Christopher’s hands were clutching and un-clutching fists. He was looking down, seemingly unaware of what his hands were doing. I was watching him, and wondering whether I’d pushed too far. The role of the unscrupulous blackmailer was fun to play – a bit too much fun, and perhaps I crossed the line. That would leave me without the proof that I needed.
“What do you want? Money?” he finally said.
“I think I know who killed Fred. I need evidence. And I want you to help me get it.”
He swallowed and his eyes darted around the room again. I tried a little sip of my hot chocolate – it had cooled off.
Then he nodded. I knew I had the confirmation I needed.
Christopher ran a hand through his blond hair and said: “I had a guess on how it was done. I think someone took a spot of orpimento from the cliff painting on the far wall, and put it into Fred’s wine at the party. The color of the pigment would be yellowish, and it would blend in with the wine.”
“So you’re saying that it would be someone who knew what orpimento was and what it was made of.” During my research, I discovered that orpimento was a yellow pigment made out of arsenic salts, and that it had been used in painting for centuries.
Christopher smiled meaningfully.
“I see…” I nodded. “I think we are on the same page. Here's what I was thinking...”
22
The plan was put in motion. Now I just had to wait for things to happen in their due time. So for the rest of the Thursday afternoon, I went to my actual office, and was investigating an attempted cyber-break-in at another website. It kept my mind occupied and away from art-related topics until it was time to go.
I took the bus to Pioneer Square and grabbed a quick bite to eat at Marcella’s, a small Creole food place on one of the steep side streets going uphill from the square. I sat by the window, listened to the New Orleans jazz playing inside, chewed on my giant muffuletta, and people-watched. The rain drops, diffusing the light cast by the street lamps in the dusk, gave the square a mysterious patina.
Pioneer Square was one of the first Seattle neighborhoods, and definitely looked it – the buildings were mostly red brick and gray stone, some with columns, cornices and fanciful carvings on the facades (the Arctic Club Hotel building had walruses, the Maynard building what appeared to be faces hiding in vegetation). The streets were cobblestone, and elaborate iron railings separated some hidden courtyards. There were passageways, dark and dank, under these buildings. The Seattle Underground tours were conducted here as well, describing the history of the city through the “lens” of its subterranean routes (and the history of its sewage processing), and there were entrances to the underground at several places around the square.
During the time I’d lived in the Seattle area, I had seen Pioneer Square go from a bad neighborhood full of questionable nightclubs, to a hip locale for up-and-coming bands, and crowds gathering for games of the local teams, and happening start-ups (I even worked nearby for a while), then back to a dismal place filled with abandoned buildings when the economic crisis hit. Now there were some new restaurants, eclectic shops and hot-yoga studios taking up residence in the historic spaces behind the “For Lease” signs, and a couple of condo conversions / developments were advertising on big posters on the street corners. Throughout all of this, the homeless and people using the services of several missions in the neighborhood were a constant presence – as were the open-at-10-am and always full of clientèle bars where, if you had to patronize them, you’d rather get a strong drink, in the hopes that the alcohol would disinfect any germs you might encounter. The area also hosted sports bars with big-screen TVs frequented by the fans of the Seattle Sounders, Seattle Seahawks, and the Seattle Mariners before, during and after the home games.
This was the neighborhood where several of the city’s most prominent art galleries resided, attracted, in particular, by the historic architecture around the Square. The monthly First Thursday Art Walk was a popular and fun event that brought the arts-curious crowd to the district. On this rainy spring evening, it looked typically Seattle – as if it has always been here, and always will be; the wet sidewalks reflecting the yellow street lights, the alleyways echoing the steps of passers-by.
I was wrapped up in my ancient black leather jacket – very soft with age and so worn that it practically looked colorless in places. On my feet I was wearing the Martin Margiela snakeskin-print booties again – I thought that they gave me a sufficiently “artsy” look. (And I needed to bring their “cost-per-wear” metric down!) So far, they’ve been holding up fine on the rainy streets. I had my “Swiss army” bag – a small leather hard-case cross-body bag that I bought from a seller of army memorabilia in a small town in the mountains of Switzerland. It fit my keys, phone, wallet and a small notebook with pen perfectly – and I had never seen anyone else carry one like it. Black skinny pants completed my look. I was wearing black leather gloves to keep my hands warm, as they tend to get icy-cold (blood circulation has never been my strong suit). My hair was up in a ponytail, and no gray was visible. Overall, I was looking like someone who appreciated art and hung around it all the time, I thought – even if I did say so myself.
I looked at my watch – it was almost 7 pm, time to go. I still had half of my sandwich remaining. It was delicious, and I thought it would be enough for another full meal for me, so I asked for it to go and paid my bill. But as I got up to leave, I realized that I would need to carry the paper sack with me for the rest of the evening, as it didn’t fit into my small bag.
Across the street, I saw one of the homeless – a man of an indeterminate age (I thought he could be anywhere from 35 to 55), dressed in baggy black raincoat and brown pants, with a dirty backpack. He was walking slowly up a wet street, away from me, and had on a leash a small white dog. On impulse, I crossed the street.
