by Tyler Colins
Recognizing the woman from society photos, I strolled onto a vast oceanside terrace and slipped into a gleaming metallic chair across from the attractive blonde. We'd barely finished introductions when a cordial gnome-faced server brought a bottle of Butterfield Meursault 2013 and uncorked it.
Once the fruity wine had been sampled and approved, we got down to business. “I've heard of your agency,” she said with the hint of an accent, South African perhaps.
An eyebrow arched like the Arc de Triomphe.
Her laughter held a light lustrous sound, reminiscent of a glockenspiel. It suited the slender woman, whose skin was as radiant as her laughter. Looking more forty-five than fifty-five, sky-blue eyes sparkled with verve and cheer. “William Howell had mentioned you once over coffee at a tenants committee meeting.” Her smile was both dry and sad. “How unfortunate he proved to be a murderer. And a dead one at that.”
Howell, a broad-shouldered and well-built man of seventy-plus years, had been a cross between Mr. Playboy Mansion and the Man from Glad, and one of the two crazies in The Gruesome Twosome Case. What goes around, comes around, and he'd perished at the hands of another not long after incarceration. He'd certainly fooled us. I suspected the three of us would encounter a few mad “super-villains” throughout our detecting careers.
“You wanted to talk about James-Henri Ossature … ?”
“You've been a patron of his over many years. I was hoping you might provide some history about your dealings with him and Carlos Kawena.”
Her sigh was feathery soft. “What a shame about Carlos. I'd attended his little soiree the night of the fire. Who'd have guessed that would be the last time I'd ever see him.”
“I don't recall your name on the list.”
“It wasn't. I'd been invited, but declined due to other plans. When those changed, I called Carlos in the afternoon and asked if I could still attend.” She smiled sadly. “His response was an enthusiastic 'bien sur'.”
I smiled sadly, as well. “Let's turn to your dealings with the two gallerists.”
“How well I knew them, what I thought of them, that sort of thing?” She scrutinized me over a crystal goblet. “You'd like me to keep this confidential, too, I assume.”
I smiled and clinked my glass against hers. In reflective silence, we both sipped.
Finally, she leaned back and spoke softly. “After leaving Johannesburg, I moved to Chicago, where my fiancé lived. I met the gallerists there, through a business associate, and took to Carlos immediately. The man was witty and bright, and loved talking art. My knowledge at the time was limited to two university art-history classes and he was happy—and exceedingly patient—to teach me all I yearned to know. I became a regular patron until I moved to Palm Springs.”
“And James-Henri?”
“He was part of the package.” Jess shrugged a slender shoulder. “I found him disingenuous.”
“He knew his art, though? He wasn't a poser or a wannabe?”
“He was the real deal. It's been said that he'd demonstrated a remarkable visual ability at a young age. He began in a couple of shoestring galleries in Switzerland and France, and it wasn't long before he acquired financial support from an established dealer, Pierre Lafortune Magret.”
I knew some of the gallerists' history, thanks to Xavier and Google, but wanted to learn more. “What can you tell me about their beginnings?”
“Carlos worked in an art consultancy business in California. I believe he'd moved there to pursue art and photography, but one thing led to another. He ended up as the director of a small gallery of quasi distinction.” She stared across the glistening ocean in recollection. “At that time, he was also serving as an art critic for a local rag. Unfortunately, the artist he was dating wanted to move to New Zealand—with a new lover. Devastated, Carlos packed up and moved to France. Again, one thing led to another, and he and James-Henri became an item.
“In addition to running a fairly reputable gallery together, they reviewed art for a time. More and more, however, the two focused on advising aspiring collectors on which local artists to patronize and which artworks to purchase. They were able to develop a very loyal client base that implicitly trusted their tastes and recommendations.”
“What sort of art?”
“A carefully selected group of established and up-and-coming artists. They integrated established market favorites with more unconventional artists into their program.”
“Did James-Henri truly love Carlos? They had such an odd relationship—or should I say relationships?”
“That they did. James-Henri often came across as caring and affectionate, but he could prove frosty-cold, too.” Seeing someone across the room, she waved. “Speaking of, the Glaces can make Costa Rica seem like the Artic in January.”
