Murder at the National Gallery

by Margaret Truman

  They got together twice a week at best. Sometimes, weeks went by without their seeing each other outside the office. This was a controlled affair, not a brushfire. And she worked hard at her job. He’d hired smart.

  Mason knew it had not been prudent to enter into an affair with a professional colleague, especially one reporting directly to him. Books on how to advance careers and manage employees counseled against it; so did common sense. But Luther didn’t read such books or allow for common sense. Everything seemed distinctly irrelevant once the affair was underway.

  As far as Luther knew, he represented the only male extracurricular event in Lynn’s life. When she wasn’t with him, she seemed consumed with the art lessons she took at the A. Salon of the Jackson School, a nonprofit arts group funded by the District of Columbia’s Commission on the Arts and the National Endowment for the Arts. Her problem as an aspiring artist was that while her mind was willing, her brush was weak. Woefully so, Mason knew upon first seeing the work that she’d pinned up on every inch of wall space in her small Capitol Hill apartment. Julian had produced better art in the sixth grade. Her paintings were without form, articulation, even content. Naturally, he did not express his opinion. The relationship was too important to him for honesty.

  Instead, he praised her work in as elaborate and noncommittal ways as possible: “It has a certain raw, unleashed power.” “You have an—interesting, original—approach to color.” “What a pleasant, unforeseen melding of geometric shapes.” And, of course, he spoke at length about the Dionysian quality of her painting, using the psychiatrist from Equus as an example.

  It wasn’t long before his artfulness led him into the inevitable. She asked him to arrange a gallery showing of her work.

  Luther tried to ignore this unreasonable request, but she pressed. As she did, her exquisite female softness and bubbling laugh that so delighted him began to harden. After some months, she hinted for the first time that she might enjoy having others at the National Gallery know of their affair. “Wouldn’t that raise some eyebrows, Luther? Wouldn’t Court get a charge out of it?”

  One night, while Mason and Lynn were having dinner in a Georgetown bistro, Julian arrived unexpectedly. He was accompanied by another young man. Mason invited them to join their table. He found it engaging at first that Lynn openly flirted with his handsome, strapping son. But as the evening wore on, it began to nettle him, to the extent that he abruptly called for the check before coffee had been served and whisked her out of the restaurant.

  “You were pretty taken with my son,” he said angrily as they drove to her apartment.

  Her laugh, which he used to enjoy, now had a slight edge of cruelty. “So what?” she said. “I’ve always had this fantasy of being mistress to father and son.”

  That irksome incident was soon smothered in a tangle of soft, sweet-smelling sheets. Strangely, the intensity of the sexual act that night was of a dimension Mason hadn’t experienced in a long time, going back to his earliest days with Juliana. And it was apparently the same with Lynn. Sexual competition with his young son? The stuff of talk shows and tabloid newspapers. He worried about it for a few days, but because he considered himself above such shabby musings, he stopped worrying. The Caravaggio took over all his emotions and fantasies.

  One hot, sticky August morning, Mason drove to Rockville, Maryland, where a friend operated an art gallery in a mini-mall. With him in the car were four of Lynn’s “best” works.

  “I dropped the paintings off at a gallery,” he proudly announced to her on the phone that night. “He said he’d get back to me in a few days.”

  His friend called the next day. “Luther, for God’s sake, I may not have the keenest eye for art, surely not like yours, but this stuff is embarrassing.”

  Mason didn’t tell Lynn of the phone call, deflecting her inquiries until the following weekend, when he picked up the paintings and returned them to her apartment. “He’s booked quite far into the future, Lynn,” he said. “But he thought your works—produced interesting emotions.”

  She gave him a sardonic laugh. “Who the hell wants to be exhibited in … where did you say?… Rockville, Maryland, anyway? I want a show in the District, or New York.”

