Murder at the National Gallery

by Margaret Truman

  “What?” Mason stared blankly at the trustee.

  “The donations,” the trustee said. “Many and large. Are you all right?”

  “What? Yes. Good to hear about the donations. Yes, that’s good news. I’ve never felt better. Excuse me. Looking forward to seeing you Friday morning.”

  He trembled so on the way home that he feared he might lose control of his automobile. What question about Giocondi? What had gone wrong?

  He called M, Scott Pims the moment he walked into his apartment.

  “Ah, back from a pleasant evening rubbing elbows with the high and mighty. Better than the rich and famous.”

  “A pleasant evening. A good meal, in fact. Scott, have you heard anything from Rome about—well, about the priest, Giocondi?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have. Should I? Trouble?”

  “No. No trouble. It’s just that there was lots of conversation about him, and I wondered whether he perhaps had been interviewed by some Italian scandal sheet.”

  Pims’s laugh was long and hearty. “Wouldn’t that send you racing to the nearest drugstore for a year’s supply of Tums.”

  “Just thought I’d ask, that’s all. If anyone was likely to know, you would.” Mason felt momentarily relieved.

  “Free for dinner tomorrow night? I’ll make it my business to know more by then. Come to think of it, it is my business. We can discuss it at length.”

  “I’m having dinner with Julian.”

  “If he shows up.”

  “I think he will. He needs money.”

  “Yes, money. The great motivator. Well, Luther, you sound tired. Get a good night’s sleep. We’ll be in touch tomorrow, dinner or not.”

  TUESDAY

  The minute Court Whitney got off the phone with Carole Aprile, he summoned Mason to his office. “Did you know about Giocondi’s checkered background?”

  “Checkered?”

  “Your friendly parish priest with the lost masterpiece in his closet has a record—a little larceny in his history—and managed to get defrocked in the process.”

  “This is news to me, Court. My understanding was that he was retired.”

  “The Vatican’s diplomatic way of putting it. I think you should talk to this Time reporter. He called me a few hours ago. I put him off.” He handed Mason the reporter’s number in Italy.

  “Of course I’ll call him. But it all seems silly, don’t you think? I mean, what does it matter? Father Giocondi hasn’t profited from having Grottesca sitting in his parish. His background, whatever it might be, has nothing to do with the painting.”

  “But a nuisance. And to think we showcased one light-fingered, slippery little priest at our first dinner. Call the reporter and put it to rest.”

  “I’ll let you know how the conversation goes.”

  MEMO

  TO: Courtney Whitney

  FROM: Luther Mason

  RE: Time magazine

  Had a pleasant twenty-minute chat with the reporter. He agrees that Father Giocondi’s past means little. Except, of course, it makes for a story, and I suppose journalists are always looking for stories, no matter how inconsequential. The reporter is dealing only from rumor. Seems he hasn’t been able to locate Giocondi. Reporter assures me the story focuses on the exhibition, on Caravaggio’s life, and that the Giocondi story is nothing more than a sidebar.

  Mason was somewhat relieved after his soothing telephone call to the Time reporter and spent most of the afternoon overseeing the hanging of four more Caravaggios. He checked in with Whitney at five. “Go on home, Luther,” the director said, hearing traces of tension and fatigue. “I’m sure you’ll want to be bright and bushy-tailed in the morning when Grottesca goes up.”

  “Yes, I am looking forward to that moment. By the way, Court, my mother is arriving tomorrow from Indiana.”

  “Oh? To see her son bask in his glory?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Luther.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve done a remarkable job with this exhibition. I can only say that the trustees—and I, of course—are extremely grateful.”

  “It makes me feel good to hear you say that, Court. Very good indeed. Good night.”

  When Julian had first come to Washington from Indiana to pursue his college education, his father had tried to introduce him to Washington’s better restaurants. The city didn’t always have a selection of good ones from which to choose, its reputation for inferior food honestly earned. But that was no longer the case. Restaurants of every stripe, and encompassing every ethnic taste, proliferated.

