Authors: Fairstein Linda
It was obvious that Talbot Hunt had come to his
father’s home after leaving us at the library this morning. I wondered whether
it was a coincidence that he and Minerva met here.
“I thought maybe you were organizing a memorial
service for Tina,” Mike said. “Seems like she had something to do with all of
you.”
“Why don’t we move into the office?” Talbot said.
“Because my first order of business is to talk
with your father.”
“I think you’re smart enough to see he’s not
having a good day,” Minerva said.
Mike stood up, took her arm, and walked with her
to the door of the room, out of Jasper Hunt’s earshot. “What’s his condition?”
“He’s old, Mr. Chapman. In case you hadn’t
noticed. He’s infirm.”
“Any dementia?”
Minerva looked at her brother, and neither
answered quickly. “He’s clear most of the time,” Tally said.
“I guess he has to be if you’re trying to change
the will. Isn’t that so?” Mike asked. “We got a little bit of Brooke Astor going
on here?”
The great Mrs. Astor, who spent half a century
distributing her husband’s fortune—more than one hundred million dollars—wound
up with her estate in the middle of an ugly battle. The will she had signed
years earlier—leaving much of the Astor trust to New York institutions she
loved, such as the library—had a subsequent codicil bequeathing most of those
same assets to her only son.
“I don’t get it, Detective,” Tally said.
“The issue was Mrs. Astor’s competence—her mental
competence—at the time the codicil was signed,” I said.
“Mrs. Astor was a dear friend of my father’s,”
Minerva said. “I’m familiar with the case. I just don’t see what it has to do
with us.”
“Hello, Minerva.” I heard a weak voice from across
the room. “Who’s here with you?”
“Your turn, Coop. You’re good with the old guys.”
“Father, I think it’s time for you to take a nap.”
I started toward Jasper Hunt and kneeled beside
Fortitude, who raised up and started to rub herself against my leg, her bushy
tail tickling my face and her big tufted feet padding the carpet like a
miniature lion’s.
“Don’t marginalize me, Minerva. Who’s this nice
young lady here? Have we met?”
He reached out to touch my cheek and I held my
hand over his. “I’m Alexandra Cooper, Mr. Hunt. I’m a lawyer. A prosecutor,
actually.”
“Bully, Ms. Cooper. Doing justice, are you?”
“We’re trying, Mr. Hunt.”
Mercer was attempting to steer Tally out of the
room, but he stood firm.
“Have you met my babies?”
“Patience and Fortitude,” I said. “They’re
beautiful.”
“They’re smart, young lady. Better than beautiful.
Never caused me a moment’s trouble. The only price for their loyalty is a small
bit of food.”
“Are you too tired to talk to me for a few
minutes, Mr. Hunt?”
He was staring at Patience, and I turned to look
at the foursome behind me. Minerva and her brother seemed frozen, fearful that
Jasper would betray whatever secrets this dysfunctional family held close.
“I’m always tired. But I like to talk to young
girls.”
“We’ve just come from the public library. We know
how generous you’ve been to them over the years.”
“I used to have a wonderful library of my own.
Right here. It’s all gone, plundered by thieves.” Hunt lifted his bent
forefinger in the air.
“That’s not true, Father. I’ll be happy to show
Ms. Cooper your library,” Tally said. “It’s an extraordinary collection, as you
might imagine.”
Hunt grasped at my hand. “Yesterday I took a long
walk in the park—Central Park. Do you know it? I couldn’t find my way home. It
was frightening, actually. I walked for miles and miles and still couldn’t get
out of the park.”
“Don’t get agitated, Father,” Minerva said, coming
up beside up. “That was just a dream you had. You haven’t walked in the park
for years.”
“Did you say your name was Alice?”
“Almost, sir. It’s Alex. Alexandra.”
“Did you ever meet Alice?”
“Sorry?” I looked to Minerva for help.