  Luther considered approaching Bill Wooby, owner of The Collector Restaurant and Art Gallery. He knew Wooby respected him because of his position at the National Gallery but would smoothly, gently turn him down. Truth was, Lynn Marshall’s future as a curator was bright. As for a life as an artist, the expression “Don’t give up your day job” summed up his feelings.

  Downhill from there.

  The latest thorn in the bouquet of their relationship—Luther now wished he’d read one of those books about the pitfalls of office romance—arose when the unexpected departure of an associate curator created an opening one level above the position held by Lynn. She wasted no time letting Mason know she wanted the promotion—did her tone say expected it?

  In his opinion she wasn’t ready for it. Besides, there were two others on his staff in line to be promoted and whose experience better prepared them for what the job entailed. That was one of the things he hoped to accomplish at dinner—to dissuade her from pursuing the job.

  The other matter on his dinner agenda was to put an end to their affair. He no longer had time for it, no time for anything but paying attention to every last detail of his plan. Their relationship would be over soon enough anyway, when he fled the country with Grottesca. But he didn’t want to leave without some sort of closure. He owed her that.

  Lynn was always content to have dinner in small, inexpensive restaurants—her pretensions were limited to her art. But Mason invariably chose fancy places. Was that something old men felt compelled to do with young lovers? Demonstrate power, affluence, and taste? Probably. This night he chose the Willard Room in the refurbished, venerable Willard Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue, the place where Ulysses S. Grant coined the useful term “lobbyist” to describe power brokers lounging in the imposing lobby in search of influential elbows to rub and palms to grease.

  Beneath a high ceiling that was a work of art unto itself, Mason ordered his favorite sweet-corn-and-oyster soup. Lynn made a face when he suggested she try it and said she wanted shrimp cocktail.

  “You must be pleased with the story in the Post this morning,” she said.

  “Of course.”

  “It was a nice picture of you.”

  “I thought it made me appear dissipated.”

  “You look tired, that’s all. That sexy world-weary look.”

  “If you say so. Frankly, I was more impressed with the final results of Don Fechter’s testing of Grottesca. It came from Caravaggio’s hand.”

  “The Post also quoted Lafroing,” she said.

  “Posturing, pompous Peter Lafroing. Always willing to withhold judgment. Well, let him withhold his goddamned judgment. He’s like a lawyer. You can never be wrong by saying ‘no.’ Or withholding judgment. Peter is jealous, that’s all.”

  Lafroing was a freelance curator from California, one of two Caravaggio experts brought in by the National Gallery to provide independent evaluations of Grottesca. Lafroing stated that it was a “good possibility” that the painting had been rendered by Caravaggio but that he would withhold a final opinion pending further research and consideration.

  Mason shook his head. “I will give Peter this. He’s his own man. Not like others whose opinions depend upon who’s buttering their bread. Naturally, I would have preferred Peter’s unqualified endorsement. But it isn’t needed. Everything points to Grottesca as Caravaggio’s. Of course, I knew that the minute I saw Grottesca in that—” He almost said “barn” but caught himself. “In that rundown church outside of Ravello. I knew it was the lost masterpiece. We have to go through this pro forma exercise, which I understand. In fact, I’m glad we did. Now, there is no question of its authenticity.”

  “I heard Paul Bishop make a strange remark the other day. He still doesn’t buy the way you found
the painting.”

  “Ah, Mr. Bishop at work again. Another case of jealousy, Lynn. Don’t listen to what Paul Bishop says. Ever. He’s lost touch. Who was he saying this to?”

  She screwed up her face. “I think it was Naomi Warren. Yes, it was. Court was there, too.”

  Luther knew Bishop had been sniping at him to anyone who would listen. Under normal circumstances he might have confronted his colleague. But it didn’t matter any longer. And he didn’t want to risk a showdown. Bishop’s attempts to discredit him and his work were a useless exercise. Soon, he would be free of backbiting and professional envy. As that realization replaced his pique, he settled back in his chair, a smile on his lips.

