Tomorrow's Vengeance

by Marcia Talley

  Not that I expected Detective Powers to keep me in the loop on the progress of his investigation into the murder of Masud Abaza, but I still hadn’t heard back from Hutch about what, if anything, he’d learned about Izzy’s valuable painting currently on exhibit at the Baltimore Art Gallery. I was within hours of dropping into my brother-in-law’s downtown office in full-blown pester mode when he phoned.

  ‘I have news.’

  ‘Good or bad?’

  Hutch snorted. ‘A little of both, I should think. When can you and Mrs Milanesi come by?’

  Right now, was the correct answer, but I needed to consult with Izzy, so we tentatively settled on eight o’clock the following morning, and I’d call him if that turned out not to be convenient.

  Izzy and I arrived right on time the following day; the receptionist escorted us into the conference room where Hutch was waiting. A stack of photocopies sat in front of each of our places, along with a bottle of spring water. A tray of donuts, each neatly sliced in half, sat in the center of the table. Hutch didn’t usually provide refreshments. Perhaps he was laying in supplies for a marathon.

  ‘Please sit down, ladies.’ He paused, then added, ‘Coffee?’

  ‘If it’s no trouble,’ I said, reaching for a cruller.

  Hutch nodded in the direction of the credenza where a Keurig coffee machine sat in splendid isolation, surrounded by a selection of individual K-cups. ‘My new toy. Help yourself. The French roast is particularly good, but there’s decaf as well.’

  ‘None for me, thanks.’ Izzy selected a half moon of cinnamon, and had taken a nibble when Hutch tapped a set of printouts of photos that I knew had come from Naddie’s cell phone.

  ‘First of all, Letizia Rossi’s scrapbook. Has it been found?’

  Izzy shook her head sadly.

  ‘Pity. Well, then, let me say how valuable these photographs have been. I had an expert enlarge and crop them, so we have records of at least fourteen of your family’s paintings. Over the past several days I’ve spent a good deal of time with the director of the Baltimore Art Gallery and her staff, who have, in my opinion, been fully cooperative.

  ‘Naturally,’ he continued, ‘they claimed to be totally surprised that Ragazzo con Cane might have been stolen during the war. They tell me that it, along with a couple of other smaller works, were donated to the gallery in 2011 and 2012 by Benjamin Pfaff, a prominent Baltimore philanthropist.’

  Izzy sat up straight in her chair. ‘There’s more than one?’

  ‘Let’s take it a step at a time, Mrs Milanesi. Why don’t we refer to the packet in front of you?’

  I sat down with my coffee. The documentation had been put together as carefully as a PowerPoint presentation. Hutch walked us through the printout, page by page. Each page was like a thread, drawing us inexorably into the next, gradually stepping back in time. I picked up the document and fanned the pages, eager to skip ahead to see where they led, but Hutch gave me the evil eye, so I decided to go with the flow.

  ‘As I said, Pfaff donated the painting to the Baltimore Art Gallery in 2011, presumably taking a tax write-off in the amount of $250,000, which was the appraised value of the painting at the time.’

  Next to me, Izzy gasped.

  ‘On the next page, we have a bill of sale from the Crown Gallery on North Howard Street in Baltimore, detailing the sale of the painting to Mr Pfaff two years prior for $130,000. So far, so good.’ He flipped to the next page. ‘Here, we find that the work was taken on consignment from the estate of a certain Muzio Buccho, and he …’

  I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. ‘What?’

  Hutch raised a hand, palm out. ‘You’re getting ahead of me, Hannah. Now, the executor of the estate, if you’ll look at the next document, please, is Muzio’s daughter, Filomena.’

  I turned to the next page as instructed. It was a photocopy of the relevant page of Muzio Buccho’s will, and there, printed in clear, unambiguous capital letters was the name Filomena Buccho.

  I couldn’t believe it. ‘“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world …”’ I quoted.

  Izzy simply stared, nodding vigorously. She knew that line from Casablanca, too.

  Hutch tapped the tabletop with the tip of his pen, a nervous habit. ‘You know her, Mrs Milanesi?’

  ‘I do. She manages the dining room at Calvert Colony.’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ I said.

  Hutch shrugged. ‘It happens.’

