by Cathy Ace
“Oh good, I can’t wait to see them,” she squealed, her face lighting up like a little girl on Christmas morning. Leaping from her seat with a surprising fleetness of foot, she pulled the wrappings off the paintings. The linens we’d used to protect the artwork lay on the carpet in a flash.
“My Dirk!” she cried, hugging the portrait of her husband as Van Gogh’s famous Doctor Gachet as best she could with her little arms. The second piece—Jonas’s two-artist piece marked as being for Dirk and family—she reacted to rather differently, immediately deflated. “That’s not pretty at all. Why is that so horrible?”
I looked at the canvas mounted on the same boxy construction as all of Jonas’s inventive pieces and considered it carefully. This one was smaller than the portrait of the woman’s dead husband and portrayed the well-known scene Seurat had depicted of Bathers as Asniers in the style of Klimt, the sky and grass a riot of gold and black, the faces of the bathers shown in almost deathly hues of blue and purple.
“It looks like the light on a hot, sunny day,” I said, trying to sound positive about the gold leaf of the sky.
Marlene stared at the piece, then clapped her hands. “You are correct. I will look at it and always see the sunshine. I will remember the days when I was young, and would join the boys to dip my toes in the canals and eat picnics in the parks.” She seemed happy to stroke the golden sky. “It’s fun,” she said, almost wickedly, as though she was doing something forbidden. “I was never allowed to touch anything my husband painted. See? They are all under glass. It makes them look dead. I like art I can touch.” She turned her gaze back toward us, a disappointed expression puckering her face. “Is that it? No money? Just these two paintings?”
As far as he was able—given he was pretty firmly wedged between my hips and the wooden arm of the small sofa—Bud wriggled. “These are the only items Jonas asked me to bring to you.”
Marlene retook her seat and pouted. “Oh,” was all she said. She seemed to have lost all interest in the paintings and waved her little arm toward the wall behind her. “They are all by Dirk. He was a good painter. Not as good as Jonas, but not bad. Menno can’t draw a stick, but he can play the piano competently.” I suspected that Menno van der Hoeven did everything competently, rather than with passion. I wondered which parent he’d taken after, but my train of thought was broken. Marlene had leapt from her seat and began to waltz around the tiny room. She hummed a tune I knew well—Eric Satie’s “Je Te Veux”—and closed her eyes as she went, causing us to pull the paintings at our feet even closer to our bodies. Eventually she began to sing the words of the song, twirling about in the cramped space. Bud and I exchanged a worried look.
The buzzer at her front door gave all three of us a start. Stopping in her tracks and opening her eyes, I could tell Marlene was dizzy, confused, and about to topple. Bud and I rose together—the only way we could—and we lunged for her as she swooned. Both paintings fell flat onto their backs on the carpet, which cushioned them, but my foot caught the corner of the Seurat/Klimt, and a big chunk of the thickly applied gold leaf of the sky at one of the corners flaked off.
We were more concerned about Marlene than the painting. Bud rushed into the reception hallway, shouting he’d find a glass of water, just as the front door of the apartment opened. Menno van der Hoeven walked in. “Mama?” he called. He looked more surprised than worried when he saw me at his seated mother’s feet trying to fan her face with my hand, the paintings now filling the floor as Bud tore toward the kitchen.
Bud’s cop instincts had kicked in; he was back in a moment with a floral bone china cup full of water, which I held for Marlene to sip.
“Have you been dancing again, Mama?” asked Menno flatly.
“Just a little,” replied Marlene, as though nothing had happened. “These nice people brought your father to see me. Has he gone already?”
“Papa is dead, Mama,” replied Menno in a matter-of-fact tone.
Finding his comment odd, I stood up, not quite knowing what to say—not a normal state of affairs for me. I waited for Menno to give Bud and me a sign as to how we should react to his mother’s confusion.
He continued, “I don’t think he’s gone, Mama, I think he fell onto the floor.” He took the one step necessary for his long legs to get him to the far side of the paintings and he righted the larger piece, the portrait of his father. He turned it to face his mother. “You see? Here he is.”
