The Seventh Life of Aline Lloyd

by Robert Davies

  “Was that it?”

  “Nope. It looks like he was some kind of silent partner—had almost ten percent of an apartment complex in Ventura County and minor holdings at a fish processing plant in Norway. Here’s a three percent stake from a company in Poland that builds control systems for those huge windmills to generate electricity. You need to see this stuff, Evan; he had interest in property from one end of the planet to the other!”

  “Does any of the documentation point to a reason why? Nobody buys into a Norwegian fish plant as an investment!”

  “Well, Damon did, or at least he assumed ownership of the stake, but that’s where it gets fuzzy.”

  Vienne had been at it a while, and I heard the sound of a detective in her words: a path followed and lured by clues and a desire to understand no different than mine at a crash site.

  “Fuzzy?”

  “All this stuff was transferred from previous owners into Damon’s name by somebody else; he didn’t really do anything except sign the paperwork.”

  Our brother may have been fond of the unusual, but his behavior was always deliberate and cautious. People who profit from risk are more comfortable with it than Damon ever was. I listened to Vienne, but a conclusion was coming and I needed to know what transformed him from detached archaeology nerd into an investment razor.

  “There’s something else,” she continued. “A lot of transactions went through a finance agency in Boston and all of those were handled by one person named Edward Vaughan.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “For about twenty minutes but he either couldn’t or wouldn’t give me much detail; only that he was instructed by a client’s representative in Sweden to make the necessary arrangements for the transfer of ownership percentages into Damon’s name. I asked him about the others but he hadn’t seen anything because his client wasn’t part of those deals.”

  The scenarios were becoming muddled and confusing.

  “What did the Boston guy have to do with it?”

  “Apparently, interest in the businesses and properties Mr. Vaughan managed were acquired by his firm on the client’s behalf much earlier; he was only shifting specific ownership percentages to Damon on his client’s instructions.”

  “But he didn’t say why?”

  “No. Vaughan’s client simply told him to transfer a specific percentage of title and interest each time and that was it.”

  “I don’t suppose he told you who this client was?”

  “Oddly enough, he did: a woman in Sweden named Birgit Nyström. He said she’s a well-known art collector with deep pockets and nothing better to do. Apparently, she hired Damon on more than one occasion to find or appraise rare pieces and artifacts. I had to pour on the tears to convince him, but all he would say is that she lives on a secluded estate near Karlstad.”

  “Stockholm area?”

  “Nowhere near; I checked, and Karlstad is almost two hundred miles west. It’s actually closer to the Norwegian border than Stockholm, if that helps.”

  “It doesn’t, but I’ll go online and look at a map. I presume you were hoping I’d call this lady and see what she knows?”

  “You can’t; Mr. Vaughan wouldn’t release anything more; no address or phone number.”

  “Then how do we find her?”

  “I have no idea, Evan, but you’re a lot closer to Sweden than I am.”

  I felt the uncomfortable push and circumstance urging me forward at just the moment I wished to be left alone. Another plane ride—another hotel.

  “Let me know if you find anything,” Vienne said before hanging up.

  In the morning, merely by an impulse, I dialed Aline’s number to let her know I’d be gone for a day or two. I was under no obligation, but it seemed like the right thing to do. She answered from the road to Colwyn Bay but we didn’t stay on very long. Three hours later, I boarded a Scandinavian Air flight in Manchester.

  THE ride to Stockholm was a two-hour affair, plus two-and-a-half more on a train to reach Karlstad. The sudden trip was purposeful and nothing like my first, arguably reluctant, journey up from London. It felt like a scene in a cheap B movie as the elusive spy slips neatly past airport security checkpoints in enemy territory, and I smirked at myself for the absurd thought when I climbed into a taxi for a short ride to my hotel. It was still early, but I was determined to pull back the layers of a mystery that seemed to grow by the day. I found an exclusive gallery in town on a map the hotel clerk showed me; if Birgit Nyström was a heavy hitter in the art world, it stood to reason they’d know how to find her.

  The gallery was spacious and well-lit with abbreviated panels jutting outward from the walls, and upon them the hopes and dreams of artists hung in staggered displays that seemed to echo the imperfect creative impulse. I wandered in the quiet across a gleaming hardwood floor, trying my best not to look ridiculous until a man approached and asked if I had any particular work in mind. I didn’t, of course, and his disappointment with a lost sales opportunity was obvious when I asked about Birgit.

  “Yes, we know Birgit,” he said blandly.

  “I’m trying to find her, but I only know she lives near here; I don’t have an address or phone number.”

  He eyed me a moment before nodding his head with a smile that was only polite and not meant to infer he would help.

  “She comes in from time to time, but we don’t publish the personal information of our clients, sir.”

  “I understand, but if you happen to see her, would you tell Miss Nyström I stopped in?”

  “I’m sorry, but that is not something we’re in the habit of doing. Privacy regulations prevent it, and we are very sensitive to…”

  “Just tell her I’m Damon Morgan’s brother. He died unexpectedly and I was the beneficiary of properties he owned—some are connected to Birgit.”

