The Art Whisperer (An Alix London Mystery) (23 page)

A moment later, Jake Cruz pulled over, stopped beside the road, and stared at their car.

“Jesus H. Christ, did you get hit by a train? I never knew there was a crossing here.”

“It felt like we got hit by a train, Jake,” Ted said, “but, believe me, it could have been a lot worse. Thank God it was Alix behind the wheel and not me.”

Alix shrugged it off, but in fact she was pleased.

The tow truck pulled up then, a big flatbed tow, and Jake had to move his car back to make room.

The overalled, booted driver climbed down and stood there, gnawing on an unlit cigar and sizing up his job.

“It’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?” Ted said, being friendly.

“Seen worse,” was the nonchalant reply. “You folks going to need a ride back?”

“No,” said Jake, coming up. “I’ll take them.” And then to the driver. “H’lo, Ed.”

“Well, hi there, detective. We sure meet in some lovely places.”

“Yeah. Just good luck, I guess. Give us a minute with the car, will you, before you take it.”

“My pleasure,” Ed said, climbing back up to his seat and taking out a cigarette lighter. “I’m on hourly for this one.”

Jake did most of his own car maintenance, so it took just a few minutes for Alix to explain her deductions about the brake line tampering.

“Well, that’s a new one,” was his only response.

After that, they went over the same ground that Ted and Alix had covered—who would want to kill her/why would anyone want to kill her/what did it have to do with Clark/what did it have to do with the Pollock? But other than concluding that the bad guy was very likely the same one who’d killed Clark—there was such a thing as too many coincidences, after all, and in a town that typically saw three or four murders a year, this was one too many—they made no progress. As to what the connection was between the two, and whether they were related to Clark’s attempt on Alix, they couldn’t come up even with a hypothesis.

Jake used a tissue to pull off the green tubing and looked into one end. “Some kind of oil in there, so you’re probably right. Kind of sorry you handled it, though. Maybe we can still get some latents off it.”

“According to what Alix said, there must be a second one lying around, though,” Ted said. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

“Yeah, I’ll have a couple of guys out. But this is obviously a pretty slick character. Be surprised if he left any prints.” He called to the driver. “All yours, Ed. This is a police case now. You know the drill.”

Ed waved his cigar in acknowledgement. “I’ll take care of it, chief.”

On the way back to Palm Springs, Ted sat in front with Jake, Alix in the back, and after a few more unproductive surmises about what had happened, Ted changed the subject. Slightly.

“How’re you coming on Calder’s murder, Jake?”

“Ah, well, there I can report some progress—thanks to your telling us about what he was planning to do that night.”

Alix, watching the barren, brown desert glide by, didn’t see the flick of his head that indicated he was talking to her, and only realized it from the silence that followed.

“My
telling you?” she asked. “What did I tell you?”

“Don’t you remember?” Jake asked, clearly enjoying himself. “You told us you heard him on the phone, arranging a meeting at Melvyn’s Lounge. You even told us when: six o’clock. You don’t remember?”

“No, I didn’t. I never said that. I said . . .” Her eyes opened wide. “You mean ‘Melvyn’s’ is the name of a place?
That’s
what he meant?” She replayed his words in her mind. “Well, sure, that could be, I guess, but how in the world did you come up with it?”

“Just the usual superior police work. We’re detectives, we detect. But the thing is, my partner went over there, to Melvyn’s, and showed Calder’s picture to the waitress, and she remembered him—she wondered if he was a movie star. She also remembered that he was there with another guy, a guy in a baseball cap, and they were getting pretty annoyed with each other over something. Couldn’t really give us anything like a helpful description of the other guy, but she thought she could probably ID him if she saw him again.”

“Which is good,” Ted said. “All you need to do is come up with the other guy.”

“On whom we are closing in with implacable rapidity. My partner in excellence tracked down somebody who actually witnessed the hit-and-run, but took off at the time. The guy’s an auto mechanic, and he was able to tell us a lot, including the make, model, and year of the car. And color. A 2012 Ford Focus. Green.”

