The Hanging

by Wendy Hornsby

  He caught her hand. “Just think of me and Maggie like the ex that moved back in after the divorce was final, and we’ll get along perfectly fine.”

  “You two can stop now,” I said. “Lana, does this space have keys, or are we out in a hallway?”

  She handed me a manila envelope heavy with keys.

  I held out a hand to help Guido up off the couch. “You coming?”

  “What’s that thing on your chin?” he asked, leaning in for a closer look at my face.

  “Someone took a shot at me today with a pellet gun.”

  “Who did?” Lana demanded, voice full of some cross between righteous indignation and morbid curiosity.

  “Beats me,” I said. “Sure hope the bugger doesn’t finish the job before we get the film finished. I like this project.”

  “Oh my God,” she said, emphasizing every syllable, probably composing the press release in her head, “Filmmaker shot at to stop her from...”

  As we headed for the door, Lana, still sitting on the couch, called after us. “What, you’re leaving already? No little good-to-be-back-and-thanks-a-ton-Lana speech?”

  “Might be too early for that,” I said. “I need roses, a box of candy and a little smooching first.”

  “Dinner tonight, then, both of you?” she asked.

  “Sorry, I promised to take my mom grocery shopping.”

  She looked crestfallen—we had once been pretty good friends—so I said, “How about tomorrow? Fergie will join us.”

  Lana said she would make reservations, and Guido and I headed for the elevator.

  “What happened?” Guido asked when we were alone.

  “I think it was a kid,” I said. “Someone did a kamikaze graffiti run and took a pellet gun in case he was confronted. Honestly, I think I just happened into the situation.”

  “You weren’t hurt?”

  I flexed my shoulder up, winced, said, “Just a scratch.”

  We found our office on the fourth floor. It had been vacated recently by the production staff of a cancelled afternoon talk show, and was still partially furnished. The phone on a desk in the small outer office worked, so I called Fergie, told her where we were and that she could move in at any time; I would leave her set of keys with Security downstairs. She said she would be there in the morning to start getting things set up.

  The second call was to Jack Flaherty in the Archives and Research department to tell him that we could be friends again.

  “Fergie already told me,” he said. “I found some interesting poop about this Hiram Chin guy. You want me to shoot it to you now?”

  I did. And asked him to copy the files to Fergie.

  Guido and I explored our new space. There were two desks in the outer office that would do for him and Fergie. He would be spending most of his time in the field, so all he needed was a telephone and a desk for his computer.

  The inner office was big enough for a decent-sized desk, a small sofa—a necessity, some storage cupboards and several monitors.

  “Hey, we’re coming up in the world,” Guido said. “We got a window this time.”

  I went over and checked out the view. We looked across the Midway directly onto the administration offices.

  “If I get right up to the glass I can see a little of Mount Wilson,” I said.

  “Hey, don’t knock it, it’s a window. When Redd Foxx had a hit series, he had to threaten to go on strike to get a window.”

  “Did he get it?”

  “Yeah. They came in and cut one in his wall.”

  “Then what have I to complain about?” I said.

  “We’ll make do,” he said, picking up his ubiquitous backpack. “If you’re not hanging around, I’m going downstairs to commandeer some steel lockers and have a talk with the news director about renting equipment and crews. Let’s get what we need from the affiliate because it’s cheaper than going to the network. And what the hell are you smiling at?”

  “We’re back, Guido.”

  He grinned. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “At the moment, yes.” I did not need to add, but it may only last a moment.

  I made some rounds, saying hello to old friends, letting them know that Guido and I would be around again, at least for a little while. When I left the studio, Guido was happily engaged with the technical details necessary for the production of a documentary.

  It was still raining when I got back on the freeway. Traffic moved well enough until the 405 interchange, and then nearly halted. I had just squeezed through that log jam when my mobile phone offered the first bar of “The Last Time I Saw Paris,” my ring-tone for Jean-Paul. I put the call on speaker.

  “May I take you to dinner tonight?” he asked.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Hancock Park.”

  “I can’t think of anything that would be nicer than seeing you tonight,” I said. “But the freeways are a mess and I’m taking my mom out. I’d ask you to join us, but if you got on the road right now it would take you more than two hours to get to my house. I like you too much to put you through that.”

  And besides, I did not say, the day had already been too long already, I did not want to spruce up for an evening out.

  He asked, then, about Wednesday night. I said that would be just fine. We talked for a while. He’d spent his afternoon with a perfume trade association and now his nose itched. I told him about signing with the network; I did not mention the pellet hole in my shoulder or how it got there. The conversation took the pain out of that usually excruciating freeway slog and my mind off my discomfort.

  After he said good night, I hit Lana’s number.

  “We’ll have to move dinner to Thursday,” I told her. “And we’ll have to make an early night of it. I have an early class on Friday.”

  “What, did you get a better offer?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” I told her about Jean-Paul, and we agreed that it was rotten to stand up a friend because a man called. And we agreed that she would have done the same thing to me.

