by A. M. Potter
“Perfect.”
“Coffee’s on.”
In the kitchen, she propped the cane against the table. She sat quietly, sipping her coffee.
“For someone who’s just slept nine hours,” J.J. said, “you look awful sleepy.”
She raised her chin.
“How about some porridge?” Marty asked.
She perked up. Porridge! Exactly what she needed. “Please.”
After preparing a pot of quick oats, Marty left for work.
Naslund devoured two large bowls. No cranberries, but the oats hit the spot. She felt rejuvenated.
“Well, Sarge,” J.J. said, “let’s get in gear. I’ve been thinking about the past. Thom had two long-time enemies here at Colpoys. He had an ongoing feud with the Murphy brothers, Jake and Willie.”
“The Murphys?” She knew the brothers, a couple of local bikers. Full-time fuck-ups, Chandler called them. Willie had recently been released from the slammer again after eighteen months for assault.
“Yep. Thom must have had ten run-ins with them. Nasty run-ins.”
“Why?”
“Another long story.”
She glanced at her watch: 0714. “Tell me.”
“Well, it started about ten years ago. Thom and I were out in my Caledon Twenty-Five one night. We stayed out overnight, as we usually did. I remember that night too, Sarge. The bay almost still. The stars blazing. We didn’t sleep. Sat in the cockpit talking about anything and everything. Unlike most men, Thom could listen.”
She nodded.
“Anyway, at dawn we were near Hay Island. I asked Thom if he wanted to fish. He looked nervous. ‘No way,’ he said, ‘not around here.’ Years ago, the Murphy family used to have fishing rights off Hay. They act like they still do. Thom said he wanted to fish near White Cloud. He’d gotten dirty looks from the Murphy brothers when he’d parked at Colpoys wharf the previous day. I told him we’d fish right here, and that was that.” J.J. nodded forcefully. “Those Irish blowhards won’t ever stop me from fishing. Not a Loyalist like me.”
She ignored the remark. The Bruce was sometimes as bad as Belfast. “And then?” she asked.
“We came in with a dozen whitefish. After we tied up the Caledon, I jumped in my truck to head home for an ice chest. In the rear-view mirror, I saw Thom ferrying a bucket of fish to the wharf.” J.J. shook his head. “When I got back ten minutes later, he was sitting on the dock, his torso bleeding, his head in his hands. His left eye was swollen shut. The Murphys had attacked him. Willie pulled a knife. But Thom took care of them. Knocked Jake off the wharf into the bay and beat Willie to the ground.”
“Did you call the police?”
J.J. looked at her.
“Okay. And that was the start of it?”
“Yep. Over the years, whenever I fished near Hay with Thom, the Murphys got their backs up. Just a week ago, they saw me give Thom four big splake. Willie lay in wait for him on Mallory Beach Road and ran his car off the road. When Thom jumped out, the guy ran at him too. Barely missed him then tore off yelling, ‘Fuck off, Tyler! That’s our fish!’”
“Can you see the Murphys murdering him?”
J.J. thought, then shook his head. “As much as I hate to admit, I don’t see it.”
“Why not?”
“They had a feud, I’ll say that. But, Jesus, they had no reason to murder him.”
“No motive?”
He nodded.
“You’re a born detective.”
“Cut the baloney. You’re serving it with mustard.” He chuckled then sighed. “You’re making me think again. I don’t trust those two.”
“We’ll look into them.”
Chapter 20
Toronto. July 13th:
Naslund hadn’t been in Toronto in months. She and Moore were driving along St. Clair, heading to MacTavish’s Scollard Street gallery. The city seemed faster. Cars darted in and out of lanes like mad squirrels. Earlier that day, Moore had cancelled the 0830 team meeting, saying they didn’t have any fresh information. He’d assigned his actions via email. Naslund had secretly applauded the new approach.
“Want a gelato?” Moore asked.
“No thanks.”
They’d just finished lunch: all you can eat lasagna. She wondered how the man stayed so trim.
He stopped and blocked off an SUV.
She glanced at him. “Are you going to double-park?”
