Chapter 11
Tuesday saw no end to the police presence in the Fine Arts Building. Chris arrived early knowing she would face some academic problems as a result of the death of the sculpture teacher. As a group, students could be remarkably single-minded when the issue of grades and course credits arose. As she anticipated, there were several people waiting for her, all with the same questions.
"How are we going to get graded in Sculpture II, Dr. Connery?"
"I heard we're going to have to repeat the class to get credit. Is that true?"
"Who do we turn our stuff in to for Three-D Design?"
Before nine Chris had created an ad hoc committee of art faculty to take over grading Bjornson's classes. Michael Windwalker, the ceramist, agreed to accept portfolios for those classes until Thursday morning at 10 a.m. and Chris posted signs to that effect around the department. When she was finished she stopped at the sculpture wing, which was cordoned off with crime scene tape, and asked the first officer she saw whether Hjelmer Ryquist was available. He wasn't.
"Do you know how long it will be before we can get into Richard's office?" she asked.
"No, Ma'am. You better ask Detective Sergeant Ryquist about that."
"It's just that we need his grade book and class assignments to be able to grade his students."
The officer just looked at her. So much for her attempt to return to business as usual.
It was nearly eleven before Ryquist showed up in the division office. Officers had been interviewing faculty and students in the conference room all morning, and Chris despaired of ever getting back to the business of ending fall semester. Her spirits lifted a little when he handed her a battered grade book.
"This what you were looking for, Doc?"
"Yes, thank you. I didn't think the officer I talked to was too interested in helping us find this."
"Oliver's a good man. He wouldn't let us screw you up more than we already have." Ryquist turned to leave.
"Hjelmer, we may need to get a look at Richard's files," Chris said as she thumbed through the book. It didn't have much recorded that would be helpful in assigning grades. There were lists of students for each of his three classes, but only mid-term grades recorded. Nothing more.
"We'll be done with his office this afternoon. I'll let you come down after that, okay?"
"Thanks. I'll be here whenever you're ready."
Chris watched his broad back as he disappeared into the outer office. Her phone rang.
"Chris? I have a couple of folders of stuff from Elizabeth's office that you might be interested in," Rachael Jacobsen began. "Shall I send them over or will you be getting coffee sometime soon?"
"I could use some coffee, come to think of it. I'll pick them up," Chris replied. "What exactly am I going to get?"
"Oh, just some files of newspaper and magazine clippings. I gave them a quick look and thought they might be of interest to someone in art history. Not much use to me, I'm afraid. I've almost made it through every bookcase in her office. She was such a packrat that I've got a huge pile to toss, but these things might be some help to someone."
"I've been so tied up over here with Richard's death that I haven't had a decent cup of coffee since last week. I'll be over soon."
"It's terrible, isn't it? I mean, it's so disrupting. It's taken us all this time to get over Elizabeth."
"You're over it? I may never be," Chris replied.
"Oh, I just mean getting back to the routine."
"As I said, I may never be." They disconnected.
A half-hour later when Chris walked into the division office carrying two cups of coffee and three fat files of clippings, Richard Bjornson's two student protégés, Binty Buchanan and Geoff Richards, greeted her with nervous faces. They were sitting on chairs beside the closed conference room door.
"Hi, guys. What's up?"
"The cops told us to wait," Binty said.
Chris looked at Charlie with raised eyebrows. He accepted his mocha double shot gratefully and followed Chris into her office, closing the door behind him.
"Guess who's in there right now."
"President McGinnis," Chris said sarcastically and tossed her coat on a chair.
"Close. Howard Randall."
"Yikes!" Chris turned to face Charlie.
"No kidding. Randall wasn't happy when he arrived either. I thought he was gonna blow a vein. Geoff and Binty saw him in the sculpture studio Sunday and they told the cops."
"That's why the guys are out there?"
"I suppose so. Ryquist just told them to sit tight and there they are. My buddy at the cop shop tells me Richard probably died around ten that night. Binty says they saw Randall about two in the afternoon, but they didn't see him leave because they left shortly after he came. Then I remembered that Bjornson asked me for Randall's address in New York City the other day. Ryquist asked me what for and I didn't know, but I'll bet he thinks Bjornson was up to something, some prank. He sent the P. D. all the way down to Little Walk and dug Randall out of his cabin to bring him back here."