“Alice Liddell. The girl for whom
Alice in
Wonderland
was written. My grandfather had an obsession with that child—or
maybe with the book. I think this is Papa’s long-term memory at work.”
“Would you like me to come back with
Alice
?”
I asked the old man. “With that book? Perhaps read to you?”
Why did that children’s story play such a
recurring role in these events?
Jasper Hunt looked up at me and smiled. “Of course
I’d like that.”
“Do you remember a young woman named Tina? Tina
Barr?”
His eyes closed and he repeated the name several
times, as though trying to locate it in a crumbling memory bank.
“Do we know her, Minerva?” he asked.
“Yes, Father. That nice girl who was helping you
with your books. Cataloging the collection, restoring some of your Melvilles.”
“Then I know her, if my daughter says I do. Was
that your question?” He looked at me again.
“Do you remember talking with her?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head from side to
side two or three times.
“Did you know that she left you to go to work for
Alger Herrick?”
“Herrick? There’s a lucky man,” Hunt said. “I once
thought he’d be a fine match for my Minerva. She didn’t agree—did you, dear?”
Minerva Hunt cackled like a witch. “I’m glad you
remembered that.”
“What became of Alger? Have I seen him about?”
“He’s got a wonderful apartment here in New York,
Mr. Hunt,” I said. “Full of the most magnificent maps.”
“You can’t read maps, young lady,” he said, almost
scolding me. “You can’t hold them, fondle the smooth bindings, finger the
parchment and vellum, and caress them, as you can books. I don’t care for maps.
Herrick’s folly, not mine.”
“Tally told me that your father had a map,” I
said, checking with Talbot Hunt as I tried to get to the subject. The son
looked grim, avoiding my eyes. “One of the rarest in the world. It had a dozen
separate pieces, twelve panels.”
“Did you know my father was mad, young lady?
Absolutely mad.”
“She wants to know about the Waldseemüller map,
Father,” Tally said, his arms folded and his words sharp.
“They all want the map, boy. I wouldn’t have any
visitors if it weren’t for that damn map, you know. How long has it been since
you’ve been by to see me?”
“Don’t take it personally, Father. Tally’s afraid
he might run into me if he came to call,” Minerva said, smoothing the front of
her skirt. “Two hours together and it already seems like a month.”
The old man mumbled something under his breath. I
thought I heard him say, “Even the Jew.”
I leaned closer to him. Had Jonah Krauss been to
see him, too?
Minerva queried him. “Even a few what, Papa?”
Jasper Hunt’s chin rested on his chest and his
eyes closed again. His short defense of bookmen—his ancestors and himself—and
the troublesome questioning about the map had seemed to devour all his energy.
“My father’s a doctor, Mr. Hunt. He’s a brilliant
man, and an especially kind one, too.”
Hunt’s glassy eyes fixed on me while I talked.
“It’s a remarkable legacy he’s set in place,” I
said, looking back at Minerva and Tally to see if either of them reacted to the
sound of that word. “Your father, sir—and your grandfather—their philanthropic
giving has been a stunning gift to so many great institutions. What do you
think the Hunt legacy is?”
“Still searching for that, are you? My father would
find it amusing, I’m sure. Tried to take it all with him, in case there was no
one left to care. He’d be so pleased that we’re sitting here today, trying to
figure what he was all about, talking about him. That keeps him alive in a
strange way, doesn’t it?”
“Searching for what, exactly?” I wanted to go back
to that.
“‘The evil that men do lives after them,’” Jasper
Hunt said. “That’s usually the case, isn’t it?”
I froze at the sound of the Shakespearean words
that had been scrawled on the paper found with Tina Barr’s corpse.
“But what evil?” I asked. “Your father was good
and generous to so many people.”
“He quoted that phrase all the time. Probably
figured no one would long remember his good deeds. Just his madness,” Hunt
said, his eyelids fluttering closed. “Is it time for a cocktail, Tally?”
