A Palette for Murder, page 8
“Well, I’ve got to get to my office. I’ll talk to you later about Wednesday.”
As I opened the door of the office wing, I saw Darlene walking into the gallery. What in the world was she doing here?
I hurried into the office wing, hoping she didn’t see me. Maybe she’d be gone by the time I left today.
When I got to my office, an attractive woman with short dark brown hair and glowing olive skin hovered over my desk. She was somewhere in her thirties.
“Oh, you must be Lana Davis,” she said. “I’m Amanda Talbert, Carone’s secretary. I was just making sure you had everything you need.”
“Well, thanks.” I moved over to the desk and sat down. “I didn’t get to meet you yesterday. I heard you were sick. I hope you’re feeling better.”
“Yes, I am. I hope you’re feeling better too. I heard what happened. Anyway, I’m not contagious, if that’s what you’re worried about. Patty is terribly upset that I came back. I practically had to hand her a note from a doctor. She thinks I’m going to give everybody my cold.”
Amanda took out a tissue from a pocket in her dress and sniffed into it delicately. Maybe too delicately for a real cold. She didn’t sound nasal.
“I guess Patty is pretty strict about some things, isn’t she?” I said.
Amanda’s cinnamon-colored lips smiled. “But what would we do without her?”
I decided Amanda’s snooping, since that’s what it seemed to be, didn’t amount to much. The woman was quick to smile. Though her black jersey dress fit her curvy figure like a plaster mold, she didn’t look cheap. She had style. The fake gold necklaces and bracelets she wore enhanced her outfit rather than detracted from it.
“Is Ms. Merryweather in yet?” I asked.
“She left word that she’d be out all day.”
“Oh. We were supposed to have a meeting today.”
“Sorry. It must have slipped her mind. I’ll tell her when she returns. Hope you’re feeling better.”
“Yeah. Thanks. I’m okay.”
Amanda smiled and then after a quick glance around the office, she left. Well, whatever she was looking for, she didn’t find it. I was glad I hadn’t left anything in the drawers. Most likely, she had a key to them.
Carone was turning out to be no help. I got out of a sick bed so we could go through the stacks and she didn’t even show up. How annoying.
I took out Patty’s list from my purse. I had to tell Patty not to give Marny or Rodney any more information. They might not be involved, but an innocent remark said to the wrong person could kill any chance of finding the Picasso. I hoped I convinced Marny and Rodney that Patty had been just paranoid when she asked Marny to make the list.
I studied the list. It included a Mr. Chasem, a Mrs. Brown, a UPS delivery man, a Mr. Souther, and a young couple whose name Marny didn’t know, but who’d been interested in one of the paintings in the contemporary gallery. Marny wrote they said Bentley talked to them the week before. The young couple I put down as a dead end, along with the UPS guy, since he actually delivered a package of office supplies Patty ordered.
Had someone knocked me out? It happened so fast I had no memory of it. Just a bad headache to remind me of what I couldn’t remember.
I should have gone back to my hotel for a long nap until dinner. But I was already dressed and I had two deadlines, so I had to keep going. If Carone had shown up, we could have determined if anything was missing from the stacks. I didn’t want to do this with Patty, and I didn’t feel well enough to do it myself.
Instead, I pored over Marny’s notes. Mr. Chasem had gone in to see the exhibit in the contemporary gallery. Marny didn’t remember when he left. Mrs. Brown was a new collector who donated a Chagall drawing for the auction. She came in to see where they were going to hang it.
Mr. Souther was a steady collector. He bought one or two paintings every year and he had mentioned to Marny how excited he was about attending the auction. He happened to be in the area, and came in to look around.
I felt my next step was to find out more about Max Beely. I found two articles online in The New Mexican about his murder. One of them was the article I had seen the staff discussing before the office meeting. The other was the article printed when they discovered his body. That had less information. The police had no suspects and didn’t have a motive. I needed to find out how Carone happened to hire him. Did anyone recommend him? Did anyone know him before he got the job?