  ‘So Filomena’s father, Muzio, brought the paintings with him when he immigrated to Argentina …’ I asked.

  ‘Not Muzio,’ Hutch interrupted. ‘A guy named Vittorio Piccio. Does that name sound familiar?’

  Izzy frowned. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, I did a little digging, and this guy Piccio was a notorious art thief, working hand in glove with the Nazis. If you’ll look ahead to the next page, you’ll see that it was Piccio who was hired to do the official inventory of the contents of an art collection owned by an art dealer in Rome named Giacomo Rossi just a couple of months before the poor fellow was forced to sell out.’

  Izzy cried out, ‘That was my father!’

  ‘I expected that.’ Hutch waited for Izzy to regain her composure, then moved swiftly on. ‘Not only that, but Piccio had the unmitigated gall to charge your father a fee for doing the inventory. You’ll see his itemized receipt. Time, travel, lodging … God, just when I think I’ve seen everything … It makes me ill. But the important thing,’ he continued, ‘is that this inventory actually exists, and we have a copy of it here. There are one hundred and twenty-three paintings and drawings listed, Mrs Milanesi, some of them, like Ragazzo con Cane, specifically by name.’

  ‘That proves my father owned them.’

  ‘It does. And the scrapbook that your mother made is further confirmation of that ownership – photographic evidence, if you will. I do hope it can be found.’

  ‘But how did that particular painting get into the hands of Filomena Buccho?’ I wanted to know.

  ‘I’m coming to that. If you’ll flip forward to page ten, you’ll notice that we have copies of a customs declaration form dated 1948 when Piccio entered Argentina, and Ragazzo con Cane is listed on it then. Piccio paid a small duty of around four percent on the painting based on the clean bill of sale from your father, Giacomo Rossi, dated September 18, 1943.’

  Izzy’s head was bent over the bill of sale, studying it closely, slowly tracing the loops with an index finger. ‘That looks like my father’s signature but it could be a forgery.’

  Hutch nodded. ‘Point taken. Moving on, though, after 1948, the works drop out of sight until ten years later, in 1958, when Ragazzo Con Cane and a dozen other works previously owned by your father showed up as part of a larger sale that took place in Buenos Aires. That’s when Adriano Buccho, Muzio’s father and Filomena’s grandfather, acquired the works. The rest of the catalog …’ He shrugged. ‘The sale attracted a lot of attention because of the Fattoris and the Signorinis being offered. They were popular Italian Impressionists. Perhaps you know them.’

  Izzy frowned. ‘So, this accounts for only thirteen of my father’s paintings. Where is the rest of his collection?’

  ‘It’s possible that the Piccio family still owns them.’

  Izzy raised an eyebrow. ‘I hear an “or” in your voice, Mr Hutchinson.’

  ‘Or they could have been sold and are now scattered in galleries and private collections all over the world.’

  Izzy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She straightened her back. ‘OK, so what’s the next step?’

  ‘Well, that’s complicated. As you can see from these documents, which the museum freely provided, by the way, your father legally sold his paintings to Piccio.’

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean anything if the works were extorted from my father in the first place. Father might as well have had a gun aimed at his head!’

  ‘If we can prove that he was coerced we might be able to persuade
the gallery to compensate you for the painting.’

  ‘Compensate? I don’t want compensation! I want that painting back. It’s my brother!’ Izzy began to sob.

  I grabbed the box of tissues off the credenza and set it gently in her lap. While she dabbed at her eyes, I asked, ‘What other paintings does the gallery have that once belonged to Izzy’s family?’

  ‘Two smaller ones, much less valuable. But they were also bought by Benjamin Pfaff and donated to the gallery in the following year.’

  Benjamin Pfaff. It’d been so long since his name was mentioned in this tortuous chain of custody that I’d practically forgotten about him.

  ‘They’re listed on the next to the last page.’

  Izzy blew her nose, tucked the used tissue into her pocket then bent over the photocopies. ‘I remember this one,’ she said, pointing to a reproduction of a girl holding a bowl of cherries. ‘It hung in my parent’s room. And this little one, this still life …’ she tapped the page with her finger. ‘This was in our drawing room, on the wall over my mother’s silver tea service.’ She looked up. ‘They will be pictured in my mother’s scrapbook.’

