Art and Arsenic (Veronica Margreve Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  The gallery was open. I walked in.

  “Hello, how are you today?” The woman behind the counter in the back of the room greeted me.

  “Hello”, I replied. I recognized her as Linda Raven, from the photo on the website – a couple of years older and, in real life, not enhanced by the soft halo of a camera filter.

  “Let me know if I can help you with anything!” She had a full voice that went well with her slightly-plump frame.

  I thanked her and looked at the art on offer.

  And there was stuff to look at. Canvases in elaborate gilded frames hung on the walls. A couple of chairs upholstered in dark-green, and a small demi-lune table of period furniture were against the walls. (I wasn’t sure which period exactly, but decided it was some time before the 20th century). Ravenswood was certainly setting the mood for the collector of antiques.

  I walked around counter-clockwise, looking at the paintings. They were mainly colorful landscapes similar to those at Nordqvist Fine Art, showing fields, barns and open vistas. I leaned closer to check the name of the artist on the first one: George Price Boyce. Not anyone I had ever heard of before, but I liked his work.

  I gradually made my way to the very back of the gallery, so that I was behind and to the right of Linda’s desk. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw what Linda had on her computer monitor: a web browser with several open tabs, a tab visible for her e-mail account. To the side of the browser window, some text was rapidly scrolling by in a command-line window; the familiar repeating shape of the printed text, and some of the lines I managed to read, told me that it was the output from the DoS attack tool running on Linda’s computer.

  I was curious why she’d try to DoS her competitor’s site – that’s unusual for art dealer, I thought. At least, I hadn’t previously encountered any such cases from her line of work.

  “Finding anything that interests you?” She turned to me and smiled.

  I stuck out my hand.

  “Yes, I do actually. My name is Veronica Margreve.”

  “Linda Raven. I own the gallery.” She shook my hand.

  “Ravenswood, it is named after you, very nice! You have a lot of charming stuff here. I particularly liked the Boyce landscapes – the glowing colors on them.” I pointed to the paintings on the left wall.

  “Oh yes. Aren’t they great? He was a famous 19th-century English landscape painter, noted for the translucent luminosity of his works.”

  “I definitely like them. That period had so many interesting landscape artists. In fact, Nordqvist Fine Art is having a new show – I am planning to attend the David Cox opening. I heard they will have several of his landscapes.”

  “Ah, yes, yes.” Her eyes shifted. Evidently, the competitor’s business was not her favorite topic. “Of course, they will only have about seven works. Nordqvist Fine Art certainly has some interesting art. The new show seems to be well-regarded.” There was a slight emphasis on ‘seems’.

  “What is your opinion of David Cox?”

  “Well, he certainly did a lot of stuff. But he was a minor artist, compared with Boyce. I personally like Boyce and his school better. As you said, the colors.” She smiled at me and nodded towards the walls. “Here at Ravenswood, we aim to be the leader in 19th century European and American art in the Seattle area, offering you the best works of the period, backed by the most solid expertise and provenance. That’s our mission!” Her smile beamed at me as she recited it.

  So Linda Raven was competitive and wanted to win.

  “Is that why you are running a DoS tool on your laptop?” I asked as I returned her smile. “That’s D3stroyZ, isn’t it?”

  Her eyes went back to her monitor.

  “What?... No… How?..” She gasped.

  “Is that one of your tactics to cripple a competitor’s business?” Linda’s hands went to her mouth, and her eyes darted between me and the computer screen.

  “Nordqvist Fine Art hired me to find out who was attempting to bring down their website. You might have noticed that their site is up, your attack is not working.”

  Linda looked as if she were lost among unfamiliar surroundings. Her hair seemed to frizz at the ends suddenly. Yes, she was definitely an amateur in cyber-attacks – she didn’t even check whether the site was up or down today, whether the malicious traffic that she was sending to the server was still having the intended effect.

  “I would stop running it, if I were you. And in general, I would stop downloading anything from the site that you got it from – you don’t know what viruses or spyware may be in it. For all you know, it’s been capturing the passwords to all the sites you visit on that computer.”

  She jumped back to her keyboard in a panic, with shaking hands brought up with command window where the tool was running. It took her two tries, due to typos, to successfully terminate it.

  I walked to the door, calling out “Have a good afternoon” behind me.

  She was still busy with the computer and didn’t respond.

  I went back to my car and got out my finery, suitable for a gallery opening, and headed down the hill to Nordqvist Fine Art.

  I buzzed in the back of the gallery, and Pauline let me in. I went into the bathroom to change, and put on some mascara (that was pretty much the only make-up I wore, even for special occasions). I wore a dress I got at TJMaxx, some heirloom jewelry (a ruby pendant set in gold, that picked up the red pattern on my dress), and Maison Martin Margiela snake-embossed ankle boots (courtesy of a 70% off Saks Fifth Avenue online sale). I left my coat and bag with the laptop in it in the office, on the floor in the corner, next to a wastebasket that contained a coffee cup, and what looked like a wrapper from the sandwich I saw on Fred Nordqvist's desk earlier in the day.