I took the list and went into Patty’s office. “Patty, where do you keep the sales files? I’d like to see what paintings the people on this list bought, or were interested in.”
“Follow me,” Patty said. She led me into the file room, adjacent to her office. “On the right are the sales files. We list them in two ways. First by collectors, noting what they’ve bought, or what they’re interested in acquiring or selling, and then by the title of the works sold and who consigned it. The personnel files are in this drawer.” She pointed to a filing cabinet to the left of the sales cabinets. “We also have everything on the computer, but it’s not as up to date as the actual files. I insist that Amanda and Marny keep up the files, but sometimes they don’t get around to updating the computer.”
“Thanks. I think I have all I need to get started. Is Carone coming in? I spoke to Amanda and she said Carone would be out all day.”
“That’s right. She needed to see a collector and then she had a dinner party to plan.”
“Okay. Oh, by the way, when was the last time you looked in the stacks?”
“A few days ago. I kept hoping whoever took that painting had returned it. But it wasn’t there. I haven’t had time to make a thorough check of all the paintings since that one turned up missing.”
“Were the security tags attached to the other missing paintings when you found them?”
“I don’t remember. I assist the sales staff in putting the paintings back in the stacks after a presentation. If they get too busy, I do it for them.”
“They’re all tagged now. I checked.”
“Well, I know I didn’t put them on. It must have been Carone, if the thief didn’t.” Patty twirled her pen in her hair and thought for a moment. “I hope you don’t think I’m letting you down. Finding that painting and stopping more thefts is of great importance, but with this auction, we are very busy. The gallery must go on, no matter what problems we have.”
“I understand.” Just as well. I didn’t want Patty in the stacks by herself. “One more thing, I didn’t realize Marny made this list for me. I don’t think it’s a good idea asking her to do anything, even indirectly, because she told Rodney and they both wondered if I still thought somebody hit me.”
Patty looked remorseful. “I see what you mean. It’s just I had no idea who had been in the gallery. I work in the back office and I don’t see who comes in.”
“I understand. But we can’t let anyone know what we’re doing. I think I convinced them that you wanted the list because . . .”
Patty raised an eyebrow. “Because why?”
“I made it seem like you were . . . overreacting.”
“Oh.”
“Well, I had to do that to throw them off.”
Patty nodded. “I don’t mind. Blame it on me. We need to get to the bottom of this.”
Patty closed the door and went back to her office, leaving me with the tedious job of sorting through the gallery’s files. I became so engrossed in it, a loud, piercing sound, coming from somewhere in the gallery, startled me. I rushed to see what it was.
The noise was deafening. Everyone was in an uproar, running back and forth. Somebody screamed, “Call the fire department.”
I made the call on my cell. I didn’t know what was on fire, but I yelled the gallery’s address into the phone. Then I began to breathe in smoke. I had to get out of there. I grabbed a fire extinguisher off the wall. I wasn’t sure how to use it, but I stumbled through the hallway looking for the fire.
Clyde grabbed me and tried to drag me away. “Let go of me,” I screamed.
“I’m trying to get you out of here.” He tugged on the fire extinguisher, but in my fury, I refused to let go of it. I shoved him away and lumbered down the hall with the fire extinguisher. I couldn’t stand the noise from the smoke alarm, but my head hurt too much to run.
Amanda staggered out of an office near the back door clutching a large black purse. Then she collapsed on the floor. Clyde ran over to her and carried her to the alley. I emptied the fire extinguisher in that office, but it did little to stop the fire. I couldn’t stand the smoke any longer, so I closed the door and hurried toward the back exit.
Bentley came out of the stacks, through a door close to the exit. “Everything’s all right in there. It smells a little smoky but nothing’s damaged,” he said.
“Is anyone in the gallery?” I asked. I wondered what happened to Darlene.
“No—I checked,” Patty said.
Just then, Clyde ran back inside. “Where’s Rodney?” he said.
“Oh, God,” Bentley said. “He’s still inside. I’ll go get him.”
