Murder in the Arts District Read online

  She bent her head forward in a slight nod. “Mr. Marren and Mr. Ziebell are in the drawing room. If you’ll follow me?” Her voice was soft and unaccented. She opened the door wider and stepped aside.

  “Thank you.” I stepped past her into the main hallway of the enormous house and she shut the door behind me. The change in climate was a shock. It was incredibly warm, almost hot, inside Belle Riviere. She took my coat when I slipped it off, folding it over her arm. The hallway ran the length of the house. A hanging stair was in the direct center of the house, leading upstairs. At the end of the hall I could see a set of enormous double doors with enormous panes of frosted glass set into them, through which I saw a fountain bubbling and a vast expanse of green lawn and more outbuildings. The walls of the hallway were painted a dark forest green, with gold fleur-de-lis stenciled at even intervals. Several doors were open on each side of the hallway. Antique tables were placed against the walls, with vases filled with red and yellow roses and baby’s breath centered. There was no dust to be seen, and the surfaces of the tables had been polished to an almost startling shine. Above each table was an enormous oil portrait of someone from a previous century in a gilt frame. An enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling, every crystal sparkling and shooting red and blue flame each time it caught the light.

  “This way, sir,” she said with a slight tilt of her head. I followed her down the hallway. She indicated an open door on the right, and I walked into an enormous room that was even hotter than the hallway. She’d called it the drawing room, but I would have called it the library. Every wall had bookshelves running from the floor up to the ceiling, eighteen feet above. Every shelf was filled with neatly organized hardcover books. There was another glittering chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. To my right, enormous ten-foot windows rose from the floor. The shutters were closed, but the window treatments were green velvet, tied back with gold cord that ended with enormous tassels. The floor was hardwood, also polished and buffed so I could almost see my reflection in it. An antique wooden desk was placed between the two windows, facing out into the room. An enormous green and gold Oriental rug covered the floor between the enormous antique desk and several wingback chairs. I heard the door behind me being shut softly.

  The source of the heat was an inferno in the fireplace. Over the mantel an enormous oil painting of some nineteenth-century grandee glared out over the room. A man in jeans and a navy blue polo shirt was kneeling in front of the fire, poking at the logs with an enormous cast iron poker. Another man stood facing the door with his hands folded in front of him as I entered.

  He looked to be about sixty years old or so, with a shock of thick white hair. His bright blue eyes were alert and alive. He was tan, the wrinkles around his eyes and the corners of his mouth adding strength and character to his handsome face. His nose was long and patrician, his mouth wide with thin lips over a strong chin. A pair of gold-framed spectacles was tucked into his shirt pocket. He was wearing a pair of navy blue slacks, a white button-down shirt, and a very bright red tie. He was slender, but his grip was strong as he shook my hand. “Thank you for coming, Mr. MacLeod. I’m Bill Marren, and this is my partner, Tom Ziebell.”

  The man at the fireplace stood up and stretched in one fluid motion. The muscles in his back flexed beneath his tight shirt. I gave an involuntary start when he turned around. I know him from somewhere, I thought as he crossed the room. I racked my brain to remember where I could have met him as he crossed the Oriental rug to shake my hand. I had a brief flash of him standing in a poorly lit room, wearing only a pair of white boxer briefs that clung tightly to him, and then it was gone.

  He was in his late twenties, possibly his early thirties, with curly light brown hair and round green eyes. His jaw was square and strong, and there were dimples in his cheeks and another in his chin. His lips were thick and sensual. When he smiled, his teeth were straight and white. The navy blue shirt fit snugly across his deep chest, and the loose jeans accentuated his strong, athletic body. He was stocky, thickly muscled like a football player rather than lean. He was maybe five-nine. His hand was big and strong, the handshake firm. “Yes, thanks for coming. Can I get you anything to drink? Anything to eat or snack on?” His voice was a soft yet deep baritone. “Thank you so much for driving all the way out here.”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you.” I smiled back at him. “I’m sorry, but you look really familiar to me. Have we met before?”

