by Stuart Woods
“Please accept it as my gift,” Farina said. “I’ll choose a suitable period frame from my collection and send it to your home.”
“You are very kind,” Stone said, and he meant it.
“It will be my pleasure.”
Stone looked around some more. “Could you paint me a van Gogh?” he asked.
“I’ve never done a van Gogh,” Farina said, “but it would be an interesting exercise. What would you like? Some irises? A portrait, perhaps a self-portrait? Pre- or post-ear?”
Stone laughed. “A van Gogh to order,” he said. “I like it.” He looked some more. “Perhaps a landscape, a bit of sunny Provence?”
“Let me look through my books and find something to, ah, inspire me. I expect I could have something done for you in a couple of weeks, perhaps sooner. Quick and dirty, as they say.”
“And this time, it must come with a bill,” Stone said. “You’ve been too generous already.”
“As you wish.”
Stone accepted a second mug of coffee, then sat down and watched Farina paint, as he had so often as a boy watched his mother. The man was astonishingly quick. Consulting a large art book on a separate easel, he held the brush and it flew around the canvas, and as Stone watched, a Monet haystack emerged. By the time Stone rose it appeared finished. “I promised Morgan I’d be back for lunch,” he said, “so I should go.”
“I’m so glad you could come over,” Farina said. “May I have your address for the Modigliani?”
They exchanged cards. “I’ll look forward to hanging it,” Stone said. “I’ll go home and start clearing a perfect place for it.”
Farina got him his coat and hat and walked him to the door. “Drop in anytime,” he said. “I enjoy performing for an audience.”
They shook hands, and Stone walked back to Morgan’s house, where interesting aromas were emanating from the kitchen.
“Sea bass for lunch,” Morgan said, kissing him. “It slept last night in the ocean.”
Stone hung up his things.
“Would you like a drink before lunch?”
“I’ll wait and have a glass of wine with the fish.”
They sat down on a sofa. “Did you enjoy seeing Angelo’s work?”
“I certainly did. I watched him paint a Monet haystack, and he gave me a Modigliani.”
“Then Angelo must like you very much indeed. I’ve only rarely known him to give anything away.”
“What sort of a painter is his son?”
“He does mostly abstracts. He and his girlfriend, Ann, share a studio. She’s a sculptor.” She looked out the window. “Something disturbing happened this morning,” she said.
“What happened?”
“I got a call from the front-desk man at my building. The police turned up with a warrant to search my apartment.”
Stone sat up. “Do you have any idea what they’re looking for?”
“I expect it’s Mark’s van Gogh, the one that was stolen.”
“Ah, I see. They think it might still be somewhere in the apartment.”
“What should I do, Stone?”
“Are you concerned about what they might find?”
“No. In fact, I’d be very pleased if the picture turned up.”
“Then leave them to it. They won’t wreck the place, and you’ll have all that out of the way.”
“I guess you’re right,” she said. “The helicopter is coming for us at four. Will you have your bags ready?”
“Of course.”
They were called to lunch, and the sea bass was delicious, as was the Cakebread Chardonnay served with it.
“I’ve really enjoyed our weekend,” Stone said. “It’s nice to get out of the city.”
“Do you have a country place?”
“Yes, but it’s in Maine.”
“How long does it take to drive up there?”
“Oh, I don’t drive. I fly myself to Rockland, then take a small plane to the island.”
“Which island?”
“Islesboro.”
“I’ve heard it’s lovely.”
“Then when the snow is gone, we’ll go up there together.”
“I’d love that.”
When Stone got home it was nearly six o’clock, and there was a package waiting for him in the front hallway. He set it on the hall table and opened it. The Reclining Nude greeted him with a little smile.
“Hello, beautiful,” he said. “How did you get here so fast?” He took it into the living room, got out the ladder, and cleared away two other paintings, then hung the nude and adjusted the ceiling spotlight to its best advantage. He put away everything, then stepped back and viewed her.
“You are gorgeous!” he said to her.
16
STONE HAD JUST SAT DOWN at his desk on Monday morning when Joan buzzed. “Art Masi on one,” she said.
Stone pressed the button. “Good morning, Art. Did you get your work done?”
“We went over the place twice with a fine-toothed comb. All we found was a frame of about the right size, which the thief must have discarded. It’s in the hall coat closet.”
“That makes sense. Morgan said he had a canvas bag slung on his back.”
“Something else we found. There’s a back door to a service stairway with a broken mechanism. It couldn’t be locked from either the inside or outside.”
“So that’s how a thief could have gotten in and out, except Morgan says she saw him go over the parapet and rappel down.”
“He’d need a hundred and fifty feet of rope. I suppose he could carry that up the stairs. It would probably weigh fifty pounds or more.”
“Less, if it was something like nylon, and it wouldn’t be more than a quarter of an inch in diameter.”
“You have a point, Stone.”
