The Hanging

by Wendy Hornsby

  Thornbury shifted his gaze from me to Max, trying to read us. “What’s up?”

  “Detective,” Max said, “I take it that, because you are enjoying a cocktail and you folks don’t drink on duty, you are off the clock at the moment, just unwinding with friends.”

  “If you say so, Counselor.”

  “My niece wants to tell you a story. After she finishes, if you do what I think you will, you and I might end up on opposite sides of things.”

  “Why is that?”

  The waiter set a massive, bleeding steak in front of Thornbury. He closed his eyes and hungrily savored the aroma rising from the plate.

  “You eat,” I said. “I’ll talk.”

  “Deal,” he said, picking up his knife and fork.

  I started at the beginning with Sly’s rant, our confrontational meeting with Holloway, Hiram’s question for me at Mme Olivier’s reception about the way Holloway died, the visit to the Snow Gallery and Frankie’s studio with the damaged gate, Preston Nguyen’s snooping and the hang-up phone calls from Frankie’s female acquaintance, my trip to Gilstrap and conversations with Karen and Trey Holloway, my encounter with Harlan, the research by Jean-Paul’s friend Gilbert and the phone calls that led the FBI to Clarice Snow. One piece at a time, like a giant puzzle, a picture began to emerge.

  Before I got to the end, Thornbury had rested his knife and fork across the center of his plate and leaned back, contented, listening, occasionally asking a question.

  “Laid out like that,” he said, when I told him I thought that Frankie killed Holloway, “I can see it. But how am I going to prove it?”

  Max excused himself and walked up to the front of the restaurant to talk with the mâitre d’, an old friend.

  “Where’s he going?” Thornbury asked.

  “He doesn’t want to hear this,” I said. “Not with you present.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I asked him to defend Frankie.”

  “Defend him?” He watched Max’s back, head shaking. “I don’t get you people. The guy takes a couple of shots at you and your fancy boyfriend, and you want your uncle to defend him?”

  “For murdering his father, yes.”

  “You setting him up or something?”

  “Not at all. The young man needs some heavy-duty help.”

  “Your uncle is that, for sure,” he said. “You think Max can get him off?”

  “Not if you do your job,” I said. “Frankie Weidermeyer is a dangerous young man who has committed several despicable acts. He needs the sort of help he won’t get in prison, but at the same time, society doesn’t need him out on the loose.”

  “Now I really don’t get it.”

  “Detective, you have a difficult job, crazy hours, lots of stress. Do you have family, friends who look over your shoulder, make sure you’re okay?”

  He thought about it before he said, “Friends, guys on the job, sure. Two ex-wives, four kids.”

  “Two kids per?”

  “No. All my kids are from my first marriage.” He had a sad smile. “It was a good marriage, but the job... What you said, it’s hard on people.”

  “I know,” I said. “I was married to a cop.”

  “The thing of it is, I think that if we could have held it together a while longer, we’d still be okay.”

  “The important thing is, you have people to turn to.”

  He cocked his head to the side as he looked at me.

  “Not like you,” he said. “I never see you alone. You hear a little thunder and they’re on the phone, looking after you.”

  “I had a rough year,” I said. “And the last week hasn’t exactly been a picnic. My family and friends are sticking close, making sure I’m okay. Sometimes I feel smothered by them, but most of all I feel loved. It’s been important.”

  “I get that. But what does it have to do with Weidermeyer and your uncle?”

  “It’s time for someone to step forward and help Frankie,” I said. “He has no one except his mother, and I’m not persuaded that she has much to offer that’s useful to him right now. If she did, maybe none of this...”

  He nodded slowly. “Much as I’m not going to like going up against your uncle in court again, I get it. But I still don’t have any hard evidence.”

  “You will. What he did was an act of rage. I’m sure he didn’t plan it, so he’ll have left something behind.”

  I told him about Frankie’s workshop in Santa Barbara and the adjoining warehouse, and about Eric, Frankie’s friend, if that’s what he was.

