Murder at the National Gallery (2 page)

Nearby, a short young woman with a large bosom, wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a mildly obscene message on it, and sporting multiple earrings, was taken aside and searched by a female inspector in a private room reserved for such activity. An instant breast reduction occurred when three small plastic bags of marijuana were removed from her bra.

Carlo Giliberti reached the taxi line and gave the driver the address of an art gallery in New York’s Soho district, where he soon delivered three unframed paintings by the seventeenth-century Italian artist from Taverna, Mattia Preti, that had been concealed between worthless papers in his portfolio. He thanked the gallery owner for the envelope filled with cash, took another cab to LaGuardia, and boarded a Delta shuttle flight to Washington.

All in all, just another week in the swirling world of international art.

Annabel’s eyes opened wide, her laughter irrepressible. “You still have
that
?” she said.

“Of course I do,” said Carole.

The two women sat at a long French pine kitchen table in the “Admiral’s House” on the grounds of the Naval Observatory on upper Massachusetts Avenue. The so-called Category II Historic Landmark house had been the official residence of the vice president and family ever since Congress decreed it to be so in 1974.

Annabel picked up the faded Polaroid to examine it more closely. “You had so much … hair then,” Annabel said.

“And less weight. Don’t be tactful.” Carole Aprile was the
wife of the vice president of the United States, Joseph Aprile. “Can you believe we ever looked like that?”

“No.”

Carole Aprile, then Carole Peckham, and Annabel Reed, now Reed-Smith, had been college roommates. The photo showed them primed and painted for a dorm Halloween party.

“Burn it,” said Annabel.

“Never. I can always use it to blackmail you with Mac. More coffee?”

“Thanks, no. So, Carole, tell me more about this intriguing assignment you’ve handed me.”

Both women turned as a Secret Service agent passed outside the kitchen window. “I’m still not used to having strange men surrounding me day and night,” Carole said. Her husband and the president he served had come into office slightly less than a year ago.

“We would have welcomed it back when that picture was taken,” Annabel said.

“You bet. I’m so pleased you’ve agreed to serve on the commission, Annabel.”

“I was flattered to be asked. Mac and I were pleasantly surprised when the president announced that the White House would
have
an arts commission. The arts weren’t on anyone’s priority list in the last administration.”

“And still aren’t in Congress. Maybe we can change a few minds. This Caravaggio exhibition is a wonderful place to start.”

“It must tickle you to see Caravaggio come to Washington,” Annabel said. “Your master’s thesis on him was a real valentine.”

“Got an A, too. Well, an A-minus. He’s always fascinated me.”

“He’s beginning to fascinate me, too, ever since you asked me to get involved. I’ve done some reading about Caravaggio and his work. A monumental talent—”

“Just the word. And certifiable nut. Look, Annabel, let me be a little more candid than I was when I asked you to be my
liaison to the National Gallery and the Caravaggio show. There’s more involved than I let on.”

“Oh? I will have more coffee. Half a cup.”

Carole poured. She’d excused the member of her household staff who’d stood by to serve the two old friends. Carole Aprile was known to be as much of a hands-on “second lady” as her husband, the vice president, was known to be more than an accessory to the president. Still, the fiftyish black woman hovered outside the kitchen in the event she was needed.

“You’re probably aware of problems we’ve been having with the Italians. They accused one of our embassy people there of spying …”

“I also read about the bribery charges against those defense contractors—”

“Business as usual, they say, bribing foreign governments to get big contracts—”

“And the drug-trafficking stories.”

“And more. We’ve got a lot more going with Italy than most people think. We’ve also got a sizable Italian-American population, most of whom voted for this administration. The point is that we don’t need some scandal to come out of the Caravaggio exhibition. Cathy Eder is doing a good job as my official contact with the Gallery. But that’s the problem. She’s official. Not privy to everything going on behind closed doors over there. You, on the other hand, might be more readily accepted because of your stature in the arts. And as my college chum.”

“It sounds a little as though you want me to … well, would ‘snoop’ be the appropriate word?”

Carole smiled. “Not at all. Maybe a little. Court Whitney is an enigma. Do you know him?”

“Barely. A few social meetings. I know Luther Mason a lot better.”