“I spent the weekend at her house in the Hamptons, and although I had a good look around, I never spotted anything like a good hiding place.”
“The deskman at the building let us have a look around the basement, which is divided into storage areas, all of them padlocked. We checked the furnace room, too, and couldn’t find anything.”
“Maybe you should get a search warrant for the East Hampton house.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Do you have any grounds for a warrant for Angelo Farina’s house?”
“I’m not sure a judge would go for it, but it’s worth a try,” Art said.
“There are so many pictures there that it will take you a day just to get through his studio.”
“I’ll get on it.” Art said goodbye and hung up.
Stone called Dino.
“Bacchetti.”
“Good morning, Commissioner.”
“Where were you this weekend?”
“At Morgan Tillman’s house in East Hampton, and while I was gone, your art squad got a warrant and searched her apartment for the van Gogh. Twice. He also searched the basement and the furnace room.”
“And what did he find?”
“Zip.”
“Well, she’s had plenty of time to hide it by now.”
“He did find a frame, which a burglar could have discarded.”
“I’ll tell Art to search her East Hampton house.”
“He’s already on it, and Angelo Farina’s house and studio, too, but I’m beginning to get the feeling that we aren’t going to find it there, either.”
“Well, shit.”
“Yeah. Oh, one thing Art did find was a broken lock on a back door leading to a service stairway, a perfect entry for a burglar—the door couldn’t be locked from either side.”
“My nose still tells me,” Dino said.
“Maybe you’d better stop listening to your nose.”
“You like Mrs. Tillman, don’t you.” It was an
accusation.
“Yes, I do. You’d like her, too, if you spent a little time in her company. Why don’t we all have dinner this week, and you can find out what Viv’s nose tells her?”
“Her nose will agree with mine.”
“We’ll see. Tomorrow at seven-thirty at Patroon?”
“All right.”
“Tell Viv to bring her nose.” Stone hung up and called Morgan.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
“I certainly did. When I got home, Angelo’s gift was waiting for me. It looks wonderful in my living room.”
“Write him a note, he’ll love that. Angelo’s a stickler for the courtesies.”
“I have already done so,” Stone lied, taking a sheet of paper from his desk drawer. “How about dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Bacchetti tomorrow evening?”
“Love to.”
“I’ll pick you up a little after seven.”
“Wonderful. See you then.”
Stone composed a genuinely grateful thank-you note to Angelo Farina. It looks wonderful in my house. Give me a call the next time you’re coming to town, and come for a drink. I’ll show you some of my mother’s work, too. He signed it and gave it to Joan to mail.
• • •
MORGAN AND VIV GOT ON as if they were old school friends, somewhat to Dino’s annoyance. When the women went to the ladies’, Stone said, “Well?”
“All right, Viv likes her,” Dino admitted.
“Could she like a murderer and art thief?”
“She could, if she didn’t know.”
“Surely she knows your theory.”
“Well, yeah.”
“And?”
“And I don’t think she buys it. You been talking to Viv?”
“Haven’t seen her since the last time.”
The two women came back from the restroom, and Morgan stopped at another table to visit with some people for a moment.
“That girl wouldn’t kill a fly,” Viv said to Dino, “let alone a husband. And why would she need to steal that painting? She would have inherited it anyway.”
“Touché,” Stone said.
“Oh, shut up,” Dino riposted. “You two are ganging up on me.”
Morgan joined them. “Old friends of Mark’s,” she said, indicating the other table with a nod.
“Why don’t you all come back for a nightcap?” Stone said. “I’ve got something to show you.”
• • •
THEY WENT BACK to Stone’s in Dino’s police car; Morgan asked to sit in the front. “May I turn on the siren?” she asked.
“Absolutely not,” Dino said. “I’d have to cite you under the noise ordinance.”
“Oh, come on, Dino,” Viv said.
“All right, just once.”
The driver pointed out the switch and she hit it, scattering a group of pedestrians crossing the street.
“That was fun,” Morgan said happily.
• • •
STONE SWITCHED ON the living room lights. “My new companion,” he said.
“This can’t be true,” Viv said, clapping her hands together. “You’re not that rich, Stone.”
“You are correct. It’s by a forger, but a very fine one.”
Viv inspected it closely. “I don’t remember her eyes being closed.”
“That’s what makes it a copy instead of a forgery,” Stone explained.
The Bacchettis had their drinks and left Stone and Morgan sitting in his study.
“I love your house,” Morgan said.
“Would you like a tour of the master suite?” Stone asked.
“Yes, please,” she replied.
17
LATER IN THE WEEK Stone got a call from Arthur Steele.
“Good morning, Arthur.”
“Good morning, Stone. Have you found the painting?”
“Not yet, Arthur, but I can tell you that the art squad of the NYPD obtained a search warrant for Mrs. Tillman’s apartment and went over it twice.”
“And found nothing?”