Marlene clapped her hands. “Yes. As good as ever. That hat suits him,” she added, smiling.
I looked again at the portrait and marveled at Jonas’s talents. It was so like the original, right down to the tonality of the paints, it made me shudder to think how good an artist Bud’s uncle could have been if he’d ever developed his own style. Spotting a few photographs of Menno’s father wedged in between towering tulip vases, blue and white china, and lots of little figurines of goose-girls sitting atop the cluttered, antique furnishings, I noted, “Jonas captured your father’s features very well.”
Menno was still holding the portrait at an angle that allowed his mother to see it, but he glanced down and said, “Yes, but I think he overdid the sadness in the eyes—that was more Gachet than my father.”
I couldn’t argue, because I could only see three photographs of the late antiques dealer, and everyone smiles when there’s a camera in front of them.
“What else did he send?” he asked.
My tummy tightened. “Jonas had written everyone’s name on a piece from his collection, in addition to a portrait. This one was for your father and his family. I’m afraid I accidentally kicked it when your mother became a bit…disoriented…and I think I’ve damaged the corner. I’m ever so sorry.”
I leaned down to pick up the artwork and realized only a smallish piece of the gold leaf from the topmost corner had come off. “It’s not too bad, and your mother didn’t seem all that keen on it to start with. There are lots of other pieces that are, shall we say, ‘similar.’ Bud and I could easily replace this with one that’s not damaged.”
I pointed the damaged corner toward Menno and he peered at it. “I see. The paint, or whatever it is, goes all the way around the edge. This is unusual.” In his blunt manner, he added, “It is definitely damaged. You would prefer one that is not broken, that’s right, Mama?”
“I don’t like old, broken things,” she said quietly.
“Tell you what, Menno,” said Bud jovially, “how about we take this away and we’ll drop another piece into your office sometime. We’ll try to find one just as…um…golden, or at least sunny-looking, and then you can bring it to your mom whenever it suits you. She obviously loves to have her walls covered with art, and maybe she’ll find room for two more pieces.”
“Bring a small one, Bud, whatever color it is,” said Menno with finality. To be fair, looking around the room, I understood why he said it.
Marlene was not going to be able to tell us much about Uncle Jonas, if she even remembered him at all. We all seemed to reach a silent agreement we should leave.
“Menno, we’re so glad you popped by, but perhaps we should move on to our next appointment now,” said Bud.
Menno looked relieved. “Good. Mama, stay here. I will say our goodbyes.” He waved toward the door.
With the two of us outside in the common hallway, and Menno hanging on to his mother’s door, he and Bud put their heads close together and spoke quietly.
“She seems all right now, but she was quite confused and disoriented,” said Bud. “I think she was dizzy after waltzing about the room for a few moments. I’m sorry, Menno. I’m so lucky my mom is okay; it must be tough for you. A worry.”
Menno looked puzzled. “My mother is very well, thank you. You do not know her. What you see as a problem with her mind is how she has always been. It is not unusual.”
Marlene appeared behind her
son at the door. “Did they kill Jonas to get his pretty pictures, zoon? Your father said they would. They killed your father, you know, and now Jonas, I think.”
Menno sighed. “She talks in an unusual way sometimes. She means nothing. Now, if you please.” He didn’t slam the door in our faces, but he pushed it shut firmly, removing the chance to ask him about his visits to Jonas’s house.
“We need to talk,” I said.
Bud replied with, “I’ll phone Frans first and we can talk while we wait for him.”
I took the damaged painting from him, wrapped the sheets we’d picked up off the floor around it, and tucked it under my arm.
Standing outside on the street in the shade cast by Marlene’s building, I knew exactly where I wanted to start the conversation. “What do you think she meant by that comment about Menno’s father being killed for Jonas’s paintings, and Jonas himself being a victim too?”
