Murder at the National Gallery

by Margaret Truman

  “I’ll do my best.”

  They stood outside together in warm sunshine, flanked by two Secret Service agents. The car sent by Carole Aprile to pick up Annabel that morning pulled into the driveway. Annabel looked up at the house’s façade, an unattractive melding of Victorian, Queen Anne, and French Provincial. “Interesting architecture,” she said.

  “A typically tactful comment,” said Carole, grinning. “It’s not exactly a well-tossed salad, is it?” The sun kicked off the sheen in her blond hair, now worn short and stylish, in contrast to the wild and wooly mane of her college years. Carole Aprile was four inches shorter than the five-foot-nine-inch Annabel Reed-Smith. The VP’s wife wore a smart, knee-length dress. Annabel’s suit was beige linen, her blouse copper-colored.

  “My best to Mac,” Carole said as the driver opened the car’s door for Annabel. “How is he?”

  “Fine. Grumbling now and then about the current crop of law students’ attitudes, and forever promising to paint the house. He refuses to hire someone, he’s not really retired, races to every crime scene at the mildest cry for help, so it never seems to get done. Say hello to the vice president for us.”

  “When, and if, I ever get to see him. Thanks, Annabel.”

  Annabel’s final words before the car door closed were, “And burn that Polaroid.”

  3

  THE NATIONAL GALLERY OF ART

  Courtney Whitney III patted senior curator Paul Bishop on the back. “Consider it a good news, bad news thing, Paul. The bad news? Another voice to be heard, another set of eyes looking over our shoulders. The good news? Genuine interest in what we’re doing by the White House itself. Mrs. Smith certainly isn’t a bureaucrat like Cathy Eder. As I understand it, she and Mrs. Aprile go back to college together.”

  “Hardly a reason to have her assigned as liaison,” the short, burly Bishop muttered.

  “It doesn’t matter what you or I feel about her involvement, Paul.” Another slap on the curator’s broad back. “Let’s welcome her this morning with open arms. She’s a charming lady and extremely attractive. Even knows something about art.”

  “Maybe that’s why Luther’s so pleased with her coming here.”

  Whitney laughed as he removed his suit jacket from an oak coat tree in a corner of his office, one of three new suits recently arrived from his Savile Row tailor-of-choice, Tommy Nutter. “I suspect the last thing on Luther’s mind these days is attractive women. His love affair with Caravaggio is all-consuming. Besides, Mrs. Smith is happily married. Or so I hear. By the way, did you see this?” He handed Bishop the latest edition of the monthly bulletin Stolen Art Alert, compiled and distributed by the International Foundation for Art Research. Bishop quickly perused the list of recently stolen art, grunted, and said, “Three Pretis, huh?”

  “Among other things. Come on. They’re waiting for us.”

  The National Gallery’s exhibition committee met every three weeks in a tastefully furnished conference room on the seventh floor of the Gallery’s East Building, a few doors from the director’s office. Upon the arrival of Court Whitney, the National Gallery’s director, the seven permanent members of the committee took up proposals for exhibitions that had been suggested by the Gallery’s curatorial staff or curators from other museums wanting cooperation. This morning, however, Paul Bishop began by voicing his continuing objection to an exhibition already installed, the early works of French artist Dubuffet, which had been donated to the Gallery by retired art dealer Stephen Hahn and permanently installed in the East Building. “Dubuffet!” he snorted. “An untalented mudslinger. The public may be brutish, but even it has disdain for art brute.”

  Others at the table winced, smiled, or sat back, breathing patience through their nostrils. The Dubuffet exhibition was reality. Why continue to protest? To make his point, they knew. Paul Bishop was a man consumed with making his point about anything and everything.

  The Gallery’s deputy director, Naomi Warren, quickly advanced that morning’s agenda. After much discussion, an exhibition of African art was shelved until it could be determined if administrators of the National Museum of African Art, across the Mall, would be interested in collaborating (and wouldn’t find their noses too far out of joint). A decision on an educational exhibition suggested by Paul Bishop featuring works of the Nabis, particularly the influence of Japanese art on that iconoclastic turn-of-the-century school of painting anchored by Bonnard and Vuillard, was also postponed. It would first have to be determined how many representative pieces of art were available for loan before discussions could continue.