  I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and thought that I looked sufficiently dressy for an art show opening. I shook my hair loose, decided not to fret about any gray in it for tonight, and walked out to the main area.

  5

  It was around 5 pm, and the big gallery space was starting to fill up with people. There were couples in their thirties to sixties, sipping champagne and looking at the art of the walls, a group or two of women in their forties, enjoying their girls’ night out. I saw a man in his late fifties, in round glasses, an expensive cashmere sweater of a color that was probably called “dove”, and beige slacks, standing by the door, frowning, with a small flute of champagne in his hand. A thin balding slight man was next to him on his left, with his back to me, dressed in a dark-blue sports coat and slacks, holding a coffee cup with a green logo. It looked like the small man was talking to the first one, and he was answering reluctantly, with his eyes flying over the group of people in the big space, without looking at the slight man. Pauline and Alex were making rounds through the crowd, pouring people drinks, then setting up another hors d’oeuvres station in a corner.

  Fred came up to me and took my arm, guiding me into the room.

  “You look lovely, my dear.”

  “Thank you. This is a lovely event. Did you get my report?” I wanted to keep the conversation professional.

  “Oh yes, I did. Didn’t have a chance to read it yet, with all the preparations”. He moved his fat left hand with the glass in a wide arc to indicate our surroundings.

  “Everything looks great, everyone at the gallery did a wonderful job in setting it up”, I said pointedly. He gave me a sideways look, not too pleased at me for complimenting his staff.

  Another party-goer came up to us then – a short red-headed woman in her early sixties, in a dark-green wrap over an emerald-green dress that set off her hair color nicely. I looked at it for a moment, thinking about whether it would suit me.

  “Fred, darling, these are exquisite”. Her voice was husky, and she smelled of an expensive floral perfume. She waved her manicured left hand at the walls, the huge diamond rings on her fingers giving off a firework of sparkles.

  “Monica, so nice to see you!” He leaned forward to air-kiss the lady. “How
have you been?”

  “Oh, fabulous, my dear! Just fabulous!”

  I stepped back to give them space to hug and talk, and my eyes wondered around the room. They caught the eyes of another woman who looked to be in her early fifties, thin and medium height. She was looking at Fred. I recognized her as the woman I saw last night at the Sounders game with Alex. Here in the room, I could see her better, at closer range and in brighter light than at the game. She was standing in the far corner, holding just a glass of water, her arms crossed across her chest. I wondered what her relationship to Alex and role in the gallery were. There was a faint curve to her mouth – I watched her, fascinated, until I realized (by trying to mimic the same expression on my own lips) that the expression on her face was disdain. She looked like a shark, I suddenly realized, coldly appraising and judging the room and everyone in it.

  My eyes went around the gallery again in search of warmer-blooded and cheerier subjects. I saw Pauline in the center of a group of young women about her age, laughing and talking animatedly – probably her art-college friends, I decided. The small thin man that I saw by the door was heading to the back offices of the gallery, coffee cup still in hand.

  Monica looked over the crowd, then she waved her hand in the air, making the diamond sparkles dance, and she called to someone:

  “Andrew, darling, come join us!”

  The man in the cashmere sweater made his way towards us.

  “This is Andrew, he is the resident art expert for the gallery.”

  We did the social pleasantries, and the talk went to art. Andrew told us a bit about the artist, and walked us over to the wall to show the finer points of the paintings. After another 30 minutes or so of this – the time spent by me in looking closely at the paintings, and then attempting awkward small talk with some guests, I noticed that the crowd had gotten denser. The young women Pauline talked to were admiring a large-format landscape. The shark-like blonde was nowhere to be seen, to my relief. I saw the slight man moving in our general direction. From the front, I saw that he looked to be in his mid-forties and was wearing a bow-tie. He didn’t have a coffee cup any longer, but a champagne flute that he held in front of him as he weaved through the crowd.

  As the man came close, I heard Andrew say:

  “Mrs. Bencham, you remember Christopher, don’t you? These lovely works on the walls are his, from his uncle’s personal collection. We have an exclusive agreement for the sale of all the art works from that extensive collection.”

  Christopher bent over Monica’s sparkling hand.

  “Charmed.”

  “Oh, you are the lucky young man who found these art works in your uncle’s attic!” Monica gushed.

  “Yes, that’s me. My uncle, Calvin Willembauer, traveled to Europe frequently for his work. I think he bought these decades ago in England and Belgium.” Christopher spoke in soft tones. A small group of art-lovers assembled around us to hear the story of the paintings. “No-one was aware of his collection while he was alive. Since he was a bachelor, it so happened that I was his closest living relative. The collection came to me as part of his estate. I thought that these works looked gorgeous, and that they might be significant in some way, might represent some milestone in the history of 19th century art, so to speak.”

  “How fascinating! Such a serendipitous find!” Monica gushed.

  “It was quite a coup for us to land the exclusive deal for the entire collection”, Fred winked at no-one in particular.

  “And are you an artist yourself?” a young woman in a short blue dress asked.

