"You make me sound manipulative."
"No, constructive. You ask for Jean Ann's advice, she would peel the skin off your ego."
"Is your ego that vulnerable?"
"And how! Underneath this big, hairy exterior, I'm easily wounded."
Despite herself, Tamar smiled. “I can tell,” she said.
* * * *
Jasper Kohl's house was more modest than she had expected, a cedar-shingled cape forty minutes up Route 7. There were a couple of hospitals nearby, on the edge of a mill town that hadn't gentrified. Answering the door, Brunhilde ushered her inside with obvious reluctance. “Dr. Wendt thinks this is a bad idea,” the caregiver said. “Mr. Kohl is excitable."
She was at least six feet tall, with long hair tied into a rope down her back, heavy arms, long straight legs. Not quite one of the Rhine Maidens, Tamar thought—in fact, not a maiden at all. She appeared to be in her fifties and wore a wedding band.
"Perhaps I should go,” Tamar said.
A frail voice from the hallway said, “That's enough, Mrs. Diehl! ... Welcome, young lady! Don't let my captors scare you away."
Jasper Kohl's motorized chair halted a dozen feet from them. “Fetch Mrs. Gillespie a drink, Diehl! It's freezing out. This way, my dear."
In a bow-windowed dining room, Tamar's landscape hung above the fireplace mantel. The short man with thinning hair and glasses who studied the painting was dressed immaculately in a navy pinstripe suit, with tiny squares of gold at his cuffs. When he turned, she recognized him, though there was nothing memorable in the small, placid face. His blue eyes were shrunken by rimless lenses. If she tried to paint him, her eye would wander looking for a focal point.
"I'm Paul Wendt,” he said, offering a hand. “Mr. Kohl admires your work immensely."
"We have a similarly bleak view of human existence,” Kohl said. The old artist had wheeled in silently beside her. “Mrs. Gillespie's work displays the winter of her soul. Wendt here believes he can conjure up a sunny disposition in anyone with talk and drugs. Hasn't worked for me, has it, Witch Doctor?"
"Some patients resist being helped,” Wendt responded. “Mr. Kohl believes that if he isn't suicidal, he has nothing creative to give the world. Exactly the opposite is true. Artistic expression is essentially an affirmation of life."
"Listen to that,” Kohl whispered to Tamar. “What affirmation do you think this charlatan reads into your lake painting?"
"A struggle is an affirmation,” the doctor said, unperturbed. “Mrs. Gillespie was struggling to get past her family tragedy. You should be more sympathetic, Mr. Kohl. Before you began treatments, you hadn't worked in years."
The old man's head ducked in acknowledgment. A small, dark woman rolled a cart into the room, set plates on the table, filled wineglasses, and withdrew. The meal was light, parsley potatoes, a small fish fillet, two stalks each of asparagus. Tamar had forgotten since her grandfather's death how little very old people ate. Kohl seemed to begrudge his body nourishment, pushing around the poached fish as if eating it would support Wendt's contention.
"Is your studio here?” Tamar asked.
Kohl's hand trembled as he lowered his fork. “There's a converted garage out back that my keepers let me use. This dump is sort of my halfway house. Halfway between the normal world and the loony bin. Isn't that right, Doc?"
"Mr. Kohl needed a gradual transition. Fortunately, we found this property for rent."
"And Wendt's booby hatch is just down the road, in case they need to send me back.” Kohl's sharp, dark glance darted between the doctor and Brunhilde.
"That won't be necessary,” Wendt said. “You're doing fine. Irascible as ever. That's a form of affirmation too."
"May I see your studio?” Tamar asked.
The old artist grinned. “I have a few works in progress—but they're top secret. I suppose it's too cold to ask you to pose for me?"
The glint in his eye was practiced, knowing, and almost charming. If he asked her a few more times ... She had never been shy about posing when she was in college, but she remembered how long ago that had been.
"It's too cold,” Tamar said.
Kohl sighed. “I painted my late wife so often that there was a time when I could do her from memory. All those figures sprawled in the forest were Edith. But the mind isn't so sharp anymore. The fact is, I often can't recall what I'm working on till I see it in my studio.” His smile was bitter. “I would advise you not to get old, if you have a choice in the matter. Now I'm afraid it's my bedtime."
