Palm Beach Perfidious, page 19
“Both of them?”
“Yes, a man named Frank, who lives down here, and a daughter named… Abby, I think, who lives up north somewhere.”
“And it was just those two?”
Ballantrae nodded.
“And you never heard the names, either Lauren or Esmerelda?”
“No, who are they?”
“It’s just one. A little girl.”
Ballantrae shrugged. “That’s news to me.”
The Brit’s story was pretty convincing and clearly he knew the subject, Cy Twombly, well, but Crawford still had a niggling doubt. Usually in situations like this, his reaction was, “Okay, I buy it,” or “The guy’s lying through his teeth.” This time it was something in between.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Ballantrae,” Crawford said, not able to call someone Lord. “I appreciate your time and learning so much about Cy Twombly. That ought to do it.”
“You’re very welcome, Detective, and I hope you catch whoever killed Antonia. That was such a horrible thing.”
“Sure was. Oh, can you give me your phone number in case I have any more questions?”
Ballantrae did.
Crawford nodded, turned, and walked down the sidewalk.
When he got back to the police station, he went into Ott’s cubicle.
“Hey, how’s it going?” Ott asked.
“I just got back from interviewing Nigel Ballantrae, either Antonia’s last or next-to-last boyfriend.”
“And?”
“Do you remember any files of hers that had to do with art she owned?”
“Not really. Why, do you?”
“I vaguely remember seeing one. I never opened it, though.”
“So what are you gonna do?”
“Make a couple of calls, then go back to her house. What about you?”
“I’ve got Luther King coming up. He got sprung from the West Palm jail and he’s coming here. Gave me some bullshit about how he wants to know what his ‘inordinate’ taxes are being spent on.”
“Let me know,” Crawford said, turning to go.
“You got it.”
*****
Crawford found what he was looking for in a file labeled “Paintings.” It was a pretty thin file, but he quickly found a piece of paper that proved Nigel Ballantrae, Duke of Montpelier, was a flat-out liar, despite all his impressive-sounding knowledge about Cy Twombly. It was a receipt and something called a “Letter of Provenance” from Christie’s at 20 Rockefeller Plaza in New York that showed that Antonia von Habsburg had paid four million dollars for the painting, Untitled (Machinations), back in 2018. At least Ballantrae got the price right.
Crawford dialed Ballantrae’s number immediately and he answered.
“Hello, Detective, what did you forget to ask me?”
“Whether any of what you told me was true,” Crawford said. “I’m at Antonia von Habsburg’s house now looking at a file that says she bought that Cy Twombly from Christie’s back in 2018—”
“Well, there must be some mistake, I—”
“No mistake. The painting is called, Untitled: Machinations and there’s a photo that it came with that matches the photo you sent to Perry Jastrow and the painting on the wall here. So, the question is, did you kill Antonia von Habsburg after you came up with this whole scam, or did you come up with it after someone else killed her?”
Silence.
“Mr. Ballantrae, I asked you a question.”
Long sigh. “I had absolutely nothing to do with Antonia’s death. I was very distressed to hear about it. She was a friend, a very dear friend.”
“Whose estate you intended to profit from in a very despicable way.”
Silence.
“I’m just curious, did you ever lay eyes on Cy Twombly in Rome?”
Faintly. “No.”
“Did that woman actually kiss Twombly’s painting.”
“That is true. That really did happen. I read about it on Wikipedia.”
“Hm. Well, what you were attempting to pull off is a third-degree felony.”
“Oh, please, Detective. I was a desperate man. This was something that wouldn’t really hurt anybody. Please, be merciful on an old man.”
“Tell that to Ms. von Habsburg’s heirs. Or in this case, heiress.”
Even more faintly. “What are you going to do, Detective/”
“I’m going to talk to Perry Jastrow, then I’ll decide.”
“Will I go to jail?”
“You might, if you’re charged.”
“Oh, please. I can’t go to jail. I couldn’t possibly survive there.”
Crawford put the file back in the file cabinet. “Should have thought about that before you tried to pull off this whole elaborate swindle.”
THIRTY-NINE
Bettina, at the front desk, called Ott, then lowered her voice. “Mort, guy in a limo as long as the state of Florida just walked in, says he has an appointment with you.”
“I’ll be right out.”
A few moments later, Ott walked up to Luther King.
“Hello, Mr. King,” Ott said to him, skipping the handshake, “come on back with me, please.”
King looked around. “I thought police stations were supposed to be much… shabbier. They are on TV anyway.”
“Yeah, those are big city ones: New York, L.A., Chicago. Palm Beach doesn’t do shabby. You ought to know that, Mr. King.”
Knowing Crawford was out for a while, Ott was going to borrow his office. “This is my partner’s office,” Ott said as they walked in, then he gestured. “Have a seat.”
“This is a lot nicer than I expected. A little messy, though.”
“Yeah, mine’s even messier. Shabbier, too.”