  “Oh no! I know a little about art, mostly things that I learned after inheriting the collection. I was thrust into this, you could say.” He moved his arm with the drink around, to indicate the gallery and the glitzy opening. “I took a couple of art classes after I got the inheritance – I was so amazed by these, I wanted to understand how something like that was created. Without much success, I must say.” He laughed and took a sip from his glass. “I am trying to learn more about art all the time – in fact, I am planning to go to the First Thursday Art Walk next week. The show of John Crome’s works opens then, and it is also 19th century landscape paintings, so it would be interesting to compare and learn.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I am a high-school chemistry teacher, in Walla Walla.” That would be a town of about 32 000 people in the south-east of the state, in the middle of Washington wine country. “I came up for the opening and will be staying about a week. It is convenient since next week is Spring Break.”

  And so it went, surrounded by small talk, giggling and champagne bubbles. Fred had excused himself from our circle. I stood smiling, clutching my drink and getting a bit bored. By then my eyes were glazing over. I am not at my best at big parties where I am not the hostess – I normally don’t know what to do or how to behave. I stopped listening to the conversation around me and scanned the room for anything interesting.

  My eyes caught Fred moving across the floor. The blonde woman I noticed earlier had re-appeared and said something to him as he walked by – something that seemed to cause him to freeze in his tracks for a second. Then he turned to her and responded with a couple of phrases. He continued on his way, moving to another group of guests in the corner.

  A group of young women in their early twenties that I saw talking to Pauline before were sipping champagne and laughing. Fred came over and talked to one of them; she giggled into her drink. Pauline, carrying drinks across the room, looked annoyed and came over to the group. Fred bowed slightly and stepped away. The cashmere-sweater man was deep in a conversation with two well-dressed men and a woman, who all were listening to what he was saying.

  Fred emerged from the back room and called for everyone’s attention. When the murmur of conversation in the gallery calmed down and faces turned towards him, he said:

  “We are so extremely lucky, not only to be able to see – and buy! – these art works, but also to have a chance to taste a great wine tonight! The wine that shares its provenance with the paintings on show. That’s right – we have not only these paintings from Christopher’s uncle’s personal collection, but also a couple of bottles of”, – Fred looked at the bottle in his right hand and read off its label, struggling with the French pronunciations – “Domaine Leflaive Chevalier-Montrachet wine that his uncle bought in France.” Here Fred paused for effect. People were looking at him expectantly. “I know all about where this wine came from – and it is quite remarkable journey! Today I have the pleasure of pouring this old, prestigious and outstanding wine, to celebrate the second show and sale of works from the Willembauer collection! It is a Grand Cru from Burgundy, 1985 vintage, not too many of these around still. Hard to find, and expensive!” He chuckled loudly, and others joined. Fred concluded: “A true honor to be serving it tonight!” He lifted two bottles above his head.

  The audience applauded.

  Alex helped Fred open the bottles, and they walked around the room, pouring about an inch of the wine into each glass, as people hurried to finish their drinks and offer their glasses. After everyone had a little of the rare liquid in their glasses, Fred raised his in a toast:

  “To Christopher’s uncle’s collection, and his unerring good taste! And to our collaborations, future shows and successes!”

  Christopher, who stood behind them, looked at Fred intently. To my surprise, I saw that he turned red with embarrassment, and his hand not holding the wine glass was curled into a fist by his side.

  We drank. The wine looked pale-yellow in color, smelled faintly of citrus and mint, and had a mineral-y taste. Overall, I thought it was pleasant enough – I am not a big fan of Chardonnay (which I knew this wine had to be, as a white Burgundy), but would drink this wine if offered more, I decided.

  At this point, after an hour and a half or so of party attendance, I felt that I satisfied any professional obligation I might have to Fred Nordqvist and his gallery. I said good-bye to the host, getting an air kiss
from him in the process, waved to Pauline, grabbed my bag and coat from the office and headed home.

  I felt spring in the air on my walk to the car, with a sense of a job well done and socializing accomplished. Even my hair didn’t look too bad tonight, I decided. I’d figure out what to do about coloring it later.

  6

  The next morning was Saturday. Bitty woke me up with a loud aria, walking around the bed. The little furry diva wanted her breakfast and was annoyed at me for sleeping in.

  I had stayed up late the night before. First, after coming home from the party, I sent a quick e-mail to my friend Krista. Krista was Canadian. We met when we were both living in Seattle, working for a big tech company, where we got hired within a week of each other and shared a small office for a couple of years. She would go with me to see obscure, funny or not-so-much films at the Seattle International Film Festival; backpacked with me through the heat and humidity of Vietnam in August; and provided moral support trying times. She's moved on to working for several start-ups, riding the waves to their IPOs and doing pretty well. She now lived in Boston – for the hockey, I suspected, as much as anything else. Among other things, she was quite a wine connoisseur: she had an interest in wines and could remember the taste of seemingly any wine she's ever tried, and what those around her had thought of it. So, having lucked into getting a couple of sips of the Domaine Leflaive Chevalier-Montrachet, I wrote to her in as much detail as I could about it, its smell (“nose”) and taste, as I knew she'd be interested.