He furrowed his brow, apparently not happy with that last answer. “This a good enough contact that he’d get you a copy of the autopsy report?”
“Sure. With photos, if I ask. I’ve been busy, haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
“Jeez. You try to keep a lid on things…”
He took a breath, made a decision, and leveled his gaze on me.
“Coroner says Holloway was clocked from behind hard enough to crush his skull. There’s a corresponding bruise on his forehead, so the coroner suspects he fell forward with the blow. The initial blow was hard enough to do real damage, but that isn’t what killed him.”
I waited through his dramatic pause, hoped I’d be able to talk him into letting me get him on camera.
“Holloway was alive when he was hanged,” he said, finally.
I was still thinking that through when Max said, “He was executed.”
“You could say that,” Thornbury said. “Know anyone around here who could pull that off?”
“I don’t,” I said, but heard again Jean-Paul’s little bell. “But…”
This time he waited for me.
“A friend of mine told me recently that most thefts of major artwork are done by organized crime.”
“Was something stolen?”
“Not from the college,” I said. “And maybe from nowhere. But there may be a connection between Holloway and the realm of shady art collecting.”
“Art collecting?” He seemed to stop himself mid-smirk and regroup. Sounding sincerely curious, he asked, “Have you found something?”
“Nothing concrete. On a hunch, I had my uncle look into a court case for me.” Max was grinning like a proud papa. I mentioned the name of the deposed dictator and almost lost Thornbury again; Weber dropped his head, clearly uninterested. When Max nodded at me, I went on.
“A federal court awarded a group of creditors the art collection that belonged to the dictator. But when they tried to sell the collection, it turned out that all of the premier works were fakes.”
“Copies?” Thornbury asked.
“No. They were original fakes. The style of artists like, say Rembrandt or Van Gogh, was copied, but the works themselves were originals. If Van Gogh painted a red chair and yellow table, the fake might have a very similar table set at a different angle, leave out the chair and add a blue teacup. They were good fakes, but fakes nonetheless.”
“Was Holloway involved with that somehow?”
“That’s the question of the hour,” I said. “Hiram Chin and Holloway were on a museum committee together several years ago, looking into questions about the authenticity of a Rembrandt painting owned by the National Gallery. Chin was the expert, and it was Chin who helped put the dictator’s collection together, meaning he’s either incompetent or corrupt.”
“And?”
“And, a Mr. and Mrs. Francis Weidermeyer were listed among the creditors who brought the suit. According to Holloway’s wife, Weidermeyer was an acquaintance of your victim. You want bigger fish than a bunch of academics, you might look into that.”
When he shrugged, I added, “Holloway raised money from college donors to buy a sculpture by Franz von Wilde, AKA Frank Weidermeyer, perhaps the son of Francis. A woman named Clarice Snow presents herself as the mother of young Frank; they were at the memorial together this morning. She owns an art gallery in Santa Barbara.”
“You think someone in that deal sent out a goon squad?”
“Beats me,” I said. “I’m looking into the life of the murdered man and I found something interesting. The murder is your problem. But you might look into young Frank Weidermeyer’s role in a campus shooting yesterday.”
Thornbury turned to Weber. “A shooting? We hear about that?”
“Tejeda put a copy of the report on our desk-I saw it this morning. Something about graffiti and a pellet gun.”
True to form, he seemed unconcerned about it. Instead, he asked Max, “What happened to the collection of fakes?”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
I told them about Clarice Snow’s catalogue of exclusive artworks. Max said he’d probably be able to find an inventory in the court records, see if any of the fakes showed up in her catalogue.
“Find anything else?” Thornbury asked me.
“This and that. As you said Friday night, Park Holloway wasn’t very popular around here. He may have been an adequate administrator, and he did not create the economic mess the state and the college are in, but he made a good target for the general malaise around here. Somehow, when there isn’t money for basic supplies, he still had funds to continue with his ostentatious building program. Does that piss someone off enough to…?”
I raised my palms: Who knows what people can work themselves up to do?
Thornbury said, “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“Now that we’re best friends…” I crossed my arms and looked from one to the other. “Will you show up on camera for me?”
Weber’s eyes narrowed. “You want to, what, follow us around?”
“From time to time, yes.”
“What do we get in exchange?” he asked.
“I’ll share what I find.”
“Everything?”
Max put his hand on my arm. “Maggie?”
“I’ll be as forthcoming as you two are.”
Thornbury had the grace to laugh.
Chapter 20
“Maggie, honey?”
I knew the voice on the telephone, Zev Prosky, Eunice Stillwell’s public defender.
“What’s up, Zev? Did your prize client suddenly become lucid?”
“Not in this lifetime,” he said. “And not in the next. No, honey, I’m just giving you a heads-up about a phone call I had this noon. A kid called, said he was from the college paper and wanted to write a feature story about Ronald Miller-your little buddy, Sly. He said Sly got some sort of award and there will be a big ceremony.”
“What did he want from you?” I did not like what I was thinking.
“He wanted the scoop on Eunice. I invoked attorney-client privilege and told him to take a hike, but what I’m wondering about is how he made the connection between Ronald Miller and Eunice Stillwell. You can find all sorts of information out there on the Internet nowadays, and there is plenty about Eunice’s trial, but there is no reference to Sly in any of the court filings. I kept his name out intentionally. The boy went through enough in his life, he doesn’t need an albatross like Eunice hanging around his neck, not when he was a little guy and not now when he’s doing so well.”
“Did the caller give you his name?”
“No, that’s the thing. I hit Redial, but the phone number went back to the Anacapa College switchboard.”
“Could have been anybody with access to a campus phone.” I thanked him, called the campus switchboard and asked to be put through to the newspaper advisor; I had never met the man. After identifying myself, I asked him if anyone was assigned to write a story about Sly. The answer I got didn’t make me happy. I walked over to the student gallery, hunting my quarry.
Sly was still wearing his new suit, looking sharp and enjoying the moment, explaining the sculpture to Uncle Max. Because classes had been canceled for the day in honor of Holloway’s memorial, Sly’s work crew was taking a day off from work, too, but several of them were there, just hanging out with Sly. As soon as Lew was ready to lock up the gallery, they were all going out for burgers, Max included, and probably picking up the check. As hungry as I was, I declined the invitation to join them. There was someone in the room I needed to speak with.
Preston Nguyen, who went to the gallery every day to shoot footage of the progress on the sculpture’s assembly, was hovering around the edges of the conversation when I walked in. His eyes lit up when he saw me, his new boss, and he walked over to meet me as soon as I entered the room.
“Hey, Miss M,” he said. “When do we start?”