  “Well,” Whitney said from the head of the table, “I suppose we should get to today’s main topic, the Caravaggio exhibition.” He asked Naomi Warren to bring in Annabel Reed-Smith.

  Annabel, in a tailored brown skirt, white button-down shirt, and softly shaped camel-hair jacket, entered the room with confidence and easy grace, someone at home in unfamiliar places and with unfamiliar faces. The red hair with which she’d been born had burnished over the years into copper. She wore it full, creating a glowing frame for her creamy, unlined face. Her eyes were, of course, green, as if ordained, and large. Her nose, ears, and mouth had been conceived with a stunning sense of proportion.

  Annabel Reed had once been one of Washington’s leading matrimonial attorneys, known for sympathizing with the pain men went through in divorce, as well as the suffering of her female clients, many of them well-known Washington figures. But her passion had always been art, particularly pre-Columbian.

  An elderly curator of Dumbarton Oaks’s pre-Columbian collection retired and opened a gallery to fill his days. But running a business became overwhelming to him—more accurately, to his wife, who wanted him with her in the garden—and he sought a partner. Enter Annabel.

  She eventually bought him out, maintaining her law practice while running the gallery. A year later, she took down her shingle and became a full-time, and blissfully happy, gallery owner.

  The men at the table stood. “Please, have a seat,” said Whitney, having buttoned his suit jacket for the few seconds his midriff was exposed. “A pleasure to see you this morning, Mrs. Smith. You know some of us. I’ll let the others handle their own introductions.”

  Annabel pleasantly returned greetings and took a chair next to senior curator Luther Mason, who kissed her on the cheek. “Good to see you,” he said.

  “First, Mrs. Smith, let me welcome you to this meeting of the exhibition committee.” Whitney had unbuttoned his jacket. “Sorry to have asked you to remain outside, but we try to keep the discussion of proposed exhibitions to a minimal number of people.”

  “Hardly an unpleasant wait,” said Annabel. “Not that I was surprised, but there are lovely pieces of art everywhere, in every hallway, above every desk. It must be a delight working in a museum, surrounded by such beauty.”

  “There are those who view our surroundings as a perk of working at the National Gallery,” said Whitney. He added, “Of course, there are others who would prefer higher pay.”

  “Insensates all,” Paul Bishop muttered.

  “Hard to understand why anyone would want health insurance with all this art around,” said George Kublinski, chief of the National Gallery’s Design and Exhibition Department. Kublinski was a cherubic man with animated blue eyes and a seemingly unlimited reservoir of humor and energy. His large collection of splashily colorful suspenders was a personal trademark.

  “Employees are a bother, with their incessant demands for survival,” Luther Mason said, with a warm smile.

  Annabel noted that senior curator Luther Mason and director Courtney Whitney were built along the same lines, both tall and reed-thin, enabling them to model their clothing nicely. But that’s where the similarity ended. Whitney had a full head of brown hair flecked with gray. Mason’s male-pattern baldness had progressed to the middle of his head. Was he allowing it to grow long enough at the back to drape over his shirt collar in an attempt at compensation? Or was it, as an
occasional detractor commented, Mason’s gentle rebellion against Washington’s conservative image? Curators in New York might get away with long hair, but few would in the nation’s capital. That day Luther wore jeans, a red-and-blue-check button-down shirt, rumpled tweed jacket, maroon knit tie, and tasseled loafers, sans socks.

  But it was the marked difference in their facial expressions that struck Annabel. Whitney had lank lips; the hinges at the corners of his mouth didn’t allow his lips to part very far when smiling, resulting in what appeared to be pained, insincere smiles. Luther’s smile, on the other hand, had an openness to it that was, at once, inviting and genuine.

