Murder at the National Gallery

by Margaret Truman

  “Including what?”

  “Including everything. Logistics, packing, transportation, clearances, diplomatic plans, the reception in Italy. Whatever you can pull together.”

  “All right.”

  At noon, Mason drove home. Ten minutes later the doorman buzzed. “A man from a moving company down here to see you, Mr. Mason.”

  “Good. Send him up.”

  “You aren’t planning to—?”

  “Move?” Luther laughed. “No, Harry. Just planning to ship some nice paintings to my mother in Indiana. I’m running out of wall space.”

  The estimator from the moving company was a short, stocky young man wearing a black suit that was too tight for his body, who managed to be both ingratiating and condescending at once. Mason decided he’d sold used cars before going to work for the movers.

  “Well, Mr. Mason, planning to move to Paris, huh?”

  “I’m interested in what it will cost to ship everything from this apartment to Paris, France. I’m especially concerned about my paintings. I would want assurances that they would be packed in such a way that the chances of harm to them would be minimal. No. Nonexistent.”

  The young man slapped Mason’s arm. Actually slapped his arm. “You bet,” he said. “N-o-o problem.”

  “Follow me,” Mason said, leading him to the bedroom at the rear of the apartment. The estimator carried a clipboard holding a form with multiple lines to fill in, and boxes to check.

  “Are these famous paintings?” the estimator asked, looking at the art hanging in the bedroom.

  “They are worth some money. Please, I must get back to work. Could you hurry a bit?”

  “Sure. Only I want to do the right kind of job for you. We’re not like other moving companies. They give you a lowball and then hold you up for more at the end. We pride ourselves on—”

  Mason left him in the bedroom and went to the kitchen, where he took deep breaths and told himself to ignore the aggravation. Just get through it as quickly as possible.

  A half hour later, the young man smartly removed the top copy of what he’d been filling out and handed it to Luther, snapping it like men on sidewalks handing out leaflets. “An honest price, Mr. Mason. A fair price. You can get another twenty moving companies to give you estimates. Most of them will come in lower and then jack you up at the end. Blackmail you, really. Not deliver your things until you pay up. You see, we’ve been in business for over thirty years and—”

  “I am sure your company is an excellent one,” Mason said, gently placing his fingers on the man’s back and guiding him to the door. “Your estimate sounds just right to me. I’ll need a few days to make final plans. I’ll call you then.”

  “Better book us now,” the estimator said. “This is a busy time of year. I’d hate to disappoint you.”

  “Good day, sir.”

  That night, Mason brought in Chinese food, put on a CD of Haydn’s Symphonies No. 60, “Il Distratto,” and No. 91 by his favorite chamber orchestra, Orpheus, and wrote a series of letters.

  Dear Juliana:

  I’m sure you’ll be surprised, perhaps even shocked, to receive a letter from me after so many years without contact between us. As we agreed when we parted, it is better that we leave each other alone. Staying in touch after the candle of romance has dimmed, or gone out, only prolongs the hurt, I have always felt, and I know you share that feeling.

  Still, I felt compelled to write after talking with Julian last night. He informed me that he was thinking of moving to Paris and studying there. I want you to know, Juliana, that I wholeheartedly agree with his decision and urged him during dinner to follow through on it. As you know, I am not one to compliment those not deserving of it—perhaps to a fault—even my own flesh and blood. But my eye tells me Julian has promise. He’s quite talented. Studying with the right teachers in Paris, and falling under your benevolent spell, might be just what he needs to break through.

  I am nearing retirement age, Juliana. Did I believe that day would ever come? Of course not. But it is, faster than I’m prepared to deal with it. When I do retire, I plan to leave the Washington area for some place less complicated, and less expensive. Because I have a penchant for ending and starting things cleanly, I will leave Washington without my furniture and the art I’ve managed to collect over the years. Some of that art comes from our earliest days together. Remember? We would seek out struggling young artists in San Francisco who we felt had talent, and one day would be famous. I want you to have those pictures, as well as others in my humble collection. If you decide not to keep them, feel free to sell them and use the money for your own purposes, and to help Julian get settled. I am also shipping you my furniture. Presumptuous of me, isn’t it? But I don’t know what else to do with it. It is an eclectic group; it’s called Empire, although Art Deco comes more readily to mind. I would like to send it to Paris for you to dispose of, or to use. I have no idea of your living situation—you always favored sparse surroundings. If that is still the case, dispose of my furniture as quickly and profitably as possible.

  This is the last time you will hear from me, Juliana. I will leave instructions with my lawyer about whom to contact when I die. You and Julian certainly top that list. I want you to know, Juliana, how much I’ve always loved you. We were both so young and unknowing. But we meant well, didn’t we? I must admit that when you suggested my mother raise Julian, I was appalled. But that was because I was supposed to be aghast at having one’s child raised by another. The fact is that I was as selfish as you. I did not want a child standing in the way of my career. To continue with this rare burst of honesty, I don’t feel any different now, would not have done it any other way, even factoring in the wisdom I’m supposed to have gained with age.