“No, I will,” Clyde said. “I’m stronger. I can carry him if I have to.” He dashed into the stacks.
Bentley and I went to the parking lot in the back. Patty and Marny were already there. Amanda leaned against a car. Jason Nichols, Carone’s husband, hung around her.
“How did this happen?” I asked.
“We don’t know,” the man said. “Aman—Miss Talbert’s office was on fire.”
“Did anyone call the fire department?” Patty asked.
I held up my hand.
“I closed the door to Amanda’s office,” I said. “I hope that keeps things from burning up.”
“It won’t stop the smoke,” Bentley said. “It’ll circulate through the air system. The whole gallery is going to have smoke damage.”
A moment later, Rodney straggled out of the gallery. “We can’t do any more—in there,” Rodney said. He was still gasping from the smoke.
Clyde darted up to Rodney. “Where were you?” he said. “I went back in there and couldn’t find you. I thought something happened to you.”
“I went into my office. I had to make sure none of the—work I have to show a collector—was damaged—the smoke got to me—I tried—to grab some of the paintings—but I had to get out of there. I hope someone called the fire department.”
“Lana did,” Patty said. “Are you all right?”
Rodney nodded. He took a deep breath. “Just need to breathe.”
We heard sirens in the distance and a few minutes later, a fire truck and an ambulance drove up. Clyde and Jason told the fire fighters where the fire was. I peered in and saw Bentley arguing with them. He didn’t want them hosing the whole gallery. Jason insisted only the back office was on fire. A search of the building convinced the fire crew he was right. After extinguishing the fire in the office, the firemen left. It didn’t take them long.
Amanda received first aid from the paramedics. She wasn’t seriously hurt, and after declining a ride to the hospital, she sat in her car.
“What caused this?” I asked Patty.
“We aren’t sure,” Clyde said. “Amanda was working in that office. I think she went for some coffee, and the place caught on fire. I guess it’s safe to go in there.”
“Yes,” Bentley said. “After all this, I still have a major presentation to give. The collector will be here any minute and the gallery is still full of smoke.”
Ignoring Bentley, Patty said, “Amanda, you should take the rest of the day off.”
Amanda nodded. “Okay.”
“I’ll drive you home,” Jason said.
The rest of them piled into the gallery as Jason and Amanda drove off.
“Really,” Marny shouted, “how are we supposed to work with this burnt smell everywhere?”
Patty turned to her. “By opening windows and doors and turning up the air conditioning. It will be gone soon. It’s mainly in the back office.”
Marny frowned. Then she whispered to me, “Notice Jason’s car isn’t in the lot. I bet Amanda drove him here this morning.”
“Did you know he was here?” I whispered back. I was never much for company gossip, but now I viewed it as part of my job.
“No,” Marny said. “But I bet that’s why Amanda wasn’t at the switchboard today. She and Jason wanted a private office to continue their little romance. And of course, Patty wouldn’t make Amanda work the switchboard if Jason needed her.”
“Wouldn’t Patty say something to Carone about it?” I asked. “What about the others? Wouldn’t they say something?”
“Patty’s not going to say anything. All she cares about is how many pens we use and if we leave the lights on when we shouldn’t. You can be sure Jason and Amanda didn’t leave the lights on.” Marny giggled. “And as for the others, they’re not going to tell Carone. Would you? If she can’t figure out her hubby’s chasing the secretary, that’s her problem.”
“I guess I wouldn’t say anything, unless Carone was a friend of mine.”
“Who could be friends with Carone?”
“I see what you mean.”
My head throbbed. “The smoke is really bad in here.”
“How can anybody expect us to work? Well, talk to you later. It’s the switchboard for me, as usual.”
And it was the file room for me. I needed to get as much information as I could about everyone on Marny’s list, as well as on the employees. That was all I had to go on.
The smoke wasn’t that bad in there, unlike in the other offices. That’s probably because it was a small room with only one air vent.