  He stared at me for a moment, and I remember the expression vividly. It was the look of somebody with secrets, but as I turned to go, there was time to finish the point.

  “I’m at the Drott.”

  I made the return walk quickly into a stiff breeze and a second line of showers threatening to get worse. I decided to move on to the next gallery on my list until the telephone rang and a girl at the reception desk told me I had a call. When I answered, a deep voice said, “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Morgan, but I’m calling for Birgit Nyström; she is ready to speak with you.”

  “Yes, of course,” I replied, and he told me to be at the hotel’s entrance in ten minutes. I expected a face-to-face conversation but the phone went dead and that was that.

  I hurried to freshen up and pull on my shoes, patting at myself to ensure the key card for my room was safely in a pocket. It was irritating being hurried along by somebody I hadn’t met, but speaking to Birgit was all that mattered. When I stepped outside, the cold air felt good on my face as I scanned the sidewalk with an expectation she would be there. Instead, a single figure in the heavy clothing one would expect from a construction supervisor walked quickly across the street toward me.

  “Mr. Morgan?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Birgit is waiting; follow me, please.”

  On the far side of the street, a red Iveco 35 crew truck idled at the curbside. As we drew closer, the right-side passenger door opened and a younger man motioned for me to sit. Before I could ask he said, “Only twenty-minute ride, sir.”

  In that moment my imagination force-fed me an idiotic, sinister plot from an adventure novel—a tension-building scene when we know the poor slob who takes a ride with strangers always wakes up dead. I had no idea who they were and only that Birgit sent them. Should I have mentioned something to the hotel desk girl? If I never returned, where would the police begin a search? I thought furiously for an excuse to wait—a forgotten key, perhaps. They looked at me for a moment, and when the younger man mumbled something to the other in muted Swedish with a shrug and look of confusion, it was clear to them I didn’t understand.


  “We take you now to Birgit.”

  He spoke slow and loudly the way people do when languages are confused or misunderstood. I felt a sting of embarrassment at the idea, so I waved him away and climbed into the van as if to demonstrate I wasn’t stupid after all.

  “Twenty minutes?” I asked.

  “Yes,” the older one answered. “It’s not so far, okay?”

  I nodded and pulled my seatbelt, but the worry was still there and building to outright fear as we swung around and accelerated. At last the young one offered his hand and told me his name was Mats. As I shook it, the driver smiled through the rearview mirror and said he was called Daniel. Mats asked me where I came from, and it suddenly occurred to me there were two possible answers: Washington D.C. or Wales. I chose D.C.

  “Caps!” he shouted. “Let’s go, Ovi!”

  “Yeah, Ovechkin plays for the Capitals,” I said nearly under my breath, “but I’m a Sabres fan.”

  “Oh,” Mats replied sadly, as if he was offering condolences. I smiled at the unintended insult and settled in for the ride.

  Värmland County’s hills and dense forests seemed endless, and my suddenly talkative companions wondered if I had family there; lone Americans roaming around western Sweden during the late days of autumn weren’t abundant. They seemed to ask only for the customary reasons cabbies feel obliged to make conversation, but my purpose was hardly that of a tourist and I watched closely as we turned through the gap of a line made by old spruce along a grassy field. Beyond, a substantial house painted in a gentle shade of mustard yellow with black trim stood alone and apart from outbuildings more suited to an industrial farming operation. When Daniel eased to a stop on a circular gravel drive, Birgit was waiting inside her doorway.

  “Miss Nyström,” he said, nodding toward the entry beyond. “When you finish, we bring you back, okay?”

  The van disappeared through the trees and Birgit gestured toward a modest porch.

  “Please come inside, Mr. Morgan.”

  We moved past a silent woman in a plaid skirt and black sweater looking out from the hallway with a severe expression and folded arms. Judging by the size of the place, I took her to be an assistant or a housekeeper, but I followed Birgit to a sitting room made in an octagon of glass panels from floor to ceiling that was furnished in heavy rattan chairs and settees.

  “May I offer you something?”

  “Thank you, no,” I replied, and Birgit nodded twice for her assistant to withdraw through ancient double doors.

  “I was saddened by the news of Damon’s death; it was quite sudden?”

  “Heart attack,” I answered.

  “I see. But we now understand his estate has passed to you and Vienne.”

  “Most of it, yes.”

  She looked away for a moment, watching a gathering rainstorm make its way in from the northwest. In the dull light, I gauged her to be in her early seventies from the furrows and creases across her face and the waves of thin gray hair hanging carelessly around her shoulders. There was an odd calm about her, considering the news of Damon’s death and my sudden arrival; others might regard my visit with suspicion, but Birgit’s reaction was resignation—inevitability—though I had no idea why.

  “I am impressed you found me so easily, Mr. Morgan; I don’t pass out my address and telephone number very often and certainly not to strangers. It was clever of you to inquire at an art gallery.”