  “Well, Luther, what about the promotion?” Lynn bit into a shrimp.

  Reverie interruptus, Luther thought, sitting up straight and placing his elbows on the table. “Lynn, I would give you this promotion in an instant. But it’s wrong for you at the moment. You are a year away from being able, being entitled, to carry the responsibility it entails. I think you will agree that I did the right thing in hiring you. I have never lost sight of the need to nurture your considerable talents, to bring you along at the proper pace. This premature promotion would set you back, not advance your career.”

  Her expression said she didn’t buy it.

  It had occurred to Luther that aside from the question of qualifications, and those in line to be promoted, there was another issue with which to contend. To choose someone, and then to leave, meant that his successor would be forced to live with Mason’s choice. That wasn’t fair.

  He’d always wanted to do the right thing. But recently he’d become consumed with that need, perhaps to compensate for the large wrong he was in the process of perpetrating. Despite the romance with one painting, he wanted to be remembered as a good and decent man, generous and kind as well as the consummate professional who always had the best interests of his staff and the Gallery at heart.

  How would he be remembered?

  “Good ol’ Luther. He really pulled off a coup. Masterly.”

  “He was a good man. I miss him, and I hope he’s having a good time with his Grottesca.”

  “Mason? Nothing but a common thief!”

  Were Luther able to join in those conversations, he would tell them that when viewed against evil governments slaughtering innocents for the metaphor of patriotism, when compared to child molestation and stock manipulation, rape and murder and teens shooting teens, having “taken” one lost painting represented the most minor of infractions.

  After all, who’d been hurt?

  The National Gallery of Art?

  Not in Luther’s eyes. It had benefited mightily from having Grottesca secured within its walls: “The greatest one-month flow of private donations in the Gallery’s history,” Court Whitney had proudly proclaimed. Not bad for Whitney’s career either.

  Franco del Brasco, who’d put up the money for a painting, not knowing that it allowed Mason to pursue his dream?

  Del Brasco had lived his life hurting and taking from others. Ending up a million dollars poorer, and with a bogus Caravaggio, was his just due.

  The Italian government? The Italian people?

  The government was corrupt through and through. The politicians would only use Grottesca to enhance their ability to steal even more.

  As for the people of Italy, what was one painting among thousands? Besides, the copy they would receive was so perfectly executed by the Frenchman, Saison, they would still have an excellent representation of the master’s technique and style. A further rationalization: How many works of art attributed to the Masters had, in fact, been done by their apprentices? A tenuous undertaking, this business of art.

  When engaged in such introspection, Mason often thought back to Thanksgiving dinners at his home, attended by relatives and family friends. A deceased uncle, Luther, for whom he’d been named, had abandoned his wife and four children to run off with a seventeen-year-old exotic dancer who’d come through town with a carnival. Everyone talked at dinner about his irresponsibility, his callous indifference toward his family, his foolish infatuation with the nubile young woman. But it was all said with a certain fondness and generally accompanied by laughter. Other deceased family members were mentioned only in passing. The smitten uncle was still prime-time table talk.

  Which led Mason to believe that when you were dead—or in seclusion someplace in the world—the appreciation of your misdeeds was heightened by the break from convention they represented. He hoped that would be the case for him at next year’s Thanksgiving celebration.

  “Then who will you give the promotion to?” Lynn asked. Her voice was hard. So were her eyes.

  “I don’t know yet. Look, let’s enjoy this evening. It may not last.”

  “What may not last?”

  Mason forced a laugh. “Anything. Life. I’ve been—thinking of leaving Washington.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “You have. Where? What will you do?”

  He held up a hand against the fusillade of questions. “Just idle thinking, Lynn. After all, I am getting older. My pension won’t be large, but enough to live a comfortable life in a less expensive place. I don’t know. Maybe Indiana where I grew up. Spain. Or Paris.”

  “Paris is expensive. I just hope you’ll make sure I’m taken care of before you do decide to—retire.”

