Art had ordered Loneliness and Shopping, and discovered himself the lucky possessor of an entire tomato, albeit a tomato studded with pieces of a cut-up charge card. Juice leaked from the punctured tomato onto the sheaf of charge card receipts underneath.
Doan examined this still life for a moment, blinked, then cleared all but the lettuce off his plate with a sweep of his hand. After chopping the lettuce, he picked up Art’s tomato and began destudding it. “Get rid of those papers, why don’t you?” He quickly and expertly sliced the tomato up over the lettuce, tossed it all together, and pushed half of it onto Art’s plate.
“Behold. Salad Angst. I’ll sell it back to them for fifty bucks.”
They ate their semimeals quickly, for fear that someone would see them actually consuming food and throw them out. Afterward, Art leaned forward.
“There, that’ll hold me for about half an hour. So, what do you think all of Arbuthnott’s stuff being sold has to do with the murders?”
“Maybe nothing. After seeing what I saw tonight, it doesn’t surprise me that someone would buy up every available piece by some nobody, on the not-so-off chance that tomorrow he’ll be somebody. And whoever did buy it probably would have turned it all around in a day for a hundred percent profit, even if Arbuthnott was still alive. Still, it’s a lead to check out.”
“So when did you become a detective?”
“So it’s a lead for the police to check out, then.”
Art chuckled. “You sound so serious, Doan.”
“You’d be serious if your boyfriend was in jail for murder, too.”
“No doubt I would be. But are you sure he’s innocent?”
“Oh, yes,” Doan said calmly.
“You know, I hate to be the one to tell this to you, but, well, it’s always the nice ones who end up being the guilty ones.”
“I know. But Stan’s innocent. And I never said he was nice.”
Art shrugged. “If you say so.”
“The cops, with the exception of Luke, are trying to pin all the murders on Stan, quite foolishly. One: The murder before last was done by someone who a, knew a lot about electricity, b, had access to a lot of recording and editing equipment, and c, had the money to acquire twenty TVs and twenty VCRs. Stan knows nothing about electricity, recording, or editing. He’s a painter. Not only does he not have the money for all that technology, he has no charge cards and, like a real artist, he has bad credit, so he couldn’t have rented any of it. And how about transporting it all there? Stan not only doesn’t have a car, he doesn’t know how to drive. Consequently, we are talking about either a, someone else with all these skills, unlikely, or b, a bunch of people, some of whom were perhaps unwitting accomplices in the whole thing. Like whoever got all the machinery together.
“Two: The murder before that involved putting a body alongside a number of mannequins on a park bench and covering the whole thing with plaster. Once again, money and manpower.
“Three: The first murder was simple enough, I grant you, but the artist in question was picked up and hurled onto that bed of glass they found him impaled on. Stan is, I must say, most attractive in a wiry sort of way, but he’s by no means the type who’s capable of hoisting bodies about. The killer was, I believe, a, someone who knew both Arbuthnott and Stan, and so learned of Stan’s little note, and b, planned to do him in anyway, and used the note as the inspiration for this latest method of murder, sure that it would bring suspicion on Stan. Which is really pretty dumb, when you consider how unqualified he was for the first three murders.
“My theory is that someone’s buying up these artists’ work, then killing them off to increase the value, which seems fairly silly, since you don’t even have to die anymore for your price to go through the roof, though death is still a guarantee that it will. So,” he summed up, “the killer is one or more people, who have one or more of the following: wealth, greed, stupidity, impatience, and murderous tendencies. And let’s not rule out a side order of vengeance somewhere along the line, mind you.”
“My God, I never knew what kind of analytical mind you were hiding. Why the hell didn’t you go to college?”
“For what? To qualify for some job where I’d not only have to be there during,” he shuddered, “appointed hours every day, but where I’d have to wear men’s clothes?”
“Good evening gentlemen,” said the man who sat down at their table. “I am the proprietor. I have been tirelessly working for decades to bring art to the masses - ”
“Run!” Doan shouted, making a break for the door. Art threw a hundred dollar bill on the table and smiled apologetically. “Performance artist - he’s rehearsing,” he explained, following hot on Doan’s heels.