  You will find Julian to be a somewhat angry, brooding young man, not uncommon with his generation. Friends—one friend, actually—have likened him to Caravaggio. I have mixed feelings about that. I would hate to think of Julian ending up as Caravaggio did. On the other hand, the wild abandon with which Caravaggio led his life becomes more appealing as I slip into my declining years. Too late for me to shed my inhibitions and to run with the bulls, to ride naked and bareback in the moonlight? Probably. Then again, I might have one last gasp of irresponsible freedom left in me. Only time will tell.

  Mother is arriving in Washington tomorrow to join me at the Caravaggio opening, which takes place on Friday. I’m apprehensive about seeing her. We were never especially close, and I am not looking to establish a closer bond than we currently have. But I felt it appropriate that she share this moment of triumph, if you can call it that, with me. You and she got along quite well, and I will give her your fond regards. She did ask for you the last time I spoke with her.

  And so I close, Juliana, wishing you only good things, hoping your life is fulfilling and happy and that your memories of me are not all unkind.

  Love,

  Luther

  Dear Julian:

  By the time you receive this letter, I will no longer be in Washington. Instead, I will be where I can live out my remaining years in peace.

  I have written your mother in Paris informing her of my support for your plan to move there and to study in that glorious city. I will also have arranged for my worldly goods, as they are called, to be shipped to your mother, including such artworks as I possess. You might find some of the furniture included in that shipment useful, should you decide to set up housekeeping in Paris.

  You will undoubtedly hear stories about the unusual circumstances under which I seek a new life. Many of them will be true, although embellishment will warp that truth as time passes. The interpretations of my decision should matter little to you, Julian. We do what we must. As one of your icons, now deceased, put it, “Life is what happens while we’re making other plans.” I wish it had been one of my icons who’d said it, because I rather like the sentiment behind the saying.

  What does matter, it seems to me, is that I love you very much. Perha
ps even more important, I believe in you and your gifts. You could, should you apply yourself properly, achieve success as an artist. You were born with talent. What you do with it is now squarely up to you. My most fervent wish is that you make the most of it. That means hard work and a dedication to excellence. Only time will tell whether you have it in you to succeed.

  Because I am your father, I am unable to curb the temptation to give you advice. I know how much you hate receiving advice from me. You might have noticed in recent years that I have given less of it, certainly when sitting across a table from you and running the risk of your angry reactions. Why so much anger, Julian? What is there to be angry at? That you were not born to perfect parents? That you perceive yourself as having been “abandoned” by your mother and father, left to be raised by your stern grandmother? When you think about it, my son, your grandmother raised you in a loving and nurturing environment, more so than either your mother or I were capable of providing. We did what we thought was best under the circumstances, best for all parties involved. But I won’t offend your intelligence and sensibilities by saying we did it for your own good. We did it for the mutual good of all the human beings involved, as silly and misguided as they might have been.

  If your anger stems from the circumstances of your youth, I suggest you look in the mirror and acknowledge the fact that you are no longer a young boy. You are a man. Your life is here and now, and you must discard what I consider to be any sophomoric tendencies to blame everything that happens to you today on what went before. If you fail to do that, you remain a perpetual child, and your distasteful temper tantrums will continue until the day you die.

  There is much about which I should feel guilt. But I do not. I have done my best in this life in all things, and with all people, failing miserably at times, succeeding nicely at others. Your mother and I leave you with what I consider to be a legacy upon which you can build a rich professional and personal life, should you desire. But no matter which road you choose to take, know that I love you and want only for good things to happen to you.

  We will not see each other again, unless there is some unusual circumstance beyond the unusual circumstances that will separate us again. I will think of you every moment, Julian. Perhaps one day I shall anonymously visit your one-man show in Paris, or Rome, or even the National Gallery of Art, and will bask anonymously in the light of your talent, just as I have always done with the great artists whose work has been placed in my hands.

  Love,

  Father

  Dear Cynthia:

  By the time you receive this letter, I will not be reachable by you or your sour attorney. The art you and your attorney wish to confiscate will no longer be available to you. It has been donated to a worthy charity.

  I do not believe in holding grudges. Carrying anger toward another person is a hurtful exercise that burdens one with unnecessary baggage as we go through life, particularly the later stages of it. But I’m afraid I must make an exception in your case, Cynthia. There is little I regret having done in my life. You represent an outstanding exception. I don’t believe you ever cared about my well-being, nor that of any others with whom you came into intimate contact. Despite that, my dear, I shall demonstrate a largeness of spirit in forgiving you and hope that what is left of your life provides you with the sort of spiritual nourishment that seems to have eluded you so far.

  I have found that elusive, precious commodity called freedom.

  Sincerely,

  Luther

  My Dearest Lynn:

  They say that as you grow older, you are supposed to become more conservative because you have more to conserve. I find my life taking a path quite contrary to that belief. I grow more liberal with each passing day, perhaps not politically, but certainly in the way I choose to live my life. If what I am about to do represents a liberal act, then I join the ranks of the great left thinkers.

