The enormous collection of beautiful fakes the Feds found in the warehouse adjoining Frankie’s studio had been awarded to Francis Weidermeyer by a federal judge, and Weidermeyer confirmed that he had consigned it to Clarice to sell. Though the operation was certainly shady, it was legitimate as long as Clarice did not misrepresent her offerings.
At the back of her album of exclusive offerings-the fakes-there was a disclaimer that said the works shown were all painted “in homage” to the great artists of Europe, but were not themselves masterworks. The paintings were not forgeries, and according to Clarice, she never represented them as anything except imitations. Jean-Paul and I could not contradict that, though neither of us remembered seeing the disclaimer when we looked through the album in her gallery.
In the end, it didn’t matter very much when she added the disclaimer. Clarice’s local reputation was ruined and there was a going-out-of-business sign posted on her gallery door. I wondered where she would turn up next, but I had no doubts that, unlike her kinsman Hiram Chin, she had at least one more bounce left.
The good news was that the three Millard Sheets paintings that Jean-Paul and I admired turned out to be authentic.
As for the sins of Hiram Chin: forensic accountants delved into his financial records and found enough evidence that he had embezzled large sums from the public construction bond and taken regular kickbacks from suppliers so that, were he alive, he would have spent a long time in prison. The investigation implicated Tom Jaurequi, the chair of the Board of Trustees who had conspired with Hiram to bring Park Holloway to Anacapa College as a not-quite-innocent front for their construction graft scheme.
When Juarequi was arraigned, the judge chastised him for stealing funds from students. His response had been, “Those college administrators are a bunch of eggheads who know jack shit about contracts and construction. Taking their money was just so easy I couldn’t resist.” Juarequi was being held at Metro Detention while he waited for trial. With all of his funds frozen, he couldn’t make bail and had to settle for a public defender.
After Thornbury called and told me about the preliminary DNA results, I spent a sleepless night and called Trey Holloway first thing in the morning. Trey had driven down after his father’s funeral in Gilstrap to take care of the legal details that next-of-kin must after a death in the family, and was staying in his father’s condo. He agreed to meet me at a public park nearby. I thought he should know about Frankie’s paternity before that nugget hit the airwaves. When I told him, he wasn’t as surprised as I expected him to be.
“I knew about the affair, of course. Eventually,” he said. “After all the crap my mom put up with, finding out Dad had supported another woman for about a dozen years was the last straw for her. But I didn’t know about the kid.”
He sat quietly, watching some toddlers play on swings in a far corner of the park. Without taking his eyes from them, he asked, “What’s he like, my brother?”
“Damaged,” I said. “Angry.”
He asked, “Can I see him?”
“You can try.” I pulled out one of my cards and wrote Uncle Max’s name and number on the back. “This is his lawyer.”
“Thanks.” He slipped the card into his shirt pocket and rose from the bench beside me.
“Quite a legacy my father left,” he said, his shoulders sagging from the weight of it all. “A lot of wreckage.”
“I am sorry for what you’ve gone through,” I said. “And for whatever lies ahead. My film will bring up topics that may not be comfortable for you.”
He nodded. “Do you still want me to talk on camera?”
“I do.”
“It’s time to go public with what my dad did. Secrecy only protects him, and I don’t think he deserves protection.” He managed a vague smile. “I’ll be around all week, clearing out Dad’s condo. Tomorrow work for you?”
I told him that would be fine. We set a time to meet and agreed that the condo would be the best place.
As we said good-bye in the parking lot, he offered his hand.
“Thanks for telling me. I’m finding out a lot of things I never knew about Dad. But the boy-that one’s the biggest, so far.”
“Take care,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”
He started for his car, but turned back.
“The thing is,” he said, “I don’t know that I have anything useful to say to you. The more I learn about him, the more I’m aware that I never knew my father.”
Chapter 26
A large crowd showed up Friday night for Sly’s unveiling celebration. After viewing the film, Sly: The Artist and His Work, on a big outdoor screen set up on the college quad, they all filed into the administration building lobby.
People looking for a good vantage spot mounted the stairway and lined the railing of the second floor corridor, all eyes on the huge silk drape, courtesy of the Theater Department, that shrouded Sly’s sculpture hanging from the ceiling above the open stairwell. Cameras flashed, strobes in the softly lit space.
Everything was ready for a party. Tables loaded with exquisite little pastries made by the Culinary Arts students and two-bite-sized pizzas with every imaginable topping, courtesy of Roberta’s Village restaurant, tubs of soft drinks, imported champagne Jean-Paul had asked its American representative to donate, were arranged around the room. Fresh flowers abounded. The college jazz ensemble played on risers set up behind the reception counter.
As conversations rose to a vibrant crescendo, fueled by happy anticipation, two trumpeters emerged from a second-floor office and blew a call to attention, silencing the room as spotlights hit the microphone set up in front of the drape.
Sly, looking handsome in his new blue suit, escorted Bobbie Cusato, wearing a red dress for the occasion, through the crowd and up to the microphone. Bobbie spoke to the crowd first, welcoming the guests before introducing Sly.
Sly took some notecards out of his pocket, and with shaking hands but in a clear voice, thanked everyone who had helped. In the film he had spoken about his vision for the piece, described the media he used to make it a reality, and explained the engineering involved in its assembly. So at that point, there was nothing left to do except reveal it. He and Bobbie each grabbed the ends of silken cords.
Bobbie announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present to you, Palomas Eternas.”
With a triumphant blare of trumpets, overhead spotlights snapped on and Bobbie and Sly pulled the cords. As the drape slithered to the floor revealing the sculpture, the attendees joined in a long, appreciative “Ahh.”
Smiling at each other, Bobbie and Sly both reached into the cascade of tiles and flicked crystals, sending tiny wings of light flying around the room. The crowd laughed and applauded. Preston Nguyen, my new intern, caught it all on film.
Sly stepped back to the microphone and said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
Even if he had tried, Sly would never have made it through the crush of well-wishers to get to the food. I saw my daughter, Casey, hand him a plate, but he was so busy I doubted that he would get around to eating anything.
“Perfect night,” Kate said, leaning her shoulder against mine, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
“Absolutely perfect,” I said.
Jean-Paul, Roger and Ricardo began popping champagne corks. A California community college is allowed to serve alcohol on only a few occasions during a calendar year, so wine served in tall crystal flutes meant this was a very special event, indeed. With the chief of police keeping an eagle eye on servers as they passed through the crowd with their trays of glasses, I doubt many of the under-twenty-one set managed to get even a sip.