  He laughed. “No, I’m pretty sure I’d remember you.”

  “Are you sure? In New Orleans somewhere?” I couldn’t get the image of him in the boxer briefs out of my head.

  “I don’t get into the city very often, if at all.” He gestured to another wingback chair. “Please, have a seat.” As I sat down, Tom added, “Todd recommended you very highly. Did he tell you anything about what we need you to do for us?” Tom sat down in a chair next to mine, while Bill sat down behind the desk.

  The chair was extremely comfortable, but my back was still throbbing. “No, I actually didn’t talk to Todd. He asked Blaine to ask me.” There was no need to explain the complex dynamics of my relationship with Blaine and his partner to them. Blaine and I used to have a friends-with-benefits arrangement, and even though he always swore to me he and Todd had an open relationship, I wasn’t quite as sure as Blaine that Todd was completely on board with that. Todd had always seemed distant, cold, and unfriendly to me. I didn’t blame him. I couldn’t imagine being in a relationship and allowing my boyfriend to sleep around with other guys. But if it worked for them, who was I to judge? Todd was a little younger than Bill, and owned an art gallery on Magazine Street near the corner at Julia. Blaine always said that Todd was a big deal in the art world, nationally known, but I’d never set foot in the Todd Laborde Gallery. I never felt comfortable around Todd, even if Blaine laughed at me whenever I told him Todd didn’t seem to like me.

  The two exchanged glances, and Bill lifted a teacup to his lips with trembling hands. “We were robbed a few weeks ago,” Bill looked over at Tom again. “And the police—well, the police have been no help at all.” He closed his eyes and shook his head softly.

  “The police of Redemption Parish,” Tom said, his voice shaking with barely contained anger and his face reddening, “are corrupt homophobic assholes who think we staged the robbery ourselves.”

  “What?” I shook my head. I looked from one serious face to the other. “They actually said that to you? They think you were trying to commit insurance fraud?”

  “Please excuse Tom, he tends to get a little worked up,” Bill replied in a slightly patronizing tone and a slight shake of his head. “He has his own history with the Redemption Parish police.”

  Tom flushed. “Bill doesn’t think it has anything to do with how they’re treating the robbery. I ask you, Mr. MacLeod, is it beyond the realm of possibility that we’re being singled out because the law firm I work for is suing the sheriff’s department?”

  “Perhaps we should start at the beginning?” Bill said before I had a chance to respond.

  “That’s always a good idea.” I glanced at Tom out of the corner of my eyes. I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d seen him before somewhere.

  “There’s no insurance money to be had anyway, which makes their accusation so incredibly strange.” Bill took a deep breath. “As you are no doubt aware, Mr. MacLeod, I am a very successful man.” He gestured about the room in an expansive way. “I’ve done very well for myself. I am not entirely a self-made man, but I took my modest inheritance and invested wisely and well. I am now able to live very comfortably in my old age.” Tom started to say something but a hand gesture stopped him. “I love art and have managed to collect some really wonderful pieces over the course of my years. I was approached several months ago by a dealer with whom I’ve worked before who said that some paintings, missing for quite some time, had resurfaced and their owner was looking to sell them discreetly, and would I be interested?” He smiled faintly. “Th
e dealer knew, of course, that I was interested in the artist. I already have several of his works, which she acquired for me. I—and many others—had long believed the paintings to have been destroyed.” He closed his eyes. “A lot of art disappeared during the Second World War, Mr. MacLeod. Some of it was stolen, of course, but a lot of it was destroyed.”

  I nodded. “So, just how valuable were these paintings?”

  “Have you heard of Benjamin Anschler, Mr. MacLeod?”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know a lot about art, I’m afraid. I took an art history class in college, but other than that…” I shrugged.

