And what if the truth was what I and eleven other earnest souls had believed it to be when we reached our guilty verdict? If I went on, I would stir up all kinds of speculation and false hopes on the part of Ramon and his family, as soon as I brought them into it. I would also look like a fool or a nutcase or somebody with nothing better to do, none of which struck me as likely to enhance my reputation, not to mention my self-esteem.
At the very least, once I called Ramon’s mother, I was committed. I would have to see it through to whatever the conclusion was, no matter what that might be.
I had to be sure I was ready for that.
Right in the middle of my crise de conscience, the phone rang and shattered my resolve. I was so thrilled to be able to postpone psyching myself up to call Mrs. Garcia, that I raced for the phone. It wasn’t till I had my hand on the receiver that I remembered, with a sudden twist in the intestinal region, that I had some reason to expect a Gentleman Caller.
My head said it had to be faced sometime. The rest of my body was urging escape.
My head won, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. I picked up the receiver. “Hello,” I croaked. So much for sounding carefree and tantalizingly mysterious. I probably sounded more like an laryngectomy candidate.
“Ellen? Is that you?”
“Diana?” I asked, with relief. “I’m so glad you called.”
We were friendly, but she wasn’t used to such an effusion of warmth. It made her suspicious. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You don’t sound like yourself.”
“I might be coming down with something,” I told her. “What’s up?”
“You didn’t call me,” she accused. “I left a message.”
Diana only occasionally pulled rank, so I knew the phone call must have been about something more important than I realized.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I got tied up, and I didn’t realize it was something urgent. I was going to stop by the office, but I got caught in traffic.”
“Were you seeing clients?” she asked, somewhat mollified.
“No, I was just checking out some mobile exhibitions in Venice.” Ad hoc galleries, a kind of artistic one-night stand, had sprung up after the fall of the eighties market. Young and undiscovered artists showed their work any place they could find wall space—garages, empty warehouses, even living rooms. I was pretty much past the age where I could relate to the artworks, which were often so minimalist that they were reduced to, well, nothing, but it didn’t hurt to try to stay flexible.
“Find anything good?”
“Actually, it was mostly unspeakable.” Well, I had gone recently, just not that very day. I sighed. “There’s such a thing as being too open-minded.”
“I know what you mean. I just heard about one in New York that featured an array of used tampons. Can you imagine?”
I closed my eyes and shuddered. “No wonder the public hates art. I did see something great, though. Have you heard about the Art Park?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
I told her about my visit, minus the exhortations to budding artists. “It was so real, Diana. I can’t get over how moved I was by some of the pieces. I mean, giant metal roses may not be my cup of tea, exactly, but the whole concept was exhilarating. And the student art was great.”
“Your point being…?”
“I’m wondering if we couldn’t support it in some way. Or even better, start something like that here. We could get some publicity for some of the local kids—poor kids, not the Rolling Hills types—solicit donations, maybe give some classes. We could get some professional artists to show their work along with them, so it would draw more people in.”
“I trust you’re joking,” she said.
“You don’t like the idea?” I asked, disappointed.
“I’m sure it’s a worthwhile project,” she said placatingly, “but it isn’t going to sell. Can you imagine Jordan and Mira Jensen buying student art? Or titanium irises, or whatever? We don’t want to be associated with anything like that. We have to keep sight of the bottom line.”
“Actually,” I told her, “that’s precisely what I’m trying to get away from.”
“Ellen, are you sure you’re all right? Because there’s something I really have to spring on you, but if you’re not feeling up to it…”
Uh-oh. “I’m fine,” I told her.
“Well.” She cleared her throat. “Umm, the fact is, I’ve had some complaints about you. Well, not complaints, exactly. More like inquiries. Negative inquiries.”
My heart sank. “Out with them, then. I know you don’t like telling me, but obviously you think you should. What about?”
“That’s the thing, I’m not really sure. Do you know somebody named Natasha something or other?”
My pulse quickened. “Ivanova?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Sure, I know of her, certainly. But listen, Diana, if she called, it definitely had to be long distance. Remember that murder trial I was on? She was the victim.”
There was a moment’s silence. “Oh. That’s right.”
I waited. “Diana?”
“What?”
“Are you going to tell me anything more?” Usually a fire hose couldn’t stop her in the middle of a story.
“It’s just that I don’t understand. I’d forgotten…She was that matchmaker, right?”
“Right.”
“Then what could she have to do with art?” She sounded quite confused, but we still weren’t getting to the point.
“She gave art soirées for her clients. She seemed to help some of them with their collections. She was something of a collector herself. On top of all that, she got offed with an Erté statue.”
“Eeeeuuuu.”
That was putting it succinctly. “Diana,” I prompted patiently.
“Sorry. Well, to get to the point, someone called and asked all about you. What your credentials were, what you specialized in, what major pieces you’d placed.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man, I think. You can’t always be sure. Anyway, by the sound of the questions, I got the impression that he was a potential client, so of course I praised you to the skies. Not that I wouldn’t have anyway, but you know what I mean.”
