Murder at the Falls (26 page)

Charlotte nodded.

“The map of the studio has one too. From the bluff overlooking the parking lot across the street. I find it hard to imagine a man of Lumkin’s stature hiding in a tree with a pair of binoculars. Why do you think he would do something like this? You know him.”

“Not that well. He never says much; it’s always Xantha who does all the talking. I never understood why he put up with her affairs, but then, people do strange things in the name of love.”

“So they do,” he said with a rueful little smile.

“Did you find anything else?”

“A stack of bills from a private eye, along with transcripts of Xantha’s telephone conversations with Goslau—some of them pretty spicy. He’d had Goslau’s phone tapped. Also, some photos of her in bed with Goslau. Also pretty spicy.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow.

“Here’s the map of the mill,” he said, handing it over to her.

Charlotte looked at the drawing. “Maybe writing it all down gave him a feeling of control,” she speculated. “Or maybe he’s a voyeur who gets a kick out of seeing his wife in bed with another man.”

“Or maybe he’s a jealous husband who’s obsessed with his wife’s infidelity,” he said. “Obsessed enough to kill.”

“Maybe,” she agreed. “I came across a piece on the gossip page of the
Post
that mentioned Xantha’s leaving him for a young photorealist artist. It seems like more than just a coincidence that the piece ran the day before his wife’s lover was murdered.”

“I didn’t know that. It looks like I’m not the only one who’s been holding out.” He looked at her, and smiled. “You’re right: it does seem like more than just a coincidence.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of Martinez with a woman whom Voorhees introduced as Agent Carolyn Healey of the art fraud squad of the FBI’s New York division. Agent Healey was the least likely FBI agent Charlotte had ever met, though of the limited number of FBI agents of her acquaintance, none had really fit the image. Not only was she a woman, she was plump, middle-aged, and frumpy. With her round, rubicund face, wire-rimmed glasses, and Prince Valiant haircut (which looked as if someone had put a bowl over her head), she might have been a rural schoolteacher. But when they shook hands, the impression of schoolmarmish severity was immediately dissolved by her wide, sunny smile and honeyed Southern accent.

“Agent Healey has been working on the recovery of the missing paintings,” Voorhees explained. “She’s been working with art dealers and Interpol. The FBI is always called in to assist the local police on the theft of art worth over five thousand dollars because of the likelihood that it will be transported across state lines, which is a violation of Federal law.”

Martinez, who had left the room, returned with another folding chair, which he placed next to Charlotte’s for the FBI agent.

“Agent Healey is very eager to hear what you have to tell us,” said Voorhees. “As am I and Martinez, here. We would be very pleased if you would enlighten us.” Then he waved his arm stiffly as if he were Ed Sullivan introducing the next dog act, and the attention of the three law enforcement officers shifted to Charlotte.

“First, I’d like to see a list of the missing paintings, with descriptions,” she said. “Do you have one available?”

Voorhees dug out two sheets from among the untidy heap of papers on his desk, and passed them to Martinez, who got up and handed them to Charlotte.

She, in turn, pulled out an auction catalog from her pocketbook. “This is the catalog for an auction that was held at the Ivanhoe Gallery last Thursday,” she explained, handing the catalog to Healey. “The Ivanhoe is located on Spruce Street, just below the Falls. The owner is a Miss Diana Nelson. I call your attention to Lot Number Four: Diner, unsigned. Photorealist style. Oil: twenty-four by thirty-six.”

Healey stopped taking notes to study the catalog.

“Now I’m going to tell you a story related to me by my stepdaughter, Marsha Rogers.” She went on to repeat Marsha’s story about the Lipschitz, to the bafflement of her audience. It was clear from their expressions that they thought she was off on a wild goose chase. Voorhees was wriggling with embarrassment at having called in the FBI agent to listen to such a wild tale. After pausing at the end of the story, Charlotte continued: “When I heard this story, I thought of the diner painting in the Ivanhoe auction. Though I didn’t remember it until later, I had seen this painting several days before in the studio of the Paterson artist Jason Armentrout. Jason’s usual subject matter is the world of go-go bars, and I remembered thinking then that a diner was an unusual choice of subject matter for him.”

