Murder at the National Gallery (25 page)

“What do you think?” Carole asked after Annabel had dropped the paper on the table. Annabel shrugged. “Maybe the good father was a disciple of John Dillinger, robbing the church because that’s where the money was. Sorry, Carole. Don’t mean to be flippant. It would be a shame for such a story to run in conjunction with the opening. But I don’t see any real damage to come from it, except to feed the skepticism of the already skeptical. If Father Giocondi had been the one to come
forward with
Grottesca
, I would say the situation might be more serious. But Luther Mason was the one who found the painting in the church. With his credentials and credibility, the fact that the priest might have stolen something in the past, and was defrocked, doesn’t mean too much. At least that’s how I would respond, if we’re challenged by
Time
, or anyone.”

“I agree,” Carole said.

“Not only that, the experts who’ve examined it, with one or two minor exceptions—and even they haven’t ruled it out, just adopted a wait-and-see attitude—say it came from Caravaggio’s hand. No, I really don’t see any great harm from this, aside from having to explain it to another group of journalists who’ll want to follow up. Which means even bigger crowds, not to sound cynical.”

Carole Aprile sighed deeply, spread her hands on the table, and smiled. “You’ve made my evening, Annabel. I needed reassurance.”

“Of course, Carole, my first response could be conditioned by what I
want
to come of it. Mac always says a person’s hopes or wishes don’t make for perfect prophecy. Naturally, we’ll have to follow up. Do you intend to tell Court Whitney and Mason? Want me to do it?”

“Court has to be told, of course. I’ll give him a call in the morning. No sense injecting this sort of thing into a pleasant evening. Thanks for leaving that handsome hunk of a husband. Even for two minutes.”

“The old man does look stunning in a tuxedo, doesn’t he?” Annabel said, her voice cheerful. Both women wore evening dresses they’d purchased at Claire Dratch’s boutique on Connecticut Avenue, Annabel’s of
guipure
lace the color of sandstone, Carole’s dress a pale-blue silk.

“Let’s get downstairs before we’re missed,” said Carole.

If the Italian contingent to the party expected the White House to do what the National Gallery had done at its first black-tie dinner—create a menu to honor their ethnic tradition in food—they were to be disappointed. Few knew that Vice President Aprile’s dislike of pasta rivaled George Bush’s hatred of broccoli. It could have created an international incident
if it got out, to say nothing of a serious drop in pasta sales, so popular was the VP. They dined on watercress soup with sesame seeds, roast tenderloin of beef in a truffle sauce, tiny roasted potatoes,
haricots verts
and baby carrots, and a mixed green salad with herb dressing. Lime sorbet with a wine mousse, fresh raspberries, and cookies constituted dessert. Accompanying the meal were three wines: a 1990 Cuvaison chardonnay, a 1970 Beaulieu Vineyards Georges de Latour cabernet sauvignon, and finally a 1987 Iron Horse brut, Summit Cuvée. Chianti never came into it.

“A thoroughly delightful evening, Mr. Vice President, Mrs. Aprile,” Mason said as he was leaving. He’d been spared sitting close to Alberto Betti. Mac and Annabel Smith had had that pleasure.

“So happy you could be here this evening, Mr. Mason,” said the vice president. “From everything my wife tells me, you have performed a remarkable service not only to the world of art, but especially to the National Gallery.”

“I am honored to have been able to do so,” Mason replied. He turned to Mac and Annabel, who were next in line. “Good to see you again, Smiths. You’ll be at the press breakfast, Annabel?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she replied.

Mason turned to head for the door while Annabel continued to talk with Carole. He was intercepted by one of the National Gallery’s trustees.

“Donations are pouring in faster than ever,” the trustee said, smiling.

Mason heard him. Simultaneously, he heard from behind what Carole Aprile was saying to Annabel: “I’ll call you tomorrow, Annabel, on this question of Father Giocondi’s background. I’d like to discuss it further with you
before
I call Court.”

“What?” Mason stared blankly at the trustee.