“I’m sure you were totally sincere.”
“Well, I was. You know you do great work, and there’s nobody better for Latin American art.”
“Sorry,” I said. I hoped it hadn’t sounded like I was fishing for compliments. “Go ahead.”
“So then he said that was all very interesting, but he only had one reservation. He’d heard that you’d made some derogatory remarks about this Natasha person, and he wouldn’t want to work with someone who trashed the reputation of someone whose taste in art he admired so much.”
“Oh, come on! The Ayatollah Khomeini didn’t inspire that kind of loyalty. What did you say then?”
“That you would never knowingly trash anyone’s reputation, and that it was bound to be a misunderstanding. I invited him to talk to you himself, but under the circumstances I didn’t feel right giving him your phone number, so I asked for his name and number so you could call him back. He said he’d think about it.” She paused. “So did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Trash her reputation?”
“I don’t think so. I really don’t know that much about her. I haven’t even made any snotty comments about the Erté, except to you. Oh, and maybe to Karin. But she wouldn’t hold that against me. And she’s not likely to repeat it.”
“Oh. Karin.”
Her tone was venomous. “You don’t like her?” I asked.
“I don’t like the way she lords it over the rest of us just because she runs the most prestigious gallery in town. And it’s long past time for her to step aside for somebody with blood in their veins, but she won’t relinquish her hold on the Vendôme until they come after her with the embalming fluid.”
Her vitriol surprised me. I didn’
t know what to say.
“Anyway, that’s neither here nor there,” she continued. “The point is, somebody must have said something, because I haven’t even told you the whole story yet.”
“There’s more?”
“I’m afraid so. I had an appointment yesterday with Sandor Thompson. Do you know who he is?”
“Baja Bank, right?”
“A truly major potential client. They’re looking for some paintings for the corporate suites and some large-scale sculptures for public spaces. They might even want to donate some to the city. And you know how hard it is to find anybody willing to do that these days,” she said.
She was already showing initial symptoms of digression. “And?” I prompted her.
“Don’t be in such a rush. Wait till you hear this. I suggested they might want to find some Mexican artists because of the Baja connection, and he really went for the idea. I mean, he was enthusiastic. So then I told him we had an expert in just the kind of art he was interested in. More enthusiasm. I was thinking we really had this one in the bag.” She paused.
“Uh-oh. What happened?”
“I started to tell him about you, but the minute I mentioned your name, he turned all pissy on me. He said he didn’t want to be specific, but he’d prefer to work with someone else.” She hesitated. “Well, the truth is, he was so adamant that I didn’t really want to pursue it, but I asked him if there was anything I could help to clear up. He just said no.”
“So what did you do?”
“What do you think I did? I gave him to Isabel Sanchez. But I’m not sure if he’ll use her or not. He was more than a little vague about committing himself.”
“Jesus, Diana.” I was dumbstruck. Nobody had ever objected to working with me before, much less a potential major client. Except that two of my clients had backed out of deals in the last week. It was too much of a coincidence to be unrelated. I decided on prudence before mentioning that to Diana.
“Exactly,” she said. “I hope you’re not upset that I recommended someone else?”
“Of course not. What else could you do?”
“Nothing. I’m glad you realize that. So come clean, Ellen. This doesn’t stem from some chance remark about an Erté statue.”
I wasn’t sure what it did stem from, but at least we were in agreement on that. My thoughts on the subject were a lot more complex and sinister, but I felt a spurt of exhilaration. If somebody was sending me a message, I had to be on the right track. I had to be getting too close. I had to be right about continuing with this investigation. The details were something I was going to keep to myself, at least for the moment. “Well—” I temporized.
“So are you involved with this Natasha Ivanova in some way? Something because of the trial?”
“Sort of. But I’ve been straight with you. I’ve never said anything about her that might elicit that kind of reaction. I’ve asked a few questions, that’s all.”
“Well, stop it,” she said. She made it sound simple. I suppose for her it was.
“I’m not sure I can,” I told her. I sketched a thumbnail history of my interest in Ivanova, minus the part about doing research for the matchmaking article. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged that out of me.
“Ellen,” she said, with as much force as I’ve ever heard from her, “we’re losing clients over this. We’re in a service business, a luxury business, in an economy that’s not all that robust. You can’t afford scruples.”
“You think I should just walk away from this whole thing? What if the wrong person got convicted?”
“Well, I hate to sound crass, but even if that were the case, the worst that would happen is that a two-bit burglar who compromised his own mother to feed his habit or whatever will get a few extra years in jail. It’s not like they keep them locked up forever, no matter what they do.”
“God, Diana,” I breathed. I was speechless.
“You know I’m right. And anyway, you already voted to convict him. You did what you thought was right. Now forget about it,” she said firmly.
“I can’t,” I told her. “I’ll be careful not to say anything to compromise the business, but I just can’t forget about it as easily as that. I’m sorry.”
