A Butterfly in Flame (26 page)

Chapter Sixty-eight

He’d been obliged to borrow a cell phone from one of the students, during the break, and telephone Seymour with the unsatisfying message, “Can’t talk. Meet me at Stillton Hall at noon.”

“It’s deputy fucking Fred. What do you have, more instructions?” Seymour growled.

Basil Houel, five feet away, was engaged with Meg in a precise analysis of the differences between a drawing by Degas (not present) and one of the student exercises.

But he was listening. “Someone you’ll want to talk to,” Fred said. “About the dead student. Could be another coincidence. I don’t want to get in your way.”

“Like shit! I’ll be right there. And you be there.”

***

The handover had taken a good deal of time, in fact, most of the afternoon.

Seymour had had the sense to get Houel away from the crowd, and settled behind the steel mesh in the back of the cruiser, as soon as Fred made the introduction, “This is Basil Houel, a distinguished alumnus. He wants to talk with you about the death of Tom Meeker.”

Students on either side, who had been trailing the guest, stared in an almost menacing way. Meg Harrison, coming out of the building at a run, had something to say.

“You, Fred. In front,” Seymour demanded. “Let’s move.” He slipped into gear and peeled away as soon as Fred’s door slammed.

“Talk,” Seymour demanded, heading out of town. Fred explained with a brief summary: the hidden treasure; the prospect of theft and gain. The unhappy meeting between Meeker, who was looking to prove his manhood on an absent Morgan Flower, and this accidentally armed and surprisingly dangerous alumnus. Basil Houel rested mute in the back seat until, “He hates my work,” Houel said, as if that fact alone had led Fred to commit this outrage.

“It’s true,” Fred told Seymour. “I do hate his work.”

Seymour said, “I wouldn’t know. When it comes to art, I’ve had it up to here, around here. Kiss me goodbye. All I need—we’ll take this gentleman to somewhere more comfortable, and less crowded, on the mainland, and ask him questions. Starting, ‘What were you doing in Stillton on the night and early morning of Thursday last?’”

“I am an artist,” Basil Houel said from the back seat.

“Save it. We’ll start like we always do. Name. Place and date of birth. Place of residence. Then we’ll get to the nitty gritty. Fred, you’re staying with me. There’s too much here I can’t follow, and I’ve taken the back seat passenger mainly on faith. Faith is not a commodity I have in fat supply.”

Fred folded his arms. “More fun for you, maybe, if you take his story separately from mine. What I’ll do, in the car, while we ride, I’ll fill you in on the treasure this guy wanted to steal. It belongs to the academy and I’m going to make goddamned sure they keep it safe. At least for the moment, that’s my mission.”

“A man with a mission,” Seymour said.

“Just passing the time while we ride,” Fred said, “Let me start by filling you in about Aubrey Bierstadt.”

“
Albert,
asshole!” Basil Houel chimed in from behind the mesh.

The rain had stopped as soon as they were out of Stillton.

***

During the course of the afternoon, at Fred’s suggestion, Seymour had made a telephone call to Phil Oumaloff, putting him on speaker. Oumaloff confirmed that he had run into Basil Houel in town, in the small hours of Thursday morning. “I don’t sleep well,” Oumaloff had bragged. “I stroll and philosophize. And there was Basil. He comes back to Stillton on occasion, to recharge his batteries, and to obtain my counsel.”

They were in what Fred, in his former life, would have called a safe house—a nondescript three-decker in the outskirts of Rockport whose interior showed signs of significant security. Basil Houel, having failed the opening stages of the conference Seymour initiated with him, had been taken elsewhere in the building “to collect his thoughts.”

Seymour, sitting back of a battered desk, glared balefully at his partner. “Take as long as you need,” he said. “I am all ears. Unless you prefer to collect your own thoughts in a room we have downstairs?”

“I’m going to need your help with some loose ends,” Fred said, “getting them tied up out of the way. We’re leaving it kind of late. If we hurry, we can still…”

Seymour said, “This better be good. But don’t waste my time trying to get loose. I trust you as far as I can throw you. I am your asshole buddy until further notice. Go ahead. Whatever you have in mind, convince me.”

***

Mrs. Halper caught Fred on the fly, moving quickly to get to his room. “She’ll see you,” Mrs. Halper said. Fred came back to the desk from the stairs.

“Who’ll see me? I didn’t think I was hiding.”

“Lillian Krasic,” Mrs. Halper said. She handed over the envelope, with the return address
Stillton Inn.

“Can’t stop,” Fred said. It was getting on six. He tossed the envelope onto his bureau for later, showered and changed to clothes that, if not clean, were at least not wet.

***

“Everyone is here, Professor Taylor,” Doris Druse said accusingly as Fred entered the building. “And two other gentlemen who insisted they would be welcome. But the problem is, I have not been able to speak to President Harmony. I begin to be worried.”

Fred said, “She may have been detained. I’ll get started.”

“It’s an hour of overtime already,” Mrs. Druse said. “Does she want me to stay?”

“Wouldn’t hurt, somebody smart at the switchboard,” Fred said. “I’ll go on in.”