“The donations,” the trustee said. “Many and large. Are you all right?”

“What? Yes. Good to hear about the donations. Yes, that’s
good news. I’ve never felt better. Excuse me. Looking forward to seeing you Friday morning.”

He trembled so on the way home that he feared he might lose control of his automobile.
What question about Giocondi?
What had gone wrong?

He called M, Scott Pims the moment he walked into his apartment.

“Ah, back from a pleasant evening rubbing elbows with the high and mighty. Better than the rich and famous.”

“A pleasant evening. A good meal, in fact. Scott, have you heard anything from Rome about—well, about the priest, Giocondi?”

“No, I can’t say that I have. Should I? Trouble?”

“No. No trouble. It’s just that there was lots of conversation about him, and I wondered whether he perhaps had been interviewed by some Italian scandal sheet.”

Pims’s laugh was long and hearty. “Wouldn’t that send you racing to the nearest drugstore for a year’s supply of Tums.”

“Just thought I’d ask, that’s all. If anyone was likely to know, you would.” Mason felt momentarily relieved.

“Free for dinner tomorrow night? I’ll make it my business to know more by then. Come to think of it, it
is
my business. We can discuss it at length.”

“I’m having dinner with Julian.”

“If he shows up.”

“I think he will. He needs money.”

“Yes, money. The great motivator. Well, Luther, you sound tired. Get a good night’s sleep. We’ll be in touch tomorrow, dinner or not.”

The minute Court Whitney got off the phone with Carole Aprile, he summoned Mason to his office. “Did you know about Giocondi’s checkered background?”

“Checkered?”

“Your friendly parish priest with the lost masterpiece in his
closet has a record—a little larceny in his history—and managed to get defrocked in the process.”

“This is news to me, Court. My understanding was that he was retired.”

“The Vatican’s diplomatic way of putting it. I think you should talk to this
Time
reporter. He called me a few hours ago. I put him off.” He handed Mason the reporter’s number in Italy.

“Of course I’ll call him. But it all seems silly, don’t you think? I mean, what does it matter? Father Giocondi hasn’t profited from having
Grottesca
sitting in his parish. His background, whatever it might be, has nothing to do with the painting.”

“But a nuisance. And to think we showcased one light-fingered, slippery little priest at our first dinner. Call the reporter and put it to rest.”

“I’ll let you know how the conversation goes.”

Mason was somewhat relieved after his soothing telephone call to the
Time
reporter and spent most of the afternoon overseeing the hanging of four more Caravaggios. He checked in with Whitney at five. “Go on home, Luther,” the director said, hearing traces of tension and fatigue. “I’m sure you’ll want to
be bright and bushy-tailed in the morning when
Grottesca
goes up.”

“Yes, I am looking forward to that moment. By the way, Court, my mother is arriving tomorrow from Indiana.”

“Oh? To see her son bask in his glory?”

“Something like that.”

“Luther.”

“Yes?”

“You’ve done a remarkable job with this exhibition. I can only say that the trustees—and I, of course—are extremely grateful.”

“It makes me feel good to hear you say that, Court. Very good indeed. Good night.”

When Julian had first come to Washington from Indiana to pursue his college education, his father had tried to introduce him to Washington’s better restaurants. The city didn’t always have a selection of good ones from which to choose, its reputation for inferior food honestly earned. But that was no longer the case. Restaurants of every stripe, and encompassing every ethnic taste, proliferated.

The problem was that Mason couldn’t get Julian to dress appropriately for the fancier establishments of which he was especially fond. And so he eventually came to grips with the reality that when going out for dinner with his son, he had better get used to a burger-and-beer menu. Even then, he had standards, having come to the conclusion that the hickory-smoked hamburgers and feathery fried onion rings at Houston’s in Georgetown were a cut above the others.

Julian was his usual brooding self—generational, Luther had decided. Everyone under thirty seemed to be brooding these days. All the models in men’s clothing ads brooded—didn’t smile or shave. The young men working in hair-styling salons looked as though they carried the future of Western Civilization in their fanny packs; giving a good perm was hardly that.