  The problem was that Mason couldn’t get Julian to dress appropriately for the fancier establishments of which he was especially fond. And so he eventually came to grips with the reality that when going out for dinner with his son, he had better get used to a burger-and-beer menu. Even then, he had standards, having come to the conclusion that the hickory-smoked hamburgers and feathery fried onion rings at Houston’s in Georgetown were a cut above the others.

  Julian was his usual brooding self—generational, Luther had decided. Everyone under thirty seemed to be brooding these days. All the models in men’s clothing ads brooded—didn’t smile or shave. The young men working in hair-styling salons looked as though they carried the future of Western Civilization in their fanny packs; giving a good perm was hardly that.

  He examined this young man across the table who was his son, yet who seemed a stranger most of the time. Julian had inherited his mother’s Mediterranean looks: dark eyes, olive skin, inky black hair pulled back into a pony tail. He wore a lightweight black turtleneck sweater and jeans in which he’d deliberately cut holes. This wanton destruction of good clothing bothered Luther, but he’d stopped commenting on it because the more he protested, the larger the holes.

  “When do you have to appear in court?” Mason asked.

  Julian shrugged. “I don’t know. I lost the notice. I guess I threw it away.”

  “If you don’t show up they’ll put out a warrant for your arrest.”

  “Big deal.”

  Mason couldn’t catch himself. “Yes, it is a big deal, Julian. Breaking the law is a big deal.”

  “Hey, chill out,” Julian said. “Jesus.”

  Mason willed himself into a calmer state. They ordered mugs of tap beer.

  “What is it you want to talk to me about?” Mason asked. “To thank me for bailing you out of trouble once again?”

  “I want to go to Paris.”

  “Really? On a holiday?”

  “No. I want to live there. With Mother.”

  The mention of Juliana caused her face to flash in front of Mason. He hadn’t seen her in many years; was the face he now saw an accurate reflection of what she looked like today? He asked, “Have you been in touch with her?”

  “Yes. She wants me to come. She thinks I could learn a lot by studying there.”

  “I don’t doubt that, Julian. But there are some fine teachers here.”

  The little chuckle that came from the boy was his substitute for outright laughter. “In this city? There’s no art here. It’s nothing but one damn big bureaucracy. Washington sucks.”

  Another familiar argument about to erupt. But also a solution.

  “I think you should go live with your mother,” Mason said, holding his voice steady. “You’re obviously unhappy here and have been for a long time. Yes. Move to Paris. Study there. I think it would do you a world of good.”

  “I can’t afford it,” Julian said, downing the last of his beer and motioning for the waitress to bring him another before he drew a breath.

  “No, thank you,” Mason said. “I don’t wish another beer, but thank you for asking.”

  Julian ignored the sarcasm. He rested his elbows heavily on the table; his brow creased as he formulated what to say next. “I need money to do it,” he said. “It will cost a lot to move there. And I’ll need money to live.”

  “You’ll live with your mother,” L
uther said. “That won’t cost you anything.”

  “I don’t want to live with my mother. I want my own place.”

  “Do you, now? Then I suppose you’ll have to get yourself a job in Paris.”

  “Fat chance. I don’t speak French. If you could give me enough to live for a year I could probably get something going by then.”

  The nerve, Mason thought. The sheer gall. Did he think that because he wished to become an artist the world owed him its support? The cities were filled with young, aspiring creative people waiting tables and driving cabs while learning their craft and seeking success as artists, dancers, musicians, or actors. The majority of them, of course, had no business, to say nothing of talent, to be seeking careers as artists. Lynn Marshall came to mind. All fantasy, movie-star stuff, or worse, Julian Schnabel, or Christo wrapping buildings and landscapes in plastic, of all things. If that had been the case with Julian, Luther would have attempted to dissuade him. But the truth was, Julian had talent. A great deal of it. Luther had seen steady progress in the work his son turned out since coming to Washington. One day, with the right additional training—and the right attitude—he could become a genuine artist with a following.

