by Alex Ames
“DVD?” Ron asked.
“Oh yes, Officer.” Altward said with a patience usually reserved for the elderly clients who were interested in Montenhaute kitsch. “All of the security cameras record digital today. The security company stores them on hard disks and digital tapes and archives them on CD. I can watch them on my PC at home, if needed.”
“I am impressed with the standard of security you have in your gallery,” Ron said with a feigned look of simplemindedness.
Altward, once more with forced patience, “I consider your remark to be ironic as it was obviously not enough security.”
“How do you guess that the murderer entered the safe?”
“I don’t know. I thought that’s for the police to find out.”
“Not really, the how is not as important to me as the who.” Ron explained. “The how is in the interest of Mr. Wynn.”
“Mr. Wynn indicated that the thief might have hacked into the security company’s computer to override certain security alerts.”
“That, of course, is an explanation,” Ron said with a shake of his head, indicating that all other options were still open as well.
Ron and I walked back to the car. It was still a beautiful day, sun shining, and nice temperature. Time for strolling and sitting in street cafes, sipping hot espresso and holding hands with a handsome policeman.
“Where next?” I asked hopefully, sounding a little too eager.
Ron laughed. “Someone is on the move here.”
I blushed a little. “It is exciting, I must confess.”
He opened the car. “Well, we covered one of the most likely suspects for insurance fraud, the owner.”
“Altward is a suspect for you?”
“Of course, everyone is at this stage,” Ron delivered that one deadpan, looking me evenly in the eye. “Statistically speaking, when it comes to theft, we have the owner as suspect number two.”
Ron started the car, turned around and drove north.
“And suspect number one?” I asked.
“Convicted felons,” Ron laughed out, couldn’t hold back.
“Thank you! Luckily I am neither felon nor convicted.” I folded my arms.
“Now, we are turning our detecting eyes toward suspect number one when it comes to murder.”
“Hannibal Lecter?” I guessed hopefully.
“Next of kin. We are going to visit the daughter of the dead night watchman, Phoebe Eastman.”
“She already knows about her father?” I dreaded a tearful scene like those you see on TV.
“Yeah, Juanita and I took care of that unpleasant task at noon yesterday. She was very upset, so we didn’t do much questioning.” Ron explained, then he radioed in and asked for messages, there were none.
He settled back into his seat, moving his sexy tush left and right, settling in. “So, any thoughts about our Mr. Altward?”
“Some,” I stated. “One thing I don’t understand is why the Montenhaute?”
“Well, you gave an explanation, didn’t you? Custom job for a frog lover.”
“Sure. And I can even profile the customer for you—male, between 70 and 90, gray hair, and collector of French royal art, pre-Revolution. Look for someone who is tight on money, maybe his kids got burned in the dot-com bubble.”
“Not too bad. What about a little fanatical element?”
“Agreed. He is a fanatical collector of that stuff. So much so he prepares to steal a piece instead of reselling some other items of his collection to finance the buy of Altward’s Montenhaute with that money.”
“Hey, you are worth your money. You saved me the trip to the local FBI field office,” Ron laughed.
“I just wanted to look competent. What do I know about hired thieves?” I said smugly. “But another interesting point from my perspective was why Altward had such a set in his possession and on display? Everything we saw in there was in line with his typical standard. The twentieth century art, like the Calder mobile or the Gottlieb lithographs on the wall, the modern jewelry collection, everything I saw there was second half nineteenth century and later, plus the Mexican artists. Plus, his business associate Thomas Cornelius fits into that scheme as well.”
“The French grandma stuff was a little bit out of line, you mean?”
“Exactly. Why did the thief steal this one particular set of jewelry that didn’t fit in anyway? And nothing else. I mean, the Montenhaute wasn’t even that valuable.”
“Five hundred thousand doesn’t sound like a Radio Shack stereo to me,” Ron remarked dryly. “And people are killed for a pair of Nike’s every day.”
“But the Calder mobile alone is probably worth that much. The thief could have easily doubled his take by not dropping the murder weapon.”
“And removing incriminating evidence. OK, I agree, good point.”
“But what do we make of it?” I looked over at Ron, who drove easily through the thick Thanksgiving Friday pre-lunchtime stream.
“Relax, nothing makes sense immediately. It will in the end.”
“Oh, I thought you detectives form a theory right away and deduct everything from there.”
“Watson, it is called a hypothesis and the deduction is not my task. I ask, I listen, I read and I write a lot of reports. If a solution jumps out, it is good for me to take it to the D.A. If not, it is not worth worrying over.”
“I am disappointed. Really!”
“Thank you for your insight so far. It is valuable to me.”
We rode silently for a few minutes. Then I asked, “Say, how do you know that a suspect is lying. I noticed, for example, that Altward was rubbing his hands a lot.”
“Oh sure, that is always a sign.”
“Of lying?”
“No, of dry hands.”
We shared a good laugh and Ron turned serious again. “Think, Calendar,” he tapped his head playfully.
I thought for a minute but nothing regarding either lying or dry hands came to mind. So I looked back at Ron.