  “Eric may have something interesting to tell you. You might ask about the warehouse driveway gate that was rammed Friday night.”

  “What about the gate?”

  “The gate is set far enough down the driveway that it’s not likely that some random drunk hit it. I’d look into it, check Frankie’s car for front-end damage.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  I shrugged. “Rage, grief, self-destructiveness. Eric said he had to get the gate repaired ASAP or there would be hell to pay. There’s not much in the young men’s studio that needs more security than a good lock on the door, but I wonder if you might find some of his mom’s bogus artwork stored in the warehouse. Not to mention tools that might inflict blunt force trauma if used in certain ways.”

  “You think I’ll find what the D.A. needs to file a case there?”

  “You’ll find it somewhere,” I said. “I have faith in you.”

  He had the grace to laugh.

  * * *

  My faith in Thornbury was not misplaced. During the next week, he and Weber assembled the evidence the district attorney needed to file murder charges against Frankie Weidermeyer.

  Frankie had never been fingerprinted until the night he was arrested at my house. The exemplars taken during his booking matched prints found in Park Holloway’s office and on the wall of the stairwell in the lobby around the broken door covering the switch that operated the hanging apparatus.

  With the help of police in Santa Barbara, Frankie’s car, an SUV, was found in a body shop where it was having its front end repaired. Inside the car technicians found traces of Holloway’s blood on the steering wheel and gearshift knob. And in a corner of the car’s back deck, under a welder’s apron, a heavy glass paperweight that had once sat on the reception desk in the lobby was found. The paperweight was smeared with bloody fingerprints—Holloway’s blood, Frankie’s fingerprints.

  As part of the booking process, Frankie also had his cheek swabbed for a DNA sample. That sample linked him to DNA left on the garrote taken from Holloway’s neck and it proved paternity; Frankie was, indeed, Holloway’s son.

  Whatever information I gleaned came entirely from Thornbury and Weber because Uncle Max, of necessity, was staying mute on the topic of his new pro bono client.

  Through his friend Gilbert, Jean-Paul received updates on Clarice Snow.

  The FBI booked Clarice into the Metropolitan Detention Center in downtown Los Angeles, the federal lockup, later on the same day that Hiram Chin took his own life. Federal investigators knew there was something hinky about her gallery, but after seventy-two hours they had to let her go because they hadn’t found anything concrete to charge her with, though the IRS was hard at work dissecting her very complex international finances. In the meantime, the FBI kept her passport.

  The enormous collection of beautiful fakes the Feds found in the warehouse adjoining Frankie’s studio had been awarded to Francis Weidermeyer by a federal judge, and Weidermeyer confirmed that he had consigned it to Clarice to sell. Though the operation was certainly shady, it was legitimate as long as Clarice did not misrepresent her offerings.

  At the back of her album of exclusive offerings—the fakes—there was a disclaimer that said the works shown were all painted “in homage” to the great artists of Europe, but were not themselves masterworks. The paintings were not forgeries, and according to Clarice, she never represented them as anything except imitations. Jean-P
aul and I could not contradict that, though neither of us remembered seeing the disclaimer when we looked through the album in her gallery.

  In the end, it didn’t matter very much when she added the disclaimer. Clarice’s local reputation was ruined and there was a going-out-of-business sign posted on her gallery door. I wondered where she would turn up next, but I had no doubts that, unlike her kinsman Hiram Chin, she had at least one more bounce left.

  The good news was that the three Millard Sheets paintings that Jean-Paul and I admired turned out to be authentic.

  As for the sins of Hiram Chin: forensic accountants delved into his financial records and found enough evidence that he had embezzled large sums from the public construction bond and taken regular kickbacks from suppliers so that, were he alive, he would have spent a long time in prison. The investigation implicated Tom Jaurequi, the chair of the Board of Trustees who had conspired with Hiram to bring Park Holloway to Anacapa College as a not-quite-innocent front for their construction graft scheme.