  “I’ll think about it,” Mason said.

  “That’s what you always say.”

  “It’s the best I can do for now. Maybe in a few months. Something might be coming up that would enable me to help.”

  “Like what?”

  “A book. I met yesterday with a publisher who wants me to do a new one on Caravaggio. It could mean a sizable advance. If it does, I’ll help you move to Paris.”

  “When will you know?”

  “A few months, I said. Maybe less.” Luther waited for an expression of gratitude, but none came. It never did. It was as if at birth, Julian had been cheated of the gene of graciousness. He’d also never heard his son say, “I’m sorry.” But when he thought back to Juliana, he realized those words hadn’t been in her vocabulary, either. At least while they were together.

  They ate their burgers with little more to say to each other.

  Before leaving Houston’s, Mason asked Julian for his mother’s address in Paris.

  “Why?” Julian asked.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve had any contact with her. I thought it might be nice to write a letter, tell her how well you’re doing, and let her know I approve in principle of your move to Paris.”

  “I think I have it here.” He pulled a crumpled letter from the pocket of his jeans that bore Juliana’s address. Mason dutifully copied it on a napkin and put it in his jacket pocket.

  “Drive you home, Julian?” Mason suddenly felt a flood of warmth for his son.

  “No. I’ll walk.”

  “As you wish.”

  Once on the street, Mason clumsily attempted to hug his son, but Julian stiffened. “Find that notice of your court date, Julian. You don’t want any trouble.”

  “Yeah.”

  Luther watched his son walk away, so tall and full of swagger. Yes, he thought, go to Paris to study and be with your mother. Settle there and start to establish yourself in that city with such a rich history of art. Where you can breathe it in. I will help with more money than even you expect from me.

  Without warning, he began to weep. He quickly walked, embarrassed, to his car.

  “Annabel? Steve Jordan. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, but close. Mac and I are just getting ready for bed.”

  It was almost midnight. They’d been up talking about many things, including the dispatch to Carole Aprile from the Rome Embassy.

  Annabel wondered whether Jordan had called to discuss some aspect of the sting in which she’d agreed to participate. She didn’t want to have that conversation with Mac in the room.

  But that wasn’t on the art-squad chief’s mind. “We found your Mr. Cedras,” he said.

  Annabel sat up straight on the couch. “You did? How?”

  “Not a very pretty story, Annabel. Looks like the guy is more deranged than we figured. He used his hammer again, but this time it wasn’t on a clay head. It was the real thing.”

  Annabel gasped.

  “He found his ex-wife living in Adams Morgan. Beat her to death with that hammer. Neighbors called the police. When they got there he was sitting next to her body crying, the hammer in his hands.”

  “Oh, my God,” Annabel said.

  “What’s wrong?” Mac asked, leaving his chair.

  “Hold on, Steve.” She whispered to Mac what Jordan had just told her.

  “What a horrible ending to the story,” Annabel said into the phone.

  “Yeah,” said Jordan. “Unfortunately, they end up that way too many times. When I get to see him tomorrow I’ll ask about the Tlatilco.”

  “The Tlatilco sounds irrelevant now,” she said.

  “I know what you mean. But maybe it will help us put together a more complete picture of where this guy is coming from. Anyway, just thought you’d want to know.”

  “I appreciate the call.”

  She gave Mac a more complete accounting of the conversation once she’d hung up.

  “All I can say is I’m glad he took it out on your clay figure instead of you.”

  “What pushes somebody like that over the edge, Mac? That line we all walk between sanity and insanity.”

  Mac shrugged, stood. “I think it’s more a matter of how long you stay on the other side once pushed.”

  And how many people you annoy once you’re there, thought Annabel.

  WEDNESDAY

  Until setting off on this Caravaggio odyssey, Luther Mason had always been a sleeper. No matter what turmoil surrounded him, he was able to sleep peacefully through the night.