  He cleared his throat. “Anschler was a Dutch Jew, Mr. MacLeod. He was an Impressionist and studied in Paris with some of the great masters. He was crippled with arthritis and had to give up his art far too soon. He was an old man when the war broke out…but he was a Jew, so of course his age didn’t matter to the Nazis. He and his family were sent to the camps, where they died. But in his home in Rotterdam he had kept his three best works. Those paintings disappeared.” He paused again. “There have been rumors over the years, of course. Anschler had sold them to private collectors to raise the money to smuggle his family out of Europe, a Nazi officer stole them, they were in a bank in Switzerland.” He cleared his throat. “The seller wanted two million dollars for the three paintings. It was quite a bargain.”

  I whistled. Two million for three paintings is a bargain?

  We clearly came from different income brackets.

  Bill smiled. “Believe me, Mr. MacLeod, just one of those paintings could bring in more than that at an auction.”

  “So why weren’t they insured? That doesn’t make any sense. Surely that’s not common practice?”

  The two exchanged another glance. Bill looked uncomfortable and turned his head away from me. Tom spoke up. “We have to tell him, Bill. We talked about this. He can’t help us if we don’t tell him the truth. That’s what got us into trouble with the cops in the first place.”

  “Tell me what?” I looked from one to the other.

  Bill tented his fingers in front of his face and looked down at this desk. Tom shook his head. “We hadn’t insured the paintings yet because we hadn’t been able to establish their provenance. You can’t get insurance without the provenance.”

  “Provenance?”

  “Provenance means their ownership history, Mr. MacLeod.” Bill’s voice was clipped. “You have to be able to prove to the insurer that the paintings belong to you properly, that at some point in their history they weren’t stolen or obtained by other nefarious means.” He waved his hand. “Usually, the provenance is provided at the time of purchase, but that wasn’t the case this time.” He sighed. “And especially in a case like this, the provenance is crucial. No one is really sure what happened to the paintings—if Anschler or his family were able to sell them or if they were part of Nazi loot. Obviously, if the paintings were stolen by the Nazis, the Anschler heirs would have a claim to ownership. I wasn’t going to finish paying for the paintings until I had the provenance in my hands proving I wasn’t buying war loot.” He paused. “The dealer who was making the arrangements—I trust her implicitly, Mr. MacLeod, but now…now I’m beginning to have my doubts.” He glanced over at Tom again and then back to me. “Please bear in mind this must be kept confidential.”

  “Anything said in this meeting will be kept confidential, of course.” I looked from him to his partner and shrugged. “Obviously, I can be compelled to testify in court, but I’m not a gossip, Mr. Marren, and I don’t make a habit of talking about my clients’ business.”

  “The paintings disappeared sometime before, or during, the Second World War, Mr. MacLeod, no one is really sure when. All that’s known for sure is they were missing after the German surrender.” Tom took the tale up now. “The dealer—well, since the paintings were stolen from us, we’re not quite as sure as we were before that the paintings weren’t actually Nazi plunder.”

  “And why exactly is that? Why did the theft make you think differently?”

  Bill said, “According to the dealer, Anschler’s daughter Rachel took the paintings to sell to a friend who had already escaped to England, a Jewish Dutch investment banker by the name of Jacob Lippmann. Lippmann already owned some of Anschler’s paintings, was an old family friend, had loaned the Anschler family money from time to time.” Bill hesitated. “But the entire Lippmann family was killed during the war, during the Blitz. Rachel herself died in the 1960s. She left everything she owned to charity, and all of her art to the New Orleans Museum of Art.”

  “NOMA? Why?”

  Tom nodded. “She had roots in New Orleans and emigrated there after the war. The story we were told is that she took the paintings to London to try to raise the money to get the family out. The Germans swept through the Netherlands while she was there, and she couldn’t get back home. She spent the entire war trying to locate her family. Her mother’s family was from New Orleans. But these three paintings were not part of the collection left to NOMA. Our dealer told us Rachel had sold the paintings before she died because she needed money. But…”

  “If that was true, then why did your dealer have so much trouble coming up with the—what did you call it—the provenance?” I bit my lower lip. Something here wasn’t adding up. “That’s an awful lot of money to spend on paintings you can’t insure. And if it was proved they were Nazi loot, wouldn’t you lose the money?”