  When Juarequi was arraigned, the judge chastised him for stealing funds from students. His response had been, “Those college administrators are a bunch of eggheads who know jack shit about contracts and construction. Taking their money was just so easy I couldn’t resist.” Juarequi was being held at Metro Detention while he waited for trial. With all of his funds frozen, he couldn’t make bail and had to settle for a public defender.

  After Thornbury called and told me about the preliminary DNA results, I spent a sleepless night and called Trey Holloway first thing in the morning. Trey had driven down after his father’s funeral in Gilstrap to take care of the legal details that next-of-kin must after a death in the family, and was staying in his father’s condo. He agreed to meet me at a public park nearby. I thought he should know about Frankie’s paternity before that nugget hit the airwaves. When I told him, he wasn’t as surprised as I expected him to be.

  “I knew about the affair, of course. Eventually,” he said. “After all the crap my mom put up with, finding out Dad had supported another woman for about a dozen years was the last straw for her. But I didn’t know about the kid.”

  He sat quietly, watching some toddlers play on swings in a far corner of the park. Without taking his eyes from them, he asked, “What’s he like, my brother?”

  “Damaged,” I said. “Angry.”

  He asked, “Can I see him?”

  “You can try.” I pulled out one of my cards and wrote Uncle Max’s name and number on the back. “This is his lawyer.”

  “Thanks.” He slipped the card into his shirt pocket and rose from the bench beside me.

  “Quite a legacy my father left,” he said, his shoulders sagging from the weight of it all. “A lot of wreckage.”

  “I am sorry for what you’ve gone through,” I said. “And for whatever lies ahead. My film will bring up topics that may not be comfortable for you.”

  He nodded. “Do you still want me to talk on camera?”

  “I do.”

  “It’s time to go public with what my dad did. Secrecy only protects him, and I don’t think he deserves protection.” He managed a vague smile. “I’ll be around all week, clearing out Dad’s condo. Tomorrow work for you?”

  I told him that would be fine. We set a time to meet and agreed that the condo would be the best place.

  As we said good-bye in the parking lot, he offered his hand.

  “Thanks for telling me. I’m finding out a lot of things I never knew about Dad. But the boy—that one’s the biggest, so far.”

  “Take care,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

  He started for his car, but turned back.

  “The thing is,” he said, “I don’t know that I have anything useful to say to you. The more I learn about him, the more I’m aware that I never knew my father.”

  Chapter 26

  A large crowd showed up Friday night for Sly’s unveiling celebration. After viewing the film, Sly: The Artist and His Work, on a big outdoor screen set up on the college quad, they all filed into the administration building lobby.

  People looking for a good vantage spot mounted the stairway and lined the railing of the second floor corridor, all eyes on the huge silk drape, courtesy of the Theater Department, that shrouded Sly’s sculpture hanging from the ceiling above the open stairwell. Cameras flashed, strobes in the softly lit space.

  Everything was ready for a party. Tables loaded with exquisite little pastries made by the Culinary Arts students and two-bite-sized pizzas with every imaginable topping, courtesy of Roberta’s Village restaurant, tubs of soft drinks, imported champagne Jean-Paul had asked its American representative to donate, were arranged around the room. Fresh flowers abounded. The college jazz ensemble played on risers set up behind the reception counter.

  As conversations rose to a vibrant crescendo, fueled by happy anticipation, two trumpeters emerged from a second-floor office and blew a call to attention, silencing the room as spotlights hit the microphone set up in front of the drape.

  Sly, looking handsome in his new blue suit, escorted Bobbie Cusato, wearing a red dress for the occasion, through the crowd and up to the microphone. Bobbie spoke to the crowd first, welcoming the guests before introducing Sly.

  Sly took some notecards out of his pocket, and with shaking hands but in a clear voice, thanked everyone who had helped. In the film he had spoken about his vision for the piece, described the media he used to make it a reality, and explained the engineering involved in its assembly. So at that point, there was nothing left to do except reveal it. He and Bobbie each grabbed the ends of silken cords.

  Bobbie announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present to you, Palomas Eternas.”