He smiled. “We’re cops.”
Waiting in the car, she watched him slide through the crowd. Instead of his usual gray suit, he wore a tailored hounds-tooth number with a blue shirt and a silver-striped tie. He’d told her he wanted MacTavish to see him as an art lover as much as a detective.
In her eyes, the inspector would never look arty. In fact, he still looked like a cop. She knew that she did as well. Her blue shirt and wide-legged jeans said country-girl with a badge. She’d worn them on purpose. She wanted to look like someone from Wiarton, not Toronto.
***
Naslund walked slowly across the street with her cane and followed Moore into the Gallery Canadiana. As the door closed, she thought overkill. The cleverly-lit interior reminded her of clubs she’d once staked out in the garment district. So did the young woman walking their way. Her blouse fit like a second skin; her blonde hair said top salon. You didn’t see women like that in Wiarton--except for Carrie MacLean. But this one was younger.
Moore seemed annoyed by her appearance. “Good afternoon,” he said brusquely. “We’re here to see Mr. MacTavish.”
“The boss, you mean.” She smiled, revealing a set of dazzling teeth as flashy as her blouse.
Right, Naslund thought, boss. That smile didn’t say junior sales associate.
MacTavish stepped from behind a showcase displaying Eskimo carvings and walked their way. “I see you’ve met Tatyana. Isn’t she a treat?” He grinned. “A Russian doll, one surprise after another.” He held out his hand to Moore. “Jock MacTavish. Let me guess, you’re Inspector Morse.”
“Moore.” The inspector perfunctorily shook hands and gestured to Naslund. “This is my associate, Sergeant Naslund.”
“I know the sergeant.” He pointed at her bad leg. “Line of duty?”
She nodded. She’d looked up MacTavish’s age. He was sixty-three, easily more than twice Tatyana’s age. He was also shorter. But it could be her heels. With those spikes and her coltish legs, Tatyana looked six feet tall. A Claudia Schiffer clone.
“Come,” MacTavish said brightly, “let’s repair to my office. Coffee? Tea?” He quickly examined Moore from head to toe. “Oh, forgive me. From your casual attire, I assume you’re off-duty. A brandy, per chance?”
Moore declined.
Casual attire, Naslund thought as she took in the agent’s tie: burgundy silk embossed with golden stars. Stylish, she had to admit. Moore’s snappiest clothes hadn’t put him in MacTavish’s league.
“Mineral water, perhaps?” MacTavish courteously asked.
Moore and Naslund nodded.
“A VSOP for me,” MacTavish said to Tatyana, “and two San Pellegrinos. Thank you.”
She turned smartly and sashayed away.
Moore kept his eyes forward. Gauging the height of his chin, Naslund suspected he’d written Tatyana off as a common tart.
“Tatyana’s wonderful,” MacTavish announced. “Speaks every tongue known to man. She can sell Eskimo art to an Eskimo.”
“Where’s she from?” Naslund asked. MacTavish had called her a Russian doll. Using a composite drawing based on Marty’s description, Central had provisionally IDed one of the Albin hijackers as a Russian national.
“Etobicoke,” MacTavish replied.
“Was she born there?”
“I never thought to ask her.”
Naslund nodded. Never thought, or don’t want to say. She decided to question Tatyana on the way out.
MacTavish bowed. “Onward, to my sanctorum sancti.”
Contrary to the gallery’s sleek showrooms, MacT
avish’s office was over-furnished. Taking in the disheveled appearance, Naslund recalled that he’d always seemed a man of two minds: orderly on the outside, unruly on the inside.
“Mr. MacTavish,” Moore began then stopped as Tatyana entered with the drinks. He seemed aggravated by her presence.
Strange, Naslund thought. Despite being a seasoned detective, Moore didn’t appear to think a woman like Tatyana was of any use. Naslund did. In her view, Tatyana could help them unpack MacTavish. As the doll leaned close to Moore, her skirt rode up her legs. Naslund wondered if he was offended by her appearance--which made little sense. A detective needed to keep an open mind.