  “You know I will.”

  The rest of the meal was consumed in the sort of stony silence one often sees with couples in restaurants who have had something unpleasant to say to each other earlier in the evening. Or in life. He took Lynn home; the silence in the car was as pervasive as it had been in the restaurant.

  “A nightcap?” Mason asked, hoping she would decline. “No. I think we need to talk another time.”

  “Of course. This week won’t be good. Not with the show looming. Once the exhibition is on, we can find some real time together. Would you like that?”

  “What I would like is an opportunity to talk to you, Luther, about substantive things.”

  “Of course. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? I’m afraid I’m busy.”

  “Then I’ll see you at the office on Monday.”

  Mason had two messages on his answering machine. The first was from Julian, who said it was important that they talk. It had to be about money, Luther decided, and could wait a day. He returned the second call, from Scott. “Wonderful dinner last night,” he said, injecting buoyancy into a tired voice.

  “And extremely pleasant company, I must say,” replied Pims. “What did you think of my show? You never actually said.”

  “I thought it was fascinating. You certainly do have impressive contacts in Paris.”

  “And elsewhere. I might also say, Luther, my friend, that you seem to have things well under control in your, as you would put it, bareback ride in the moonlight.”

  “Perhaps I said too much,” Luther said. For some reason—and Luther decided it would take years of analysis to understand it—he was incapable of ignoring his fat friend’s persistent questioning.

  “Nonsense. Everyone needs a willing ear. It helps keep us on an even keel, keeps us from making irrational, imprudent decisions. You’ll be happy to know you missed nothing at the auction today. A few dreadful pieces, the rest worse than dreadful.”

  “Good.”

  “Where were you this evening?”

  “At dinner with a colleague.”

  There was a pause. “A pretty one?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I have a great deal to do before getting to bed, and I’ll be at the Gallery for most of tomorrow. Again, Scott, thank you for a lovely meal. I’ll be in touch.” Luther gently lowered the receiver into its cradle, cutting off his friend’s words.

  What Pims was about to say was that he, too, would be busy that evening.

  Hours earlier, he’d received a long fax from Rome that he was scanning into his computer.

  The sender of the fax had gotte
n caught in a sudden rain-storm and had removed his soaked red beret and black raincoat after entering the small shop in Rome that offered facsimile and other services to small businesses. Once the fax had been transmitted and he’d paid the fee, he put on his outerwear and went home to bed. He had to be up early the next morning for a trip to Ravello in search of a frockless priest named Giocondi.

  SUNDAY

  “Good morning, Mr. Mason.”

  Tom Morris had spent more than twenty years protecting the paintings hanging on the walls of the National Gallery’s East and West buildings. He sat behind a desk this early Sunday morning at the employees’ entrance to the West Building. “Early start for you.”

  Mason signed in. “As much as I love the Caravaggio exhibition, I’ll be glad when it’s over, Tom.”

  “You’ll be taking a much-deserved vacation then?” said the uniformed Morris.

  “You can count on that, Tom. Oh, I have something to show you.”

  Mason had with him the two framed Gaisser paintings wrapped in brown paper. He unwrapped one and held it up for Morris to see. The beefy security guard put on his glasses and leaned closer. “Can’t say I recognize the artist,” he said.

  “Nor should you,” Luther said pleasantly. “Obscure, but rather good, I think, in their way. I bought them in Paris.”

  Morris removed his glasses, sat back, and laughed. “That’s what art should be about, isn’t it, Mr. Mason? Buy what you like, not what you think is going to make you a fortune.”

  “Exactly,” said Mason, securing the paper around the painting. “I brought these in for Paul Bishop to look at. He has some knowledge of the artist. I want his professional opinion.”

  Mason used the underground concourse to go to the East Building. The moving walkway wasn’t running, so he walked its length, pausing to admire the water from the outside fountain cascading down terraced steps to the glass curtain wall.