  ‘Do you think the museum will give them back?’ I asked.

  ‘Truthfully? Because of the bill of sale it will be a tough case to make. But it’s not unheard of. There’s case law in New York that supports our position. Basically it says that a thief cannot pass good title. If we can prove that Piccio was a thief …’ His voice trailed off. ‘I should warn you, though, Mrs Milanesi, that if we have to take this to court it could be expensive.’

  ‘I don’t care about that. I just want my family’s paintings back.’ She leaned forward toward him, arms stretched in supplication across the table. ‘Will you help me?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  I signaled a time out with my hands. ‘Wait a minute. Help me get this straight. Adriano Bucco bought thirteen paintings at that sale, right?’

  Hutch nodded.

  ‘And they were handed down from Adriano to Muzio and finally to Filomena and her brother.’

  ‘Presumably.’

  ‘The Baltimore Art Gallery has three of the Buccho paintings, so where are the other ten?’

  ‘We’ll hope to find that out, too.’

  I wanted to hug my brother-in-law but I settled for a profuse thank you, then added: ‘As much as I want to go back to Calvert Colony and shake Filomena until the truth drops out, I don’t suppose that would be a good idea.’

  ‘No, you’ll have to let me handle that,’ Hutch drawled. ‘Remember that Filomena Buccho may have absolutely no idea that her grandfather had been purchasing art that was stolen from the Jews. As far as she’s concerned her family legitimately owned the art. It’d been in her family for three generations. It will have been a part of her life since childhood.’

  ‘Still …’ I began.

  Hutch raised a cautionary hand. ‘I tried to contact Filomena this morning, by the way, but she’s a little busy just now. The kitchen at Calvert Colony is in turmoil. It seems that her brother has been taken in for questioning over the murder of Masud Abaza.’

  TWENTY

  ‘Rester éveillé. Le plus longtemps possible. Lutter contre le sommeil. Le calcul est simple. En une heure, je fabrique trente faux papiers. Si je dors une heure, trente personnes mourront.’

  Adolfo Kaminsky, 1925.

  [Keep awake. As long as possible. Struggle against sleep. The calculation is easy. In one hour, I make thirty false papers. If I sleep one hour, thirty people will die.]

  I had promised I would keep the information about the provenance of Izzy’s art collection to myself. Ditto my discovery of the bloodied croquet mallet. But, sharing that information with Naddie didn’t really count, did it?

  ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ I cautioned after my long tale was done.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone what?’ she said.

  I loved that in a woman.

  We were tucked away at a corner card table in the lobby of Blackwalnut Hall. The cards were spread out for a game of gin rummy but neither of us had played a card. I kept my eye on Nancy, who was looking paler and thinner than ever, as we listened to Charlie Robinson play the piano. It was Gershwin Day, and happily even Nancy was humming along – ‘the Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble’ – and drumming her fingers silently along the arms of her chair as if it were a keyboard.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ I commented to my friend as Robinson launched into the next tune, ‘is if Filomena and Raniero inherited all these valuable paintings from their father’s estate, what are they doing working here?’

  ‘It costs a lot of money to start up a restaurant,’ Naddie said. ‘Two, three hundred thousand dollars would be a drop in a bucket. I can’t imagine they got much more than that for the three paintings.’

  ‘Still sounds like a fortune to me.’ I smiled dreamily, thinking what I might do with such a windfall if an unknown Monet or Picasso happened to turn up in my attic.

  ‘So, who do you think killed Masud?’ I asked Naddie, changing the subject. ‘If you were writing the novel, I mean.’

  Naddie considered my question thoughtfully, tapping her tented fingers against her lips.

  ‘I hate thinking this, but how about Safa?’ I prompted. ‘He treated her like chattal, so it’s possible that she snapped.’

  ‘I think we can eliminate Safa, Hannah. She was in the computer room at the time, teaching a class on how to use Facebook. Six septuagenarians and her electronic signature on the Internet make for a pretty solid alibi.’

  I hadn’t known that, and felt relieved.

  ‘Tyson Bennett?’ I asked, looking at her sideways through my lashes to judge her reaction.

  ‘Tyson?’ she sputtered, then laughed. ‘Mr Straight-Arrow? No way.’