  With a triumphant blare of trumpets, overhead spotlights snapped on and Bobbie and Sly pulled the cords. As the drape slithered to the floor revealing the sculpture, the attendees joined in a long, appreciative “Ahh.”

  Smiling at each other, Bobbie and Sly both reached into the cascade of tiles and flicked crystals, sending tiny wings of light flying around the room. The crowd laughed and applauded. Preston Nguyen, my new intern, caught it all on film.

  Sly stepped back to the microphone and said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

  Even if he had tried, Sly would never have made it through the crush of well-wishers to get to the food. I saw my daughter, Casey, hand him a plate, but he was so busy I doubted that he would get around to eating anything.

  “Perfect night,” Kate said, leaning her shoulder against mine, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

  “Absolutely perfect,” I said.

  Jean-Paul, Roger and Ricardo began popping champagne corks. A California community college is allowed to serve alcohol on only a few occasions during a calendar year, so wine served in tall crystal flutes meant this was a very special event, indeed. With the chief of police keeping an eagle eye on servers as they passed through the crowd with their trays of glasses, I doubt many of the under-twenty-one set managed to get even a sip.

  I saw Mom in conversation with the head of the Dance Department. When they shook hands, I knew something had been settled. For years, Mom had accompanied dance classes at Cal on the piano, so I had my suspicions about what she was up to. I caught her eye and she beamed at me. Even though she hadn’t formally moved down yet, Mom was settling in.

  Sly, still holding his untouched plate of food, worked his way toward me.

  “So?” he said. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re magnificent,” I said. “Your sculpture suits its place beautifully.”

  He leaned in close, and whispered, “Better than a dead guy?”

  I nudged his shoulder. “Knock it off, smart-aleck. And eat your pizza, for goodness sake. Did you get a broccoli one? I ordered them special for you.”

  “Mmmm.” He folded one of the little pizzas in half—it looked like sausage and peppers—and popped the whole thing into his mouth. Chewing, he said, “My
favorite; anything that’s not broccoli.”

  “Go. Your admirers await,” I said, pointing my chin toward a group of women students, all of them dressed as brightly and prettily as pansies, who waited to speak with him. “I’ll catch you later.”

  He planted a greasy kiss on my cheek, turned and was swallowed up by the crowd.

  I was working my way toward Detectives Thornbury and Weber, each with an attractive date for the occasion, when Uncle Max caught my arm.

  “What a kid, huh?” he said, wrapping his arm around me as he gazed up at the sculpture. “It looked good when I saw it being assembled in the gallery, but hanging in its place, Maggot, I have to say it is beautiful beyond anything I imagined. Who knew when we hauled that kid’s scrawny butt in off the street that he had something this grand in him.”

  “We hauled?” I said, kissing him on the chin. “I remember a certain uncle warning me we were only begging for trouble when we took him on.”

  He laughed. “You have to admit, he was a real pain there for a while.”

  I had to take a deep breath before I could say, “Mike and Michael got him past the rough parts.”

  He patted my back.

  I asked him, “How is Frankie?”

  “He’s all right. He asked me to tell you he’s sorry, but of course I won’t deliver his message because who knows what you might be asked in court? Wouldn’t want some eager D.A. to tell a jury that Frankie saying he was sorry was tantamount to a confession.”

  “Then you’d be right not to tell me.”

  Someone tapped my shoulder. I turned to find Michael, Mike’s son, wearing his dress army uniform, grinning at me. Michael was stationed in Hawaii and had told me he couldn’t get leave, so this was a huge and wonderful surprise.

  “You made it after all, Captain Flint,” I said, patting the fruit salad of medals on his chest, trying not to give in to tears.

  “Sorry I’m late.” He kissed my cheek. “Had to fly stand-by. Took some fast talking, but here I am.” He was looking over the mass of heads. “Where is the squirt?”

  I pointed him in the direction I had last seen Sly and he headed into the fray in search. Not a minute later I heard Sly yell, “Michael!”