The next day, Doan met Binky outside KC’s apartment building. “I am not happy.”
“Of course not,” she consoled him, having already heard the complete details of his previous evening on the phone that morning. “I’m so sorry, but it has to be this way. Here,” she offered him a paper bag. He opened it and examined its contents. His head came back up with a smile.
“Florence Nightingale has nothing on you, angel.”
As Binky had figured it would, two bottles of White Star and an intimidatingly large pink bakery box had mollified Doan’s mortification at having to visit KC on his, as Doan had put it, “own stomping grounds.”
“Now come on,” she insisted, all business again. He sighed and followed her into the building, clutching his paper bag for consolation.
“Nah yew wach at fer dem buffalo chips, missy,” Doan twanged at her outside KC’s door.
“Stop that.” She rang the bell.
KC opened the door and ushered them in. Much to Doan’s surprise, it seemed to all intents and purposes to be a perfectly normal apartment. The wood floors were well polished and overlaid with a mélange of Southwestern rugs. Doan was disappointed to find that the walls were not only not adorned with the presupposed Rockwells and Remingtons, nor with cheesy beefcake posters tastefully framed, but with (he shuddered) some of the very artists he had on his own walls: prints of Dali, Hockney, and Georgia O’Keeffe. Small gratification was at last to be had in the bathroom. There, KC at last had a typical gay picture: a small print of the famous Hippolyte Flandrin male nude, curled up in the fetal position on a rock. Alas, there were no little round sissy soaps in the bathroom to give the game away, but no pretentiously butch colognes such as Brut or Stetson, either.
“Hmph,” was all he allowed as he made his way back into the living room, where Binky and KC were waiting patiently. Binky had tried to restrain Doan from immediately prowling through every room, but KC had waved her off. “Let him.”
“It’ll do. Where’s that machine of yours?”
KC led them to his guest room/office, and turned on his PC. “Do you by any chance remember the name of the program?” he asked Doan.
“Something delicate and Japanese-sounding. I remember it being a perfectly preposterous thing to name an unattractive table of numbers.”
“Thank God for your easily affronted sensibilities,” KC said, for which Doan had no answer, not quite sure if he was being complimented or not. KC typed “Lotus” at the computer’s prompt.
“That’s it. Here’s the disk.”
KC tapped keys, information moved on the screen, Doan yawned loudly. KC did not fail to notice. “This might take some time. Why don’t you dig into your goodie bag?”
Doan eyed him. “How’d you know what was in here?”
He smiled. “I know you. I know Binky. I know you didn’t want to come here. I know what Binky would use to get you here.”
“Hmph,” Doan repeated, for lack of a better response, and took his bag into the kitchen. Binky followed and shut the door behind them.
“Here,” she said. “Eat.”
Doan attacked the box. “Oooh, yum. Napoleons. Mmm. So,” he said between bites, “what’s the deal?”
“KC’s going to try and figure out if you got the right files, for starte
rs. Then, if you did, he’s going to see if he can’t find out who bought Arbuthnott’s stuff. Then we’re going to call Luke.” She glared at him balefully. “As we should have in the first place. And God only knows how I’m going to explain to an officer of the law that the lead I’m giving him was illegally obtained, and thus probably useless.”
Doan swallowed hastily. “Don’t be silly. It’s called inverse police procedure. First, we find out if the info is any use, then, if it is, Luke files the proper papers to get it the legal way, so that it’s admissible evidence in court, but while we’re waiting for permission, we use it to find the killer, before the killer gets tipped off that we’re getting permission to find out who he is. Get it? Mmph, yummy. What else is in that box?”
She handed him a kiwi tart. “I know you said the killer was stupid, but you don’t really think he left his name in blood, so to speak?”
“No, but at least now we have the start of a paper trail.”
“Doan, what is this? Police procedure, admissible evidence, paper trail. Did you go to law school last night or something?”
“Well, yes, so to speak. Here, have a glass of champagne.”
She took it, but still stared at him, awaiting an answer.