“That sounds like real progress, Jake,” Alix said. “Congratulations.”

“Well, it is progress, but do you have any idea how many 2012 Ford Focuses are registered in San Berdoo County alone? And if you throw in L.A. and Orange right next door, sheesh. But we’re working at it. Ah, civilization.”

They had reached the end of Tramway Road—the end of the desert—and Jake turned them south onto North Palm Canyon. They traveled only a few blocks before turning onto East Vista Chino, which took them away from downtown. “Where are we going?” Alix asked.

“We need to stop off at the police department, get a statement. We’ll need a few words from you too, Ted. Shouldn’t take long, given that the scene of the crime wasn’t really a scene of a crime—for all we know, the guy who did it was a hundred miles away—so there’s not much to get from you. Which brings me to my next point: Wherever he is, he’s still loose, and that means Alix is going to need some protection. We’re a little tight on personnel, but I know Lieutenant Mitchell would okay—”

“How about holding off on that, at least while I’m here, Jake,” Ted said. “I’ll be happy to stick close to her.”

“That okay with you, Alix?” Jake asked.

Okay for Ted to stick close to her? Was he kidding? “Sure, I guess so,” she said offhandedly.

Ted turned in his seat. “I’ve already booked the bungalow next to yours at Villa Louisa, Alix.”

“You—?”

“I called while you were hunting for that tube. So I’ll be right next door if you need me, even in the middle of the night.”

Jake’s head cocked just perceptibly at that, and Alix felt the blood rise to her cheeks. A double entendre? From Ted? No, impossible, the guy was too straitlaced for double entendres. For Alix, who was thought by some to be a tad straitlaced herself, it was a considerable part of his manly charm.

“Listen, Jake,” Ted said as they turned into the parking lot at police headquarters, “I had a thought. About that Ford?”

“Shoot.” Jake pulled the key from the ignition and turned toward him. “I can definitely use a thought.”

“Well, Ford Focuses are the most popular rental cars in the country. So before you go checking on every single one in the United States, why don’t you call around to the local rental outfits and see if maybe someone brought back a green 2012 in the last couple of days with damage on it? From what I saw in those photos of Calder’s injuries, there’s no way the car got away without injuries of its own.”

“Now that is a
hell
of a thought,” Jake said, and then slowly nodded. “You feebs. Never mind what they say, you really are pretty smart guys.”

T
heir interviews with Jake and his partner took longer than expected—until almost seven o’clock—and when they were done, Jake drove them to the museum parking lot, where Ted still had his car. This was at Ted’s request. “No point in your getting another rental,” he volunteered, when Alix had implied that that was her intention. “Wherever you’re going, I’m driving you, like it or not.”

Jake nodded his approval.

“I guess I can live with it,” she said, borrowing one of Ted’s own rather ambiguous phrases, “if I have to.” Had she meant it to be taken as grudging acquiescence? A meaningless throwaway line? An ironic joke? She didn’t know herself. Well, let him wonder too. It was, after all, his laconic, unrevealing response at that cursed luncheon at the National Gallery, when she turned down his offer to continue working with him.
I can live with that
.

Ted in a nutshell.

This time he didn’t respond at all, so she was in the dark as to his reaction, assuming he’d had any.

“I need food,” Ted declared when they’d gotten out of Jake’s car. “I’ve been listening to my stomach rumble for the last half hour. Any suggestions as to where to go?”

“Well—”

“
Not
up on the mountain, if you don’t mind. Maybe some other time.”

“No, I most certainly wasn’t thinking that,” she said, laughing, “but . . . well, one of the curators—Prentice Vandervere, an old professor of mine and one of the most respected—”

“I know who Prentice Vandervere is. We’ve gone to him a few times with questions. I have a lot of respect for him. Be an honor to meet him.”

“Oh, good. Prentice is the new senior curator at the museum and Lillian’s putting on a reception for him at Le Vallauris—”

“A reception? Kind of gauche, wouldn’t you say, what with her previous senior curator’s body barely cold.”