King frowned. “So what are we doing here? Are you still looking at me as a suspect?”
“We’ve got quite a long list.”
“Look, Detective, you need to take me off it. I—”
“I heard about your assault charge last night.”
King’s face went red. Clearly anger, not embarrassment. “That was such bullshit. I slapped the woman, that’s all, not even hard.”
“That constitutes assault and, more importantly, tells me you’re capable of assaulting a woman.”
“What happened to Antonia was way beyond assault.”
“I’m well aware of that. But people who assault sometimes have different levels of assault.”
“Okay, okay. So, is that why I’m here, because of what happened last night, where I was provoked?”
Ott cocked his head. “Provoked? How were you provoked?”
“Well… she wouldn’t…”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“Look, Detective, Antonia and I still had… feelings for each other when she was killed.”
“Spell that out for me.”
“Okay, fact is, we were going to have dinner together the day she died to celebrate my birthday. I had asked her out a couple of days before.”
“Any way you can prove that?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, there is. Just call the Beach Club and ask them if I had a reservation for that night.”
Ott pulled out his cell phone. “If this is true, why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I don’t know, ’cause I didn’t know you were seriously looking at me as a suspect. To begin with, that is so totally farfetched. I just thought you were talking to shady people who knew Antonia.”
“We were. Do you know the number there, at the Beach Club?”
King gave him the number of the Beach Club on North County Road and Ott dialed it.
“Yes, my name is Detective Ott with the Palm Beach Police. I’m hoping you can check something out for me.” He gave them the date and time when Luther King said he had made the reservation for dinner.
“Yes, sir. I see it right here. Mr. King’s reservation.”
“And what exactly does it say?”
“Seven thirty that night. Mr. Luther King, Ms. von Habsburg and an unnamed guest.”
“Thank you very much,” Ott said. “That’s all I need. Good-bye.”
He turned to King. “An unnamed guest? I guess you must have forgotten about… her, I’m assuming?”
King shrugged. “She was just one of Antonia’s… friends.”
“What was her name?”
“Um.…”
“Come on, Luther, think real hard.”
“Justine.”
“Justine who?”
“I… I didn’t catch her last name.”
Ott nodded slowly. “There’s a real coincidence here, Luther, because it just so happens that it was Justine Burroughs who lodged that assault charge against you eight days after your scheduled dinner with Antonia von Habsburg.”
King shrugged. “Um, maybe that’s who it was.”
“Okay, so clearly that night at the Beach Club, Antonia was going to introduce one of her women to you.”
“So? What if she was?”
Ott inhaled deeply, slowly shook his head, and stood up. “Get out of here,” he said, with a shooing motion. “Creeps like you disgust the hell out of me.”
FORTY
While Ott was meeting with Luther King at the station, Crawford paid a visit to Frank Lincoln at his church out in Royal Palm Beach. Again, Lincoln was outside working in his vegetable garden.
“How’s everything with the Five Wanderers, Pastor?”
Lincoln smiled. “Last time I checked, still wandering.”
“I’m reading a book now. The protagonist always seems to be wandering.”
“Is it Jack Reacher, by any chance?”
Crawford nodded. “Sure is. You a reader?”
“I am. One time in a sermon, I actually mentioned him.”
“No kidding. Still bugs me Tom Cruise playing him,” Crawford said. “So, I’m still trying to understand something.”
“What’s that?” Lincoln said, pulling up a tomato.
“The two wills your mother left behind. Obviously, only one is legit.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. You found the one naming my church as the beneficiary at her house that day she was killed.”
“Yes, I know, but your brother-in-law Steve Swain seems to think that one was bogus. And your sister said that your mother told her she had given both you and your sister enough money. You weren’t getting any more from her.”
“When did she tell her that?”
“Right before she died. Your sister and brother-in-law visited her just days before.”
Lincoln scratched his head. “Doesn’t that make you suspicious at all?”
“You mean, that they were down here from New Hampshire right before she died?”
Lincoln nodded.
“No, it doesn’t make me suspicious, because they seemed to accept the fact that your mother wasn’t going to give them anything more. That her entire estate was going to go to her young daughter.”
“Her young, illegitimate daughter.”
Crawford smiled. “Just like you. Except you were her illegitimate son. And she would hardly be the first illegitimate child to inherit money.”
Lincoln looked blank for a few moments.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Lincoln said again after a few moments. “I’ve got a church and over $200,000 in the bank. I live a low-key life,”—he opened his hand to his garden—“eat vegetables from my garden, go to Applebee’s once a week; fact is, I couldn’t spend that $200,000 if I tried.”
Crawford shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he echoed Lincoln. “There’s no way to explain why your mother would have two wills.”
“Except maybe she changed her mind.”
Crawford shook his head. “That doesn’t fly.”
“Why?”
“Because they were dated five days apart.”
“Some people change their minds five times in the same day.”
“Not about something as important as this.”
It was Lincoln’s turn to shrug. “Well, sorry. I just can’t help you.”
