Lethal Legacy

TWENTY-SEVEN

It was obvious that Talbot Hunt had come to his father’s home after leaving us at the library this morning. I wondered whether it was a coincidence that he and Minerva met here.

“I thought maybe you were organizing a memorial service for Tina,” Mike said. “Seems like she had something to do with all of you.”

“Why don’t we move into the office?” Talbot said.

“Because my first order of business is to talk with your father.”

“I think you’re smart enough to see he’s not having a good day,” Minerva said.

Mike stood up, took her arm, and walked with her to the door of the room, out of Jasper Hunt’s earshot. “What’s his condition?”

“He’s old, Mr. Chapman. In case you hadn’t noticed. He’s infirm.”

“Any dementia?”

Minerva looked at her brother, and neither answered quickly. “He’s clear most of the time,” Tally said.

“I guess he has to be if you’re trying to change the will. Isn’t that so?” Mike asked. “We got a little bit of Brooke Astor going on here?”

The great Mrs. Astor, who spent half a century distributing her husband’s fortune-more than one hundred million dollars-wound up with her estate in the middle of an ugly battle. The will she had signed years earlier-leaving much of the Astor trust to New York institutions she loved, such as the library-had a subsequent codicil bequeathing most of those same assets to her only son.

“I don’t get it, Detective,” Tally said.

“The issue was Mrs. Astor’s competence-her mental competence-at the time the codicil was signed,” I said.

“Mrs. Astor was a dear friend of my father’s,” Minerva said. “I’m familiar with the case. I just don’t see what it has to do with us.”

“Hello, Minerva.” I heard a weak voice from across the room. “Who’s here with you?”

“Your turn, Coop. You’re good with the old guys.”

“Father, I think it’s time for you to take a nap.”

I started toward Jasper Hunt and kneeled beside Fortitude, who raised up and started to rub herself against my leg, her bushy tail tickling my face and her big tufted feet padding the carpet like a miniature lion’s.

“Don’t marginalize me, Minerva. Who’s this nice young lady here? Have we met?”

He reached out to touch my cheek and I held my hand over his. “I’m Alexandra Cooper, Mr. Hunt. I’m a lawyer. A prosecutor, actually.”

“Bully, Ms. Cooper. Doing justice, are you?”

“We’re trying, Mr. Hunt.”

Mercer was attempting to steer Tally out of the room, but he stood firm.

“Have you met my babies?”

“Patience and Fortitude,” I said. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’re smart, young lady. Better than beautiful. Never caused me a moment’s trouble. The only price for their loyalty is a small bit of food.”

“Are you too tired to talk to me for a few minutes, Mr. Hunt?”

He was staring at Patience, and I turned to look at the foursome behind me. Minerva and her brother seemed frozen, fearful that Jasper would betray whatever secrets this dysfunctional family held close.

“I’m always tired. But I like to talk to young girls.”

“We’ve just come from the public library. We know how generous you’ve been to them over the years.”

“I used to have a wonderful library of my own. Right here. It’s all gone, plundered by thieves.” Hunt lifted his bent forefinger in the air.

“That’s not true, Father. I’ll be happy to show Ms. Cooper your library,” Tally said. “It’s an extraordinary collection, as you might imagine.”

Hunt grasped at my hand. “Yesterday I took a long walk in the park- Central Park. Do you know it? I couldn’t find my way home. It was frightening, actually. I walked for miles and miles and still couldn’t get out of the park.”

“Don’t get agitated, Father,” Minerva said, coming up beside up. “That was just a dream you had. You haven’t walked in the park for years.”

“Did you say your name was Alice?”

“Almost, sir. It’s Alex. Alexandra.”

“Did you ever meet Alice?”

“Sorry?” I looked to Minerva for help.

“Alice Liddell. The girl for whom Alice in Wonderland was written. My grandfather had an obsession with that child-or maybe with the book. I think this is Papa’s long-term memory at work.”

“Would you like me to come back with Alice?” I asked the old man. “With that book? Perhaps read to you?”

Why did that children’s story play such a recurring role in these events?

Jasper Hunt looked up at me and smiled. “Of course I’d like that.”

“Do you remember a young woman named Tina? Tina Barr?”

His eyes closed and he repeated the name several times, as though trying to locate it in a crumbling memory bank.

“Do we know her, Minerva?” he asked.

“Yes, Father. That nice girl who was helping you with your books. Cataloging the collection, restoring some of your Melvilles.”

