Eye Wit (7 page)

Apparently it wasn’t a game that was causing Zoran much distress. He continued his questions as if Sophia Fellini had simply commented on the weather.

“Did your husband depend on Iona Duncan and Jessica Ware for professional advice on his business, or were they simply attractive…how do you say? ‘Go-fers?’”

Yoko decided she’d better get this interview back on course. Raunchy talk didn’t go down well with Zoran. What was Sophia thinking? Had she tried to chase away thoughts of her sudden widowhood with a snifter or two of cognac? Although Yoko didn’t know Sophia Fellini well, she hadn’t expected crude talk from her. Was this the shock of her husband’s death talking?

“We appreciate your frankness in volunteering information about your husband’s extra-marital affairs, Sophia, and we’ll certainly explore that topic later. Right now, it would be helpful if we consider other aspects of your husband’s life. Let’s talk about your husband’s business, how he made his money.”

Zoran picked up the cue. “Did Marco sell
objets d’art
on consignment, or did he buy things on his own and sell them through his gallery, or privately through his connections, or at public auction?”

Sophia sighed. “Mostly, Marco bought pieces for which he knew he had a buyer, or more than one buyer. He rarely accepted consignments, unless he was certain he knew someone who would buy the item. He was very shrewd about such matters.”

“Therefore the items in the gallery are items that he misjudged, art that did not sell as he expected? Costly things that buyers turned out not to want?”

“Not at all, Mr. Zeissing. Sometimes it simply took customers a short while to convince themselves of what Marco already knew: they wanted the piece and would buy it. The point is, my husband was a good student of human nature, as well as of the value of antique collectibles. He understood that most collectors would not actually pay their money for something unless and until they were allowed to perform their own little rituals of purchase, like pretending they needed to ‘sleep on it.’ Of course, sometimes Marco would buy associated art, knowing that specific clients were quite likely to buy that item too, once they saw it.”

“No, not one,” the widow snapped. “That’s why I have trouble believing that my husband was murdered, you see. Who would want to kill him? Not anyone he did business with, certainly. He did have some kind of dispute with someone who claimed that Marco had obtained a piece illicitly, but every art dealer runs into those lunatics now and then, every dealer, I assure you. You just have to learn how to handle them.

“Marco would never buy anything that didn’t have impeccable credentials. His reputation in the art world was absolutely without blemish. It had to be.”

“Elaborate, please.”

“It’s the nature of this business, Mr. Zeissing. One unhappy customer, someone who had purchased a piece of great value, only to discover that it wasn’t as valuable as he thought, could destroy my husband’s business. There is not an infinite number of collectors of very high-priced items, Detective—and most of them know each other and all of them are jealous of each other and all of them talk. All the time.”

“Yes. I see why your husband had to be very careful about the items he offered for sale.”

“Let me give you an example. Several months ago, Marco was approached by another Swiss gentleman….”

“Excuse me,” Zoran interrupted. “You said
another
Swiss gentlemen. Who was the first Swiss gentleman?”

“I’m sorry. I was still thinking about the lunatic I mentioned, some fellow named Hans, who accused Marco of stealing an heirloom that belonged to this Hans’ family, his Gypsy family he said. He claimed his heritage was a mix of Germanic Swiss and Roma Gypsy. I imagine the Roma are a tribe or something. Of course, he had nothing to offer in the way of documentation or proof—nothing at all really, so Marco sent him packing. But the man kept bothering him, showing up at exhibits and such. He literally followed him all over the country until Marco finally got a restraining order to keep him away.

“I see,” Zoran said. “Do you know the last name of this man, this Hans, or his address?”

“I don’t believe I ever heard his family name, Detective. He was just one of those worms that crawl out of the woodwork now and then.”

“You say he was Swiss?”

Sophia sighed. “That’s what he said he was, Detective, he said he lived in a small village near Lucerne. Last time I visited Lucerne, it was still in Switzerland.”

“Would there be a record of the man’s name in your husband’s files?”

“I would assume so, actually definitely, because of the restraining order. Jessica or Iona ought to be able to locate it for you.”

“Did this Hans make any specific threats against your husband?”

“No. How could he? His claim had absolutely no basis. It was obvious that he was simply out to get Marcus to pay him some money so he’d stop pestering him. I would imagine the only threat he made was some cursing when the restraining order was served.”

“Did you hear from him after the restraining order was served?”

“Not a word, and that was several months ago. I assume he crawled back into his worm hole. Or wherever Gypsies live these days.”

Zoran grimaced at the image. “Very well. Continue, please. You were telling me about a second Swiss gentleman?”

“Yes, that was a man who collected rare Chinese and Tibetan statuary. The man’s fortunes had recently tumbled, he told my husband, and he needed to sell some of his collection.

“He offered Marco a small jade hunting scene showing two archers, which supposedly had been a gift to the 13
^th
Dalai Lama. After the Dalai Lama died in 1933, the treasured figurine could not be found anywhere.

“He showed Marco a picture of the carving, and another of the 13
^th
Dalai Lama holding it, looking at the two archers while he was praying, and the two pictures certainly appeared to show the same figurine. He said he’d obtained it from a Chinese antiquities dealer who had confirmed that it was presented by the 13
^th
Dalai Lama to a representative of the Chinese government. Supposedly the Chinese antiquities dealer had provided reams of documentation verifying its provenance. It is believed the Dalai Lama had intended the gift to be a good-will gesture intended to forestall his own prediction of impending turmoil for his beloved people of Tibet.”