“Why were you visiting him?” asked Healey, pencil poised.

“I was there to ask him about the murder victim, Randy Goslau. Lieutenant Voorhees had asked me to draw on my connections in the Paterson art world—such as they are—to look into Randy’s death.”

Healey raised an eyebrow at Voorhees, as if to say,
Do you mean to tell me that you’re involving amateurs?
and Voorhees stared her down like an insolent fourth-grader caught breaking the rules.

“Jason was a friend of Randy’s,” Charlotte went on. “Or had been. They had had a falling out over a loan that Randy had never paid back. What I think happened is this: when Bernice sued Randy for the return of the paintings, he became worried that she would break into his studio and steal them. His studio was in the mill that had been owned by Spiegel, and was inherited by Bernice.”

“So she would have keys,” said Healey.

Charlotte nodded. “The fact that she had already tried to evict Randy demonstrated to him that she had few scruples when it came to protecting what she saw as her rightful inheritance. To prevent her from getting hold of the paintings, he asked his friend Jason to hide them in his studio.”

“Address?” asked Healey, who now was sitting up at attention.

“I don’t know. It’s in the Columbia Bank building in downtown Paterson, to the right of City Hall.”

“Martinez will get it for you,” said Voorhees. He pointed the end of his pen at Martinez, who made a notation on a pad. “Do continue, Miss Graham,” said Voorhees, now reassured that she wasn’t going to make a fool out of him, that she might, in fact, even make him look good. He leaned back in his chair, and folded his hands across his belly.

“When Randy died, Jason realized that he was sitting on eight million dollars’ worth of paintings that nobody knew were in his possession. Maybe he even thought he had a right to them because of the money Randy owed him.”

“How did he know that nobody knew?” asked Voorhees.

“Maybe Randy told him that he wasn’t telling anyone else. Or maybe he just waited, and when no one came forward to tell the police where the paintings were, he came to that conclusion. He decided to sell the paintings. But how to go about this? Any reputable gallery owner would question a painting without a provenance. That’s where his diner painting comes in.”

“I see where we’re headed now,” said Healey.

“Then you’ve got better vision than I do,” said Voorhees.

“I refer you to the ninth painting on the list of missing paintings: ‘Diner. Oil. Twenty-four by thirty-six.’” Then she continued: “Jason makes a copy of this painting, and places it in the Ivanhoe auction. At the auction, he buys his own painting back for twelve hundred dollars. Now he has a bill of sale for a photorealist oil painting of a diner, twenty-four by thirty-six.”

“I see now,” said Voorhees, nodding.

“Then Jason disposes of his own painting and takes the Spiegel to a gallery along with the bill of sale. Ordinarily a gallery might have had a problem with an unsigned painting. But Spiegel never signed his paintings: his initials were always hidden in the painting, and they’re often hard to find even for people who know they’re there.”

“Very clever,” said Healey.

“More clever than I would have expected of Armentrout,” she said.

“What do you mean?” the FBI agent asked.

“He didn’t strike me as particularly bright. I think someone put him up to this. Maybe his girlfriend, Diana Nelson. But I suspect a bigger fish. I think what he or Diana did is put some feelers out in the art community as to who might be interested in buying a Spiegel with no provenance, the result being that someone came back with this suggestion for manufacturing one.”

“Do you know what his motive is?” the agent asked.

“I can guess. He’s a Francophile: drinks Pernod, Smokes Gauloises, likes to think of himself as a latter-day Toulouse-Lautrec. He doesn’t wear a black beret, but he might as well. Diana told me that she’s moving to Paris, and I assume that he is too. I think he just wants to live the good life in Gay Paree, and he certainly can’t afford to on what he makes from his painting.”

“We can get a financial statement on him,” said Voorhees. “See just how badly he needs the money.”

“The same goes for Diana,” Charlotte pointed out. “No more limping along with a marginally profitable art gallery. With what they made from the sale of one Spiegel, they could live comfortably for a couple of years. Meanwhile, they could stick the other paintings in a vault and scout around Europe for a fence. When they ran out of money, they could simply sell another painting.”