Crawford was out of questions. “Okay, well, thank you for your time once again. I appreciate it.”
“You’re very welcome,” Lincoln said, the tomato still in his hand.
He handed it to Crawford. “Just give it a little wash. Best tomato you’ll ever eat.”
The ride back to the station house gave Crawford a lot of time to think. The best idea he came up with was long overdue. He would ask Dominica McCarthy out for an early dinner at a restaurant they both liked. Then have her over to watch a little TV with him. He badly needed to unwind.
FORTY-ONE
“I need to borrow your brain for a couple of hours,” Crawford said to Dominica as he clicked on his Samsung in his condominium.
“Okay, it’s available, I guess,” Dominica said, no idea what he was referring to.
Earlier they had dinner at a place on Clematis called Hullabaloo, which on its website was billed as a “gastropub.” Crawford had no clue exactly what a gastropub was, but liked the food and also the music that they played there. He had the chicken parm, something he felt you could never go wrong ordering; Dominica was more adventurous and had the ratatouille.
It had been a while since they had dinner together and the activity that usually followed it. He thought he saw anticipation in her eyes, and he knew for a fact that’s what he was feeling.
“Okay, Charlie, what exactly are you going to pick my brain about?” Dominica said, as she nestled close to him on his couch.
“Have you ever heard the name Janny Hasleiter?”
“No. Who’s she?”
“Well, she’s been both a producer and a director of movies, some of them you’ve heard of. Even was credited with being a writer on a few of ’em. She’s married to a guy named John David Ranieri, who used to be a big deal in the movie business but doesn’t seem to be involved much anymore. May be retired, I think. Anyway, Janny was friends with Antonia von Habsburg and, according to someone who I wouldn’t say is one hundred percent reliable, used Antonia’s little black book of eligible bachelors. But when I say ‘eligible bachelors,’ I mean guys who are like in their late teens, early twenties.”
“And how old is Janny?”
“Somewhere between forty-five and fifty?”
“So she’s what used to be called a cradle robber?”
Crawford laughed. “Yeah, a cougar nowadays.”
“Have you met her? Janny?”
“Yeah, I have. But I’m way too old for her,” he answered, rather than go into detail about meeting her.
Dominica smiled and stroked the back of Crawford’s neck. “Even though you’re ten years younger.”
“Yup.”
“Okay, so you still haven’t told me why she’s a person of interest.”
“I was just getting to that. So, according to this woman who used to work for Antonia, when times got tough for Antonia’s business during Covid… by the way, have I even told you what Antonia did?”
“I heard she was basically a high-end matchmaker. Charged like fifty grand—”
“Or more.”
“—to fix up rich guys.”
Crawford nodded. “So apparently Covid was tough on her business ’cause men were reluctant to go out with women they didn’t know anything about.”
“I get it.”
“So Antonia might have created a side hustle which can best be described as blackmailing married men—her past clients—with photos of them messing around with Antonia’s girls.”
Dominica frowned. “Yuck,” she said. “But I can see how that might have been pretty lucrative.”
Crawford put his arm around Dominica’s shoulder. “Lucrative, but potentially very dangerous.”
“You mean, if one of those men wanted to put an end to Antonia doing it?”
“Yeah, permanently.”
“Okay, so what you’re saying is Antonia also had a little black book of men… for older women looking for younger men.”
“In Janny Hasleiter’s case, much younger men.”
“Gotcha.”
“So—”
“Let me guess,” Dominica said, “Antonia had fixed up her friend Janny with young dudes and when times got tough, ’cause of Covid, Antonia may have gone to Janny and said, ‘I need a hundred thousand to keep quiet about young—pick a name—or John David whoever’s gonna find out about what you’ve been up to.’”
“You’re a very smart woman.”
“Isn’t that why you asked me out in the first place?”
“Among other things.”
“You mean it was not all because of my steel-trap mind?”
“That was a major part of it,” he said. “But I’m thinking you’re low.”
“Low?”
“Instead of being a hundred thousand, I’m guessing it was a lot more.”
Dominica nodded then stroked the side of his face.
“Okay, the brain-borrowing session is now officially over,” Crawford said leaning into her and kissing her with passion.
She kissed him back with equal passion.
Moments later he reached behind her and unsnapped her bra. She unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt.
His hand came up inside her blouse and cradled her breasts. She lifted his shirt over his head.
They had done this before and were pretty adept at it.
Within a minute they both were naked except for his socks.
They never made it to his bedroom.
*****
She looked up at him twenty minutes later. “I’ve really missed that, Charlie. It’s been too long.”
“I know. You never call; you never write.”
She laughed. “Oh, yeah, blame it on me.”
He kissed her on the lips again. “Well, we’re going to make up for it. There’s lot of night left.”
“And morning.”
He nodded. “And morning.”
*****
They decided to leave their clothes off and watch TV naked. Well, except for a comforter he brought back from his bed. It was still only 7:45 p.m.