Zoran looked up at the ceiling of the Fellini living room while he tapped his seemingly infinite knowledge of obscure history. “I recall reading that prophecy by Thupten Gyatsu, the 13
^th
Dalai Lama. Given the events since his death, his prophecy has proven remarkably precise. Certainly the current Dalai Lama would agree. He was forced to flee the country in 1959, when the People’s Republic of China assumed complete control over Tibet. This is undoubtedly another reason why the 14
^th
Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatsu, feels such a close connection to his predecessor.”

Yoko’s head was swimming as she tried to digest the mini history course. Did it have anything to do with Marco Fellini’s death? “Another reason, Zoran? I’m not sure I follow.”

Zoran explained patiently. “The biggest reason why the 14
^th
Dalai Lama would feel such a strong connection to the 13
^th
Dalai Lama would be that he is the reincarnation of the 13
^th
Dalai Lama.”

Yoko sighed. “Of course. What can I say, except
duh
?”

Zoran turned his attention back to Sophia Fellini. “You said your husband’s purchase of the two-archers figurine was an example of why he had to be very careful about items he purchased. What did you mean? Did he suspect that the provenance of the figurine was not legitimate?”

“Not precisely,” Sophia Fellini said. “Marco was suspicious of the figurine’s provenance, but not because of its supposed documentation of authenticity, rather because he sensed that he wasn’t getting the full story.”

“So your husband decided not to buy the figurine?”

“Not at all. He wasn’t ready to reject the figurine outright, but he wasn’t willing to buy it without doing some research on his own. So he demanded that the gentleman from Switzerland produce the figurine and all of its documentation.”

“Did the gentleman from Switzerland have a name?” Zoran asked.

“I assume so, Detective. He didn’t say, actually. However, he said he always did business using his business name, ‘Bernardem Collections,’ for tax reasons.”

“I see. We will explore that later, if we need to. Continue with your story about this jade figurine, please. Did the Swiss gentleman agree to produce the figurine and its documentation?”

“Yes. A week or two later he returned and delivered the figurine in an elaborately carved wooden box, along with a large quantity of paperwork attesting to its validity. He handed the box to Marco and said, ‘I will leave this with you and trust that you will treat it with respect and inform me of your decision.’ Then he left.”

“What were the results of your husband’s research? Was the figurine authentic?”

“Yes, Marco concluded so, after a quick trip to Seattle with one of his assistants to consult with two experts on jade figurines of the late nineteenth century. But such trips are often tiring, you know, even when one makes a point of taking some R&R at the family cabin on Bainbridge Island––or even an invigorating late evening sail in the boat Grandpapa Fellini built. Nonetheless, Marcus said both of the antiquities dealers he consulted agreed on the validation that the figurine was authentic, so Marcus paid for it and that was that.”

“Because I’m not sure of the expertise of the dealers he consulted. You see, both were ‘found’ by Iona Duncan, my husband’s ‘traveling companion.’

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a terrible headache. I need to do some yoga and see if I can chase it away, then I’ll rest in my bedroom.” The widow marched out of the room, headed towards her yoga studio.

Yoko had noted the quotation marks in Sophia Fellini’s dismissive statements about Iona. Sophia, she thought, you’re trying too hard. That’s enough to give anyone a headache. I doubt the yoga will help.

14

Is there anything more poignant than a mother giving her newly born daughter away, in the hope that her baby will survive? Luludji Krietzman knew she would never see little Luminitsa again. At least she sti
ll had her beloved Hadji. For a
while, anyway.

She soaked the cloth in water, wrung it out and applied it to Hadji’s forehead.
His
fever had increased so much over the last three days. Hadji had been diagnosed with typhus upon their arrival at Birkenau and confined to the sanitary barracks. Luludji and the other healthy women, men
,
and older children trudged off to their work details. Some of the younger children, especially any newly arrived
twins
and some of the women, including Luludji, were tasked to assist in Dr. Mengele’s research infirmary. Luludji was allowed to spend her evenings nursing Hadji, knowing full well that she too could contact the disease, if she was not careful. She knew it was spread by contact with lice, particularly
the feces of lice
.

Over the last month, guards had refused to give Hadji any medicine or food, and he continued to waste away, losing strength. “He’s dying. We don’t feed the dying,” they had said. “Be grateful we do not shoot him.”

And now, this unending fever. To her dismay,
Dr. Mengele had refused to provide any sulfa for Hadji, and Luludji hadn’t been able to steal any either.
But there had been no shortage of food for
her beloved
. Healthy Romani who ate at the mess hall routinely secreted part of their daily allotment of swill to pass along to Hadji and others in the sanitary barracks.

To no avail. Hadji had been unable to
take much nourishment
, although he tried. The food simply would not stay down, and he continued to decline. The last week, he’d been able to hold only a little water in his stomach, and that for only an hour or so.

He was so emaciated and weak now, his brow so hot it boiled away the dampness from Luludji’s cloth almost instantly.

“
Is typhus, Luludji
yo,” he said. “So many of us…” H
e winced as he licked the blisters on his lips. “So many dead….”

She bent and kissed his eyes. “Sleep now, my darling. You must rest. You will be better in the morning. You will see.” She pulled the threa
dbare woolen blanket up to his neck. “Just rest, dear Hadji. Sleep, and dream of Luminitsa.” Her man closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

He will survive, Luludji told herself. He must. We are all that’s left of our family. There’s only me and Hadji and Luminitsa
left
. Praise God, Luminitsa is with the Domanoffs!

The Domanoffs have
been free for a month now, she thought. They weren’t on the trucks from Majdanek that came to Birkenau the day after she and Hadji arrived. Those who had arrived on those trucks that day had told her the good news: Andre and Mishka had escaped Majdanek during the night of the same day that Luludji and Hadji had be
en hauled off to Auschwitz-Birke
nau. A total of six Romani had escaped, they told her. “The guards weren’t even watching the gate,” one of them had said. “
And six Gypsies were able to sneak
out.”