“Is that coffee I smell?” Lew Kaufman shambled in. There was a new smear of something across his cheek. He selected the next-least-objectionable mug from among the collection on the counter and filled it from the pot. “So Bobbie, Maggie. What’s up?”
He carried his mug to the table, leaned down to kiss Bobbie’s proffered cheek, and left a terra-cotta streak behind; the Mark of Lew, I was beginning to think.
Bobbie thumbed the smear off her cheek. “I was just going to tell Maggie about something I learned this morning.”
“What’s that?” He slurped his coffee.
“You know that Park tried to get money from me last fall to buy the bronze bowling pin from Whatshisname if Sly…”
“Bombed?” Lew said. “Yeah. Franz von Wilde. Bullshit. When he was a student here his name was Frankie Weidermeyer. Putz.”
“You knew him?” Bobbie asked, taken aback. “You never told the committee.”
“Didn’t want you to think I was prejudiced.”
“But you were,” she said, smiling broadly.
“Sure, but not toward Weidermeyer. Back in the day, he took a few of my studio classes. I always thought he was more arts-and-crafts than fine arts; not top of the heap, talentwise, even there. But when your mommy owns a big gallery, I guess talent doesn’t matter so much.”
She repeated, “You never said.”
He laid a big stained hand on her shoulder. “Bobbie, I knew I didn’t need to. I trusted your good judgment.” He chuckled. “Did look like a big bronze bowling pin, didn’t it?”
“Well, hell.” She cocked her head to study his long, expressive face. After a moment, she said, “The thing is, Lew, I just learned that Park bought the bowling pin after all. That’s why he wanted to take down Sly’s work. He’s stuck with that ugly thing now. Probably embarrassed.”
Lew slammed a hand on the table, upsetting my mug. “Dammit,” he spat, rising to grab paper towels. “If there was ever someone who needed to be strung up by his balls, it’s that bastard. Of all the colossal gall.”
He mopped the table with paper toweling off a big roll and slam-dunked the sodden wad into a trash can. Still upset, he refilled my cup, nearly overfilling it when he looked away to speak to Bobbie.
“How the hell did he manage to come up with the money?”
“He went out on his own and raised it. Kate and I turned him down when he solicited us, but others wrote checks,” Bobbie said.
“Several others,” she added. “And he did it without going through the Foundation. David Dahliwahl had pledged money for an engineering scholarship. But when Joan Givens took tax forms to David, expecting him to give her a check, he told her that Park had already collected. In December.”
“Aha,” Lew said, catching my eye. “That’s what Joan wanted to talk to Park about after our meeting.”
“Could be,” I said.
I thought of the file she brought to the meeting and the papers she was laying in front of Holloway when the rest of us left. The Foundation was the only legitimate fund-raising organization on campus, and apparently Holloway had sidestepped them. Illegally.
Lew dropped back into his chair. “Who else did the bastard tap?”
“I made some calls for Joan,” Bobbie said.
Lew gestured for her to go on.
“Ruth Carlisle, Melvin Ng, and the Montemayors all gave checks to Park. There were others.”
Bobbie looked from me to Lew, making sure she had our attention, drawing out the drama a bit. “Park collected enough loot to buy that awful piece several times over. And none of it went through Foundation accounts.”
“Bastard,” Lew spat, happy, I thought, to have something more to hold against Holloway.
“I think we’ve established that,” I said. “What happens now?”
“Joan is taking what she has to the Board of Trustees,” Bobbie said. “I hope we can avoid legal action, but that will depend on Park’s response.”
I slid off into a sort of nether zone, thinking about a possible film project-Park Holloway-and didn’t hear what they said next. Lew called my name and brought me back into the grubby comforts of the faculty lounge.
I said, “Sorry. What?”
“I asked if you were finished for the day,” Lew said.
“Pretty soon.” I glanced at my watch. “In another hour the light should be right to film the stairwell.”
“Couldn’t it wait until Monday?”
I shook my head. “It’s supposed to rain again on Monday. This may be my last, best shot before the piece goes up next week.”
“You might run into Park,” Lew said.
I shrugged. “So what if I do?”
“Didn’t Sly say something this morning about taking a twelve-bore?”
“And didn’t I tell him to watch what he says?”
With the puzzle of Park Holloway on my mind, I went into my little office with about an hour to kill. Right away, I turned on my desk computer and Google-stalked him. There were over a hundred thousand Internet hits. Getting through them would take half a week, time I did not have.
Not so long ago, I would have called on my personal assistant, Fergie, to see what she could find, and Jack Flaherty in the network’s Archives and Research department to do the same. The two of them together could, and did more than once, find the proverbial needle in a haystack for me. But I had been severed from those resources.
When my series was canceled, my entire production unit at the network was laid off. I knew Fergie was still looking for a job, so I called her, hoping she had some time I could buy.
“How’s the job hunt going?” I asked her after we had established that we were both just fine, thank you.
“Oh, Maggie.” She burst into tears. “There’s nothing out there. I went to an interview this morning and there were thirty people filling out applications. For one half-time file clerk position.”
“Damn,” was all I could think to say.
“It’s hopeless.”
“Fergie,” I said, “I need some help doing background research. Would you be interested?”
After a pause, she asked, “For pay?”
“Of course.” I told her what I wanted. “Right now it’s just exploratory. Snooping actually. If we come up with something, I’ll go look for backing to make a film.”
“If there’s something to find, I’ll find it,” she said, sounding like my fierce assistant again instead of a defeated whelp. “And if you decide to make a film, you better hire me, boss.”
“Couldn’t do it without you. But for now, I’m thinking there might be a week’s worth of work for you.”
“Great. You’re a lifesaver,” she said. “What kind of money are we talking?”
“The same rate the network paid you.”
There was a pause.
“Maggie, I couldn’t make my condo payment on the first.”
“How much do you owe?”
When she told me, including a late penalty if she didn’t get the payment in by the tenth, I did some rough calculations, gulped, and said, “Okay, kiddo, that’s about seven days of work. I’m sure we’ll find plenty for you to do.”
“In advance?”
Thinking, Lordy Maggie, you need a keeper, I said, “Sure.”
She gave me her account information so I could make an immediate electronic deposit. As soon as we said good-bye, that’s what I did, feeling Mike looking over my shoulder as I did, hearing him say, “Maggie, she’s twenty-seven years old. She should be able to figure things out by herself.” And me answering, “Times are tough.”
I looked at the clock; it was just after four. Usually, those few people who were not furloughed on Fridays cleared out early to get a head start on the weekend. I wanted to film the empty stairwell without the shadows of people around the vast open spaces of the administration lobby interfering with the shot. The outer doors would lock automatically at exactly five, so a few minutes before that, I decided, would be the best time to go over. At that hour, the people should be gone and the sun would be low in the sky and streaming straight in through the big glass front doors.