"Richard told me he was remaking that little Do-Nothing for Randall. That's probably why he needed his address—to ship it to him when it was done," Chris said.
"You probably should share that with Ryquist."
"I thought I already had." Chris shook her head. She actually couldn't be sure of anything any more; she'd been over it in her head too many times.
Charlie sipped his coffee and left to answer a ringing phone.
Chris thought about the last time she saw Richard after overhearing the argument. Randall wasn't there then. Could the voice have been his? She hadn't paid attention to the time, but it must have been close to three-thirty or four. Could it have been the donor threatening Bjornson with a lawsuit? But still asking him to remake the damaged Do-Nothing he'd bought out of the show? It didn't seem likely. Besides, the unknown person had said something about Bjornson "messing with a person's career" or words to that effect. Randall's career these days seemed to be managing his money. Surely he was immune to anything Richard Bjornson could do to him.
Whatever Chris had planned to do that afternoon was lost in distracting phone calls about whether finals were cancelled (serious disappointment when she told callers they were all on schedule), and debating with herself about the likelihood of Howard Randall having a reason to kill Richard Bjornson. She kept one ear tuned to the comings and goings from the conference room.
Geoff and Binty were finally dismissed about two-thirty. Howard Randall emerged about an hour later looking like he was way past due for "blowing a vein," according to Charlie. Chris didn't have time to contemplate this if she wanted to be on time for the Division meeting. Tradition and the Division by-laws dictated having an end-of-semester meeting, but it was going to be anything but traditional, she was sure.
The group was unnaturally silent as they filed into the theater and took seats. The last Division of Fine Arts faculty meeting of the fall semester was about to commence under the most bizarre circumstances Chris could imagine. One of their number had been murdered two days earlier, and another three weeks before that. The police were still in the building doing who-knew-what and finals were in full swing. In normal times everyone would want to get the semester over quickly so they could concentrate on holiday activities that ranged from Colin McCarty's traditional Christmas in London taking in plays to Scott Mathern's ski holiday in Montana. In the best of times hardly anyone's mind would be entirely on the business of the university. This was not the best of times.
The agenda was a short one. The usual end-of-semester business that might normally occasion some discussion and debate was handled with a dispatch Chris could only pine for at other times.
When new business was in order, Chris outlined for them what little she knew about the death of Richard Bjornson and let them ask questions for which there were no answers as yet. She was ready to adjourn the meeting when Dr. Dan McFarland, the second Art History professor, rose l
ike a stork getting off its nest and requested a moment of everyone's time. Geeky and a little inept, he always reminded Chris of Ichabod Crane. He carried a large, lumpy plastic bag to the front of the theater and turned to face the assembly.
"Before all this happened an ad hoc committee of Art Department faculty and staff had decided to make an award to one of our colleagues who overcame serious obstacles in carrying out an ambitious project. We planned to make the award at this meeting and, given the circumstances with two deaths in our midst, we discussed waiting until a more appropriate time. It seems to us, however, that a bit of cheering up might be in order so, with all due respect to our departed colleagues, here goes." He rummaged in a pocket, extracted a piece of paper and began to read:
"Whereas one of our colleagues has nearly single-handedly undertaken a project that reflects well on the Division of Fine Arts and Midstate University, and whereas said faculty member had some obstacles thrown in her path just as she was bringing her project to fruition, and whereas researching, negotiating and collecting the objects necessary for such a major exhibition would be formidable even without an obstructionist's interference, and whereas said colleague only narrowly avoided a total meltdown...."
A gentle titter began to arise in the group and Antonia Westphall began to squirm as McFarland continued.
"Be it known that, by the power vested in a small group of Art Department faculty and staff members by no one in particular, it is hereby decreed that Dr. Antonia Westphall shall be the first recipient of the "Forgot to Duck Award," hereafter to be awarded annually to the faculty member who aims highest but steps in it the deepest, misses the mark by the widest margin and still manages to come out on top."