“Well, yes, I suppose it is, but she’s not the most sentimental person in the world, you know. I think she’s come to regret ever having had anything to do with Clark, and she’s anxious to put everything about him behind her. Anyway, Le Vallauris is supposed to be the best restaurant in the city. Reception started at seven, a few minutes ago. I’m invited, and I’m welcome to bring someone if I like, so I was thinking—”

“Don’t bother thinking, you don’t have any choice. You’re bringing me. Where you go, I go. That’s the deal.”

“Oh, darn,” she said, and smiled at him. And he smiled back.

On the brief drive to the restaurant, something occurred to her. “Ted, I just had a thought. What if whoever cut those lines didn’t do it just on the off chance that I might have to stomp on the brakes in some highly unlikely life-and-death situation while I was tooling around Palm Springs? What if he knew I’d be driving on that straight, flat, clear, uncrowded road today? He’d know nobody drives under fifty miles an hour on that thing. Wouldn’t that improve his odds of my having to put that kind of pressure on the brakes?”

“Sure, but how could anybody know? We didn’t decide on it ourselves till just before we left.”

“Not exactly. I’d wanted to take the tram this afternoon anyway, even before I knew you’d be here. I told you that, remember?”

“No, I don’t, but why does that matter?”

“Because I also told the people at the museum. Yesterday, when we were taking a break in the atrium. All the curators except Prentice, and then Jerry too.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I? We were just chatting. I didn’t think I was risking my life. The restaurant parking lot is there.”

He was nodding as he drove into it. “You raise a good point, Alix. That’s worth thinking about. And are you sure those are the only people you told?”

“Absolutely. My God, do you think it’s one of them?”

“Maybe so.” He was nodding. “Maybe so.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We go in there and get something to eat. And maybe you point out those people so I can have a look at them. But first, eat.”

If Le Vallauris wasn’t the classiest restaurant in the city, it was sure putting on a good imitation, complete with an elegant host who glided from group to group inquiring in a charming French accent as to how things were, and waiters in black tie—not college-age kids, but smooth, efficient older men; professionals.

The Brethwaite reception was on the back patio of the old Spanish Revival house that held the main dining rooms, and very like a garden in Old Spain it was, with rose-pink flagstones underfoot, a dense green canopy of fig leaves overhead, and a luscious floral perfume in the air, at least some of which was from the vases of fresh flowers on the tables. The far corner of this pleasant place was cordoned off for the museum people, with a buffet table, a private bar, and a few small cocktail tables. Most of the attendees were standing in little groups within easy range of the buffet, employing the standard two-fisted cocktail party stance: wine or highball glass in one hand, and a canapé or two in the other.

The curators were all there, of course (with the surprising exception of Prentice), along with Jerry, Lillian, and Richard, and one or two others that Alix had seen around, but the rest were unfamiliar—spouses, or friends, or employees she hadn’t run into. The men were almost all in sport coats, the women in dresses. Alix, still wearing the cords and hiking shoes she’d put on for the mountains, was distinctly underdressed and she hesitated at the entrance. Ted, seeing her reaction, pulled off his tie (his jacket and the sweaters he’d worn for the tram were back in the car), rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, and opened his shirt collar a few buttons to put her more at ease.

What the hell
, Alix thought, and walked in with him.

Even Lillian had dressed up for the occasion. Apparently recovered from her downhearted humor of the morning, she was again erect and regal in a lacy, jacketed, knee-length cocktail dress—very sweet and feminine, but there was also a vintage tiara glittering in her hair, in case anyone had any doubts about who was queen of the hive.

When she saw them, she waved them in and went on with what she was saying.

“—have noticed that our guest of honor isn’t here. That’s because he’s been in San Francisco on business, you see, and his plane is just arriving about now. He should be here shortly. When he does arrive, he will have quite an announcement to make. Oh, and the auction catalogues have arrived, so everyone is welcome pick up a copy. They’re over there on that table.” She pointed to her left. “In the meantime, please continue to enjoy yourselves. The smoked salmon is quite marvelous.”

“I’ll drink to that,” a red-faced Alfie said happily, lifting his glass.