I glanced at a May-December couple, wearing eye-squinting bright designer duds and too much bling. Seated at the bar, he chatted with the bartender as she perused emails on an iPhone. “They don't care for each other?”
“They don't care for anyone.” She grinned. “Talk about shark and barracuda.”
“You ceased being a patron. Why?”
“My time grew limited as I became involved with new charities. I'd also discovered a couple of new artists that I wanted to help develop art-land projects.” She scanned the half-filled terrace and smiled self-consciously. “I'm not one to listen to gossip—and despite my earlier comment about Token and Summer Glace—I'm not into gossiping, either.”
“But?” I pressed.
“A couple of dealers in my cultural circle had shared thoughts about James-Henri.”
“Such as?”
“Glenn believed Carlos and James-Henri had had a Svengali relationship while Chad mentioned hearing about art scams that had been traced back to a Paris gallery—not the warehouse gallery James-Henri had first opened, but the garage one with Nive Neveau. This was discovered after he'd left Paris, so who knows if he was truly involved in anything illicit? Oh, and there was that one misfortunate incident: the death of a promising artist Nive and James-Henri were grooming. Yvon, hmm, ah yes—Malheur. There are about six dozen pieces to be had, all worth an insane sum.”
“How did he die?”
“He was found in the Seine with too much wine and brandy in him. Apparently, while attending a concert, he'd indulged in a ridiculous amount of alcohol. Inebriated, he'd slipped and hit his head, and pitched into the water.”
“I've never heard of him.”
She winked. “You would if you ran in French art circles.”
I made a mental note to check out Malheur's work. “Who was the villainous manipulator in the Svengali relationship?”
“James-Henri, of course. He could prove quite manipulative, slyly so. I don't believe Carlos knew half the time that he was being controlled.” She beckoned the server to pour more wine. “Nor do I believe Carlos truly cared. He was quite besotted by his on-and-off-again partner.”
“Do you think James-Henri may have been involved with the scams?”
“I wouldn't put anything past him, to be frank, but I'd see him involved in something more, hmm, upscale. Art forgeries perhaps. He would do it for the excitement and thrill, and danger, and not for the money. That's the type of guy he strikes me as.”
“Has anyone ever accused him being involved in something illegal?”
“There have been whispers, but no proof and certainly no formal charges.”
I decided to be forthright. “Rumor has it he may have torched his Kahala gallery, as well as the two in Chinatown. If true, I'd have to wonder why. The man's certainly wealthy enough that he'd not need insurance money.”
“Some would say you can never be too wealthy.” Her smile was droll. “I'd heard natter once upon a time that his business partner, Cliff Woods, was planning on selling his share of the gallery due to serious differences the two had been experiencing before the fire.” She glanced at a Kate Spade watch and rose. “Touch base with Bayat Alexandre. The man's been on
Oahu for a few weeks and is planning on stay awhile, I hear. He might be able to reveal more, because he knows James-Henri from France days—when his nudie 'art' photos were on exhibition.”
Chapter Thirteen
Before calling, I Googled Bayat Alexandre. An arts-and-culture magazine photo revealed him as the muscular man sitting with Cholla at the Tropics. Leaving a VM, I headed to the airport.
Seated outside Departures, I sipped coffee and watched Wiki-Wiki shuttle buses pass every few minutes. The air promised rain and dense clouds enshrouded hills in the distance. I was missing home and I hadn't even boarded the plane.
Elvis a-hunk-a-hunk'd a call.
Bayat Alexandre sounded rather gallant and had a slight South-African accent. Unfortunately, he had nothing of note re James-Henri or the local art scene to impart. Was it that he truly had nothing of worth to share? Or that pretty Ms. Poniard had charmed him into silence?
A text to Rey and Linda requested they investigate him thoroughly.
* * *
The flight to Chicago was stomach-churningly turbulent. Fortunately, a newly purchased novel (an odd cross between police procedural and romance) and Dramamine (always on hand for those “oh-ohhhhh” moments) helped keep me calm … sort of.