He explained. “Did you notice something when we entered the penthouse?”
“It was expensive.”
“It smelled of Turpentine.”
My finger shot up. “So he did some heavy cleaning before we came. Removing bloodstains?”
Ron rolled his eyes. “Altward moves in the art scene. His CV, courtesy of Mr. Fowler Wynn, states that he was an art major at UCAL in the seventies. So it is likely that he does a little recreational painting in his spare time.”
“I see. He does oil painting, uses Turpentine a lot to clean the brushes and his skin. Therefore, dry hands,” I deducted.
“What did we learn, Calendar?”
“Use your nose?” I offered.
Ron rolled his eyes. “Do your homework.”
“I am impressed.” Really, I was.
Chapter 10
PHOEBE EASTMAN LIVED north of San Diego in a coastal town called La Jolla, a nice little upbeat beach community. The upper class had their houses while the upper middle class had some apartment complexes thrown in. We parked the car in front of just such a monoculture housing complex and I asked Ron what Phoebe did for a living.
“She is an artist,” Ron looked doubtfully at the neighborhood as if it didn’t match, which it didn’t. La Jolla was more expensive than San Diego, no place for the starving bohemian.
Ron went into the complex; followed the signposts and finally stepped up to a second floor apartment. He rang a bell and a blonde, brown-eyed California dream girl opened the door for us. She had puffed-up eyes and a reddish nose but was all the right sizes, from her hips, to her breasts and her smooth shimmering hair. She wore a straight blue cotton skirt and a striped blouse with a golden necklace visible through the opening at her neck.
Ron did a quick introduction and we sat down in a spacious living room that featured assorted modern minimalistic pictures. Lots of colors and bleeding patterns, abstraction and emotional expression. None revealed any mastership of the brush. We declined a sof
t drink. Phoebe fetched a box of tissues and the interview began.
“Thank you for seeing us, Miss Eastman,” Ron said.
“I still cannot believe what has happened,” Phoebe was sniffing in her tissue.
“When did you talk to your father for the last time?”
“Must have been last weekend. Friday or Saturday. We were discussing Thanksgiving prep stuff. Who was supposed to buy what, you know.” Nothing to thank for this year, I was thinking, feeling with her.
“You said yesterday that your mother died a few years ago.”
Just a sniff and nod in return.
“Did your father talk to you about his work?”
“Oh yes, now and then. Not that it was a very exciting job. He mostly just discusses the highlights and mentions when something special occurs. Like an attempted break-in or things he stumbled on during his rounds, like lovers necking in the backyard lot.”
“You were aware of the current assignment he had at the Altward Gallery?”
“Of course, me being an artist and all.” She waved around with her arm, probably to indicate that she had created the mono-colored canvases. “He was around great art all night. He had the round for a few months now and we even went there once or twice during the daytime. Dad introduced me to Mr. Altward.”
“Did your father mention anything out of the ordinary regarding the Altward Gallery?”
Phoebe shook her head and sniveled into her tissue again.
“No recent attempts, no suspicious cars in the parking lot or nightly rattling doors, no phone calls or hang-ups?”
“No, nothing.”
“Were you aware that the showroom on the second floor was a giant safe?”
Phoebe looked at Ron as if he had put her into the suspect basket. “Of course, I think everyone who ever walked up the stairs noticed the heavy doors and the massive frames.”
“In his capacity as the responsible watchman, was your father able to get into the safe after hours?”
“As far as I know, he couldn’t open the door by himself. Someone in the security company call center could do some emergency overrides but only then, the door would open. The whole thing is computer controlled and can be remotely checked at any time.”
“So your father alone could never have entered the safe at night without coordinating it with the central security or one of the gallery owners?”
“That was my understanding, yes.”
“Did your father mention anything out of the ordinary going on at the Altward Gallery? More files than usual on Mr. Altward’s desk, the assistant burning midnight oil, false alarms, lights flickering at night, anything?”
“I don’t know what exactly you want to hear. I mean there was always something going on. My dad always brought home some tidbits about new artwork, photos lying around or pinned on the walls. He was very much interested in art; I got the bug from him.”
“These are your paintings?” I asked.
She nodded, seemed glad to leave the subject of her dead father. “Some of my early works. I am in a more figurative phase right now; most of the new works are in my loft downtown.” Classy, two places in La Jolla, apartment and loft in S.D.
“You have representation?”
She gave a sad smile. “I had for a while, but it had to close down. The art business is not so good. I am negotiating with two galleries now. You like the works?” She turned around and spread out an arm toward the paintings behind her. The turn offered a better look at the golden necklace she wore, a small piece of stunning beauty.
“Yeah, I do,” I lied, conjuring the first most abstract painters from the back of my memory. “I like Gottlieb, Rothko and the lot. I am an artist myself, doing jewelry.”
We chatted for a few minutes about the superficial aspects of our creative jobs, Ron patiently sitting there.
Phoebe eventually glanced at him and then at me again and said, “Excuse me, Detective, we got carried away here.”
Ron smiled. “No problem, Miss Eastman. It took your mind off your father for a moment. Miss Moonstone is hired especially for the case to support me in the artistic aspects of the theft.”