  Whitney directed the meeting back on course. “As all of you are aware,” he said, “the new administration has expressed a keen interest in the artistic life of this nation. Among many things President Jeppsen has managed to accomplish in the early days of his presidency has been the establishment of the White House Commission on the Arts, spearheaded by Vice President and Mrs. Aprile.” He looked to Annabel. “I understand the first person Mrs. Aprile called was you, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Carole Aprile and I were college roommates,” Annabel said. “And please call me Annabel.” As she mentioned her personal history with Carole Aprile, she wondered if her appointment to the commission might be viewed by some as an example of bureaucratic cronyism, a pal’s patronage. She let that thought pass. What did it matter what anyone thought? The fact was that after having abandoned a lucrative career as a matrimonial attorney, and with the unbridled support of her husband, handsome, urbane law professor Mackensie Smith, who’d closed his criminal law practice to teach after losing his first wife, and son, in a Beltway accident, she’d indulged her dream of opening a pre-Columbian art gallery in Georgetown. It had flourished, along with her stature in Washington’s increasingly vibrant arts community.

  Whitney continued: “Mrs. Aprile has appointed Mrs. Smith—Annabel—as White House liaison to the Caravaggio exhibition. Needless to say, there are significant political ramifications to this show. Those of you who have been dealing with the Italian government know how difficult they’ve made it for some of the Caravaggios to travel here, and then on to the Met, and London. I’m personally gratified at the level of interest shown by the White House in resolving these problems, and I know I speak for everyone in this room, Annabel, in welcoming your direct involvement.”

  “I’m glad I can be a part of it,” she said. “Ever since Carole—Mrs. Aprile—asked me to become involved, I’ve been reading more about Caravaggio. Not only a master, a controversial fellow as well.”

  Luther Mason laughed. “A gentle characterization from a gentle lady,” he said. “Just because Caravaggio was in the habit of killing people shouldn’t taint our opinion of him.”

  Until his death a dozen years ago, Roberto Longhi had been considered without peer as a Caravaggio scholar. At his passing, that appellation was passed to Sir Denis Mahon, although a growing number of unofficial judges of such things had come to view Mason as being, at least, on a par with Sir Denis. Mahon was in his late eighties; unless he possessed centenarian genes, Mason would find himself standing alone one day as Caravaggio scholar par excellence.

  There were, of course, dozens of others with a deep knowledge and appreciation of Caravaggio’s work. But they were bunched well behind in second place. Mahon and Mason had already crossed the finish line.

  Remembering Carole’s comment about her staffer’s report of a rift among the Gallery’s hierarchy, Annabel made it a point to observe the interplay between Whitney, Mason, and Bishop. There was a certain tension, she decided, but nothing overt. Paul Bishop’s responses to comments made by Mason tended to be curt, even gruff on occasion. But Bishop was gruff with everyone. And Whitney demonstrated at times what Annabel thought might be a patronizing patience with Mason. But on the whole, the Gallery’s director and his two senior curators acted like the busy professionals they were. At least that was Annabel’s perception.

  What she didn’t know—yet—was that Luther Mason disliked the new director intensely—“Oh, for the good old days of Carter Brown and Rusty Powell” (Whitney’s predecessors), he told discreet friends.

  During a lull in the conversation, Paul Bishop said, without provocation, “Can you believe that moronic critic in the Times years ago who actually tried to find a comparison between Dubuffet and Rembrandt, of all things? Just because they both favored brown, and heavy textures, hardly begs such a comparison. Maybe it was that Rembrandt preferred old models, and Dubuffet enjoyed bloated, deformed ones.”

  Whitney sighed. He knew that Bishop was annoyed now that the meeting’s focus had turned to the Caravaggio exhibition, in which he would play only a minor role. Worse, it promised to be the crowning achievement of Luther Mason’s twenty-two years at the National Gallery. Gravel in Bishop’s craw. Meanwhile, Mason enjoyed the unbridled respect of the Gallery’s vast staff. More important, he had the faith of a number of the institution’s most powerful members of the Board of Trustees. Mason could do no wrong in their eyes. That’s why Whitney picked his arguments with Mason carefully.