“It’s easy to move art around,” said Healey. “If you want to cross a border with several million dollars worth of drugs or diamonds, you’re going to run into problems, but not with paintings. I’ve seen paintings change hands half a dozen times and go halfway around the world in a week.” She addressed Charlotte: “Do you think he or Diana or both might have killed Goslau?”

“The thought has occurred to me. Especially now that we know the body was thrown directly into the raceway. The Ivanhoe is situated on the raceway, upstream from where the body was found. In fact, Diana told us that she once found Randy passed out in her doorway. Jason and Randy were supposedly friends, but people have been known to kill their friends in the name of money.”

Charlotte paused while the FBI agent took notes.

“I guess that’s it,” she said once Healey had caught up.

Voorhees looked up at the clock, which read five of eleven. “I think it’s time for a coffee break.” He looked over at Martinez, who rose and went into an adjoining room.

After Martinez had left, Carolyn Healey turned to Charlotte. “Miss Graham, you said that your husband”—she consulted her notes—“Jack Lundstrom, I believe is his name, is a collector of contemporary art.”

Charlotte nodded.

“Is he the level of collector who would buy a painting by an artist such as Donald Spiegel, a painting that would cost seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars or more?”

“Yes. In fact he has several Spiegels in his collection,” she replied, wondering what Jack had to do with the price of bread.

Martinez returned carrying a tray laden with a coffeepot, sugar and cream, and matching cups and saucers. Voorhees had him well trained. He poured the coffee, and passed the cups around.

Healey sat quietly drinking her coffee for a moment. Then she set down her cup and said, “I agree with you that this scheme smacks of someone more sophisticated. A bigger fish, as you put it. I’d like to snag the bigger fish, and I’d like to use your husband as bait. Do you think he’d agree?”

Charlotte sat back. This was one development she hadn’t expected.

The FBI agent continued. “If he did agree, he’d let it be known among the galleries he deals with regularly that he’s in the market for a Spiegel painting of a diner. Then sit back and see who came forward.”

“In other words, a sting,” said Voorhees.

“Yes,” said Healey.

“He was very angry about the stolen Lipschitz,” Charlotte replied. “I think he would agree, yes. He would look on it as a worthy cause, as doing his part to see that art thieves are brought to justice.” If he did agree, she thought with some apprehension, it would mean that she would have to see him and that they would have to come to some decision on the divorce issue.

But she was also tired of putting it off: it was time the issue was resolved. “I’ll give him a call,” she said.

13

After leaving Voorhees’ office, Charlotte headed back to the historic district. Before she went home to call Jack, she wanted to ask Spiegel about the missing paintings. If Jack agreed to go along with the plan, he’d need as much information as possible. Spiegel had known Randy better than anyone other than Patty. He should be able to tell her if her theory that Randy had given the paintings to Jason for safekeeping made sense. He might even be able to tell her where Jason had stored them. She also wanted to sound him out about Jason, whom he must have known pretty well. Was Jason capable of thinking up the scheme of which she suspected him, or was the idea more likely to have originated with someone else?

“Aha,” Spiegel said as he answered the door. “Miss Charlotte Graham, the exposer of my real identity.” He opened the door wide. “Won’t you come in?” She had interrupted him at his work. He was wearing his painting clothes and holding a paintbrush between his teeth.

“I see that you’re working,” she said, after explaining that she had been drafted by Voorhees, because of her connection with Jack, to help track down the missing paintings. “Perhaps I should come back another time.”

“No,” he said. “We can talk while I work. I’m just putting the finishing touches on a painting. Follow me,” he directed, rolling his wheelchair into the large, light-filled studio. After pulling over a chair for Charlotte, he transferred himself with the aid of crutches into a seat in front of an easel, which was mounted on an apparatus that was electronically controlled to move the seat up and down and from side to side.

“That’s quite a rig,” she said.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Fully automated. I may have little control over my body, but at least I can control my immediate surroundings. Everything in here is specially designed for the handicapped. Some of the features were already here; some I’ve added myself.”

“I noticed,” said Charlotte. “The door lever, the counters at wheelchair-height, the recessed space under the counters.”

“The bathroom, too. That’s the most important. I can roll my wheelchair right into the shower. The bathroom, and the Amigo.”