“Oh yes, something was stolen, too.” Phoebe remembered, looking at me.
“An eighteenth century set of jewelry by a craftsman called Patrice Montenhaute,” I explained.
“Never heard of her.” Phoebe shrugged.
“Don’t worry about it, only the jewelry collectors’ scene knows and values him.”
“Can I do anything more for the lady and gentleman of the police?” Phoebe asked.
Ron stood up, I followed suit. “If you have any questions or remember anything, please call me or my partner Juanita Garcia anytime. You met her yesterday, you have our cards.”
We somberly shook hands and left Phoebe Eastman in her Thanksgiving misery.
“Can I buy you lunch?” Ron asked. “Least I can do for a highly valued consultant.”
“By the way, don’t you have funds for this?”
“Lunch?”
“No, consulting.”
“Well, now that you ask, we may.” Ron scratched his sexy chin in embarrassment and put on a boyish charm face. Cute.
“Bring the paperwork if you want any more qualified answers.”
“And I thought I could save a little budget here.” Ron sighed. “But I had already wondered when you would ask.”
“Really?”
“Would have been suspicious if you hadn’t.”
“Really?”
“Really! Do you know the Crab Shack at La Jolla Cove?”
“I think I got my first real kiss on that parking lot, ages ago.” I remembered with dread.
“Today’s offer would include a portion of fries and unlimited Coke.”
“That’s exactly what I wished for after that kiss.”
The Crab Shack may have had crab dishes way back when there were still crabs to be found in the waters of South California, but nowadays, it specializes in everything but crab. It also serves some legendary cheeseburgers that only the stray tourist would order accidentally, but only once.
Ron and I parked the car, went over to the shack and ordered the fried fish of the day with fries, mushrooms and Coke. After we were served, we settled at one of the wooden camping table-seat combos planted unceremoniously on the parking lot tarmac and enjoyed the vista of a silver Pacific Ocean in the low midday sun. And the food.
“So, what do you think about Miss Phoebe Eastman?” Ron dipped a piece of fish into the sauce.
“Did you notice her necklace?” I asked.
“What necklace?”
“See, that’s why you hired me. The piece that Phoebe wore around her neck was spectacular.”
“Gold, wasn’t it?”
“Right, my first guess would have been Mexico or Aztec art. Very small, could have been a bird or a crouching animal, brushed gold, not the shiny stuff toward which we Americans usually gravitate. Some small colorful rubies and opals set into it. It hung on a simple black leather band.”
“From your description, it sounds like any other market stuff you buy over in Mexico.”
“Trust me, it wasn’t. That piece of hers was the definition of expensive understatement. Five to six figures worth. My instant valuation would have said five figure range. Fifty thousand dollars upwards.”
“So Miss Eastman likes it hot. She is successful with her work, just like you.”
“Do you see any expensive jewelry around my neck?”
“Actually, now that you mention it, you don’t wear any jewelry at all.”
“You haven’t seen me naked.” It slipped out as a flippant spontaneous remark, my ears turned beet-red instantly in regret.
Ron choked on his Coke and snorted so loudly into his cup that he had to pour the remains into the sand.
“Excuse me, that was too… ”
“It’s fine, you want to lighten the mood between us. I won’t ask again,” Ron caught himself and finally stopped lau
ghing.
“Back to Phoebe. I can tell you with my full authority that her art earns her no money. It wouldn’t even if she evolved from that silly one-color-one-line concept that she had on her walls. Check the no-name artists on eBay selling similar stuff. Two hundred dollars, max.”
“So the talk about representation was a bluff?”
“No, maybe a friend helps her out, makes a better impression if you are able to say ‘Call my agent.’ Her previous gallery went bust. That says all for the economic value of her art.”
“Isn’t there one artist who can live off his art?”
“When you define ‘her art’ as the ultimate self fulfillment, the answer is zero percent.”
“So you are of the chosen few,” Ron mused.
“Forget it, in my trade we have to take care of the customers’ taste just as much as a car designer does. When you create commercial art, you have to consider so many aspects, it may look Mexican to meet a current Latin trend but it also needs to go with a small black Armani outfit. Not too folksy but sophisticated as well. Mostly we play with different styles but mainly stick to one and speckle-in another influence here and there. And hope that the buyers will like it.”
“Sounds like table dancing.”
“Don’t mock my trade. But come to think of it, it is.”
“You assume.”
“You too, I hope.” We looked each other in the eye and I liked what I saw. Forget it, Calendar girl. “Anyway, to close the subject and finish the analogy, I am simply better at table dancing than the other dancers. But I am not part of the chosen few. Ask Thomas Cornelius, he will probably tell you the names of the ones defining a new style.”
“So, I hear from you that Phoebe can’t pay for the necklace, apartment and loft from her art.”
“And probably not from Daddy’s tuition either. Low wage night watchman and all.”
“Another interview, another mystery,” Ron smiled.
We rode back to San Diego in the steady midday traffic stream of people heading out for their family visits or shopping sprees.