“Hi, I thought you’d like a sandwich” I handed him the paper bag containing the rest of my muffuletta.
He raised his eyes to me as he took it. “Thank you.”
Turning around, I hurried on to meet Andrew at the agreed-on place: a red-brick 1900s building backing up to an abandoned lot. The ivy-covered structure now housed the famous Wolfgang gallery, specializing in early-20th century German and Austrian art. Andrew was already there, under a black umbrella, leaning against a street light reading a flyer for an art show. His shadow on the ground made me think of Fred Nordqvist on the floor of his office, and I shuddered.
I came up to him and thanked him for meeting me, and we started our “art walk”. After studying the ground-breaking and anxiety-filled works at Wolfgang (in brown and yellow tones, executed during World War I, full of contorted human figures), we went to Cranes, a gallery of Japanese art, full of delicate and simple objects (“perfect in their imperfection” was the cliché that came to mind). Then we visited a place that sold primarily European decorative art (quaint and dainty tea pots and porcelain figurines), then one that dealt with Native American artists, then a shop of hand-made recycled objects d’art from found wood.
Andrew kept a running commentary of the art. He pointed out the way the artists used color or lines, frequently mentioned that he was “no expert in this particular area, but found this piece especially interesting”, and so on. I took the opportunity to learn more about him:
“You have such a wealth of art knowledge! Is European art your specialty?”
“It is. That’s what my master’s thesis was on, and that’s the area I’ve been working in for almost my entire career.”
“Do you work at the gallery full-time?”
“No, I also consult and free-lance, and write a column for 'Belle Epoque Collector Quarterly'”.
I found myself taken in by the art works and enjoying the evening, in spite of originally undertaking this outing as part of a murder investigation. The crowd around us was everyone from young students munching on cheese and crackers and techies stopping by for 20 minutes to try to make sense of art and have a dri
nk, to groups of friends taking in an art show to interrupt their bar crawl, and obviously well-off couples seriously contemplating what big-format creation to buy for their large homes, to complement the views of the city and the water from their living room windows.
As far as “art to go with my couch” things went that I used as a pretext for this excursion – I found a couple of works that I really liked. One was a thin vertical painting of a passage-way between two houses, yellow and orange in color, with blue sky and a bit of greenery above. The other was a black and white photo that reminded me of beach scenes shot in 1930s by Henri Cartier-Bresson. I got the contact info from the two galleries while Andrew waited.
On the street where we emerged from the last gallery, I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure ahead of us. It was a man, and I knew I had seen him before. In general, it is the hardest to disguise your walk and back, and this is why you can recognize a person when you are still too far to see their features. The figure disappeared into an alley ahead.
As we were walking, I continued asking Andrew questions.
“What are your future plans?” I tried to give my voice the tone of idle inquiry.
“I really enjoyed working with Fred Nordqvist at Nordqvist Fine Art. As far as I know, the gallery will continue operating.”
“You wouldn't consider joining another gallery? I'm sure you've had tempting offers!”
“Oh no, not really!” He waved the suggestion away.
“So you haven't gotten any interesting job offers recently?” I pressed on. “I find that hard to believe, with your knowledge and experience!”
“It's true, nevertheless!”
I was sure that this was something that Andrew was lying about. Linda told me that she had made job offers to the staff at Nordqvist Fine Arts. And Pauline and Alex confirmed that – so no reason for Andrew to be left out. I thought it was Andrew that Fred threatened on Thursday – the comment about reputation, and allusions to ruining someone's career and possibly life, fit that bill. And it made sense that Linda was the woman Fred referred to in that conversation, not Connie – he could indeed ruin Linda's reputation if word of her DoS attempt got around.
And now Andrew was lying, covering his tracks.
I decided to stretch the truth a little.
“I heard that the police tested all of the surfaces in the gallery for arsenic over the weekend. They found significant traces of it in the back room, where people hang their coats.”
“Oh really?” He didn’t look at me, and tried to make his voice sound nonchalant.
“Yes, especially at a height that pockets in a coat would be, if the coat were hanging there.”
I looked at him sideways. I wanted to see what he’d make of that.
“So – someone had arsenic in their pocket?”
“Right. Or in their hands, that they then put in the pocket. How else would it get there?”
“I don’t know. My sister lives in Ruston, near Tacoma – lots of arsenic in the soil there. It was a huge smelter for decades. They’ve tried to clean up, but there’s still plenty. I’m sure my hands and clothes have traces of arsenic on them after I visit her and play with her kids and dog. Ha ha!” His laugh sounded strained.
We turned the corner, and saw the male figure ahead in the darkness again.
Andrew noticed it, and now was walking faster to try to catch up with the person in front of us. My heels were clicking on the stone street, I was accelerating to keep up. Then Andrew suddenly said:
“Excuse me, I need to …” and without finishing his sentence broke into a run, chasing the silhouette ahead.
