“What did you say to him?”
“Only something like I didn’t think the money he was paying me was fair, and that I was done with this job“.
“What was Fred referring to?”
“That he wouldn’t give me a good reference, that he could ruin my job prospects.”
“Why did you say 'under the circumstances'?”
Alex looked to the left, out into the field for a long moment. I became aware of the anticipatory crowd noise, drums and yelling.
“Did you know that Fred was an investment advisor prior to opening the gallery? I was once also an investment advisor, and worked with Fred a while ago. In the financial crisis, shortly after the Lehman Brothers collapse, I lost my job. I couldn't find anything for over a year – stocks together with most other things tanked in 2009, nobody was interested in your advice unless you were smart enough to predict the financial crisis. Which I wasn't, honestly.”
He gave a short bitter laugh.
“I was sending out resumes for what felt like any and every job around, with no luck. I was desperate, heard that Fred opened an art gallery, and came to him begging for a job, even though I didn't know anything about art then. He did give me a job, with a sort-of respectable title – 'gallery manager'. In reality, I was the caretaker of the gallery, cleaning stuff up, hanging stuff on the walls, being paid minimum wage.” His fingers curled tightly around a beer bottle in his right hand, making a fist. “I was doing other stuff for the gallery as well. Like, it was me who arranged the special insurance coverage for our shows. All of that was worth more than minimum wage, I thought. Now that the economy in the region is picking up, I started interviewing around for a job more along the lines of my former profession. And another gallery made me a job offer, out of the blue.”
“Which gallery was it?”
“Ravenswood. They are a couple of blocks to the south from Nordqvist Fine Arts.”
So Linda Raven was poaching Fred's employees in addition to her foray into cyber-crime!
Alex continued:
“I tried to be upfront with him about it – told Fred I was considering leaving, asked him to be a reference. I thought I should be honest with him, since he did give me a job when no-one else would.” Alex should his head. “And he refused, out of spite. Said that he'd tell anyone who asks that I had no attention to detail, was acting entitled, and that I would make a bad employee. I think he just thought that I was ungrateful. But I worked for him for almost 5 years for minimum wage, I've paid my dues!” He looked at me, searching for understanding in my face.
So that was what Fred meant when talking about the things that he could control, and how he could ruin Alex's reputation!..
“And you never went back into the inventory room?”
“No. Pauline and Andrew came in, and I went back to work. I wanted to finish up as soon as possible.”
“Who did go in there, do you know?”
“No. I was busy. Could have been anyone.”
“OK, what about Connie?” His eyes flickered from side to side in a panic. “I saw you with her at the game here Thursday night. What were you talking about?”
He swallowed.
“About jobs. She’s is actually an accountant, a CPA. We were talking about striking out on our own in business. The other job interviews were sort of my back-up plan. And I also thought that in the worst case, I could ask her to be my job reference, since she's a co-owner of the gallery.”
I guessed that Fred wouldn't have looked kindly on his (ex-) wife going into business with a former employee of his, who left on somewhat contentious terms. On the other hand, if Fred suspected them of having an affair, that might explain the divorce. And if it was an affair – it might provide a motive for murder.
The words left my mouth before I realized what I was saying:
“Do you know why Fred and Connie were divorcing?”
He shrugged.
“No clue. Tired of each other, I guess. They’ve been married before, both of them. Nothing to do with me, if that's what you're getting at.”
A large and round guy in green-and-blue Sounders gear, with a beer in his hand, was squeezing through the aisle. He gestured to indicate that I was in his seat.
I got up:
“Anything else I should know? Remember, you are a serious suspect in the murder of your boss.”
He shook his head, and then looked at me in exasperation.
“No, nothing. That’s it. I had nothing to do with his death! When I found his body on Saturday, it shocked me. Now, please, I just want to watch the game in peace!”
I was about to make my way up the aisle – the big guy had backed out of the space when he saw me get up and realized that both of us wouldn’t fit in narrow space in front of the seats, – but a glance at the beverage in his hand made me remember something else:
“What wines did Fred like, do you know? What did he normally serve at the show openings, drinks-wise?”
Alex thought for a moment. “Yes, he liked wine. Usually he served bubbly, and a Washington red and a Washington white, just like this last time.”
“Who normally bought the wine, do you know?”
“I negotiated a special deal with the winery, they sent us a case of the red and a case of the white every month.” That was something that the police could easily check.
“Did he ever serve any special wines at an opening party before?”
“No, he hadn’t. I was actually surprised when he pulled those two bottles out.”
“Did you see where these bottles were kept?”
“In the kitchen fridge in the back. Same place as the other wine that we served.”
The security tape would show if anyone went there and got the bottles out of the fridge and tampered with them, I thought.
“OK, thank you.”
With that, I finally moved past the round guy, who was glaring at me with impatience and gulping his beer.