“All right. I already talked to Luke.”
“You did?!” she said, irritated that she hadn’t been the first to get the scoop, and relieved that she hadn’t been the one to have to tell him and be subjected to a lecture on improper procedure.
“Last night. Woke him up, to make sure he was too groggy to properly give me what for. Besides,” Doan drew up with a flush of pride, “he thinks I did the right thing, all things considered.” He grinned.
Binky shook her head. “If your powers of charm are no longer limited to wealthy, attractive, gay men, we are all in trouble.”
“Charm? Ha! Reason, my dear. Sheer brainpower.”
KC interrupted them. “I’ve got something.”
They huddled around the computer. “You see here,” KC pointed, “this is the list of represented artists, here’s the dates of sales, how much, to who. They sold sixteen Mortimer Arbuthnott canvases in one day, two days before he was killed. For a total of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“Where did I hide those crayons?” Binky asked. “I must get to work at once.”
“And according to this, the purchaser was one Steven Alholm.”
“Arrest him!” Doan shouted.
“Not proof,” Binky said.
“Well,” KC said, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head, eminently pleased with himself, “there’s another record in a different part of this spreadsheet for Mr. Alholm.” He moved the cursor to the top half of the split screen. “Yesterday, Le Gallerie purchased half of those works back. For three hundred and seventy five thousand dollars.” Binky gave a low whistle.
“They must all have the same accountant,” Doan muttered.
“What’s that?”
“Never mind.”
“Anyway, that’s the story on him. Except.” He paused dramatically.
“Go on,” Doan practically shouted.
“Steven Alholm is also listed here,” flip, flip, went the screen, “as the agent for an artist named Stanley Parks.”
“Stan?” Binky and Doan asked in unison.
“Stan,” he confirmed.
There was a knock at the door. “Erase it!” Doan did shout this time. “Hurry!”
“What?”
“That’s Luke at the door. I told him to meet us here. Oh, if he finds out that Stan’s connected to the murderer ...”
“That doesn’t mean anything, Doan.”
“Oh, no, not to us. But to the police, who have no instincts, who don’t know Stan, who have only mere reason to go on, well ...”
Binky let Luke in. “Good morning, and welcome to Atkinson, Van de Kamp, and McCandler, Inc., Detectives.”
“Atkinson? Who’s Atkinson?” Doan demanded.
KC raised his hand. “No. Really? I didn’t think you had a last name. Does this mean you’ll now tell us what KC stands for?”
“No. Wait - yes, when you tell me how you got a name like Doan.”
Doan blushed, the first time Binky had ever seen him do so. “Never mind.”
“Come here, look at this,” Binky said, leading Luke to the computer.
“Oh, woe and misery,” Doan wailed, consoling himself with another kiwi tart.
A few minutes later, having been filled in by KC, Luke assured Doan that it did not, after all, mean woe and misery for Stan. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “it helps.”
“How?”
“Let’s assume this Alholm is or works with the killer. He bought Arbuthnott’s works before he died, right? So say he uses that as an excuse to go and see Arbuthnott - I am your patron, etc., etc. Arbuthnott shows him the note he’s just received from Stan. Planning to kill him anyway, or knowing he’s going to be killed, Alholm decides to frame Stan, throwing all suspicion on him. Now our suspect, Alholm, is tied in to Stan, which shows how easily Alholm could frame him. See?”
Binky sat down. “My head hurts. I just want to go home and read a fashion magazine.”
“Go shopping,” Doan chimed in.
“Get la - ” she stopped short, blushing. Luke smiled his killer smile. Doan fanned himself.
“But, yes, you were right, Doan. It’s information worth having. And we'll get it through channels, eventually. Now, does anyone know Alholm?” They all shook their heads. “Know of him?” Negative again. “In that case ...”
“Stan.” Doan said. “Of course. Let’s ask Stan.”
“Get your coats,” Luke said, heading for the door.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Alholm? Steven Alholm? You’ve never heard of him?” Stan asked them disbelievingly.
“And why on earth should we have heard of him?” Doan asked reasonably.