  “We spoke with your agent in Boston,” I offered, hoping Edward Vaughan’s help wouldn’t end up costing him later for putting me on the path to Birgit’s estate.

  “Edward told you where to find me?” she asked, suddenly alert.

  “He only told us you live near Karlstad, Miss Nyström; beyond that, he wouldn’t say.”

  “Ah. Well, now you’re here, so what can I do for you?”

  I sat forward on the pillows of a long couch, surprised to find little in the way of artwork considering Birgit’s passion for collecting.

  “My sister was going through Damon’s papers, and she discovered holdings for several commercial properties were transferred from your name into his and most of it within the last two years.”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” she replied with the odd combination of a smile and wrinkled brow, as if to suggest the root of my statement was somehow surprising to me when it should be obvious.

  “We found Damon had been working for brokers and collectors and often in your employ. It was somewhat of a shock to find he had been given interest in a lot of disparate businesses; Damon wasn’t known for being a skilled entrepreneur.”

  She smiled again and tilted her head to one side for just a second.

  “Perhaps, but he was an astonishing and talented man who understood his work better than anyone I ever met; I was more than happy to return a significant reward in money for what he brought us in art.”

  “I understand, but we’re trying to figure out why his fee payments would suddenly shift to property rights, cash, and precious metals instead of ordinary electronic bank transfers. We don’t think that was something Damon thought of by himself.”

  Birgit’s smile faded quickly and she stood, moving slowly behind the couch.

  “Vienne suspects the decision to alter our agreement was mine?”

  “She doesn’t suspect anything, Miss Nyström; we’re merely trying to understand why it changed so suddenly.”

  Birgit turned quickly and leaned both arms on the back of the couch, looking straight into my eyes.

  “Damon’s fees were unusually modest for an expert of his caliber until he notified us of his intent to raise them considerably.”

  “Did he give you a reason for the sudden increase?”

  “Our arrangement was much closer to what you might consider industry standard, so they didn’t apply to us in that degree. There was talk other collectors misled him, and he simply adjusted when he discovered the inequitable structure through discussions with a business analyst, perhaps.”

  “Some of these fee increases were fifty to sixty-five percent, Miss Nyström.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said with a smile, “but he must have sorted it out and brought them in line with what he was entitled.”

  “I appreciate the point,” I continued, “and I’m glad he did, but we’re talking about millions of dollars in liquid and invested assets.”

  “You were obviously unaware of his successes; most collectors at my level regarded Damon’s professional opinion as absolute, and his payments were always well-earned.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Simply put, if you wanted an exceptional piece, it had to satisfy his evaluation or there was no transaction. In the past five or six years, even the biggest names engaged Damon for his services, and it should not be surprising he demanded and received appropriate compensation.”

  “I hadn’t spoken with him in quite a while,” I said. “He wasn’t around much after leaving for Spain. The money he asked for in return for his services was startling, but the sudden switch from traditional bank transfers to only cash or equity interest is the part we found most confusing.”

  Birgit stopped near her wall of glass and surveyed the grounds as she spoke.

  “We are trying to understand it as well, Mr. Morgan. Damon never complained about the payment methods but there must have been changes.”

  “He never gave you a reason why?”

  “He simply wanted to move away from traditional finance practices and we agreed; he offered no particular reason and it was not for us to ask because we have always done exceptionally well from acting on his guidance and skill.”

  “When did this dramatic shift begin?” I asked.

  “Damon identified and recommended a rather large private collection in Dubai last year, which we bought near the end of autumn; that was the first transaction paid for in property interests.”

  “But there was no explanation given for the change?”

  “Nothing.”

  “We dis
covered most of the hard currency, plus a considerable amount of gold and silver were squirreled away in various banks all over the world.”

  “Damon’s clientele was growing and we know he represented several international collectors who agreed to pay their fees into local accounts during that period. We were not among them, but we knew who they were.”

  “Any idea why he did that?”

  “Not precisely, Mr. Morgan; Damon went to many places in the course of his work, so we presumed he was uncomfortable carrying large sums and preferred instead to secure them locally.”

  “Can you think of anything else that might help us?”

  “I’m afraid that is all I can tell you.”

  A dead end. I felt suddenly embarrassed after wasting both my time and Birgit’s, but there was nothing more to do. I thanked her and she sent for Daniel to drive me back to town. Waiting at her door, I wondered if a detailed study of the paperwork Vienne brought back from London would show something more—another clue or direction. I could hear the little van starting from around the corner of a brick garage across the compound as Birgit suddenly touched my arm.

  “It may not be anything helpful, Mr. Morgan, but I remember Damon telling me about property he acquired last year—in England, I believe. It was months before he insisted on modifying our fee arrangement, but he seemed quite distracted by it for a while.”

  “An old farm in Wales, actually,” I replied. “It was part of my inheritance from Damon; I’ve been staying there the last few weeks.”

  Birgit looked at me closely, and I felt her grip on my arm tighten.

  “I asked him about it in casual conversation but he reacted rather badly and refused to discuss it.”

  “Why didn’t he want to talk about it?”