You okay, Richard? I heard you found the missing sculpture."

  "How drunk was I, Chris?" Bjornson asked without preamble. "I know you took me home, but I just don't remember so I must have been pretty bad off, huh?"

  "I didn't take you home, Richard. Colin McCarty did. Can't you remember anything about it?"

  He grimaced. "Guess not. The police wanted to know if I went back later, but
I don't think so. I think I passed out on the couch 'cause that's where I woke up. Drunk or sober, I wouldn't have taken that sculpture. Howard Randall said at the opening he wanted to buy it. Now it's all scratched up and it doesn't work right anymore. I'll have to rebuild it for him if he still wants it." Bjornson looked like he was perilously close to tears.

  "What do the police think it has to do with the murder? Did they say?"

  "They didn't but they were sure interested in the electro-magnetic system for moving the ball bearings. They want me to demonstrate how it works by building them a sample."

  "Why, for heaven's sake?" Chris made a mental note to ask Ryquist the next time she saw him. She was sure that wouldn't be too long.

  "I guess what killed her was a ball bearing... just like this piece uses. I tried to tell them this sculpture couldn't have done it because I've got it rigged so the bearings pop out with just enough force to hit the dish across six inches of space. I guess they had to believe me once I got it working again." He sighed. "I wouldn't have hurt her, Chris." He stood. "I've got a class." He left her sitting in his office.

  Chris was back in her own office trying to concentrate on the list the Alumni Office sent over of canapés to be provided by the caterer for the Gala. Smoked salmon held no appeal, and her mind kept wandering back to the unbelievable scenario that would include Richard Bjornson cast as a murderer. In her imagination she saw Bjornson, stripped to the waist like Sylvester Stallone, brandishing a sculpture. The phone rang, jolting her out of her fantasy.

  Pansy McMillan chirped happily. "Guess what! I'm here! Can you come pick me up?"

  "Mother?" Chris managed when she got control of her slack jaw. "What do you mean, you're here? Here, where?"

  "At the airport, silly. I just flew in to surprise you for Thanksgiving."