Rey had wanted to come along, of course, but I'd advised against it. She and Linda worked well together (when they weren't arguing or “caterwauling”, as some might call it) and would accomplish a lot more on Oahu than I likely would in the Windy City. Still, it was worth a shot. The plan: stay a couple days and then visit Mom and Quincy in Wilmington for four.
Arriving at O'Hare at 9:10, I cabbed to a boutique hotel three blocks from The Soul Cole Train Express Lounge, near downtown and the historic Gold Coast, a swanky neighborhood apparently. Save for what had been read or viewed on TV, Chicago was unfamiliar. Hopefully, there was time to sneak in a little sightseeing of the working-class union town.
Xavier had provided five names to call about the former gallery; two had been patrons, two collectors, and one a former art administrator.
At 10:15 p.m., it was too late to make calls, but not too late I couldn't drop by the lounge. Travel-weary designer jeans stayed on while short-boot UGGs and a new cowl-neck tunic sweatshirt replaced flats and a T-shirt. Applying make-up and plum-colored gloss, I peered in the bathroom mirror and hoped Gruff Guy was around and liked what he saw enough to chat freely.
Though chilly, the white stuff feathering my face was pretty. Thank goodness I'd remembered to pack a wool-blend hooded jacket from North Carolina days and a couple of thick, fluffy scarves. Too bad I'd not remembered mitts. Living in Hawaii tended to make you forget that the rest of the world enjoyed winter wonderlands.
Bowing my head into forceful bracing winds, I hastened to the nightclub. I couldn't help but groan upon sighting a line snake from a neon-heavy building to a closed women's clothing store several yards down. Hands tucked into pockets, I stepped behind a jabbering couple dressed in identical biker jackets and smoking fruity-smelling, cloyingly sweet e-cigarettes.
The wait, fortunately, was only a bone- and airway-chilling ten minutes. Thanks to a renowned jazz quartet from Montreal Quebec, the admission price was a steep forty dollars. Strolling to a long, curved bar, I surveyed two-hundred-plus patrons in the warm and glowing atmosphere. Most were in their 30s and 40s, and gauging from attire and jewelry, of middle-class and above status.
A tall, toothy bartender in a James-Bond tux slid a pint of beer across a smooth, gleaming counter. “What can I get ya?”
I raised my voice to be heard above Nina Simone, singing about doing things “My Way”, and ordered a Chardonnay.
“Don't think I've seen you here before.”
“First time.” I searched the moon-round face studying mine with interest. “I'm looking for the guy with the gravelly-gruff voice who sometimes answers the phone.”
“Esto?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” I grinned.
He smiled and placed wine on a fake-marble coaster. “You wanna run a tab?”
I shook my head.
“Twenty.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“Wish I were.” He smiled again. “The owners stay clear of plonk.”
With a smirk, I slid twenty-five across the table. “Where can I find Esto?”
He jerked a hairy thumb to the right. “He's the linebacker chatting up the blonde.”
Taking the glass, I nodded my thanks and was about to saunter across the bar when a question popped into my head. “Have you seen Coltrane around?” He'd not have, of course, unless he also served as medium or mystic, but I was curious to hear the answer.
He shook a head of cocoa-brown curls reminiscent of a scouring pad. “It's been at least two months, but the guy's like that. Comes regularly for weeks on end, then disappears for weeks on end. But I'm sure he'll be in again soon.”
“Tell him, or his big-footed pal, Morton, that Cash's buddy was asking.” That slid through my lips like butter down roasted corn.
“Do they know how to get a hold of you?”
How far did I want to take it? … All the way, of course. Grabbing a napkin bearing the venue's logo, I jotted my cell phone number. “I've never met Morton. How would I recognize him, should he come in?”
“He makes Esto look like a garden gnome. He's as big as a Mack truck, got snow-white spiky hair and various gold hoops in the left ear, and stands six-seven.”
That'd be hard to miss. With a toast, I strolled toward Esto, whose bulky two-hundred-plus-pound frame all but grinded the willowy blonde's. Six-foot-two, dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt, he sported a switchblade earring and multiple skull tatts on muscular forearms. He was, in a word, daunting. Despite two thick scars on the right cheek, the oval thirty-something face was quite handsome.