  Guido was somewhat less understanding, but we moved on to a discussion about interns and he became much happier. The interns Guido brought aboard were always bright, beautiful female graduate film students. I told him that I was bringing one of my own, a young man, and he was less than enthusiastic about it. But that’s to be understood because Guido is one of the Sicilian Patrinis for whom—at least for the men of the clan—the appreciation of the female form is the greatest source of both joy and unholy mess-ups. As his Uncle Vinnie would say, “Whatcha gonna do ‘bout it?”

  We had permission to film the memorial. Because Uncle Max had finagled exclusive permission—we would be the only media crew allowed inside the gym for the service—Guido had been able to negotiate a sweetheart rate with the network for the use of a film crew. We talked for a few minutes about exactly what we hoped to capture. He and his people would be at the college early to set up and I would connect with them when I arrived before noon with Sly.

  When I finally made it to Mom’s apartment, she told me she really didn’t need to go grocery shopping, so we went straight over to the Wood Ranch for dinner. We sat in front of a roaring fire in a softly lit dining room and had a lovely, quiet meal.

  “Gracie Nussbaum is flying down for a visit,” she told me. Gracie and her late husband, Ben, had been among my parents’ closest friends for nearly fifty years.

  “She must miss you,” I said. “When is she coming?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. She’s flying in to Burbank.”

  “At what time?”

  “Three.”

  My stomach sank. Mom wasn’t driving yet. Holloway’s memorial was at noon in Anacapa, and I needed to be there. With all the to-ing and fro-ing involved, getting to Burbank at three would not be easy, especially if it was still raining. And I could not expect Gracie to rent a car and negotiate the unfamiliar freeways during rush hour, in the rain. I had decided to hire a car service when Mom covered m
y hand with hers.

  “Oh, honey. Don’t worry, Margot, sweetheart, I’m not expecting you to pick up Gracie. I know you and Max are busy tomorrow with that funeral. I made arrangements with your neighbor, Early. He finishes at the studio in time to scoop up Gracie on his way home.”

  “That’s great,” I said. My relief must have shown.

  “I wonder, though, if Gracie might borrow your extra car.”

  My extra car was Mike’s four-wheel-drive F250 pickup. I could not see Gracie driving that big truck. But hell, I could drive it.

  “Sure,” I said, wondering about my dinner plans with Jean-Paul. “We’ll need to figure out the logistics of getting the car down to you.”

  “Ricardo said that he and Linda would go up to your place sometime tomorrow and drive it down, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Perfectly. I’ll leave a set of keys on the nail just inside the feed shed.”

  “Thank you, dear. Gracie hasn’t been to the Getty Museum yet. We thought we might go on Friday.”

  I had two concerns: her knee holding up during a museum stroll, and accommodations for Gracie. I refrained from bringing up the first, but asked, “I never looked, Mom—does your sofa open into a bed?”

  “No. Kate and Roger invited us to stay in the second casita, the one they built for Roger’s grandchildren.”

  I leaned back in my cushy seat, warm, sated, a little sleepy, and caught myself grinning.

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “What brought that on?”

  “You are so terrific. You’ve been here barely a month and you’ve already acquired a whole community.”

  She laughed. “I have certainly moved in on your community.”

  “Would this be a good time to ask if you’ve given any more thought to moving down?”

  “I have, actually.” She watched a busboy add a chunk of wood to the fire. “I am enjoying my little apartment. It’s so comfortable and so easy to take care of. If anything needs repairs I make a phone call and it gets fixed right away.”

  She sighed. “My doctor told me yesterday that I will be able to drive again in a month, so I’ll be able to manage on my own. But ever since the weekend, I have begun to actually dread going back to that big old house, alone.”

  “We did have a nice weekend.”

  “It was dinner at Kate and Roger’s Sunday afternoon that has made me think very hard.” She looked across the table at me. “Your dad and I always enjoyed the big family gathering so much. We imagined growing old and having children and grandchildren and their friends in and out of the house constantly until we were carried off in boxes.

  “But Margot, after everybody left last Thanksgiving weekend, I stayed in bed for the better part of a week recovering. And before Thanksgiving, when was the last time I had everyone in the house?”

  I had to think for a moment. “Dad’s wake?”

  “Yes, twice in nearly two years,” she said. “I’m beginning to understand that I’ve hung on to that big old house because I have hung on to that image, that fantasy. But the family I have left, you and Casey and Max, are all down here. So why, I ask myself, am I still up there in that great mausoleum of a house?”

  “What about your friends? Gracie and the Jakobsens?”

  “I’m thinking I might move into a two-bedroom apartment and they can come and visit.”

  “It’s a bold step, Mom. I’m proud of you.”

  “Oh, but cleaning out the house.” Her shoulders sagged with the weight of the thought. “Dear God. It makes me tired just to think about.”

  “You decide what you want to keep, and we’ll leave the rest to the boys.” The boys were Lyle, my former housemate in San Francisco, and his partner, Roy. They were both, as Gracie Nussbaum said, mensches and yentas. We could trust them to always know the right and the efficient way to tackle a problem like Mom’s move.

  “Have you talked about it with Gracie?” I asked.

  “Yes. And that’s why she’s coming down. She wants to make sure I’m not in the clutches of some sort of cult.”

  “You know that by the end of her stay Ricardo and Linda will have her moved down, too.”