Bud shook his head. “I knew you’d go there,” he said, almost smiling. “Cait, I don’t care what Menno might have said about her actions not being unusual, the poor woman’s losing it. There’s no question in my mind. Forget what she said. It meant nothing.”
I had to decide how to play things. “I could be wrong…”
Bud chuckled. “You’ve never once said that and meant it,” he said—lovingly, of course.
I gave him my sweetest smile. “I could be—there’s always a first time, you know. But I don’t think I am. I think there’s a chance someone killed Jonas to be able to get their hands on his paintings. But, if so, why? They’re good, but not that good.”
Putting his arm on my shoulder, he said, “Uncle Jonas fell down the stairs. He was old, infirm. If he’d been able to sell his stuff for large amounts of money, his home would be full of valuables, but he wasn’t living high on the hog. He was getting by. Sure, he was gifted, but art was his hobby. These two-artist pieces are a case in point. He was clearly having a great deal of fun with them.”
“Come on now, Bud, you and I both know a lot of criminals who’ve made a fortune from their illegal enterprises who don’t look as though they are enjoying living the high life, but they have the money hidden away somewhere. What if that’s what the mystery key is for? Some sort of lock-up where he’s stashed the loot?”
“Why are you talking like a character from a Humphrey Bogart movie all of a sudden? Listen, none of this in the car. That Frans has ears like a bat.” As the car pulled up in front of us, I agreed, and we returned the damaged painting to the rear of the car.
“Good meeting?” asked Frans as we slid ourselves into the back seat and buckled up.
“Fine, thanks,” said Bud. “About how long until we get to the next place?”
Frans tapped his GPS system. “With this traffic, about eighty to ninety minutes.”
“Okay, thanks, I’ll call ahead,” said Bud, pulling out his cell phone.
It was going to be a long hour and a half, so I decided to do a bit of thinking. I wriggled into the corner and pressed my forehead against the cool window, focusing on the glass itself, not the scenes flashing past. Sometimes concentrating on what’s in the foreground can help us better understand what’s in the background, and I had the distinct impression that was what I needed to do.
Where the City Meets the Countryside: Landscape
PIETER VAN BOXTEL’S HOME WAS in Hoofddorp, where the grids of streets met waterways, and the suburban landscape frayed into the brown fields, now empty of their world-famous bulbs. As we neared the town, industrial buildings loomed on the flat horizon. Neat houses lined the roads, and everything looked clean, fresh, and newly painted under the summer sun. We pulled up in front of an unprepossessing brick-fronted house that suggested recent construction and an interest in sustainability, its roof being covered with solar panels. The postage stamp of a front garden was neatly arranged with borders of shrubs and flowers that signaled welcome. At the front door we rang the bell, holding two rectangular paintings, one much larger than the other. I couldn’t help but wonder how much the real Pieter would look like Jonas’s portrayal of him as Vincent van Gogh.
The woman who opened the door was tall, rail-thin, and wrapped in a floral dress that didn’t quite reach her knees, showing bare legs. She looked to be about fifty, based on her skin tone rather than the color of her hair, which was dyed blue-black and knotted on top of her head.
She eyed Bud suspiciously, but her gaze softened when she looked at me. Our sheet-wrapped parcels drew most of her attention.
“Bud Anderson and Cait Morgan for Mr. Pieter van Boxtel,” announced Bud in his most professional tone.
The woman looked uncertain. “Mr. van Boxtel did not say he had visitors coming.”
“I spoke with him on the telephone about an hour ago,” replied Bud.
“I’ll see,” the woman replied, then shut the door in our faces.
“Do we look suspicious?” I asked Bud in astonishment. “That’s twice in one day.”
“It could be these,” he said, nodding at the paintings.
She opened the door again. “Come. Shoes, please.”