With a cheery smile, I raised my glass in greeting.
He eyed me up and down, then smiled in return.
“We talked the other night. JJ's the name, fun's the game.” That silly statement spilled forth like oil from a grounded barge.
“What kind of 'fun', honey?” His grin revealed brilliant-white caps.
I held up the glass and winked. “Wining and dining, dancing and …”
Esto forgot about the blonde, much to her annoyance. She sniffed and, spinning on incredibly [painfully] high heels, melted into a crowd congregating by the stage.
“I remember that deep and sexy voice.” He grinned again. “You were asking about Colt, right?”
I smiled gaily. “Any luck?”
He shook his head and leaned into the pillar. “The guy can be a ghost sometimes.”
In more ways than one. “Are you good friends?”
Esto frowned, pointed across the room, and made a time-out gesture. A short wiry fellow's face paled visibly and he scrambled up a narrow flight of stairs like a rat in a rubbish heap. “That guy's a major nuisance. I've warned Barq about letting him in here.” He scowled, sighed, and refocused on me. “Colt and I worked together back when.”
“Back when?”
“In our early twenties.”
I squeezed a strapping arm. “Military or navy?”
Delight crossed his face. “Construction. We made good money. Too bad the boss ended up with three bullets to the brain. But then, what can you expect, given who he was?”
Not having a clue what he was talking about, I merely nodded.
“We reconnected when he showed up here one night three years back. It turned out he was good friends with one of the owners.” He shrugged. “We have beers whenever he flies into town.”
“What about his buddy, Morton?”
“Morton's a serious lover of jazz, Scotch and water, and big-stake poker games.”
I took a chance. “Like those here?”
“Yeah. The bosses are regular high-stakes rollers.”
“I take it one or both are named Cole?”
“Taggert and Blake Cole—cousins, not brothers.”
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Double agent Coltrane Hodgson Coltrane had been easy on the eyes: a young, surf-bronzed Roger “Simon Templar” Moore. Who'd have guessed sheer malevolence lurked beneath the handsome, suave exterior? Given his sketchy past, maybe he'd had something illicit going on at the lounge.
“How long ago did Morton start coming?”
“Eight months ago, give or take. Hey hon, I know a great place that makes the best Big Babys. Care to check it out? I'm off at two.” He took my glass, took a long sip, and licked uneven lips seductively.
I had to ask. “Big Babys?”
“You're obviously not from around here.”
I offered an easy smile in response.
“They're like cheeseburgers: two grilled sesame seed buns, grilled onions, and a piece of cheddar cheese between the patties. You up for it?” he challenged with a grin.
“I'm up, hon. See you at two.” With a wink, I squeezed his arm and sauntered back to the bar.
At two, I'd be back at the hotel, snuggled under a wad of blankets and hopefully fast asleep. I needed to be fresh and alert in the morning. Heaven—and Adwin, a former beau—knew what an absolute bitch I could be when sleep-deprived (going for someone's jugular while attempting to extract information was not be a good thing).
* * *
After sucking back three cups of dark-roast coffee the following morning, I got on the phone to follow up on Xavier's contacts.
The two patrons were amiable older gents, Teddie and Bailey respectively, who had only positive things to say about the Chicago art and cultural scene, and nothing negative about James-Henri Ossature. They liked him okay—he was pleasant enough, knowledgeable and helpful when pressed—but liked Carlos a lot more, thanks to his personable and approachable personality. There was nothing of interest or value to be gleaned from the two.
The collectors, Josh and Felix, sounded harried. The former was rushing to catch a flight to Houston and the latter was chasing crying, screaming toddler twins because both the wife and nanny were down with the flu. Josh couldn't offer anything worthwhile about the two gallery owners, but would call if anything came to mind. Felix, sounding on the verge of tears himself, muttered something about James-Henri being a sock-sucker or something like that, and said he'd only dealt with Carlos when considering adding to his personal art collection. Nothing new there, either.