  “The money was put in an escrow account,” Tom interrupted. “There was a security deposit of several hundred thousand dollars, but the rest was put in escrow pending the provenance. If the provenance wasn’t forthcoming—”

  “The dealer assured me that it was,” Bill finished for him. “And I’ve known this dealer for a number of years, and I know she is trustworthy.”

  I pulled out my phone and typed some notes. “And what is her name?”

  They exchanged another glance. “Myrna Lovejoy,” the older man said after a moment of silence almost long enough to become awkward. “I’ve known Myrna for years—I also knew her father back in New York. She’s recently relocated to New Orleans and opened a gallery on Camp Street, near Julia, in the Arts District.”

  I inhaled sharply. I knew the name, of course—most people in New Orleans did.

  Just three weeks ago, no one outside of her immediate circle of friends or the New Orleans art community had the slightest idea who Myrna Lovejoy was, nor would they have cared. That all changed when a travel writer from the New York Times decided to write a piece on the “new” New Orleans and use his old friend Myrna as the focus.

  I’ve lived in New Orleans ever since I got out of college, about fourteen or fifteen years, give or take a few months. It took years for me to get to the point where I was considered a local rather than a parvenu—and even then, it was a kind of second-class local status. To be a true New Orleanian one has to be born there—and the locals hate nothing more than a parvenu who comes to New Orleans and tries to throw their weight around. Over the years since I settled there after college, every once in a while a journalist from some major city newspaper would come to New Orleans, decide to write an article so they could write off the trip on their taxes or charge it to their employer. Inevitably, they wouldn’t do even the most rudimentary research to get things right. The arrogance of these journalists—and the enormous mistakes they made in these articles—never ceased to infuriate New Orleanians. New Orleanians take a fierce pride in our city and hold on to it with the possessiveness of a spoiled only child—and that pride only grew more defiant and defensive in the wake of Hurricane Katrina and the flood caused by the failure of the federally built and maintained levees.

  Unfortunately, since the flood those types of pieces seemed to be becoming more frequent, and even more condescending and insulting than we could have ever imagined. My best friend, Paige, who’s editor-in-chief at Crescent City magazine, hates those articles with a passion she reserves for very few things in life. I
wouldn’t have even known about the Myrna Lovejoy article had Paige not sent me an email with a link to it.

  I’d read it and was more amused than offended. Like all these types of pieces, this one had an air of the “white man exploring darkest Africa on safari” to it, a rather breathless tone that reminded me of old Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom reruns I’d seen on some cable channel one afternoon when I was too stoned to get off the couch or reach for the remote control. I didn’t see any point in getting angry—it wasn’t the first such article, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last. The nonsensical premise that Myrna had bravely left “civilization” for the uncharted territory of New Orleans, “where it’s hard to find kale in the grocery store,” struck me as more laughable than anything else. She even referred to the house she and her husband had bought as “crumbling and decayed,” when it was actually in the Garden District on Coliseum Street just a block or so from Commander’s Palace. I knew the house. It was near my landlady and main client Barbara Castlemaine’s mansion. There were any number of adjectives that could be used to describe the place, but “crumbling” and “decayed” weren’t two of them.

  To me, Myrna came across as nothing more offensive than a clueless transport, a privileged and spoiled woman playing at being Bohemian in New Orleans, like the other hipsters who were descending on the city like flies on shit.

  She couldn’t be held responsible for the tone of the piece, of course, since she hadn’t written it. And maybe her quotes were taken out of context—but it was also stupid for someone trying to make a life and start a business in an insular city like New Orleans to say some of the things she said. How could she have thought it would do her gallery any good? I knew instantly the reaction most locals would have, and I wasn’t wrong.

  Blogs and websites ripped Myrna to pieces. Paige herself wrote a lengthy editorial for her old employer the Times-Picayune, ripping the piece to shreds. In her own magazine, she used the article as the basis for a longer piece about the gentrification of New Orleans after the storm—and what the city was losing in terms of art and culture as a result of this flood of porkpie- and skinny-jeans-wearing “feauxhemians,” a term everyone now used.