  Knowing that Whitney disliked Mason, Bishop had made a point of getting close to the new director and enjoyed his disparaging off-hand comments about Mason. But those were private moments. In the National Gallery of Art’s hierarchy, Luther Mason stood tallest. And the Caravaggio exhibition would only elevate his reputation and stature to new heights.

  Whitney cleared his throat. “We would all appreciate an update from you, Luther, on how things are progressing with the exhibition.” To Annabel: “We’ve been working on this show for almost two years. Six months to go, which in this business is getting down to the wire.”

  Mason opened a leather-bound legal-sized book, removed half-glasses from his pocket, placed them on the end of his nose, and silently surveyed his notes. Satisfied he’d sufficiently readied himself, he took in the others at the table: “I would say that things are progressing quite nicely. I’m leaving this evening for Rome. I think final arrangements will at last be made with the Borghese Gallery for the three works it’s loaning us—The Little Bacchus, Saint John the Baptist, and David with the Head of Goliath. Donald and his people have made two trips to the Borghese. I believe you have their reports. It’s their professional judgment that those three paintings can be safely traveled. You are aware, of course, that Donald insists that special climate-controlled boxes be constructed here.” He looked at Whitney. “It is my understanding that you have approved the construction of those special crates.”

  “That’s right, Luther. Please move along.”

  Annabel heard the unnecessary sharp edge to the director’s voice.

  “The Registrar is currently putting final touches on the agreements with the Uffizi, the Hermitage—although Lord knows the Russians have been, as usual, infuriating in their demands—the Louvre, and the National Gallery in London. We’ve run into a number of unfortunate snags with Galleria Doria-Pamphili concerning Penitent Mary Magdalene and Rest on the Flight to Egypt. Because they’re in private hands, an additional set of egos have had to be dealt with. Bad enough to deal with the bureaucrats thrown in the way by the Italians, without having to salve pompous private citizens. But still, they are the owners, lawfully, I might add, unlike the Russians.” He sighed deeply, as though seeking something from an inner reservoir. He found it. “Carlo Giliberti has been extremely helpful in these matters.”

  Giliberti, one of Luther’s close friends, had been running interference for the National Gallery, through the Italian Embassy in Washington, since the idea of a Caravaggio exhibition was first raised.

  Mason’s briefing of the exhibition committee lasted another ten minutes and was surprisingly efficient; and underneath, the joy at the prospect of being surrounded by Caravaggios shone through everything he said and had already accomplished. When he was through, Whitney turned to design chief George Kublinski, who spread a set of preliminary drawings of the exhibition on the table.


  Initial debate about where to hold the show within the National Gallery’s two buildings had been spirited, sometimes rancorous. The East Building, the newer of the two, had more available exhibition space. But because it was primarily used to show the works of more contemporary artists, Mason held fast to his insistence that to place the works of Michelangelo Caravaggio in such a modern architectural setting would be a form of blasphemy. He prevailed, and plans proceeded to use a gallery in the West Building to showcase Caravaggio’s works—his artistic output amounted to no more than fifty paintings, according to those who kept score. Approximately thirty would soon hang in the National Gallery.

  “I’d like to raise an issue,” said Naomi Warren.

  “Yes?” Whitney said.

  “I had a meeting earlier this morning with the Education Office concerning materials to be distributed to schools. They’re concerned about how to handle Caravaggio’s tumultuous personal life. He’s hardly the sort of role model for the million or so school kids who’ll be reading these materials.”

  “Simple,” said Paul Bishop. “We leave out everything having to do with those he murdered, his homosexuality, his dastardly behavior with family and friends, and his subsequent drug-crazed death on that beach.” His tone was smug, arrogant.

  “Absolutely not,” Mason said, closing the cover of his leather-bound book with unnecessary force. “Are we mounting what is perhaps this institution’s most important exhibition in years, or are we running a board of education?”

  “I think Naomi’s point is valid,” Whitney said.

  “I think not, Naomi, but the point is absurd,” said Mason. “Who are we to separate the man from his work? Should we purge any mentions of the Sistine Chapel from the history texts because Michelangelo was gay? Caravaggio was a bona fide genius. Geniuses walk their own path. We’re not approving his life.”