The door of the board room opened on what Fred might have called a small group of well-heeled faces. Parker Stillton and Abe Baum he knew. The rest were faces—six of them, two female, four male.

“Please don’t get up,” Fred started. “President Harmony has been delayed. I’m Fred Taylor. I know two of you. The rest, I don’t care. Unless—wait a minute—let me guess—is one of you Aram Tutunjian?”

A bulky man, almost orange with unreasonable tan, against hair too black, and a suit to match, stood. “Your daughter’s OK,” Fred said.

“Where…?” the man started.

Fred held up the black box he’d borrowed from Seymour. “I don’t care who you are, and I care even less what you have to say. Someone will care. To be fair, and to save time, I’ll tell you, this thing records every word we say, so you probably want to say nothing. You lawyers agree?”

Baum and Parker Stillton crammed their lips together and shook their heads, letting the others see them do it.

“Good. Notice these lawyers. They won’t even allow themselves to be recorded agreeing with me that you should say nothing. That’s good. Efficient. Because I’ll be glad to get finished with this. I’m picking up family at Logan in a few hours. I’ll fill you in with what I know and what I want. Then I’ll leave you to your meeting. No, don’t say anything…” A woman had opened her mouth. Bright lipstick. Nice, honest face. Who knows?

“The board of Stillton Academy of Art purged itself of oddballs and non-conformers until you were all of one mind. You’d kill the academy and deliver its assets into the hands of a second entity, the Stillton Realty Trust, that you all belong to. Not Aram Tutunjian. That might be a conflict of interest. No, he just guides the mortgages on the academy properties you were prepared to buy back after the bank foreclosed.

“Liz Harmony brought in a ringer, this real estate development planner, to case the joint, work with it, and design the cash cow resort you all were dreaming of, Stillton Sound Resorts, a privately held luxury whatever the hell you would be pleased to call it and sell once you had complete control.

“Hold on. Don’t talk.”

“Don’t talk,” Abe Baum confirmed.

Fred went on, “Whether or not it would hold up in court, as you all know, once Stillton Academy closed, according to the will of Josephus Stillton, whatever might remain of its assets would devolve to Parker Stillton. And any other Massachusetts Stilltons, but I sure as hell can’t find any. Not with that double L.

“You made a mistake when you brought Rodney Somerfest in. Thought you had a patsy with business sense. Business sense he had, patsy he wasn’t. Of all the properties you bought or tried to buy, or took options on, the only big holdout—how many years was this brewing?—was Lillian Krasic and her Stillton Inn.

“Rodney Somerfest tried to buy it on his own. The board got wind of his move and fired him. He demanded a big cash payment to keep his silence. And all of you poneyed up—the realty trust did. The academy was already stripped clean.

“You’d been trying to buy from Lillian Krasic yourselves, but she wouldn’t sell. You got fed up and fired her.

“Two wild cards. A student, a woman, got close to Morgan Flower. Got close and caught on, and looked like she might make trouble. That’s one.

“Second, Rodney Somerfest kept coming back. He wanted more money and / or he threatened to blow the whole thing sky high. Whatever. Between them, somewhere, somehow, Morgan Flower and Liz Harmony killed him and did a damn fool job of ditching his body. You all knew him, I guess. That’s a whole human being, a life. A life destroyed. On behalf of the glittering promise of development.”

Chapter Sixty-nine

“How deeply the rest of you might be implicated in the murder, that’s a question. But at the minimum you’re all involved in conspiracy and fraud,” Fred said.

“This is actionable,” Parker Stillton said, in such exact concert with Abe Baum and one of the female suits, it seemed like a Greek chorus in one of those ill-advised attempts at a modern rendition of an old tragedy.

“There are two men dead.” The voice came from the woman with the friendly honest face and the bright lipstick. Did she show the good grace to be alarmed—even dismayed? Might it have struck her, at least, that the student might have a mother?

“The second death, we can say, is not your problem,” Fred replied. “Except in the larger sense you’ve forgotten, that you are all responsible for the welfare of this institution you are strangling to death. The first murder is a problem for you since it can be seen as part of the conspiracy. In my opinion Parker Stillton and Abe Baum may have known nothing of the killing of Rodney Somerfest at the time they recruited me. Nevertheless, they were working for the conspiracy. Because they wanted me to find that girl, Tutunjian’s daughter. And whatever documents she had taken with her.

“As I see it, the least you were hoping for was to reduce the academy to an entity so tiny and pitiful that, if you had to keep it running, you could convert it into a gallery operation, something like that, not-for-profit still, that was surrounded by your lovely resort and might give watercolor classes on Wednesday mornings.

“But that’s over. Because you all probably don’t want to be part of a conspiracy that includes murder, is my thinking.”

“Those murders were accidents,” somebody blurted.

“Not my business. When greed gets going with enough steam, it doesn’t care much about human life. You’re responsible for the greed. Here’s what I want,” Fred pressed on. “Don’t talk. Each one of you, or the Stillton Realty Trust, acting for you, is going to realize this evening that you have unwittingly and inadvertently entered into what amounts to a conflict of interest.