  Not this night. Sleep came in fits and starts. He gave it up at five Wednesday morning, showered, dressed in a gray tweed jacket, checkered shirt, yellow knit tie, slacks, and his favorite Rockport walking shoes, had breakfast, and was in his office in the East Building before seven.

  This was the day Grottesca would be hung.

  He checked with Design and Exhibition for the time the painting would be positioned on the wall. Nine-thirty, he was told.

  He tried to pass the time handling paperwork, but he was preoccupied with other thoughts. Living on Hydra. Franco del Brasco. Time magazine. The ex-Father Pasquale Giocondi. Lynn Marshall. Julian.

  He rode the interior moving walkway to the West Building and stepped into the gallery in which Caravaggio would be exhibited. Grottesca leaned against the west wall; two staffers from Conservation flanked it. Its frame was the simple one created by the New York framer.

  Mason was transfixed as he stared at the painting, wanting to scoop it up and run.

  “A beauty, isn’t it, Mr. Mason?” a workman said.

  “Yes. Oh God, yes. It is beautiful. Beyond description. He was the most revolutionary artist of his time, you know. Completely broke from tradition. No idealizing man and religion for Caravaggio. Everything was so dark and urgent, so real. Rembrandt was profoundly influenced by him. He—” Realizing he was giving the workman one of his lectures on Caravaggio, Mason smiled and said, “Yes, it’s beautiful. Beyond description.”

  “I still think a more elaborate frame would serve it better.”

  Mason turned to face Don Fechter, who’d been eavesdropping.

  “Don’t you agree, Luther?”

  Luther returned his attention to the painting and squinted. He used his hand to create an imaginary box around it, and said without looking back at Fechter, “More elaborate? No, I think not. That’s the usual Italian gallery approach. This is the perfect frame for it, Donald. We see the painting’s strength, not the frame’s.”

  Fechter stepped away as Court Whitney, wearing a new double-breasted gray suit tailored for him in London, lightly patted Luther on the back. “I knew I’d find you here,” he said. “Excited?”

  “Of course. This is a great moment for me. And for you and the National Gallery.”
<
br />   Luther, Whitney, Fechter, and others stood back as Grottesca was positioned in its place of honor on the wall. Luther saw now that he would have preferred it an inch lower, but those details had been painstakingly worked out earlier, the wall marked a week ago.

  “Lunch?” Whitney asked as he and Luther headed back to the East Building.

  “Love to, Court, but I have other plans. Perhaps another day. How is the breakfast shaping up for Friday?”

  “Splendid. The biggest press turnout we’ve ever had for an opening.”

  “That’s gratifying,” Luther said.

  Whitney stopped them before passing through glass doors leading to the ground-floor administrative offices’ reception area. “I must tell you, Luther, that I had grave reservations about the Grottesca from the beginning. The unusual circumstances of finding it. The old priest. Your need to maintain secrecy, to use your own unnamed conservator. All of it. But I see now that everything you did was carefully thought out. A method to your madness.” He grinned broadly. “Not only are you a curator without peer, Luther, you’re a born public relations man. A real P. T. Barnum. All I can say is, well done! Bravo!”

  Mason was astonished at how touched he was hearing the director’s kind words. He said, “Your confidence in me means a great deal, Court. Thank you.”

  “Well, let’s get upstairs and see what last-minute problems might have reared their ugly heads.”

  Mason had no sooner settled in his office than Lynn Marshall poked her head in. “Is it hung?” she asked.

  “Yes. It looks wonderful.”

  “I’m sure it does. Luther, I—”

  “I know what you’re about to say, Lynn, but it isn’t necessary. I would like to sit down with you tomorrow and have a long talk. Are you free for lunch?”

  “I suppose so. But if you’re not ready to—”

  Luther held up his hand. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Lunch tomorrow. I have something important to tell you. In the meantime, I would like a complete status report on our plans for returning Grottesca to Italy next month. Please have it on my desk by ten tomorrow morning.”