He stuffed the paper back in his pocket and began fumbling with the plastic bag. Eventually emerged a stuffed mallard drake of particularly dissolute mien, mounted on a polished wood base and wearing a silver medallion on a chain around its neck. Its expression was hostile. A wire protruded from its head and its feathers were about as moth eaten as Chris had ever seen. The absurdity of the object sent the room into sustained laughter.
Antonia Westphall rose and came forward alternately grinning and simpering at her colleagues. Chris led the room in applause. Antonia shook hands with McFarland and accepted the duck, grinning widely.
McFarland said, "The Ad Hoc Duck Committee intends that you be charged with the care and feeding of The Duck for one year, at the end of which time you may keep the medallion. By that time we will have selected some other hapless soul to whom we will pass it along." Applause and laughter filled the room again.
As Chris reflected later, the bit of comic relief was made all the funnier by the grimness of the circumstances in which they found themselves.
Back in her office Chris dropped her final exams into her briefcase for safekeeping and was preparing to leave when her phone rang. It was President McGinnis.
"Chris, Howard Randall is in my office and would like to talk to you about the Picasso."
Chris's heart fell to somewhere around her knees. "He's heard about the newspaper scraps?" she asked.
"Yes," McGinnis replied tersely.
"I'll be right over."
The group assembled in the president's office was large. Dean Campbell-McFee, Harrison Foy, and Rachael Jacobsen had all been summoned. Chris surmised they were insulation for the president.
President McGinnis started the meeting. "I think Dr. Connery should explain the problem that has arisen, Howard. I think you'll see why we are concerned when she's explained. Dr. Connery?" He waved by way of turning the floor over to Chris, who cleared her throat and took out her file with the transcript of the newspaper scraps. Foy smiled at her encouragingly.
"Mr. Randall," Chris said, acutely conscious of being on the spot. "When I saw the Picasso up close for the first time, it was the day before the Gala. I cleaned the frame of the painting before we were going to hang it and while I was doing that, I started to read the text of the newspapers collaged near the bottom." She gestured to describe the part of the painting in question.
Randall nodded brusquely. "I know where they are."
"It's human nature, I guess. The painting's date is 1914, and since World War One started that year I was curious to see what, if anything, was in the clippings he used." Everyone's eyes shifted from Chris to Randall and back. She handed him the transcript she'd made. "I think you'll see what I saw."
No one in the room seemed to breathe. Randall took out his glasses and scanned the transcript. Foy moved around behind Randall's chair and peered over his shoulder. There was a moment of quiet, during which Chris held her breath. Then Randall grunted. "So? I don't read French."
Foy muttered, "I don't either, but I think I see what Dr. Connery saw. Look there." He pointed.
Randall looked. "Shit," he said distinctly after a moment. "Shit!" He straightened and stared with apparent fury at the ceiling. "Reagan and Thatcher," he said hoarsely. "Reagan and goddamned Thatcher."
"You see why we're concerned, Howard," McGinnis said at last.
Randall's eyebrows were knotted into a single line. He slapped the table and started to swear. The range and fluency of his cursing caused the president's eyebrows to rise ever so slowly. The Alumni Director's jaw dropped at about the same rate. When Randall subsided at last, red in the face and glaring, the silence stretched out for a bit. No one, least of all Chris, wanted to say anything.
Finally the president cleared his throat. "What do you think our next move should be, Howard?"
Randall said nothing. To fill the gap, McGinnis said, "Dr. Connery thinks we should get an expert out here to assess the situation."
Still Randall didn't speak.
"I'm not an expert in the period, Mr. Randall," Chris said into the silence.
"You're sharp enough to see the obvious, Dr. Connery," Randall said abruptly, blind to the disparaging implication.
"Of course, if you had the painting restored at some point, that might explain it," Chris said somewhat tentatively. "We looked for the condition reports, the one you sent with the painting and the one created here when the painting arrived, but as I told you, we can't find them."
Randall looked up at her sharply. "That's why you asked me to send another one. What do you need them for?"
