The Monet Murders (22 page)

“Everyone likes variety.”

“You should know.”

I don't think I ever met anyone so forgiving of human frailty as Ethel. Of course, she expected the same indulgence in return. On the other hand, maybe she just didn't give a damn. Where does one perspective start and the other end? Does it matter?

You know how sometimes you meet people for the first time and yet they seem so familiar that you feel as though you must have run into them before somewhere? That's how it was when I sat down with Charles Watson in his office on Sunset Boulevard, just down the street from the hotel.

Watson was a virile-looking man of about fifty. He did not look the part of a clueless husband of the kind my new friend Bunny described. He had a tough no-nonsense air about him which I gathered was the direct result of having come up the hard way in the construction business. He'd started working life carrying steel reinforcing rods, and he never let anyone forget it, one way or another. And yes, he was the same Charles Watson that Ethel said was in the real estate business these days. He had graduated from manual labor to land speculation, at a time when land speculation paid off in a big way. Things had changed a bit, though, recently. It was called the Depression.

“Have a seat,” he said, when I was ushered into his office by an efficient-looking secretary. The fact that the secretary was a man seemed a little odd.

There was nothing notable about the office, aside from a stuffed owl hanging, wings extended, on the wall behind his desk. I didn't care for that. My Chippewa friend, Rocky, who was my partner in that heist from the Purple Gang, always said owls were bad luck or harbingers of doom. I never knew an Indian who liked owls, and I knew quite a few Indians. So I didn't like them either.

“Thanks,” I said as I sat down, eyeing the stuffed owl. “I was sorry to hear about your wife, Mr. Watson. I had only met her the day before, but she seemed like a nice lady.” This was just pro forma, of course. To me, she had really seemed more like a modern rendering of Medea.

“Yes. A terrible thing. This city is becoming a sewer of crime. It just goes to show you, when things like this can happen in Bel Air. No one is safe.”

This was the kind of thing you didn't bother discussing, so I just nodded.

“Let's get right to the point,” he said.

“Suits me.”

“What was the assignment my wife gave you? What was worth two hundred and fifty dollars?” His tone was aggressive, but there was something in his expression that seemed wary. Observing him, someone might come to the conclusion that he was worried that his wife's private dick might have turned up something Watson would rather not have turned up. No doubt he had a girlfriend somewhere; no doubt he didn't want that known; and no doubt Mrs. Watson could not have cared less except for using the information as a
bargaining chip in the divorce settlement. Well, I suppose Watson was no different from everyone else; we all have something to hide, saints and infants excepted.

“How much do you know about art, Mr. Watson?”

That threw him off stride a little.

“How much do I know about art? I know it's expensive—at least the kind my wife liked. That's about it.”

“She hired me because she was afraid the Monet she'd bought had been stolen and that a copy had been put in its place. She suspected Wilbur Hanson, and she wanted me to check up on him.”

“Hanson? The guy she shot?”

“The same.”

“So you're saying she knew him?”

“That's what I'm saying.”

“Implying what, exactly?”

“Implying nothing more than the fact that he traveled in the same sort of art circles as your wife. Fundraisers, auctions, exhibitions, that kind of thing.”

“I see.”

Did he, I wondered? It was hard to tell.

“If she thought there was a theft, why didn't she go to the cops?”

“I think she thought I might be able to get it back quietly. That's just a guess.”

“You could apply some muscle?”

Did I detect a note of sarcasm?

“I don't think she thought that. But maybe. Or maybe she just didn't want to see her name in the papers. There are people like that.”

“So, what did you find out?”

“I got permission from the cops to look into Wilbur's apartment. I thought he might have kept the real Monet there. He was a talented painter and probably was the source of the copy. And I thought I had found the original, but it turned out to be a copy.”

“So the painting that's in the house is the original? I'm confused.”

“It could be. Or it might be another copy.”

“Why would anyone make two copies?”

“I don't know, but you should have it appraised. I can give you the name of a UCLA professor who could tell you whether it's real or a forgery in about five seconds. Then if it's real, you're in good shape. If not, you can apply for insurance and turn the cops loose on the theft. But if Hanson was the thief, I'd be surprised if you ever recover the painting. He probably sold it as soon as he took it. There's a lively market for stolen art.”

“The thing I don't understand, though,” he said, “is why this guy Hanson came to the house that day. I'm quite sure Emily shot him in self-defense. But I can't understand why she shot herself afterwards.”

“It's a puzzle,” I said, knowing that we both knew it really wasn't. “Shock, maybe. Maybe an accident. Guns have a way of going off when you don't expect it. Especially in the hands of someone unfamiliar with them. But I don't suppose we'll ever know.”

“Probably not,” he said. “Well, I think I'll take your advice and have the thing appraised. Then I'll be able to decide what to do next. Seems like you earned your fee, Feldspar, so I'll take it from here.”

That was my cue to leave. We both stood up, and he didn't bother shaking my hand and I didn't waste any time in fond
farewells. It was only as I was leaving the office that I realized why he had seemed so familiar. I had seen him before, in a way. He reminded me very strongly of the only middle-aged man in Wilbur Hanson's gallery of male nudes.

I couldn't be sure, though, so I figured it was worth the time to check it out. I drove out to Santa Monica and pulled up outside the fake Spanish apartment building, wondering whether Rita Lovelace would be there.

She was.