While Brunhilde tended to Kohl, Dr. Wendt escorted Tamar to the door.
"I can see your concern for Jasper,” Wendt said. “He really is on the road to recovery. I'm certain he won't mind if I tell you the background. Jasper came to see me four years ago. He had fallen into a depression after the death of his wife. You appreciate how difficult that transition can be. Especially the first year, thoughts of joining the lost one are common. Jasper's situation was worse than many. He and Edith had been together since their Paris days, more than fifty years ago. His depression deepened, despite therapy. We had to hospitalize him for eighteen months, but the last year has been good. The reception of his paintings at the Hologram Gallery has buoyed his spirits tremendously."
"I'm glad,” Tamar said.
Driving home on the dark Route 7, Tamar thought that if this was the revived Jasper Kohl, the depressed man must have been melancholy indeed. Her own marriage had lasted nine years. To Tamar, the void left by a fifty-year bond was unfathomable. As black as her moods had been after Dan died, she had never felt tempted to end her own life. She hadn't been certain whether that was evidence of her strength or selfishness. She just knew that whatever else happened, she wanted to go on.
* * * *
When she got home, the phone was ringing. “We arrested Bruce Arnold this afternoon,” Cal Hoover told her. “There was a two-pound bag of Paris green insecticide in the garage. So far, he's been charged with attempted murder of his wife. If she fainted at the pond and fell, we may be able to make it murder."
It was the last thing Tamar wanted to hear. “What does Bruce say?"
"He got his lawyer involved. They're going to sue the department for false arrest."
"No offense, Cal, but I hope you're wrong."
"I know, but we're not."
The news was already making the rounds of the mountain. Her mother called, then Ruth Stone, then Nate Perlman.
"I need to talk to you,” Nate said. “Tonight."
"It's almost ten."
"This won't take long. It's important."
He arrived ten minutes later.
"I hate to give the cops ammunition,” Nate said, rubbing his beard, “but Jean Ann was having an affair with a guy down in New York."
"How do you know?"
"She told me. The romance went south, and she was angry. She told me all about her boyfriend, and about Jasper Kohl, and—"
"What's Jasper got to do with this?"
"He's a total fraud, Tams."
"What do you mean?"
"Jean Ann knew all about him. He has other people doing his work."
"His paintings?"
"Yes, what else? You're not very observant. You haven't noticed how his hand shakes? Do you think he could paint the kind of work hanging in that gallery?"
The paintings flashed into her mind. They were technically wonderful examples of a style called hyperrealism, images rendered “realer than real.” The work required superb skill and steadiness.
"What did Jean Ann tell you?"
"Her boyfriend got the gig to ghost this batch of Kohl's paintings. The guy came up from New York, worked in the old man's studio. At most, Jasper provided some rough drawings."
"Do you believe Jean Ann?"
"Once I saw the shape Jasper's in, it made sense. Also, Jean Ann was badmouthing a guy who'd dumped her—that fit too."
"I didn't know she had a boyfriend."
"You weren't her confidante,” Nate
said.
"Do you know if Bruce knew?"
"Why else would he kill her?"
"We don't know that he did,” Tamar insisted. “What about the boyfriend, do you know his name?"
"Baldwin or something like that. He teaches down in New York."
She considered Nate's story. Deception was a tradition in the art world. Old masters had let apprentices paint the backgrounds of commissioned works, sometimes much more; often the closest a modern expert could come to attributing a painting was to say it came from the “studio of” a great name.
Without Jasper Kohl's name attached, the surreal cityscapes would have drawn a fraction of the prices Edgar Bean's customers paid.
"Nate, did she say if Edgar knew the new paintings weren't Jasper's?” She remembered the old man saying that Edgar Bean cheated his customers. But it made no sense—he was hinting at his own deception.
"She didn't say anything to me about that."
"Why haven't you told anyone?"