Carole sat back and sighed. “Ah, dear, sweet Luther. I love him.”

“So do I, in a metaphorical sense. He was very supportive when I opened my gallery. Still is, even though pre-Columbian art isn’t his thing.”

“ ‘His thing.’ Michelangelo Merisi Caravaggio. That’s his thing. If he isn’t the world’s leading authority on Caravaggio, he’s one of two or three. Curating this exhibition is the highlight of an already highlighted career. He’s in heaven.”

“Good for him. You say Whitney is an enigma. Why?”

“He’s hard to read. From what I hear, he’s doing a good job as the Gallery’s director. But Cathy told me last week she senses some sort of rift between Whitney and Luther. And the other senior curator, Paul Bishop.”

“Artistic temperaments at odds?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“After I do a little snooping. Okay. I have my first meeting there tomorrow morning. I’ll report back.”

“Great. I just want to be sure everything will go smoothly with the Caravaggio show. I’ll feel more secure knowing I have a trusted friend on the scene.”

“I’ll do my best.”

They stood outside together in warm sunshine, flanked by two Secret Service agents. The car sent by Carole Aprile to pick up Annabel that morning pulled into the driveway. Annabel looked up at the house’s façade, an unattractive melding of Victorian, Queen Anne, and French Provincial. “Interesting architecture,” she said.

“A typically tactful comment,” said Carole, grinning. “It’s not exactly a well-tossed salad, is it?” The sun kicked off the sheen in her blond hair, now worn short and stylish, in contrast to the wild and wooly mane of her college years. Carole Aprile was four inches shorter than the five-foot-nine-inch Annabel Reed-Smith. The VP’s wife wore a smart, knee-length dress. Annabel’s suit was beige linen, her blouse copper-colored.

“My best to Mac,” Carole said as the driver opened the car’s door for Annabel. “How is he?”

“Fine. Grumbling now and then about the current crop of law students’ attitudes, and forever promising to paint the house. He refuses to hire someone, he’s not really retired, races to every crime scene at the mildest cry for help, so it never seems to get done. Say hello to the vice president for us.”

“When, and if, I ever get to see him. Thanks, Annabel.”

Annabel’s final words before the car door closed were, “And burn that Polaroid.”

Courtney Whitney III patted senior curator Paul Bishop on the back. “Consider it a good news, bad news thing, Paul. The bad news? Another voice to be heard, another set of eyes looking over our shoulders. The good news? Genuine interest in what we’re doing by the White House itself. Mrs. Smith certainly isn’t a bureaucrat like Cathy Eder. As I understand it, she and Mrs. Aprile go back to college together.”

“Hardly a reason to have her assigned as liaison,” the short, burly Bishop muttered.

“It doesn’t matter what you or I feel about her involvement, Paul.” Another slap on the curator’s broad back. “Let’s welcome her this morning with open arms. She’s a charming lady and extremely attractive. Even knows something about art.”

“Maybe that’s why Luther’s so pleased with her coming here.”

Whitney laughed as he removed his suit jacket from an oak coat tree in a corner of his office, one of three new suits recently arrived from his Savile Row tailor-of-choice, Tommy Nutter. “I suspect the last thing on Luther’s mind these days is attractive women. His love affair with Caravaggio is all-consuming. Besides, Mrs. Smith is happily married. Or so I hear. By the way, did you see this?” He handed Bishop the latest edition of the monthly bulletin
Stolen Art Alert
, compiled
and distributed by the International Foundation for Art Research. Bishop quickly perused the list of recently stolen art, grunted, and said, “Three Pretis, huh?”

“Among other things. Come on. They’re waiting for us.”

The National Gallery’s exhibition committee met every three weeks in a tastefully furnished conference room on the seventh floor of the Gallery’s East Building, a few doors from the director’s office. Upon the arrival of Court Whitney, the National Gallery’s director, the seven permanent members of the committee took up proposals for exhibitions that had been suggested by the Gallery’s curatorial staff or curators from other museums wanting cooperation. This morning, however, Paul Bishop began by voicing his continuing objection to an exhibition already installed, the early works of French artist Dubuffet, which had been donated to the Gallery by retired art dealer Stephen Hahn and permanently installed in the East Building. “Dubuffet!” he snorted. “An untalented mudslinger. The public may be brutish, but even
it
has disdain for
art brute
.”