The person dived into an alley, Andrew a couple of steps behind. I was running after him – but when I turned the corner, in the dusk I saw only his outline turning right into another alleyway. At this moment, I cursed my decision to wear heels.
I followed, running as hard as I could manage in my footwear, but didn’t see anyone when I got to the alleyway. The late-19th century brick buildings around me looked quite impenetrable. I kept running, looking into every alley way on my right or left for any signs of my would-be art companion.
Suddenly, as my foot left the ground, I was sliding down a hole into the Underground passage, half-uncovered and half-destroyed. I must have tripped over something, or slipped on the wet pavement.
I put my hand down behind me to steady myself, thankful that I had leather gloves on. Everything was dark. I was not sure where I was. And Andrew – where was Andrew?
23
The place I found myself was wet, in spite of being underground – the rain came in through the hole that I apparently fell through. I was in the dark, enclosed in what seemed like a small narrow corridor, smelling the musty odor of subterranean things (and trying not to think too much about what those things might be). My leather-gloved hands were touching the walls around me, trying to ascertain the parameters of the space around me. I sneezed from the dust and something like mildew that I felt tickling my nose. My eyes were trying to adjust to the darkness. I sensed, more than saw, the thick wet walls surrounding me.
As my eyes and ears got used to being in a small, low, tight space, my heart beat slowed a little. My thoughts were still racing, up and around like a whirlwind, and then down a rabbit hole like the one I had just fallen into. Standing around in dark wet muck was not the plan. Did I make a huge mis-calculation? Was I pushed? Was I in danger here?
If it was on purpose, then was the goal to harm me? Possibly. But I didn’t appear to be in any immediate peril at the moment, and no other significant harm was happening to me yet. Of course, who knew, here in the dark, what could be awaiting me around the next corner! Was this to get me out of the way temporarily, and then return me unharmed? Or because whoever confined me here had other things to do meanwhile?
Was I here because I knew something about the art fakes? My heart sunk. Or because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time? Because Andrew didn't want to deal with me at the moment? Or because I hinted that his coat might have been contaminated with arsenic?
One person had already been killed. I could be next. I doubted that Fred's poisoner would refrain from more murders due to any pangs of conscience.
At that realization, I resumed my frantic search for a way out. My hands, shaking, were probing walls and encountering solid stone around me. I was taking cautious steps forward on the slippery stone.
I need to do something. I got out my phone, the display lit up – it barely had one bar. I dialed Detective Johnson.
The call rang and went to voice mail.
“I’m in Pioneer Square. I need your help! I was here with Andrew, and I got pushed into an underground hole!” I tried to speak clearly and loudly into the phone. “Andrew went after someone. I’m about a block north of art galleries near Yesler Way, down an alley way to the right.” I repeated that again and hung up.
Slowly, in the dark, I made my way to the place I originally fell in. I found the tunnel where I came down. There was an iron grate in place now. The spaces between the bars in the grate looked too narrow to allow much more than a small animal through. I shuddered, imagining just what animals could be in the underground passage with me – I wasn’t afraid of snakes or spiders, but rats sent me into a panic. (Hard to say whether childhood viewings of “The Nutcracker” contributed to that fear, or whether I enjoyed the ballet because I felt empathy with its rat-fighting characters!) My mind started imagining scenes straight out of “The Pendulum and the Pit”, my stomach was churning, and I had to take several deep breaths and count to thirty slowly to calm myself down.
As things stood, I couldn’t climb out. But the grate must unlatch somehow, I thought – the hole was open when I fell in. I stood as tall as I could – the heels actually came in handy. I tried to shake the grate, then took off my gloves and ran my hands around its edges, feeling the bumpy and rusty metal with my fingertips, to try to find and unhook the latch. No luck. I tried once again, slower. This time, I felt what might
have been the latch. I tried pulling on it, working it through with my fingers. Nope, it wouldn’t open. I didn’t have enough leverage, standing under the grate, to work it loose.
There was street noise coming through the opening. There must be some pedestrians around, right? I should do something to attract attention. This block was a bit off the beaten path, not really near any galleries. But hey, it was worth a try.
I tried yelling. I let out a couple of rather pitiful yelps (“Hey! Can anyone hear me?”), but soon I was coughing and feeling the strain on my vocal chords. My voice wasn’t that strong, so yelling for help from underground, and struggling to be heard, wasn’t for me.
I needed to do something different. I recalled my work-outs from Knotty Yoga, the aerial yoga studio. I put my gloves back on and wrapped the straps of my bag around my wrist several times, so as not to lose it. Then I grabbed the metal bars overhead, jumped up and turned my body upside down, hooked my legs on the metal bars and stuck one leg out straight up through the grate. I hoped someone would see this human leg – wearing a high-heeled boot for less! – sticking out of the ground and come to my aid.
Nothing, for what felt like an eternity (and was probably about ten seconds in reality). I braced with my other knee against the metal bar, remembered my Knotty Yoga trapeze classes on how to hang by your knees for dear life, and started waving my outstretched leg to be more noticeable.
Art and Arsenic (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 2) Page 13