  ‘Safa tells me that Masud threatened to turn Tyson in to the Office of Health Care Quality for the unit not following proper procedure when we discovered Jerry having sex with Nancy. Maybe Tyson wanted to shut him up.’

  ‘Not likely, especially since it’s clear that Masud followed through on his threat. I’ve spoken to Tyson, and according to him he did report the incident to the Health Care Quality officials. Another staff member in the unit told him. After that …’ She shrugged. ‘There’s no reason for Tyson to go after Masud.’

  ‘Except in anger,’ I said. ‘Like Elaine Broering. She’s out of a job because of Masud.’

  ‘We don’t know that yet. Isn’t Elaine simply on leave? Besides, I can’t think of anyone less likely to commit a murder than Elaine. She’s one of the most gentle, caring people I know. You have to be to work in the memory unit.’

  I thought back to my first substantial conversation with Elaine and had to agree. ‘Nancy bit her, did you know that? Elaine simply shrugged it off in an “it-goes-with-the-territory” sort of way. I like her a lot, so I find it hard to picture her as a killer.’ I paused. ‘But then, a lot of women fell for Ted Bundy.’

  ‘How about Richard Kent?’ Naddie suggested. ‘Or Mr Easy Rider?’

  I shrugged. ‘Possible, I suppose, but I think they just hated Muslims in general, not Masud specifically. Richard is a sure bet for the graffiti, but murder?’

  We sat quietly for a moment, enjoying the sing-a-long. ‘I Got Plenty of Nothing’ seemed especially appropriate after what Naddie and I had just been discussing.

  After the song was over, I said, ‘I’m fond of Raniero, too, of course, and I’d like to think it isn’t simply my lust for his spaghetti putanesca that keeps me from pointing an accusatory finger.’

  ‘I wonder what the police have on Raniero?’ Naddie said. ‘You mentioned the arguments he had with Masud. Do you think it might have been a fight over Safa gone bad?’

  ‘I don’t. I witnessed a lot of yelling, and a few punches were thrown, but nothing ever got too physical.’ I gazed out the window for a moment, collecting my thoughts. ‘If Safa and Raniero were having an affair, though, it’s conceivable that Raniero lost it when he s
aw how badly Masud was treating her.’ I picked up one of the playing cards, turning it over and over between my fingers. ‘Besides, how likely is it that Raniero would come across Masud in the Tranquility Garden? The more I think about it, the more I’m starting to believe that Masud was lured there.’ I ticked the items off on my fingers. ‘One, it’s secluded, especially at mealtimes when almost everyone is in the dining room. Two, by choosing to use the croquet mallet it was obviously premeditated since the croquet sets are stored in a shed some distance away and would have to be carried into the garden. And three …’ I flapped my hand. ‘I don’t have a three.’

  ‘I do,’ Naddie said. ‘If it happened at lunchtime, as the rumor mill has led us to believe, wouldn’t Raniero’s absence in the kitchen have been noticed?’

  ‘Yes!’ I said, doing an arm pump. ‘Naddie, you are brilliant!’

  ‘Hardly.’ She inclined her head toward my ear. ‘And here comes someone else whose absence during mealtime would certainly not have gone unremarked.’

  I followed her gaze. Filomena was chugging our way like a determined steam engine. ‘Do you mind if I interrupt your card game for a moment, ladies?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Naddie waved at the empty chair. ‘Please.’

  ‘I need your help, Mrs Gray,’ Filomena said, pulling out the chair and sitting down in it.

  ‘Me? And how can I help you, my dear?’

  Filomena folded her hands on the table in front of her and leaned toward Naddie. ‘You write the detective stories, right? You know about the police and things.’

  Naddie cocked her head. ‘A little, dear, but remember, what I wrote is fiction not fact. Sometimes I simply made it up. It’s one of the reasons I gave up writing police procedurals, to tell the truth. Too much forensics in crime novels these days. I’m much more interested in the characters, in their relationships. I let the cops do what they do somewhere off the page.’

  Filomena waved Naddie’s objections away. ‘I am worried. I think they are going to put my brother in jail.’

  ‘According to what I’ve heard, they’ve simply taken Raniero in for questioning, Filomena. That doesn’t mean he’s going to be arrested. If he has nothing to hide …’