She was silent for a moment. “So am I. Look, I’m not threatening you or anything like that, but you understand that if I keep hearing about this from clients or potential clients, I’m going to have to cut you loose, don’t you? I won’t want to, but I won’t have any choice. There are the others to think of, too.”
“I know,” I told her. You do what you have to, Diana. And so will I.”
So there I was, committed. I hadn’t even had to think about it, so maybe I’d decided already.
There was no question about it. I needed my job, even if I was having a midlife crisis about turning into some kind of art panderer to the Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous crowd. I needed my professional reputation, which, up to now, had been pretty much okay. I needed new clients constantly, because people will buy only so much art, unless they are someone like the late J. Paul Getty or the Pope, neither of whom had ever engaged me to work for him. I might be able to keep afloat on my own, but it would mean a serious diminution in my prospects for a long, long time.
It was probably stupid to keep on with this investigation. Diana clearly thought so, and Mark would, when I told him.
And somebody was trying to discourage me.
I considered the possibilities.
One was that the real killer (assuming it wasn’t Ramon) wanted me off the case. I discounted that one immediately. Unless he (or she) had the IQ of a popsicle, he had every interest in keeping the lowest of profiles so that I wouldn’t have any reason to believe the wrong guy had been convicted. Stirring up conjecture would be stupid, no matter how uncomfortable I made things. Even if I were sure someone else had done it, I didn’t even have a coherent theory I could take to the D.A.
Unless I was really getting too close, and the real killer was getting desperate. I didn’t want to think about that one. It was far-fetched, and it didn’t seem terribly likely, especially since I didn’t have a clue Who Done It, other than Ramon.
A second theory, far more realistic, was that Valentin was conducting a serious disinformation and disparagement campaign against me, to get even for what he imagined were my trespasses against him. I couldn’t figure out Valentin. Moreover, there was still the question of how he came to introduce Julia Livingston to her husband. Valentin was a wild card. He was malicious, he imagined he had the motive, and he had the contacts to spread rumors in meaningful circles. It was unclear how he could benefit from injuring me, but he was still a definite possibility.
There was also a reasonable likelihood that someone among the glitterati at the Jensens’ party had overheard my inquiries about Natasha and misunderstood them or passed them on in garbled form, like the game of “gossip.” An outraged defender of the Ivanova Taste was not an impossibility. The art world was full of eccentrics and passionate advocates, and it was always possible I’d been blindsided by nothing more than an unfortunate rumor.
The last possibility, or at least the last one I could think of, was that the message was “butt out” for reasons that had nothing to do with the murder. Maybe somebody didn’t want me poking around Ivanova Associates because there was something to find out other than that the wrong man had been convicted. Maybe the wrong man hadn’t been convicted, but there was something else. I’d always thought Natasha was a cipher. Maybe she’d been up to something.
If that was the case, then, clearly, she hadn’t been up to whatever it was alone.
Maybe it was None of the Above; maybe not.
But here it is—the bottom line, as Diana would say: You can’t do anything in life about getting older or losing somebody you love. You can’t do much about bad neighborhoods or stray bullets or squandered talent. But this was something I could do. The Ivanova case had ceased to be about entertainment or some disinterested quest for justi
ce. In some way, it had started to be about me. This was my moment. There wouldn’t be another chance to stand up for something that needed doing no matter what it cost me. If I’d put the wrong man in jail, I would have to take responsibility and do something about it. If he was guilty, at least I would know I’d done the right thing.
If my mother had stood up to my father and hadn’t let him bully her, it would have changed my entire family history. If somebody was trying to bully me into dropping the whole issue, I couldn’t bear the thought of letting it happen. I wouldn’t let it. I wouldn’t stop until I knew the truth.
No matter what.
The decision, which should have made me apprehensive, made me feel incredibly lighthearted, as if a weight had been taken off. Little Big Horn might have been just around the corner, but, for the moment, I was going to enjoy the ride.
While the brave mood was on me, I went to find the notes I’d made during the trial, to try to discover where Mrs. Garcia lived, so I could get her phone number and call her up before I lost my nerve.
They didn’t have a chapter on this one in the etiquette books. Not even a subheading: “How to introduce yourself to the family members of the person you’ve sent to the Big House.” Or: “What to say when you’ve already said ‘Guilty.’” Good manners can take you only so far.
“Hello,” she said. I knew it was Mrs. Garcia right away. She sounded so tired and depressed.
“Is this the Garcia residence?” I asked. I sounded too chirpy, like a phone solicitor. My bravado notwithstanding, my palm was slick on the receiver. “Mrs. Garcia?” I hesitated. “Ramon Garcia’s mother?”
“Yes.” She didn’t even sound defensive, just so weary. Maybe a million people had called her after her son had gone to jail. I felt incredibly cruel, harassing the poor woman like this.
“Who is this please?” she asked.
The $64,000 question. I took a breath. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Garcia. My name is Ellen…Santiago. You don’t know me.” Bigger breath. “I was on Ramon’s jury.”
Silence. I winced, but she couldn’t see me.
Staying Cool Page 19