"Well, as you know, contemporary restorers try to leave obvious evidence of their work. I thought that might explain the incongruent newspaper." She subsided and watched Randall warily. His reaction was unreadable though he seemed to be struggling with himself. She finally asked, "Did you have it restored?"
"No, I did not," Randall said through his teeth.
"We're thinking that it might be best for you to take the painting back so you can pursue this matter directly," Harrison Foy said with all the diplomacy of an arms negotiator.
"Bullshit," Randall said. All trace of his emotional outburst disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. "I gave you a Picasso." He stood and fixed the president with a look. "If you don't still have it, that's your problem."
James McGinnis's eyebrows repeated their slow upward progress once again at the same rate as Harrison Foy's jaw descended. "You can't seriously think the painting is not the one you gave us!" Foy said.
"How do I know? I haven't been here every moment, have I? I can't be held responsible for your lack of security, can I?" Randall's pugnacious stance seemed rooted to the floor.
Chris looked from one man to the other as the contest of wills seemed to escalate. Her mouth was so dry she couldn't swallow. She tried to speak, found she couldn't, cleared her throat and started again. "Mr. Randall, the painting we have hanging is the painting that was delivered. If you want, we can take it down and I can show you the mark on the left stretcher bar on the back, right by where the hanging wire is screwed in. You'll see the university's logo and the date." She had noticed it when she inspected it the first time. She subsided in the face of a withering glare from Randall.
"Yes!" President McGinnis s
aid, relief flooding his person like dye through water. "I remember Page made quite a fuss about not doing anything to the work that would affect its value, but the insurance man was quite insistent that the piece be marked indelibly when it arrived, and before witnesses. I finally just had to tell her we were doing it."
"We'll see about that," Randall said, moving as if to leave.
"Howard, think about this," Foy said spreading his hands. "It's bad enough that you might have been robbed somehow, but why make it worse with a nasty fight over the authenticity of the work in our possession? I imagine the publicity would be unprecedented."
"He's right, Howard," McGinnis said. "I'm sure you don't want any more attention drawn to this than there has been already."
Randall's face underwent several changes in the space of a few seconds. It was like watching a storm system pass through on a TV weather map. Finally he seemed to collect himself with some effort. He turned to Chris. "Forgive my lapse in manners, Dr. Connery," he said with obvious effort. "I accept that this is the painting you received. I may have a few words with the crating and shipping company, but rest assured I accept this is what Midstate University received." He turned to the president of the university and the director of the Alumni Association. "I'm sorry. My outburst was perhaps understandable, but impolite and I apologize." Randall's tone and diction had become rigidly correct, in contrast to his earlier tirade. "I do not, however, think you need to return the piece to me. I think I can do what I need to do without actually having it in my possession."
"If you think that's best, Howard, that's fine with us," the president responded, expansive in his relief. "We only wanted to facilitate your effort to find out what happened. The painting will be here if you or anyone else needs to see it as part of your investigation." He turned to Chris. "Now, Chris, whom should we bring in to settle the question of authenticity? That should be our first step, don't you think?"
Chris thought, That's exactly what I wanted to do in the first place. She named the scholar who had been recommended by an old grad school friend. Foy offered to foot the bill to bring him to Midstate as soon as possible.
While this conversation was going on, Randall shifted from one foot to the other impatiently. Finally he interrupted to excuse himself and departed, trailing nearly visible shreds of his anger.
When he'd gone, Harrison Foy expelled a breath. "I haven't heard cursing like that since Viet Nam."
"Turned the air blue, didn't he?" The president chuckled, then cleared his throat and returned to making plans.
Dean Campbell-McFee spoke for the first time. "I can understand why he'd be angry, but imagine him trying to tell us it might not be the same painting!"
"I think he's not quite himself," Foy said. "If he's had one painting 'replaced,' maybe there are others. I'd bet he'll be on the next plane out of here to go home and check."
"He might not be able to leave," Chris said. "The police seem to think the painting may have something to do with Elizabeth's murder."
It was as if a skunk had just walked into the room. Everyone froze. Chris realized she'd brought an unwelcome reality abruptly into their midst. When they'd finished their plans and were departing, no one wasted much time on good-byes.