“Each of you, or the Realty Trust acting for its members, will give to the Stillton Academy of Art the charitable contribution of—let’s say—two million dollars. Per head. In cash or in kind. That includes your bank, Mr. Tutunjian—or you yourself, I don’t care. The resulting fund will be held in escrow until a new board is appointed. Because you are all resigning.

“How you arrive at a truly disinterested board, I don’t know. You haven’t had much practice. I’ll make one suggestion—a candidate—Parker Stillton knows him—Clayton Reed of Boston. He knows the art world and he knows a lot of the people board members ought to know, and he even has patience with them.

“So. The academy is in trouble, and it’s your fault, and you can fix it. As far as the financial part of the trouble is concerned, the fund you set up in escrow will help—and might help the Attorney General, when that office wakes up, to look on you more kindly after you relinquish your plans. Clay Reed, the man I mentioned, happens to be friendly with the Attorney General—not that I am suggesting—as others of you might be as well.

“The academy will be in a position to start paying back its mortgages; and the Realty Trust will inevitably continue as owner of much of the town of Stillton. You will still be in a position to wreck a sleepy, silly town, if you want to. But you’ll do it not over the dead body of, but in consultation with, a revised and strong academy.

“That’s all. No. Not all. You may wonder, Does Stillton Academy, given all you have done to destroy it, have the power to fight you if you don’t like my idea, and decide not to become heroes.

“By great good luck, the academy owns a treasure. You none of you know. A good thing. Because you would undoubtedly have sold it to each other, cheap. Here you were, making this complicated grab for land, and all the while an easy treasure was just lying around where anyone could pick it up. Don’t get ideas. That treasure is under guard. It will stay under guard until the new board finds a way to turn it to the best advantage of the academy. Here again, and it is not my business, the man I mentioned before, Clayton Reed, might be helpful.”

Clay would be disappointed, because he wanted it for himself. And he might not be entirely happy with Fred for a while. Still, he was an honorable man, and he would also enjoy strutting around as a trustee, should that eventuate. It wasn’t a bad idea.

“With the finances secured, the academy can continue to go after accreditation with a straight face. The faculty looks OK. The students are strong enough. The buildings look solid. You need ventilation, insulation, a new roof here and there—but none of that needs to concern you. It’s all for the new board.

“Any questions?” Fred waited, enjoying the grim silence of the group, until Abe Baum asked, “Where is she being held? President Harmony?”

“I fear I am not at liberty to divulge your client’s whereabouts,” Fred said. “Mr. Tutunjian, let your daughter alone for six months, is my advice. By then she’ll see that you are not adversaries after all.

“Incidentally, there are uniformed cops at the exits. I brought them with me. I’ll leave you all to your meeting. No applause, please.”

***

But applause did greet him in Stillton B. Meg had gathered a group, and the group had apparently phoned others who had nothing better to do than to assemble in the life room to hear Fred’s speech.

Fred handed the black box to Seymour, who was dabbing disgustedly at the brilliant orange oil paint that decorated the left elbow of his light tweed jacket. “We can get that out with turps if we act fast, maybe,” Meg said. Fred handed Bill Wamp the borrowed red plaid jacket. Students hovered and jostled, among them Emma, and that lover of Peter’s—what was his name? Yes, Aldo. And Peter Quarrier, restored to his colleagues. Fred had pushed hard for that, but Seymour hadn’t seemed interested. Houel must have caved.

“This fictional treasure you mention,” Bill Wamp said. “Wouldn’t that be nice? It’s a great threat if they bought it, but that gang…”

“It’s real,” Fred said. “It’s why Basil Houel kept coming back. To check. To make sure it was there until he could find a way to smuggle it out. It’s over our heads. A Bierstadt mural, rolled up. As big as a ballroom; and it’s a beauty.”

“Holy shit!” Bill Wamp said.

“I thought you were talking trash and hot air,” Meg said.

“No. Don’t mention it. In terms of value, I’m thinking it’s enough for a solid new endowment. If it’s played right. Now that the word is out, you might want to keep the place under some kind of guard,” Fred suggested. “Given that anyone can get in at any time. You artist types. You don’t seem to know what locks are for.”

“Which one is the girl, Tutunjian?” Seymour asked, running his finger down a page of scribbled notes. Missy held up her hand hesitantly. “Whatever you have, we’re going to want it,” he said.

He was rewarded by Missy with a smile of brilliant non-committal.

“And you,” Seymour said to Fred. “Do I lock you up after all, or may I expect you to come when I call?”

“Option B is better for me,” Fred said. “I’m supposed to get to Logan to pick up the woman I live with—I mentioned her to you, Molly—and her kids. They couldn’t hack all the fun in West Palm Beach, had to get an early flight home.”

“I’ll call your escort off,” Seymour said. “Don’t leave the state. And get a cell phone some day, would you?”

It was raining when Fred left the building.

Phil Oumaloff was just puffing up, wet leather hat, cape, and the rest of it.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “What’s going on?”