“Then I know her, if my daughter says I do. Was that your question?” He looked at me again.

“Do you remember talking with her?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side two or three times.

“Did you know that she left you to go to work for Alger Herrick?”

“Herrick? There’s a lucky man,” Hunt said. “I once thought he’d be a fine match for my Minerva. She didn’t agree-did you, dear?”

Minerva Hunt cackled like a witch. “I’m glad you remembered that.”

“What became of Alger? Have I seen him about?”

“He’s got a wonderful apartment here in New York, Mr. Hunt,” I said. “Full of the most magnificent maps.”

“You can’t read maps, young lady,” he said, almost scolding me. “You can’t hold them, fondle the smooth bindings, finger the parchment and vellum, and caress them, as you can books. I don’t care for maps. Herrick’s folly, not mine.”

“Tally told me that your father had a map,” I said, checking with Talbot Hunt as I tried to get to the subject. The son looked grim, avoiding my eyes. “One of the rarest in the world. It had a dozen separate pieces, twelve panels.”

“Did you know my father was mad, young lady? Absolutely mad.”

“She wants to know about the Waldseemüller map, Father,” Tally said, his arms folded and his words sharp.

“They all want the map, boy. I wouldn’t have any visitors if it weren’t for that damn map, you know. How long has it been since you’ve been by to see me?”

“Don’t take it personally, Father. Tally’s afraid he might run into me if he came to call,” Minerva said, smoothing the front of her skirt. “Two hours together and it already seems like a month.”

The old man mumbled something under his breath. I thought I heard him say, “Even the Jew.”

I leaned closer to him. Had Jonah Krauss been to see him, too?

Minerva queried him. “Even a few what, Papa?”

Jasper Hunt’s chin rested on his chest and his eyes closed again. His short defense of bookmen-his ancestors and himself-and the troublesome questioning about the map had seemed to devour all his energy.

“My father’s a doctor, Mr. Hunt. He’s a brilliant man, and an especially kind one, too.”

Hunt’s glassy eyes fixed on me while I talked.

“It’s a remarkable legacy he’s set in place,” I said, looking back at Minerva and Tally to see if either of them reacted to the sound of that word. “Your father, sir-and your grandfather-their philanthropic giving has been a stunning gift to so many great institutions. What do you think the Hunt legacy is?”

“Still searching for that, are you? My father would find it amusing, I’m sure. Tried to take it all with him, in case there was no one left to care. He’d be so pleased that we’re sitting here today, trying to figure what he was all about, talking about him. That keeps him alive in a strange way, doesn’t it?”

“Searching for what, exactly?” I wanted to go back to that.

“‘The evil that men do lives after them,’” Jasper Hunt said. “That’s usually the case, isn’t it?”

I froze at the sound of the Shakespearean words that had been scrawled on the paper found with Tina Barr’s corpse.

“But what evil?” I asked. “Your father was good and generous to so many people.”

“He quoted that phrase all the time. Probably figured no one would long remember his good deeds. Just his madness,” Hunt said, his eyelids fluttering closed. “Is it time for a cocktail, Tally?”

Minerva answered. “Not yet, Father. You need your medications.”

I could see that the conversation was a strain, and I stood up, patting the hand that held the golden cat.

Minerva picked up a small silver bell and rang it until the butler appeared in the doorway. “Will you help me settle Father inside?”

“Certainly, madam.”

“Mind if we ask you a few more questions?” Mike said to Tally Hunt as he led us toward the living room.

“I should think you’d have your fill of answers by now.”

Mike showed that he wasn’t leaving by settling in to the deep pillows of a sofa covered in a silk damask print with birds and butterflies. “So, it looks like you shot up here for a surprise visit as soon as you saw the panel of the map that we found this morning.”

“Hardly seems to be illegal, Detective.”

“Who tipped you off to it?”

“It wasn’t Jill, if that’s where you’re going. The library is a closed world, a tight one. Word travels fast.”

“Your father’s trust and estate lawyer?” Mike asked. “Your sister doesn’t seem to know.”

Talbot stood by one of the windows that overlooked the museum. “It was that fellow Garrison. Francis X. Garrison.”

“The lawyer Brooke Astor’s son used to try to defraud his mother,” I said. “Battaglia indicted him.”

“I’ve been interviewing for a new lawyer, actually. Haven’t hired one yet. I’ve been my father’s business advisor for years. I’ve taken good care of his affairs.”

“I’d think you’d have a hard time convincing a surrogate’s court judge about any changes to the will that have been made in your favor lately, considering the condition of his health,” Mercer said.