“He’s only a household word in the art world. He was one of the first artists’ agents, and he's still the most successful. You see, it used to be that artists would deal directly with galleries. A gallery owner would pick you up and become the sole seller of your works. Alholm changed all that. He became the intermediary between the gallery and the artist, but he wasn’t exactly an agent. He would buy your works, probably everything you had, and then he’d sell them to the galleries. It never would have worked back before art prices got so crazy, but an artist’s loyalty to a gallery can end pretty last when someone like Alholm offers to buy everything they’ve got at once, whereas a gallery sells on consignment.”
“So it’s like cornering the market, except that it’s legal,” Luke asked.
“Right. The question with Alholm always was, where did the money come from? See, sometimes he’d buy up some total unknown, but rarely. He’s like a shark, always cruising the waters for food. He’ll hear of someone who’s on the verge of discovery, but who’s still undervalued, and he’ll pay them a lot more than they’re getting at their current gallery.”
“And you were one of his...discoveries?” Luke asked.
“Well, yes and no. I mean, I was, for a minute. When I first moved into my loft, there were some boxes left behind from this novelty company that had the building before it got converted. They were full of these little, maybe two-inch-high plastic skeletons with moving joints. So I started messing around with them. I made some chairs from paper clips and some hair from stuffed animals, and started making little tableaus. I’d take one skeleton and stand it behind another seated one, and I’d glue its joints into a pose that made it look like it was doing the hair of the other one. There was this one where I made them little papier-mâché sunglasses and put them out on deck chairs made from matchbooks, or sat them at tea with little Barbie teacups, stuff like that.”
“What’s with you and skeletons, anyway?” Doan asked.
Stan ignored him. “It was just jokey stuff, nothing serious. But I put it in a show and called it All Is Vanity. I sold them all in one n
ight, and saw them in ArtForum a month later. Then I heard the company that had moved out of my building was being besieged with pleas from artists across the country for boxes of little skeletons.”
“So Steven Alholm heard about this fabulous trend and was immediately on your doorstep.”
“For a minute. I made a bunch more skeleton figures, even though I didn’t feel too good about it. The first ones were a joke, and they were fun. This was like ... well, that building I live in used to be a factory, and it started to feel like it was a factory again. I made a lot of money real fast off those, but when he saw the stuff I normally do, my paintings, that was it. Not trendy enough. I didn’t have an agent anymore.”
Luke leaned back and absorbed this. This accounted well enough for Alholm’s name being associated with Stan’s in Le Gallerie’s books. But it didn’t cast any suspicion on Alholm. The purchase of all of Arbuthnott’s works just before the murder now looked less like a motive, as it could be just another move in an Alholm sales strategy, a strategy that would capitalize on death but did not necessarily involve murder.
“Well,” Doan said. “Well, well, well.” He got up and stretched, adjusting the collar of the peach blouse that went so well with the black Chanel suit that said, “I mean business.” He felt for all the world like a young lawyer on his first big case. “Very interesting. Lots to work with here.”
Stan looked at him. “Are you kidding? There’s zilch, that’s nothing that’s gonna get me off.”
“No,” Doan agreed. “But now we have another suspect. Someone who worked with the last dead man, and had to have at least known the others. Someone who, from this history we’ve gotten today, is perfectly awful. Thank God you’re a gossip hound.”
Stan meant to protest, but Doan went on. “He’s someone who knows Stan and has no use for him when he discovers that this fit that sparked these perverse little objects was only temporary.” He turned to Luke.
“Am I brilliant, or what?”
Luke smiled. By all the rules in the book, Doan had no business in the interrogation room. However, he’d been quick to point out to Captain Fisher that she owed him one for putting Flaharity on the case. Doan’s self-deputization as an investigator had gone to his head, admittedly. The minute he heard that Captain Fisher had been cajoled into not noticing that he’d been allowed into the interrogation room, he’d insisted on stopping at home to change, stopping at Macy’s to purchase a briefcase and a Filofax, and stopping at a stationer’s for legal pads and various bric-a-brac with which to fill said new briefcase.
Death Wore a Smart Little Outfit Page 10