He examined this young man across the table who was his son, yet who seemed a stranger most of the time. Julian had
inherited his mother’s Mediterranean looks: dark eyes, olive skin, inky black hair pulled back into a pony tail. He wore a lightweight black turtleneck sweater and jeans in which he’d deliberately cut holes. This wanton destruction of good clothing bothered Luther, but he’d stopped commenting on it because the more he protested, the larger the holes.

“When do you have to appear in court?” Mason asked.

Julian shrugged. “I don’t know. I lost the notice. I guess I threw it away.”

“If you don’t show up they’ll put out a warrant for your arrest.”

“Big deal.”

Mason couldn’t catch himself. “Yes, it
is
a big deal, Julian. Breaking the law
is
a big deal.”

“Hey, chill out,” Julian said. “Jesus.”

Mason willed himself into a calmer state. They ordered mugs of tap beer.

“What is it you want to talk to me about?” Mason asked. “To thank me for bailing you out of trouble once again?”

“I want to go to Paris.”

“Really? On a holiday?”

“No. I want to live there. With Mother.”

The mention of Juliana caused her face to flash in front of Mason. He hadn’t seen her in many years; was the face he now saw an accurate reflection of what she looked like today? He asked, “Have you been in touch with her?”

“Yes. She wants me to come. She thinks I could learn a lot by studying there.”

“I don’t doubt that, Julian. But there are some fine teachers here.”

The little chuckle that came from the boy was his substitute for outright laughter. “In this city? There’s no art here. It’s nothing but one damn big bureaucracy. Washington sucks.”

Another familiar argument about to erupt. But also a solution.

“I think you should go live with your mother,” Mason said, holding his voice steady. “You’re obviously unhappy here and
have been for a long time. Yes. Move to Paris. Study there. I think it would do you a world of good.”

“I can’t afford it,” Julian said, downing the last of his beer and motioning for the waitress to bring him another before he drew a breath.

“No, thank you,” Mason said. “I don’t wish another beer, but thank you for asking.”

Julian ignored the sarcasm. He rested his elbows heavily on the table; his brow creased as he formulated what to say next. “I need money to do it,” he said. “It will cost a lot to move there. And I’ll need money to live.”

“You’ll live with your mother,” Luther said. “That won’t cost you anything.”

“I don’t want to live with my mother. I want my own place.”

“Do you, now? Then I suppose you’ll have to get yourself a job in Paris.”

“Fat chance. I don’t speak French. If you could give me enough to live for a year I could probably get something going by then.”

The nerve, Mason thought. The sheer gall. Did he think that because he wished to become an artist the world owed him its support? The cities were filled with young, aspiring creative people waiting tables and driving cabs while learning their craft and seeking success as artists, dancers, musicians, or actors. The majority of them, of course, had no business, to say nothing of talent, to be seeking careers as artists. Lynn Marshall came to mind. All fantasy, movie-star stuff, or worse, Julian Schnabel, or Christo wrapping buildings and landscapes in plastic, of all things. If that had been the case with Julian, Luther would have attempted to dissuade him. But the truth was, Julian had talent. A great deal of it. Luther had seen steady progress in the work his son turned out since coming to Washington. One day, with the right additional training—and the right attitude—he could become a genuine artist with a following.

“I’ll think about it,” Mason said.

“That’s what you always say.”

“It’s the best I can do for now. Maybe in a few months. Something might be coming up that would enable me to help.”

“Like what?”

“A book. I met yesterday with a publisher who wants me to do a new one on Caravaggio. It could mean a sizable advance. If it does, I’ll help you move to Paris.”

“When will you know?”

“A few months, I said. Maybe less.” Luther waited for an expression of gratitude, but none came. It never did. It was as if at birth, Julian had been cheated of the gene of graciousness. He’d also never heard his son say, “I’m sorry.” But when he thought back to Juliana, he realized those words hadn’t been in her vocabulary, either. At least while they were together.

They ate their burgers with little more to say to each other.