I got to my seat (or, rather, Vinay’s seat) just in time for the kick-off. The game on the pitch was frustrating, so I had plenty of time to reflect on the conversation I just had. The Sounders were attacking and had the majority of the possession of the ball, but not getting direct shots on the goal; while their opponents would have been happy with a draw and seemed to be playing for it. A half-hearted wave was making its way around the stadium, and I raised my arms perfunctorily when it got to the section I was sitting in. And the cute guy I noticed earlier was now in a group with three others, talking and laughing. I didn’t feel like going over to introduce myself. Oh well – if the guy worked for Vinay, I could ask him to introduce us later.
As the match ended in a goalless draw and I left the stadium with the subdued and disappointed crowd, I thought that I rather believed Alex than didn’t. But if he didn’t go into the inventory room the second time, who did? I had previously assumed that it was Alex, and that the conversation I was hearing was a continuation of their argument. But I had to admit that I couldn't identify the second voice. It could have even been a woman who threatened Fred.
That person could well be the murderer.
13
On Monday, the gallery was closed, and since I was technically still working on assignment for them, I had no place to be in the morning. I lounged in bed till almost 8 am – much to the dismay of Bitty. She started to demand her breakfast at 7:30, and was looking at me quizzically, as if she could read the clock – why wasn’t I getting dressed and going to work? After breakfast, we played with a laser pointer, and then my little furry companion napped and I lazed and contemplated the beauty of doing nothing, while being determined to keep Fred Nordqvist's death from my mind.
I failed.
I had received a response from Pauline to my question from the previous morning – she gave me Monica’s contact info, and told me that Monica Bencham was a wife of a prominent cardiologist with big offices (that had plenty of wall space for art works, I guessed), and was a regular client of the gallery, b
uying paintings for home or for her husband’s practice. In particular, she bought two paintings at the last show of David Cox, for a total of around $50 000.
I called Monica and arranged a meeting for later that morning. We met as she was exiting a fancy waterfront Kirkland spa after her appointment.
“Hello Mrs. Bencham, I am Veronica Margreve. We met at the David Cox opening. I work in investigations and security” – a small white lie on my part – “and I was hired by Fred Nordqvist to do some work for the gallery right before his… passing.”
“Ah yes, I remember. His death – such a horrible occurrence, isn’t it? He was such a refined and brilliant man!”
We sat down in the big chairs in the spacious hotel lobby where the spa was located, facing the wall of windows framing the view of gleaming expensive yachts moored just feet from us, and the Seattle skyline beyond.
“As Mr. Nordqvist was a client, I want to get to the bottom of what happened to him.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I was hoping you could answer a couple of questions for me.”
“Certainly. I’ll do what I can,” she murmured.
“Have you noticed anything strange at the party on Friday night? Anything out of character?”
“Well…” She settled comfortably in her deep chair, her eyes glittered. She was ready to gossip. “I was about ready to say goodnight to everyone, when I saw Fred and Pauline arguing. They weren’t loud, mind you. Just looked a little tense, and it caught my eye.”
“Oh really? What were they arguing about, did you happen to hear?”
“I wasn’t standing too close – just sipping my drink and admiring the art”, she looked at me guilelessly. (“Of course”, I hastened to agree with her innocence in eavesdropping.) “I was enjoying the wine. Pauline was saying something like ‘You’re insufferable, you keep going on and on. I don’t know how I can stand to be in the same space with you if you behave like that!’” Having quoted the conversation verbatim, Monica sat back with an air of satisfaction.
“Hmmmm… very interesting! Any idea what that was all about?”
She shook her head, probably disappointed in the lack of insider info on that particular bit of juicy gossip.
“No. I made sure to tell the police all this, hopefully they’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Who else was around, do you remember?”
“About half the guests have left already. Connie was there, I noticed it especially. I think Christopher was still there – yes, yes, he and I got another glass of champagne a little later. Andrew was around – oh, such an erudite man! And so well-dressed! Some young people, too, Pauline’s roommate was there, but then she left, sort of in a hurry. Maybe some other people were around, too, but I don’t remember them.”
“Anything else you think was strange on Friday?”
“No, not really. The art was wonderful, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, definitely. I had never really seen any David Cox paintings before, and I liked the seaside scenes.”
“Oh yes. I personally like the sunsets, they are so calming, and transporting!”
“I heard there was a previous show of Cox at the gallery. Did you get a chance to see it?” I knew the answer, and wanted to steer the conversation to her previous purchases.
“Oh yes. My husband and I bought a couple of pieces. One for his practice’s reception area, and one for our living room.”
“Nice! Did he also attend the opening last time?”
“Yes-yes.”
“It’s too bad he wasn’t able to come this time then!” I said, since I didn’t recall seeing her husband on Friday.
“Oh but he did. He came towards the very end of the party, to say hello to everyone and to pick me up.”
“I must have missed it. What a pity that I didn’t get to meet Dr. Bencham!” I had no idea whether he was actually famous for anything, besides being successful, and whether I would have enjoyed meeting him – but I thought politeness obliged me to make a comment to that effect. “Did you pick out a painting this time as well?”
She looked to the side.
“No, not yet.”
Hmm. After being so effusive about David Cox’s work just a minute ago – this didn’t quite fit.
“I must be going.” She got up, and I also rose. “I hope you find the party responsible for this terrible thing!”