“What
wouldn’t
he drink to?” Drew Temple muttered as he came up to Ted, looking as usual both depressed and sullen—and spoiling for a fight. “I hear you’re with the FBI, is that right?”

“Is that a question or an accusation?” Ted said, but he said it pleasantly.

“I have a question I want to ask you,” Drew said, not so pleasantly. “What I want to know is why the federal government thinks it’s perfectly all right—”

Ted’s cell phone bipped. He held up one hand to stop Drew while he extracted it with the other. “Yes, Jamie, hello,” he said, and then, to Drew: “You’ll have to excuse me. I have to take this.” And then again, into the phone: “It’s a little noisy here, let me find someplace quieter.” He shrugged another apology to Drew and threw a funny, saved-by-the-bell look toward Alix as he moved off with the phone to his ear.

Alix went in the direction that Lillian had pointed to find a catalogue, first stopping at the bar to get a glass of white wine. The catalogues, a dozen or so of them, were in a cardboard carton on a small table provided for people to set down their used glasses and plates. The catalogue covers looked nice: glossy, understated, and attractively done.

Endicott Fine Art Auction Galleries, Ltd.

San Francisco

presents

Treasures of the L. Morgan Brethwaite Museum

7 P.M., March 14, 2014

But it was the carton itself, a US Postal Service mailing carton with an Endicott Galleries return address, that caught her eye. The postmark strip in the upper right corner showed that it had been mailed from San Francisco on February 8, Saturday, the day before yesterday.
Saturday?
But that would mean . . .

It would mean that she and Chris had been lied to by Clark when Chris had said she was interested in buying the panel of miniatures before they went to auction. He’d told her that it was impossible because the catalogues had already been mailed. That had been on Friday, but now Alix knew that in reality they hadn’t gone out until the following day. That supposedly disappointing “conversation” he’d had on the phone with the printer—the whole thing had been a sham. There’d been nobody on the other end. He just didn’t want to sell it.

He’d jumped at Chris’s offer on the Marsden Hartleys just a few hours before, yet when it came to selling the miniatures, he’d concocted an excuse for why it couldn’t be done. Why would he do that? Clearly, he’d seen some kind of profit for himself in
not
selling them—at least at that point. Selling them later, then? Getting possession of them at the auction, then reselling them later for a lot more? But why would they have earned a lot more later?

Her mind was churning away. Those two portraits that Chris had liked so much—the little boy and the little girl in the bottom row—wasn’t it possible that they weren’t painted by the obscure Joseph Dunkerley, but by the illustrious John Singleton Copley, as Alix had initially sensed? (But had never followed up on, damn it.) If Clark had somehow known that, he would certainly have known that two matched Copleys would bring millions, not the thousands of dollars a pair of Dunkerleys would command, and would certainly have wanted them for himself . . . at Dunkerley prices.

But where did that lead? He knew he couldn’t get away with bidding on a lot from his own museum, which meant he would need to have somebody do it for him: a proxy. So there had to be a second person involved. The person he’d been arguing with on the phone, perhaps? The person who’d met him at Melvyn’s? The person who’d run him down just a few minutes later?

She paged through the top copy of the catalogues, searching for . . . well, she wasn’t really sure of what she was searching for. The Marsden Hartleys that Chris had bought were not in it; that was as expected. The panel of miniatures
was
in it. That was also as expected. She looked hard at its photograph, but the resolution wasn’t nearly good enough to—

“Oho, I see your attention has been caught by the miniatures.”

Prentice, tall, elegant, kindly, smiling, stood beside her, having apparently come in without being noticed.

“Yes, they’re beautiful.”

“I’ve just come back from Endicott,” he said. “I wanted to see all the pieces for myself, and I’m very glad I did.” Unusually for Prentice, his suit coat was rumpled, probably from wearing it on the plane. Prentice Vandervere would probably be the last man in America who still flew in coat and tie. He was definitely elated about something tonight. “Alix, you’re not particularly well acquainted with the field of miniatures, if I recall correctly.”