The pile of shoes just inside the front door, and the fact that she herself was wearing house slippers, was a clear enough indication of what she meant. The blond wood floors and cream throw rugs added more weight to her request. The house was spotless; indeed, it gleamed. Expecting a traditional interior to match the brick frontage, I was surprised that the hallway led through a house that, other than the front wall and half of the roof, was made almost entirely of glass and metal. It was a symphony of starkly modern architectural design—almost shockingly so. The opposite of Marlene van der Hoeven’s claustrophobic apartment, this was bright and airy, and had almost no adornment on any surface, horizontal or vertical. The light on the white walls was the only decoration, the angles and planes of the walls creating shadows that would certainly shift as the sun moved.
“Come,” she repeated, and shuffled along the hallway. She seemed to be polishing the wood as she walked.
“She’s the cleaner?” I whispered to Bud as we followed. He shrugged. “She can come and do our place next,” I added.
Lounging on a chaise made of white leather with a chrome frame, set in the middle of the wide-open space that comprised a cooking, eating, and sitting area, was a long, thin man with thick, white hair slicked back and curling on his collar. He was dressed entirely in shades of soft green. He got up with an efficiency of motion I found surprising in someone who must have been in his mid-seventies. He was across the cavernous room in what seemed like no more than three long strides, his hand outstretched, his pale blue eyes glittering beneath hoods of lightly tanned skin.
He greeted us like long lost family members, “Ah Bud, Cait, how good of you to come; I have been looking forward to your arrival. Helga, some tea for my guests, please. Or would you prefer something else? A cold beer? It is a warm day after all.”
I was suddenly aware I hadn’t eaten since the mammoth rijsttafel the night before, and realized that another beer might not be such a good idea. Then I reasoned it would be better than a cup of tea, which I really didn’t fancy.
Sensing my hesitation, Pieter added, “A pastry with tea, or some ham and cheese with the beer?”
Before Bud could answer, I said, “Savory sounds good, thank you, with a cold beer for me.”
“That’ll be good for me as well,” said Bud.
“Thank you, Helga,” said Pieter, then turned his attention to our parcels. “Would you like to put those down over here?”
We leaned them against the side of the chaise and turned to admire Pieter’s garden, which was what he’d been looking at when we’d arrived. With nothing but glass at the back of the house, the outside really did seem to come right into his home; the sparkling-clean glass doors were wide open, and a dozen or more pots overflowing with gree
nery and floral displays spilled into the living space from the patio area beyond. Outside was a riot of color—where each plant was growing into, or at least in front of or behind, another. It appeared that while Pieter van Boxtel preferred clean lines and no decoration inside his home, in his garden he favored the impressionist style of landscaping; not one shrub or plant had been cut to shape. It made for a pleasant effect, and one I mentally banked as something we could aim for in our own place when we finally began to make planting decisions.
“It is my heart’s joy,” said Pieter, looking around, his face suffused with a glow of pride.
Given the presence of Helga, I wondered if he had help outside as well as inside, and thought it as good an opening gambit as anything. “It must be a lot of work,” I said. “Is gardening something you and your wife have turned to in your retirement?”
Pieter gave me a look I judged to be a veiled dose of disdain. “I am divorced. For many years. I have two men to do all this. My back—it does not allow for bending.”
He’d risen from the chaise fast enough and pretty easily. “I’m sorry you’re not as agile as you’d like to be,” was what I thought best to say.
I’d taken an instant dislike to Pieter, and wondered if it was because of Hannah’s description of him as “an accountant by day, a hard-drinking, lascivious, so-called artist by night.” I fought the instinct to give Hannah’s opinions weight, and focused on making up my own mind about the man.
Helga put an ice bucket full of bottles of Heineken and Grolsch beers on the high, white quartz counter at which were placed four white leather and chrome stools, which looked as though they’d been spaced with mathematical precision. Six glasses sparkled next to the bucket—three were printed with Heineken logos, three with Grolsch. The correct glasses for beers? At home? Telling.
Beside them sat a wedge of hard, butter-colored cheese on a plate. Another platter was covered with thickly cut home-cooked ham. Grapes and figs sat in two bowls. Snowy porcelain plates topped with white linen napkins were laid out in a straight line. Helga had done all this silently as we’d been admiring the garden. She vanished from the room at a nod from Pieter.