  Of course, someone once said that there is nothing sadder than an old liberal. I believe they were referring to Hubert Humphrey. But I find it even sadder when I see old men attempting to rejuvenate themselves on the arms of young women. Did people look at me that way when you and I entered restaurants, or the theater? I wince at the thought. A man my age can only take from vivacious and beautiful young women like you. For you have much to give, and I have little. Money? I don’t possess much of that, as you know. Wisdom? Fatherly advice? A distinct possibility, although once we shared a bed together, my fatherly role, if that is what it was, was immediately tangled in the sheets we dampened together.

  I have not always done the right thing with people, although Lord knows I’ve tried. I certainly want to do the right thing where you are concerned. Perhaps by the time you receive this letter, my suggestion that you be considered for the promotion on my staff will have become reality. I certainly hope so. I can do no more than to strongly urge that you be given the slot. If you are turned down, don’t become disheartened. You have a bright future ahead of you as a curator, and I take pride in having helped create the foundation upon which you build your career.

  You have given me much pleasure. For that I am grateful. You renewed my spirits, to say nothing of my slumping libido. Thank you for that, too. But we both know that the relationship we forged outside the walls of the National Gallery was meant to last only a moment in time. That it came to its logical and preordained conclusion now is fortuitous. I shall be leaving Washington under a cloud of accusation, perhaps disgust, on the part of those who view my actions from their own perspectives. I care not what they think. But I do care what you think of me, of our time together, of my hand in helping develop your already sensitive eye toward things of beauty. I take comfort in the fact that my eye has not lost its keenness. You are a thing of beauty, Lynn. A lovely painting that I had the pleasure of enjoying for however brief a time.

  Be well. Think of me fondly and know that I have, at last, found the sort of true happiness I have sought my entire life.

  Love,

  Luther

  TO: Courtney Whitney III

  FROM: Luther Mason, Senior Curator

  SUBJECT: My Resignation

  This is to inform you in writing that effective this date, I am leaving my post as senior curator for the National Gallery of Art.

  I view my years at the National Gallery with a sense of pride and accomplishment. Since joining this wonderful institution, I have not only watched it grow both in size and esteem, I immodestly take my share of credit for having contributed to that growth. I will have submitted the appropriate paperwork to the Personnel Office (one day the National Gallery must join the twentieth century and rename its Personnel Department the Human Resources Department, or some other euphemism, as others have) to arrange for my pension, 401K, and other benefits to be distributed to those I name. I will be seeking solitude in my retirement and thus will leave no forwarding address.

  I wish you and your excellent staff every success in the future.

  Sincerely,

  Luther Mason, Senior Curator

  Mother Dearest:

  I write this letter on the eve of your arrival in Washington. I look forward so much to seeing you and to having you share in the celebration of the opening of my greatest achievement as a curator, the exhibition of works by Michelangelo Caravaggio.

  Spending this time with you is especially important to me because it will be the last time we will see each other. I have made long-range plans, necessitating leaving my post at the National Gallery and going far away to live out what years I have left. Please don’t misunderstand. I am not sick, not facing a terminal illness. But I have come to the conclusion that a man (or, of course, a woman) must pause at some point to assess what life has been so far and to determine how to face mortality in a way that will bring the maximum contentment. I believe I have come to the proper decision. Although it is fraught with potential problems, I am confident it will proceed as planned.

  I have always wanted you to be proud of me. I know I have done
things in my life of which you disapproved. Leaving Julian with you and going off to pursue my career certainly must head that list. But as I have written Julian, it was in the best interests of everyone concerned—Julian, Juliana, me, and, I am convinced, you. You did a wonderful job of raising my son and for that I shall be eternally grateful.

  Because I will be dropping out of sight under unusual circumstances, I’m afraid it will be impossible for me to maintain contact with you, or with anyone else for that matter. Please try to understand. My silence shall not be born of neglect, simply pragmatic necessity.

  I am not sure when I will be leaving, but I wanted this letter, as well as others, written and ready to be delivered when that time comes.

  Thank you, Mother, for bringing me into this world and for nurturing my love of art. A parent can do no more than to prepare a child for a productive and fulfilling adult life. You did that for me.

  I could go on, but there seems little more to say except that I love you very much and pray that you will think of me often, and in a positive light.

  Love,

  Your Son, Luther

  He stopped writing, with a mist of tears in his eyes. He carefully addressed each envelope, inserted the letters, sealed them, and placed them in a small locked box he kept in the back of the closet. Writing the letters had been exhausting. He quickly cleaned up the kitchen, took out the garbage, dressed for bed, poured himself an unusually large snifter of brandy, and looked through the first Caravaggio book his mother had bought him so many years ago. He’d done it thousands of times; the pages were dog-eared and stained. He soon dozed off.

  Waking at three, he stumbled into the bedroom and fell on the bed.

  His dreams that night were torturous.

  THURSDAY