Others at the table winced, smiled, or sat back, breathing patience through their nostrils. The Dubuffet exhibition was reality. Why continue to protest? To make his point, they knew. Paul Bishop was a man consumed with making his point about anything and everything.

The Gallery’s deputy director, Naomi Warren, quickly advanced that morning’s agenda. After much discussion, an exhibition of African art was shelved until it could be determined if administrators of the National Museum of African Art, across the Mall, would be interested in collaborating (and wouldn’t find their noses too far out of joint). A decision on an educational exhibition suggested by Paul Bishop featuring works of the
Nabis
, particularly the influence of Japanese art on that iconoclastic turn-of-the-century school of painting anchored by Bonnard and Vuillard, was also postponed. It would first have to be determined how many representative pieces of art were available for loan before discussions could continue.

“Well,” Whitney said from the head of the table, “I suppose
we should get to today’s main topic, the Caravaggio exhibition.” He asked Naomi Warren to bring in Annabel Reed-Smith.

Annabel, in a tailored brown skirt, white button-down shirt, and softly shaped camel-hair jacket, entered the room with confidence and easy grace, someone at home in unfamiliar places and with unfamiliar faces. The red hair with which she’d been born had burnished over the years into copper. She wore it full, creating a glowing frame for her creamy, unlined face. Her eyes were, of course, green, as if ordained, and large. Her nose, ears, and mouth had been conceived with a stunning sense of proportion.

Annabel Reed had once been one of Washington’s leading matrimonial attorneys, known for sympathizing with the pain men went through in divorce, as well as the suffering of her female clients, many of them well-known Washington figures. But her passion had always been art, particularly pre-Columbian.

An elderly curator of Dumbarton Oaks’s pre-Columbian collection retired and opened a gallery to fill his days. But running a business became overwhelming to him—more accurately, to his wife, who wanted him with her in the garden—and he sought a partner. Enter Annabel.

She eventually bought him out, maintaining her law practice while running the gallery. A year later, she took down her shingle and became a full-time, and blissfully happy, gallery owner.

The men at the table stood. “Please, have a seat,” said Whitney, having buttoned his suit jacket for the few seconds his midriff was exposed. “A pleasure to see you this morning, Mrs. Smith. You know some of us. I’ll let the others handle their own introductions.”

Annabel pleasantly returned greetings and took a chair next to senior curator Luther Mason, who kissed her on the cheek. “Good to see you,” he said.

“First, Mrs. Smith, let me welcome you to this meeting of the exhibition committee.” Whitney had unbuttoned his jacket. “Sorry to have asked you to remain outside, but we try to keep
the discussion of proposed exhibitions to a minimal number of people.”

“Hardly an unpleasant wait,” said Annabel. “Not that I was surprised, but there are lovely pieces of art everywhere, in every hallway, above every desk. It must be a delight working in a museum, surrounded by such beauty.”

“There are those who view our surroundings as a perk of working at the National Gallery,” said Whitney. He added, “Of course, there are others who would prefer higher pay.”

“Insensates all,” Paul Bishop muttered.

“Hard to understand why anyone would want health insurance with all this art around,” said George Kublinski, chief of the National Gallery’s Design and Exhibition Department. Kublinski was a cherubic man with animated blue eyes and a seemingly unlimited reservoir of humor and energy. His large collection of splashily colorful suspenders was a personal trademark.

“Employees are a bother, with their incessant demands for survival,” Luther Mason said, with a warm smile.

Annabel noted that senior curator Luther Mason and director Courtney Whitney were built along the same lines, both tall and reed-thin, enabling them to model their clothing nicely. But that’s where the similarity ended. Whitney had a full head of brown hair flecked with gray. Mason’s male-pattern baldness had progressed to the middle of his head. Was he allowing it to grow long enough at the back to drape over his shirt collar in an attempt at compensation? Or was it, as an occasional detractor commented, Mason’s gentle rebellion against Washington’s conservative image? Curators in New York might get away with long hair, but few would in the nation’s capital. That day Luther wore jeans, a red-and-blue-check button-down shirt, rumpled tweed jacket, maroon knit tie, and tasseled loafers, sans socks.