Painted Ladies

6

The Hammond Museum was a big gray stone building located in Chestnut Hill, halfway between Boston College and the Longwood Cricket Club. It had a gambrel roof and Palladian windows, and looked like one of those baronial cottages on the oceanfront in Newport.

I parked next to the museum in a slot marked Museum Staff Only. In the summer the grounds were richly landscaped. But now as we slid into December, the landscape was leafless and stiff.

The entry hall went all the way to a stained-glass window in back of the building. The hall was vaulted, two stories high, and sparsely hung with some Italian Renaissance paintings. Women in the Italian Renaissance were apparently very zaftig.

The director’s office was on the third floor, with a swell view of some dark, naked trees that in summer would doubtless offer a rich, green ambiance. The office itself was sparse and sort of streamlined-looking, with light maple furniture and some Picasso sketches on the wall.

There were two men in the room, one behind a desk that looked like a conference table and the other sitting across from the desk on a couch. The guy at the desk stood when I came in and stepped around his desk and put out his hand.

“Mark Richards,” he said. “I’m the museum director.”

We shook hands.

“This is Morton Lloyd,” Richards said. “He’s our attorney.”

I shook his hand.

“What a damned mess this has all turned into,” Richards said.

“Especially for Ashton Prince,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “Poor Ash. How too bad.”

“He gave you money,” the lawyer said. “To protect him.”

“He did,” I said.

“Can’t say I think you’ve earned it.”

“I haven’t,” I said, and took an envelope from my inside pocket and tossed it onto Richards’s desk.

“What’s this,” he said.

“The check he gave me,” I said. “It’s drawn on the museum account.”

“You didn’t cash it?”

“No,” I said.

“And you’re returning it?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Because you were unable to protect him,” Richards said.

“I didn’t earn it,” I said.

Richards nodded. He looked at the lawyer.

“He’s right,” the lawyer said. “He didn’t.”

Richards nodded again.

“Thank you,” he said to me.

He put the envelope on top of his desk, and put a small stone carving of a pregnant woman on top of it to hold it still.

“Did you come here simply to return your fee?” the lawyer said.

“No, I’m looking for information,” I said.

“About what?” the lawyer said.

“About the kidnapped painting and the ransom payment and Ashton Prince and anything else you can tell me,” I said.

“You’re planning to investigate this business?” the lawyer said.

“Yes,” I said.

“And who’s paying you?” the lawyer said.

“Pro bono.”

“We’ve already spoken with the police, and with the insurance people,” the lawyer said.

I nodded.

“I see no reason we should speak to you,” the lawyer said.

I looked at Richards. He shrugged.

“I understand that you are trying to make good on something,” Richards said. “And I am sympathetic. But I feel that the museum should be guided by our attorney.”

I nodded.

“Been working out great so far,” I said.

“Just what do you mean by that?” the lawyer said.

“Hell,” I said. “I have no idea.”

And I turned and walked out of the office without closing the door. . . . That showed ’em.