“Thank you so much for all your help, Mrs. Bencham.”
I watched her walk through the hotel lobby towards the elevators for the parking garage, and thought about what I just learned.
So Pauline was angry at Fred for something on Friday, some behavior of his. So what – if it was just an explosion of temper, it wouldn’t have resolved itself in a poisoning. Or would it? Nonsense. Who among us didn’t have a big argument with our family – and the family didn’t end up dead by the morning, as a rule.
The other new variable was Monica’s husband. His presence in this case was a surprise to me, since I hadn't noticed him at the party. And the fact that they didn’t buy anything, after her being so effusive about the paintings, seemed to me to be related to Dr. Bencham somehow.
I walked slowly out of the hotel. It was clear and sunny, but the wind, coming from seemingly every direction at once, was cold. It blew a small cloud of tree petals skipping down the street. The weather, despite the sun, felt arctic. I shivered and pulled my coat closer. A Maserati and a Ferrari were valet-parked in front. I thought about calling Detective Johnson – but Mrs. Bencham said she already told the police about Pauline’s temper at the party.
I did need to talk to Pauline herself: about what Monica said, and about what might have happened once Dr. Bencham showed up. But the gallery was closed, and I told myself I didn’t want to impose on Pauline’s time outside of work. If I were honest, I would admit that I didn’t want to think of her as a suspect in her father’s murder. I decided I'd find her at the gallery on Tuesday.
In the afternoon, not seeing anything else I could do to help the investigation for the moment, I came to my normal office and immersed myself in my normal, not-murder-related job. I continued tracking the suspected Bitcoin hackers, and did a couple of code reviews for my colleagues.
A reply from Krista arrived around 3 pm:
“Wow, Domaine Leflaive Chevalier-Montrachet! I am impressed, and a bit jealous! So that's what it's like in real life. The colour is just how I would imagine, from the descriptions. I would have expected the wine to have a richer taste, to be honest.”
That e-mail was very welcome. I wrote her back quickly:
“I need your help with something.
Things got very complicated here. Someone who was at the party died, and police suspect arsenic poisoning. You've tasted many wines with me. Can you tell, from my notes, whether the wine could have contained enough arsenic to kill someone in a couple of sips?”
Having sent it off, I went back to the Bitcoin forums for a couple of hours more. Afterwards, I stopped by the library and picked up the books I put on hold. Then I went to a work-out class at Knotty Yoga. I felt exhausted and my muscles were still stiff from Saturday’s exercises. But the intense work-out got my thoughts on track a bit, after feeling confused and a little disturbed at the recent turn of events.
By the time I got home, it was raining. Plump rain drops fell loudly on the roof, streams of water beat against the windows. After her dinner, Bitty curled up next to me on the pillow with her tail covering her paws, so that I could feel her warm furry sleepiness, and said a disgruntled “Urr”. She did not like the rain.
My phone rang.
“Hey, are you OK?” I heard Krista's voice on the line.
“Hi! Yes, I'm fine. Thanks for calling.” I was glad to hear from her.
“So what's going on? What are you involved in? Your e-mail made me worried.”
“OK, here's what it is. I got an assignment to stop a DoS on a small art gallery website last week. It was only a couple of hours of work, and they i
nvited me to their opening party the next night. That's where the wine was served that I wrote to you about. Two bottles, everyone drank a little, a couple of sips, just enough to toast with. The next day, the police tell me that the art gallery owner had died the previous evening.” I heard a sharp intake of breath on the phone. “By now they know that it is arsenic poisoning. They also found traces of arsenic on the bottom of the wine bottles, but they say it's normal.”
“Yes, that can happen.” I could hear in her voice that Krista was thinking about something. “How big was the person that died?”
“He was a large man, round and tall, maybe just under six feet.”
“Hmmm.”
“So here's where I need your help. We together tried a bunch of different wines. I think you have a pretty good idea of what I taste in a wine, and what I normally miss. So I was wondering, based on my impression of the wine, versus what it is 'supposed' to taste like, can you tell whether it had arsenic in it?”
“OK, I worked on it this evening, based off of your e-mail”. Krista's voice was businesslike. “You normally under-estimate the acidity of a wine, and over-estimate the tannins. But you're pretty spot-on with its 'nose'” (meaning the smell of the wine) “and when it comes to berry notes and earthiness.” I listened to this list of faults of my palate with slight embarrassment.
“I looked up the tasting notes for this vintage of the wine, by a Master of Wine in London”, Krista continued, “and she said the wine was supposed to taste 'soft, round, rich, with finesse and slight nutty notes.'” A Master of Wine was a rare official designation that signified expertise in all matters wine-related, so the opinion of one would be considered gospel. “Knowing what I know of your palate, I would say that the wine you drank tasted differently from the sommelier's description.
“I even decided to re-calibrate my palate against the sommelier's. I knew she had tasting notes for a similar white wine that a place near me carries, so I went out to tonight and ordered a glass of it, took detailed notes and then compared them with hers.”
Art and Arsenic (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 2) Page 7