  “Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

  I told her I would put some of the wine and pâté that Jean-Paul had brought into the trunk of the car for her and Gracie to take with them. She thought that was a fine idea.

  “Hostess gifts,” she said. “And treats for the guests.”

  I got home, at last, to find three dejected-looking horses. There was a canvas canopy over the high side of their enclosure and their stalls were covered, so they could get out of the rain if they wanted to. But I found them standing in the open, apparently oblivious to the drizzle. Early had cleaned their stalls that morning, bless him. I checked their water and gave them fresh alfalfa and a few treats, and told them good night.

  Showered, dressed in sweats and warm socks, I took a cup of tea into my workroom and booted the computer to see what Jack had sent me about Hiram Chin.

  Chin had an impressive record of accomplishments; he had no need to pad his résumé, though I knew that people did it all the time. Born in Washington, D.C., son of a Taiwanese diplomat. Good degrees in art history, finished with a Ph.D., with honors. Multilingual: English, Mandarin, French, Italian, Spanish. Long list of publications and awards. Full professor at a California university and then Dean of the School of Humanities until he suddenly retired. I read through the mass, and found a few nuggets to focus on.

  Karen Holloway had mentioned that Chin and her husband had worked together on a committee at the Smithsonian in Washington. From Jack in network research I learned that the committee was an acquisitions advisory panel for the National Gallery, parsing proposed museum purchases and gifts to the collection. That little nugget made me think again about Clarice Snow.

  There were newspaper articles and some clips from news broadcasts about the questions raised over Chin’s academic résumé when he applied for elevation to provost. The name of the deposed dictator whose collection he claimed to have helped assemble came up and Chin was criticized for having a relationship with the man—in exile at the time of Chin’s application, in disgrace, facing international charges of brutality—even though the dictator was an ally of the U.S. and a legitimate head of state when that relationship took place. Was campus squeamishness over that relationship the real reason Chin’s résumé had been challenged? How heated had that criticism by his colleagues been? That information might be hard to find out: As Detective Thornbury was learning, a college campus can be a closed society.

  I went online to see what I could find about the collection that Chin helped assemble. There was a cached webpage of the dictator and his extravagantly dressed and bejeweled wife “at home” in their presidential palace. The walls were indeed lined with paintings in heavy gilt frames. Priceless masterworks? Not my area of expertise.

  When I searched for an inventory of the dictator’s collection, all I found was an abstract of a court case that was filed the same month that Hiram Chin resigned from the university. I called Uncle Max.

  “A group of creditors filed a claim against the assets of the dictator when he was in exile after he was deposed,” I told him. “His art collection was listed among the assets the creditors were going after. The court found in favor of the claimants and awarded them the collection and some bank accounts to satisfy the judgment.”

  “Lucky them,” Max said. “Was it a valuable collection?”

  “That’s the interesting part, Max. The claimants had it appraised and then they went back to court seeking an amended judgment. Hiram Chin was called as a witness. I’ve only found this abstract so far, so I don’t know any more of the details. Can you search the case for me?”

  I gave him the case number and the court, and he said he would put a clerk on it.

  Next I emailed Jack and Fergie and asked them to see if they could find a catalogue of the collection from the Middle Eastern museum that Chin claim
ed to have advised. When that régime collapsed, the museum was looted. Who did the looting, I wanted to know. And did any of the art works show up later?

  Fergie emailed right back and told me she would do her best.

  Jean-Paul’s little off-key bell rang for me. His friend who lived on Broad Beach, Mme Olivier, had several very striking works of art in her mansion. The house down the beach from Hiram Chin’s. I called Jean-Paul.

  “Certainly,” he said, after I told him what was on my mind. “I will have a little conversation with Madame Olivier—Lisette—about her association with your Mr. Chin. How do you say it? It’s in my job description to look after the interests of my countrymen who are in this district.”

  We talked for a while about what I had discovered.

  “A couple of the men I met at Madame Olivier’s reception Saturday said they knew Park Holloway,” I told him. “They were on some sort of trade junket together in China. Holloway helped one of them buy an antique jade brooch as a gift for his wife.”

  “Do you suspect it was a fake?”

  “No, actually, I don’t. But Holloway passed himself off as a bit of an art expert. I would love to know if he was at all involved with Chin in putting together collections for some nefarious people. Maybe I should say nefarious collections.”

  “Perhaps,” Jean-Paul said, “as a member of Congress he was able to pull a few strings for his friend. It is interesting, Maggie, this quagmire you have ventured into. Very interesting, indeed.”

  After saying good night to him, I felt all warm and mushy inside. A lovely warm and mushy.

  The house phone rang, another “private caller,” the third that day. I didn’t answer, waited to see if there would be a message, but as usual there wasn’t. Prank caller? A phisher? Annoying, whatever they were.

  As I was turning out lights downstairs and checking doors and windows, preparing to go to bed early, the motion-sensitive lights in the front yard snapped on. Duke set up a fuss, as he does when the lights come on, running around his enclosure, making a general fuss. I went to the front window expecting to see the usual pack of trashcan-scavenging coyotes skulking up the drive. Or maybe a possum family.