I collected what I could about the employees, Mrs. Brown, Reggie Souther and David Chasem. The missing Picasso belonged to Eleanor Peabody. I found a note written by her in the files. The writing, though legible, was jagged and awkward. She lived in California in the wealthy section of Pasadena, though she also had a home in Santa Fe.
All this digging took time. I still had a terrible headache and had to write everything by hand. I didn’t want anyone catching me photocopying this stuff, especially the employee records. I didn’t care if Patty saw me, but since I had accused Bentley of knocking me out, I didn’t want to arouse any more suspicion than I already had.
CHAPTER NINE
I couldn’t do much more in the file room. The air conditioning had diffused the smoke enough for me to use my office without gagging, so I sat there and called the people on Marny’s list. Mr. Souther was out, but Mrs. Brown and Mr. Chasem were in. Mrs. Brown was delighted to know the gallery was interested in her collection for a show of local collectors in Santa Fe, something I made up when I started dialing her number.
Mr. Chasem sounded less enthusiastic. Although when I told him the gallery had plans to have the show travel to the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago, and they wanted something from his collection, he showed more interest. I checked the Internet while talking to Mr. Chasem, to make sure Chicago had such a museum. I could always say the Chicago connection didn’t come through. Anyway, Chasem agreed to my visit, though he sounded like he’d need more convincing when I got there.
Maybe Chicago wasn’t such a hot idea. I mentioned it only because it was a big city in between L.A. and New York. What if Chasem checked my story before I arrived? I probably should have told Mrs. Brown the same story, but I hadn’t thought of it until I heard Mr. Chasem’s voice.
Mrs. Darryl Brown lived on Paseo de Papito, several blocks from the gallery. Paseo de Papito was a busy thoroughfare, but Mrs. Brown’s long driveway and adobe-walled courtyard sheltered her house from any traffic noise. Probably built in the twenties, its pale brown adobe walls had a red tiled roof and windows trimmed with the turquoise color so popular in the region. Inside the courtyard, roses grew among native chamisa plants, prickly cactus and sage. In this peaceful setting, I almost forgot the business that brought me here.
I walked up a narrow red brick path and rang the bell at the gate. A moment later, a chubby, middle-aged woman practically jumped out of the house. “Welcome. I’m so glad you called,” she squealed. “I’m thrilled that the gallery is interested in my collection. Of course, it isn’t very large, but we’re proud of it. Do come in. The gate’s open.”
Mrs. Brown was in her late fifties, and had little to distinguish herself except her cheerful voice. Her hair was dull brown and her complexion was pale. Her blue dress was in good taste, but lacked any sense of style. Her stubby legs, encased in support hose and planted in sensible black flats, showed varicose veins, evidence her life had not always been easy.
“Oh, do call me Emma,” she said.
I couldn’t help getting caught up in her enthusiasm.
Her house, furnished in French provincial, dark woods and rich neutral fabrics, looked expensive and correct, but bland.
Mrs. Brown led me into a small gallery off the living room. “We started collecting a few years ago,” she said. “I don’t mind telling you, we won the lottery before we moved to New Mexico. That’s how we bought everything.”
“Really? How exciting. I’ve never met anyone who won a lottery.”
“Yes. It’s been something. Of course, our prize was one of the smaller ones and my Darryl and I, we still want to live a simple life. But we couldn’t help splurging on buying this house—we had it professionally decorated—and then we decided to collect art. It’s a marvelous investment. I’m donating a Chagall drawing to the gallery’s auction. I’m thrilled that a percentage of my portion goes to charity. I’ve never donated to a charity auction before. It’s a wonderful idea. We make money, the charity makes money and we get a tax deduction at the same time. Everybody wins. How very smart of Carone.”
But not if I don’t find the Picasso.
Mrs. Brown’s collection consisted of ten small paintings. Three were Matisses, several others were Chagalls, and the rest looked like impressionist paintings. Even with my limited background in art, I could see they were all magnificent. Still, there was something odd here, because the Browns’ winnings must have been in the triple-digit millions to afford all these paintings. At any rate, if someone had attacked me in the gallery, it could hardly have been Mrs. Brown.