Drinks served, Tatyana departed, her skirt swishing down the corridor.
“Mr. MacTavish,” Moore began again, “as you know, we’d like to ask you a few questions about Thom Tyler. By the way, thank you for seeing us on short notice.”
“You’re most welcome. I’d like to help. It’s awful, what happened to Thom. He was a wonderful man and a brilliant painter, with great years ahead of him.”
“Absolutely,” Moore said, “such a loss. I love his work.”
MacTavish smiled.
“I’m a painter of sorts myself.” Moore shrugged dismissively. “Well, a Sunday-dabbler. To me, Thom Tyler captured the essence of Canada. I see him as the Canadian painter: truthful yet inventive, controlled yet wild.”
Naslund silently applauded Moore’s patter.
“I agree,” MacTavish enthused. “Thom was a brilliant man, a mysterious man. He lived like a rustic, the better to tend the fire in his soul.”
A rustic? Naslund thought. Was Wiarton situated at the ends of the Earth?
“Mystery,” MacTavish continued, “is what makes an artist. Not to be too commercially-minded, but it makes Thom’s work more compelling.”
“Indeed,” Moore said.
“Perhaps you’d like to see my Tyler Room on the way out?”
Huh, Naslund thought, was MacTavish absolutely un-self-conscious? Didn’t he know what he’d just done? Ten minutes ago, he’d denigrated Moore’s clothes--in effect, his bank account. Now he’d invited him to buy expensive art.
“I’d like that,” Moore said, apparently unfazed.
The agent sat back. “Well, Officers, how can I help you?”
“Mr. MacTavish,” Moore began, “yesterday you related that you have sixteen Tyler canvases for sale.”
“Yes, I do. I had a long business association with Thom. Seven years, in fact. We worked well together. I was a facilitator, you see.” He smiled with attempted self-deprecation.
Naslund saw thinly-veiled hubris.
“I allowed Thom to focus on his art.”
Moore nodded. “Please explain how your association worked, in simple terms.”
“Of course. Let’s look at the sales process for one painting. That’s how we worked, one canvas at a time. Thom would entrust a painting to me for twelve months. I’d immediately begin my marketing campaign. Nothing crass, of course. I’d notify my best customers that I had a gem for sale, a new Tyler. I have an extensive network, not only in Canada, but around the world. If that failed to uncover a match, I--”
“Excuse me, Mr. MacTavish. I’d like to understand something before we continue.”
“By all means.”
“Would you say you had an exclusive right to sell the painting?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“So, no one else could sell it.”
“Correct.”
“Were there any restrictions?” Moore asked. “I mean, could you only sell it here at the gallery, or anywhere you wished?”
“Anywhere, to any buyer. My job was to sell. Thom didn’t care who the buyers were or where they came from. He didn’t interfere--unlike some. I had an excellent working relationship with him. Not that Thom was a promoter’s dream.” MacTavish smiled knowingly, as if to say but what artists are? “He didn’t pander to buyers. He didn’t do interviews.” The agent shook his head. “But Thom got away with it. Even if he ignored buyers, they adored him. And bought his works, hand over fist. Just another Thom Tyler paradox. Paradosso Tomaso.”
“I see,” Moore said.
“Oh, yes, Thom was definitely a paradox. As a boy, he was bedridden for months with malignant pleurisy. When he recovered, he spent all his time hiking and fishing, alone in the woods. Solitude shaped him. A wonderful story. The autonomous child, haunted by color, fed by the power of nature. On the other hand, the adult Thom could switch from dedicated, driven artist to charming raconteur in a flash. Paradosso Tomaso.”
“I see,” Moore repeated. “Tell me, how did you pay him for his work?”
“I paid him when a painting was sold.”
“How soon afterward?”
“It depended.”
“On what?”
“I’m a business man, Inspector. On whether the buyer paid with cash or credit. I aimed for thirty days.”
“Did you succeed?”
“I tried my best.”
“What percentage did you take?”
“As I said yesterday, I didn’t take a percentage. I paid Thom a fixed amount.”
“How did you establish that?”