He snorted. “I don't have high illusions about this business, Tams. Dribble paint on paper, put a big name on it, and you can find twenty critics to say it's a work of genius. Personally, I like seeing art scams run as long as they can. People who buy the stuff deserve what they get."
"But you intend to tell the police that Jean Ann had an affair?"
He shrank. “I was hoping you would do that."
* * * *
Edgar Bean had two checks for her. She stopped at the gallery in the morning. The Jasper Kohl paintings remained on the wall, each frame discreetly bearing a SOLD sticker. Regardless of who had executed them, they were brilliant works. Watching Edgar write her check, she wondered how much he knew.
"How did you get along with Jasper?” Edgar asked, looking up.
"Pretty well."
"He's cantankerous."
"He directed it at his doctor.” She hesitated. Her relationship with Edgar was critically important. Without the commissions, she would have sunk beneath Dan's medical bills. It could still happen. If she blew the whistle on Jasper, she could kiss good-bye any work from the Hologram Gallery. Even if Edgar had been innocently duped, he wouldn't appreciate having his name attached to a scandal. Her dealer in New York wouldn't be happy either. Rocking the boat was bad for any business. The last thing an art dealer wanted was customers thinking twice about what they were buying.
But she couldn't leave things as they were. “Edgar, do you know an art teacher in New York named Baldwin?"
"Planning to brush up on your technique?” Smiling, he handed her the checks. “The name doesn't ring a bell. If you've got any more tortured landscapes, bring them in. Seems there's a market after all."
At home, she called the TriBeCa gallery, whose proprietor Liz Kimmel said she thought there was a teacher at a downtown atelier named Baldwin.
Tamar did an Internet search on “NY Atelier Baldwin” and got not only a hit for a Ted Baldwin at the Atelier Pigalle but also a Web site displaying his paintings. She clicked through a dozen of them. The portraits and marine art had none of Jasper Kohl's surreal disquiet. Some were loosely painted, others almost photographic in their realism; several portraits had the lighting and heavy glazes of Rembrandt. Ted Baldwin seemed to claim no particular style as his own. He was a classically trained artist who could do anything.
Imitating Jasper Kohl would be well within his ability.
There was a phone number on the Web site. She dialed it, got a recording that said the mailbox was full. She tried Atelier Pigalle. The young man who answered said Mr. Baldwin wasn't available.
"Are you a student?” he asked.
"Actually—"
"We really don't know when he's going to be back. But Dean Granger is filling in, so if you've got a class there won't be a refund."
"Ah, gee,” said Tamar.
She hung up, wondering how much Ted Baldwin had received to ghost sixteen canvases for Jasper. Enough to ditch both his middle-aged girlfriend and his job? She phoned Cal Hoover's office, ended up leaving a voicemail. He probably wouldn't care about art forgery anyway, when he was working a murder case.
* * * *
She sat in her car a mile down the road from Jasper Kohl's house and phoned the nearby hospital. Was Dr. Wendt available? A receptionist said he was on his rounds. Tamar drove to the house.
Brunhilde answered the door.
"I need to speak to Mr. Kohl,” Tamar said.
"The doctor doesn't want him to be disturbed,” the woman said.
"This is important."
"You'll have to get approval from Dr. Wendt.” The woman slammed the door.
Tamar went back to her car. Through the bare trees, she saw a small outbuilding connected to the cottage by a wooden ramp. She parked a quarter mile down the road and came back through the woods. It took Tamar only a minute to unlock the door and slip into Jasper Kohl's studio. As she looked around, she was disappointed. Several easels stood empty under a skylight. A dozen untouched canvases were stacked against a wall. A worktable held brushes, jars of solvent, and tubes of paint that looked long neglected.
Jasper had said he had several works in progress, but there was no sign of painting being done by anyone.
It was bitterly cold in the small studio. She switched on an electric heater near an easel. As the coils reddened, she poked around in drawers under the table. Pads of yellowed paper lay in a clutter of graphite sticks and eraser dirt. Opening a pad, she found dozens of studies—buildings, human figures; the most recent of those that were dated was more than five years old. The shapes were tremulous. Tamar imagined the wizened hand that had juddered across the paper.