“My father is not the least bit delusional, Mr. Wallace. He has occasional problems with his short-term memory, but he’s quite sound. He’s demonstrates solid comprehension of things he needs to know-just dangle a dollar sign in front of him. Mrs. Astor lived to be one hundred and five, you will recall, and made frequent amendments to her will in the last five years of her life.”

“That’s what tied her estate up in court for so long, isn’t it?” I asked. “Deciding whether her son had taken advantage of her deterioration to divert millions of dollars intended for the New York Public Library to his own pockets.”

“Despite her fortune, Ms. Cooper, she was living in squalor. Her apartment was looted and most of her servants were let go,” Talbot Hunt said. “Don’t lecture me about my father’s condition. There are enough millions to go around. Even for the damn cats.”

“Tell us about the Bay Psalm Book,” Mercer said, moving closer to Talbot Hunt. “We know its significance to your great-grandfather. But how did it come to be in your possession?”

He didn’t like answering our questions, but it was clear that he wanted to stake his claim to the valuable little book.

“Understand, Detective, that the moment my sister comes into the room, this conversation will cease,” Hunt said, fuming as he glanced at the hallway. “This is between my father and myself. It has nothing to do with Minerva.”

“All right.”

Talbot Hunt talked to Mercer. “My father’s instincts were good enough, just several years ago, for him to see the writing on the wall. Our fellow trustees had the gall to start deaccessioning several important objects-paintings, manuscripts, archives of writers who had fallen into obscurity-that kind of thing.”

“The Kindred Spirits sale.”

“Exactly.” Once again, Hunt raised his eyebrows, seemingly surprised that the NYPD was up to speed on art and literature.

“My grandfather kept that prayer book, which celebrated his birth, next to his bed-at home or abroad-for all of his life. He wanted the library to have it, to treasure it as he had. He never expected it would be warehoused or he wouldn’t have willed it to them. When Jonah and his allies wanted to put the book up for sale, my father wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Was that the person your father was referring to?” I asked. “Does he call Jonah ‘the Jew’?”

Talbot Hunt studied me as if to divine my genetic fingerprint.

“Yes, I’m Jewish. I can deal with it, Mr. Hunt. Jonah Krauss came here to discuss the lost map with your father?”

“Apparently so, Ms. Cooper. I wasn’t aware of that. I know he despised Jonah from the time he set foot in the boardroom. No class, new money-that sort of thing. You know what I mean.”

Jewish. That was mostly what Talbot Hunt meant. “So your father made a deal?”

“Yes.”

“With whom?”

“Leland Porter, the president of the library.”

“How convenient that Porter is somewhere in Outer Mongolia this weekend,” Mike said.

“Well, I assume that’s the way Father got the psalm book back. Leland is the only person in a position to negotiate something at that level.”

“Are you telling me you don’t know?”

“The key word is supposed to be ‘transparency,’ Mr. Chapman. But behind the scenes, where many of these transactions occur, it’s thick as mud.”

“Thick as thieves, we say in my business.”

“My father wanted me to have the Bay Psalm Book. In exchange, he told me he was giving the library something they wanted even more.”

“What’s that?” Mike asked, looking to me to vet the credibility of Talbot Hunt’s answer.

“A book of illustrations-twenty rather macabre watercolors-that were done by William Blake in 1805. Designs for Blair’s Grave, it’s called. The poet kept a set of the paintings for himself. Had them bound into book form. Simple, but quite striking-a meditation on mortality and redemption.”

“That must be the only complete set,” I said. There had been a major controversy just a few years earlier, when Sotheby’s had broken up a recently discovered group of nineteen plates from the same work-unbound-for sale at auction.

“That’s correct, Ms. Cooper. If you know that, then you’re aware that it’s worth many more millions than our prayer book.”

“And the library owns that volume of watercolors now?”

“The library’s Berg Collection is strong on Blake. They’ve coveted this for a very long time. Pleaded with my father to pass it on to them. The book is in their hands, not to be displayed until after Father’s death-at his own direction-to avoid controversy about the transaction.”

Footsteps in the hallway announced Minerva’s return.

Her gait was firm and fast. She walked past me and directly to her brother, stopping only to slap him across the face before she turned away.

“If you paid any attention to your father you’d know there was an intercom in every room, so the nurses can hear him if he calls for anything,” she said. “What else have you swindled me out of, you selfish bastard? What else, besides that precious little book?”