Minerva answered. “Not yet, Father. You need your
medications.”
I could see that the conversation was a strain,
and I stood up, patting the hand that held the golden cat.
Minerva picked up a small silver bell and rang it
until the butler appeared in the doorway. “Will you help me settle Father
inside?”
“Certainly, madam.”
“Mind if we ask you a few more questions?” Mike
said to Tally Hunt as he led us toward the living room.
“I should think you’d have your fill of answers by
now.”
Mike showed that he wasn’t leaving by settling in
to the deep pillows of a sofa covered in a silk damask print with birds and
butterflies. “So, it looks like you shot up here for a surprise visit as soon
as you saw the panel of the map that we found this morning.”
“Hardly seems to be illegal, Detective.”
“Who tipped you off to it?”
“It wasn’t Jill, if that’s where you’re going. The
library is a closed world, a tight one. Word travels fast.”
“Your father’s trust and estate lawyer?” Mike
asked. “Your sister doesn’t seem to know.”
Talbot stood by one of the windows that overlooked
the museum. “It was that fellow Garrison. Francis X. Garrison.”
“The lawyer Brooke Astor’s son used to try to
defraud his mother,” I said. “Battaglia indicted him.”
“I’ve been interviewing for a new lawyer,
actually. Haven’t hired one yet. I’ve been my father’s business advisor for
years. I’ve taken good care of his affairs.”
“I’d think you’d have a hard time convincing a
surrogate’s court judge about any changes to the will that have been made in
your favor lately, considering the condition of his health,” Mercer said.
“My father is not the least bit delusional, Mr.
Wallace. He has occasional problems with his short-term memory, but he’s quite
sound. He’s demonstrates solid comprehension of things he needs to know—just
dangle a dollar sign in front of him. Mrs. Astor lived to be one hundred and
five, you will recall, and made frequent amendments to her will in the last
five years of her life.”
“That’s what tied her estate up in court for so
long, isn’t it?” I asked. “Deciding whether her son had taken advantage of her
deterioration to divert millions of dollars intended for the New York Public
Library to his own pockets.”
“Despite her fortune, Ms. Cooper, she was living
in squalor. Her apartment was looted and most of her servants were let go,”
Talbot Hunt said. “Don’t lecture me about my father’s condition. There are
enough millions to go around. Even for the damn cats.”
“Tell us about the Bay Psalm Book,” Mercer said,
moving closer to Talbot Hunt. “We know its significance to your
great-grandfather. But how did it come to be in your possession?”
He didn’t like answering our questions, but it was
clear that he wanted to stake his claim to the valuable little book.
“Understand, Detective, that the moment my sister
comes into the room, this conversation will cease,” Hunt said, fuming as he
glanced at the hallway. “This is between my father and myself. It has nothing
to do with Minerva.”
“All right.”
Talbot Hunt talked to Mercer. “My father’s
instincts were good enough, just several years ago, for him to see the writing
on the wall. Our fellow trustees had the gall to start deaccessioning several
important objects—paintings, manuscripts, archives of writers who had fallen
into obscurity—that kind of thing.”
“The
Kindred Spirits
sale.”
“Exactly.” Once again, Hunt raised his eyebrows,
seemingly surprised that the NYPD was up to speed on art and literature.
“My grandfather kept that prayer book, which
celebrated his birth, next to his bed—at home or abroad—for all of his life. He
wanted the library to have it, to treasure it as he had. He never expected it
would be warehoused or he wouldn’t have willed it to them. When Jonah and his
allies wanted to put the book up for sale, my father wouldn’t stand for it.”
“Was that the person your father was referring
to?” I asked. “Does he call Jonah ‘the Jew’?”
Talbot Hunt studied me as if to divine my genetic
fingerprint.
“Yes, I’m Jewish. I can deal with it, Mr. Hunt.
Jonah Krauss came here to discuss the lost map with your father?”