“They found a frame that the burglar probably discarded.”
“Nothing else?”
“They found a back door to a service stairway that has a broken lock, which gives the burglar a way in.”
“And supports Mrs. Tillman’s story,” Arthur said glumly.
“Cheer up, Arthur, they’re going to search her East Hampton house, too, and they’re trying for a warrant for Angelo Farina’s house and studio, too.”
“They won’t find anything at Farina’s place,” Steele said. “He’s far too smart to have it there. Do you have any other ideas?”
“Not yet, but you have motivated me very well, Arthur.”
“It occurs to me that I have not agreed to pay your fee if the NYPD finds the picture.”
“The head of the art squad is in my employ as a consultant, Arthur, and it’s too soon in the game for you to start trying to get out of our agreement.”
“I won’t do that,” Steele replied.
“Arthur, why don’t you take a few days off and put this whole thing out of your mind? You’ll feel better.”
“No, I won’t. Keep in touch.” Steele hung up.
Stone had been feeling guilty about working for Arthur Steele and, possibly, against the interests of a woman he liked. He picked up the phone and invited Morgan to lunch.
• • •
THEY SAT IN THE DINING ROOM at The Club, perusing the menu.
“What is this place?” Morgan asked. “I thought I knew every restaurant on the Upper East Side.”
“It’s a club,” Stone said, “but it doesn’t have a name.”
“Wait a minute,” she said, “do the members just call it The Club?”
“Yes.”
“Mark tried for years to get into this place, but he didn’t know the right people. How is it you know the right people?”
“A friend proposed me—Dino, too. In fact, Dino was a member before I was, and he had never mentioned it to me.”
“I’m impressed,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“With Dino.”
They ordered, then Stone took a deep breath. “Tell me,” he said, “which would you rather have—the van Gogh or sixty million dollars?”
“The van Gogh,” she said, without hesitation. “It was my favorite thing in my marriage.”
“That’s good.”
“Why?”
“Because your insurance company is trying very hard to find the painting, and if they find it they won’t have to pay you. You must understand that the Steele Group are my clients. I shouldn’t have told you this, and you can’t tell anybody I did.”
“Is that what all these search warrants are about?” she asked. “They’re searching the East Hampton house, as well.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hope they find it, because I certainly couldn’t.”
“You’ve been looking for it?”
“Yes, indeed. I’ve been over the apartment and the house from stem to stern. I’m obsessing about it, I think.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I would not like to have thought that you were concealing the painting from the authorities.”
“If I were, that would lend credence to the suspicions of the police, wouldn’t it? And that would make me complicit in Mark’s murder.”
“I don’t think it’s possible that you had anything to do with his death.”
“You’d be surprised at how many people think it is, including some I thought were my friends.”
“You seem to be handling that very well.”
“What other choice do I have? I can’t prove that I didn’t kill my husband.”
“As long as nobody can prove you did, you’ll b
e all right.”
“Not as long as anyone still suspects me. I’ll have to live with it the rest of my life.”
Stone didn’t have an answer to that. Their lunch came and they relaxed and enjoyed it, and he felt much better now that he had told her about Arthur’s hunt for the picture. Of course, he hadn’t told her that he would profit if it was found. He’d save that for another time.
• • •
THE FOLLOWING DAY Art Masi came to see Stone. He took a seat. “I’m at my wit’s end,” he said. “We found nothing in the East Hampton house, and I couldn’t persuade the judge that I had grounds to search Angelo Farina’s place. What do you want me to do next?”
“Well,” Stone said, “you could work on the assumption that Morgan Tillman has always told the truth about her husband’s death and try to solve the crime.”
“I’m an art specialist,” Art replied, “not a homicide detective.”
“It’s in your interest to become one,” Stone said.
“Believe me, I understand that.”
“Art, what do you know about Pio Farina?”
“Angelo’s son? Not much. He’s an abstract painter, and he has a girlfriend who’s a sculptor—Ann Kusch.”
“Is he any good?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Does he make a living at it?”
“I think he does all right. He and the girl live in East Hampton village, but not on the beach. They have a show opening tomorrow night at the Wilder Gallery, on Madison Avenue, in the Seventies.” Art thought for a minute. “Are you thinking he could be the burglar?”
“He’s young and fit enough to be a cat burglar. I have nothing more than that to go on.”
“That’s not evidence.”
“There’s a computer over there,” Stone said, pointing. “Why don’t you run a check on him?”
Masi went to the computer and logged into the NYPD website, then entered his password to be admitted to a deeper level. He sat and stared at the screen.
Stone could see a photograph of a much younger Pio Farina over Masi’s shoulder. “What’s his sheet say?”
“He was arrested on suspicion of three burglaries in the Hamptons when he was nineteen.”
“Was he convicted?”
“He wasn’t charged—lack of evidence. After that, there were no more burglaries.”