She was sitting by the pool, wearing a two-piece bathing suit that rivaled Catherine Moore's for skimpiness. When she saw me, she jumped to her feet and ran to me, displaying her three-dimensional virtues as she came toward me at a gallop. She threw herself into my arms and whispered “Thank you, thank you” in my ear in a way that suggested more than simple gratitude.

“I heard,” I said. “The producer's wife is a friend of mine. Congratulations.”

“I didn't think it would ever happen,” she said breathlessly.

“No more nephews, eh?”

“Nope. Nothing but full-time producers and directors from now on. And no more meat loaf. I can't thank you enough.”

“Happy to be of service.”

“Speaking of that,” she said coyly, “how would you like a gin and tonic?”

“I've had lunch,” I said. “And besides, I'm here on business, and I need to pay attention.”

She looked at me skeptically. “Really?”

“At least initially. I want to check Wilbur's apartment one more time.”

“Can I come?”

“If you want.” It occurred to me that she might be able to shed some light on what exactly was going on with those portraits. “It won't take long.”

We went to the second floor. The yellow crime-scene tape was still there, but I didn't have any trouble getting the door open, and we ducked under the tape and went in. I turned on the lights.

“Gee, it's spooky being in here, knowing what happened to Wilbur,” she whispered. “What are we looking for?”

“Something that used to be here.”

In the space where the middle-aged male nude had been, there was nothing but a rectangular patch of darkened wallpaper and a picture hook.

CHAPTER TEN

R
ita didn't know any of the guys in the remaining gallery. She did know that Wilbur was a free spirit, as she put it, by which I assumed she meant he didn't care whom he went to bed with.

“How did Wilbur make his living, do you know?”

“Same as a lot of us out here. He scrambled, I guess you could say.”

“Hustled, you mean?”

“You could say that, too. I think that woman who shot him was helping him along, if you know what I mean.”

“I don't suppose you remember the older guy whose portrait used to be there.”

“Not really.”

“If I showed you a photo of him, do you think you could recognize him?”

“I doubt it. I saw people coming and going, but I never really paid much attention to them.”

“Did Wilbur ever sell any paintings?”

“I don't think so. What's the word when you trade something for something else?”

“Barter.”

“I think that's about the extent of it.” She said this with just a hint of disdain, the tone of someone with a new and unexpected contract. Money in the bank, or the prospect of it, changes things. But she said it with a flip of her auburn hair, which was designed, I think, to be seductive, and was.

“You said you'd already had lunch. But how about some dessert?”

It made me wonder. What was my responsibility now with Myrtle? An afternoon encounter with Ethel Welkin was one thing—nothing more than friendship. Even Myrtle wouldn't worry about that. But had I entered into new territory with Myrtle? Did I owe her something now? Something like loyalty? It felt that way. On the other hand, here was Rita, available and willing, even enthusiastic—not so much about me personally, but about her entry into a new and promising future—and eager to share her happiness with someone who had helped make it happen. What was another gin and tonic, more or less? In the grand scheme of things, did it matter?

There was some small voice in my head that said it did.

After a couple of drinks back in Rita's apartment, that voice grew harder to hear, but it was still there, whispering, and so I finally told Rita I had to get going. She made a face
designed to indicate disappointment, but I could tell that my taking a pass didn't damage her new and robust self-esteem all that much.

“You sure?” she asked.

“Pretty sure. Tempted, but pretty sure.”

“You have someone else?”

“Kind of.”

“You didn't have her the last time, I suppose.”

“Not really. She's a recent arrival.”

“You work fast.”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, I understand,” she said, smiling. “If things change, you know where to find me.”

Glowing with a newfound sense of righteousness mixed with a dollop of regret, I drove back to the office, wondering about the disappearance of that painting. If it was in fact a portrait of Charles Watson, a whole new line of thought opened up. If it was Watson, then he obviously knew Wilbur and knew him in an intimate way. It must also have been Watson who'd gotten into Wilbur's apartment and stolen the painting. Obviously he didn't want the relationship to become public, for any number of reasons. Why he'd waited until after the cops searched the place was a mystery. But it's possible he woke up in the middle of the night, horrified to remember the picture and understand how it could link him to the murdered Wilbur. One thing seemed pretty clear—if it was his portrait and if he took the painting, and if he had any sense at all, which I assumed he did, he'd have already burned it.

When I got to the office, I called Ed Kowalski. He had specifically told me to report if I found anything that might
have to do with the case, and I understood that it was in my long-term best interest to stay in the good graces of the cops.

“Ed, this is Bruno.”

“Bruno! For crissakes, why don't you come up with a different name?”

“Can't. I'm building my brand.”

“What's on your mind?”

“When you searched Hanson's apartment, did you notice his little picture gallery?”

“How could I miss it? A bunch of pansies with extra large wangs. I didn't spend much time gazing at them, though.”

“Well, there's a strong possibility that one of the pictures was of Charles Watson.”

There was a pause while Ed digested this.

“Hmmm. That's interesting.”

“I met Watson this afternoon and thought he looked familiar, and then I remembered why. So I went back to Hanson's apartment to double-check.”

“And?”

“That one painting was gone.”

“Even more interesting.”

“Does his alibi hold up?” I asked.

“Yep. He was out on the
Lucky Lady
the night of the shootings. Lots of witnesses.”

“Still, the fact that he must've known this guy Hanson is quite a coincidence.”