There were racks for storing wet paintings at the back of the room. Far back in one section, where it might not have been noticed, was a canvas. She pulled it out. In bold colors and realer-than-real detail, it was a portrait of Jasper Kohl. That it had been intended to pass for a self-portrait was obvious: The subject held a brush in his hand, and an easel leaned into the scene behind him. Unfortunately, the artist had done too good a job capturing Kohl's decayed state. You only had to look at the brilliant execution and its subject to know this wasn't a self-portrait. There was a subtler clue. A mirror hung in the shadows of the painted scene, from which stared a youngish, blond-haired man with a mocking smile. Ted Baldwin, she presumed.
She heard a thump and through a slatted blind saw Kohl wheeling down the ramp from the house. He wore a frayed sweater, a knit cap, and had a blanket on his lap. He stopped the wheelchair, worked the lock, and the door swung free. When he saw Tamar, his flinty eyes widened. The chair bumped over the threshold. He pushed the door closed.
"Come to pose after all?” His smile was harsh.
"There's not enough heat in here, Jasper. I would be one big goose bump."
He wore wool gloves that left the finger tips bare. “Too cold for me to paint anyway. I came down to look at my work. Didn't realize I had invited company."
"Jasper, we need to talk."
He nodded. “I know. I figured you'd come to me for help. I'm not taking students, but I'll be delighted to give you pointers. Did you bring any work for me to see?"
"Not this afternoon. But there's another painting I would like you to look at.” Returning to the racks, she brought out the bright portrait. “Did you do this, Jasper?"
He frowned. His glance wandered to the worktable, then back to the painting. Watching the struggle on his face, Tamar felt as cruel as if she had dumped him from the wheelchair. She had admired Kohl—had even envied his artist's life, which had all those years in Paris when he could snub the critics who celebrated him.
"Jasper?"
"I would have to ask Dr. Wendt,” he said, sighing. “He helps me when I forget."
She spoke gently. “Had you forgotten the paintings in your latest show?"
As he looked away, she saw a glint of tears in his eyes.
"Do you remember Ted Baldwin? He's an artist, like us."
He was silent.
/> "Jasper?"
The voice from behind made her jump. “What are you doing to him!"
Brunhilde filled the doorway.
"We're just talking art,” Tamar said, smiling. The big woman had murder in her eyes.
"I saw you sneak in here,” the caregiver said. “What are you looking for?"
"Nothing,” Tamar said. She was watching the doorway, hoping the big woman would step to the side and create an opening. And then she did just that, two half steps, making way for Paul Wendt. The drab little psychiatrist wore an overcoat and carried a small black bag.
"I came as quickly as I could, Mrs. Diehl,” he said. “What have we here?"
"She's snooping."
"How impolite. What for?"
"She won't say."
Tamar tried her charm on Wendt. “It's a misunderstanding, Dr. Wendt. Jasper called and invited me down, and—"
Wendt snapped at Diehl: “Have you been giving Kohl his medicine?"
"Yes, of course. He can't use the phone. She's lying."
A clawed hand touched hers and Tamar jumped. Jasper smiled benignly at her. “Remember, you asked about our artist friend—Mr. Baldy."
His caregivers traded glances.
"She knows something about Baldwin,” Brunhilde accused.
"Shut up, you idiot."
"No, I won't. We've got to deal with this."
Wendt asked calmly, “Why were you asking about someone named Baldwin, Mrs. Gillespie? Who is Baldwin?"
Jasper Kohl's voice crackled. “He's an artist—I told you!"
Wendt didn't take his eyes off Tamar. “I think you'd better tell me why you care about this Baldwin person."
His dissembling was so clumsy that Tamar couldn't hide her scorn. “You must know the name, doctor. You hired Ted Baldwin to make paintings in Jasper's name."
"That's ludicrous."
"No, it's pretty smart. You probably cleared two million dollars on the scheme. Jasper couldn't have arranged it any more than he could have done the paintings. As long as you keep him drugged, he's happy to believe the work is his own. Now, if you get out of my way, I'm going home."
AHMM, April 2007 Page 3