“Thom and I agreed upon a figure before we signed the contract.”
“That must have been difficult. You know, to establish a fair value.”
“No, it wasn’t. We didn’t squabble about money.”
“Let me summarize things, Mr. MacTavish, if I may. The process began when Tyler signed a painting over to you.”
“Not quite, sir. To be clear, he didn’t sign anything over. He signed a contract which gave me permission to sell a work for a limited time period.”
“Could he sell it himself during that period?”
The agent appeared flustered. “No,” he admitted, “he couldn’t.”
“So, in one sense, you owned the painting for the period. No one else could sell it, not even Tyler.”
“As I said, Thom didn’t care about selling his art. That was my job.”
“All right. To continue, Tyler contracted a painting to you, with a set sales price.”
MacTavish shook his head. “Incorrect. Allow me to clarify that as well. The sales price was not set. We agreed upon a wholesale price, if I may call it that. The retail price was left to me.”
“I see. You could charge what you wanted, but Tyler got a set amount regardless of what you sold the painting for.”
“Correct. Now, lest you consider that unfair, I should tell you that such contracts are quite common.”
“In your world?”
MacTavish seemed about to speak, but merely nodded.
“What happened after the twelve-month period?”
“If I didn’t sell the painting in that time, it reverted back to Thom.’
“Could he then use other agents to sell it?”
“Yes.”
“Did he, Mr. MacTavish?”
“No. Of course, he was free to do whatever he wished. We had a wonderful partnership.”
Sure, Naslund thought. Wonderful for you.
“So,” Moore said, “would it be correct to assume that Tyler would contract an unsold painting to you again.”
“That was the default. It was written in the contract.”
“I see. Unless Tyler explicitly stated otherwise, the painting would be contracted to you again for another twelve-month period?”
“Yes.”
“At the same wholesale amount?”
“Not always.”
“But that was the default, I presume.”
“Correct.”
“Did your contracts with Tyler expire when he died?”
MacTavish shook his head.
“According to standard probate law, they would.”
“Thom and I had a different kind of contract.”
“Oh?”
“In the event of death, the end-date of each contract was extended for a period of six months. All my con
tracts are,” the agent hastened to add.
“I see. Well, Mr. MacTavish, thank you. We best be on our way.”
“Would you like to see Thom’s paintings?”
Naslund saw the flicker of a grimace cross Moore’s face. However, he quickly nodded. “Please.”
Good, she thought, keep the agent occupied.
“Would you like to join us?” MacTavish asked her.
“Thank you, another time. I’d like to look at the Eskimo art.” As MacTavish and Moore left for the Tyler Room, she walked slowly to the front of the gallery, trying to muffle the sound of her cane. She stopped briefly at the Eskimo showcase then went in search of Tatyana. She smelled her as she approached the sales desk. The Russian doll seemed to have layered more perfume on.
“Hello, Tatyana.” She’d definitely added more lipstick. Quite the lips, wide and red. A baited man-trap.
Tatyana smiled. “Hi, Sergeant.”
“How do you like working here?”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Is immaterial. I work anywhere. Is life.”
Ah, a femme-fatale philosopher. “What’s your last name, Tatyana?”
She smiled. “Last name?” Her eyes said kitten; her mouth, however, said bulldog. “Patronym, you mean.”
Naslund nodded. The doll had a bite.
“Filipov.”
“Where were you born, Tatyana Filipov?”
“St Petersburg.”
“Leningrad?”
“No, St Petersburg. I never know Leningrad.”
“I see. A pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise, Sergeant.”
Naslund took a few steps then stopped. “One more thing,” she said offhandedly, playing a Columbo card. “When did you arrive in Canada?”
“Seven...no, eight months ago.”
“Are you a family-class immigrant?”
“Yes. I have uncle here.”
“Is he a Canadian citizen?”
Tatyana shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Thank you.”
As Naslund carefully exited the gallery using her cane, the door closed noiselessly behind her.
She shuffled down the steps, making a quick calculation. Tatyana was born after 1991, when Leningrad was again named St Petersburg. That made her twenty-six at most.
