October 31, 2016 Monday

Marvella Rice Lawson, informed of her brother’s murder Friday by the Richmond chief of police, sat on her divan, hands folded. The fact that the chief of police personally delivered the news bore testimony to how important the Lawsons were. Marvella’s husband, Tinsdale, was partner in one of the most powerful law firms in the Mid-Atlantic. The Lawsons entertained on a lavish scale and were entertained in turn by Virginia’s governor, her two senators, the mayor of Richmond, and other people of note.

Rick sat across from the elegant woman, late fifties, as did Cooper, notebook in hand.

“Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Lawson,” Rick opened.

“Of course. Anything I can do to assist in finding my brother’s murderer, I want to do it.” She spoke with the precision of a well-educated woman who moves in the highest circles.

“Did he ever discuss his business with you?” Rick asked.

“Sometimes after a job had ended, but usually, no. He would tease me and say what I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me. Now I think perhaps he wasn’t teasing.” She leaned back slightly as her maid entered with a tray of tea and shortbread cookies. As Rick and Cooper were on duty, they couldn’t drink liquor, but tea sounded good on a cold Halloween day.

“Did he ever seem fearful to you?”

“Pierre?” Her eyebrows raised. “Fearful, no. Foolhardy, well, yes.”

“In what way?” Rick pressed.

“He knew how to spend money.” She inhaled. “In his defense, he bought beautiful things and the paintings have accrued in value. We often argued about art, especially art.” The salmon cashmere sweater she wore offset her skin tone, as did her lipstick. Elegant enameled Tiffany barrel earrings, royal blue, added to her subdued glamour.

“Any special reason?” Rick paused. “We have seen the interior of his Georgetown house, and yes, there is impressive art on the walls. The department up there, D.C., videoed a walking tour of his home for us.”

She smiled. “He had an eye. Not something you expect to find in a private investigator. I was the art history major. He majored in business. We were both at Howard. I wanted to go to William and Mary, but Daddy said, ‘Why deal with white people? Put all your energy into your studies. Howard.’ And Daddy was right for the time Pierre and I were at university. I digress. I’m not quite myself. I loved my brother very much and I can’t understand—” She stopped before the tears came.

Rick said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but we don’t want to waste a minute. The more we find out, the closer we may come to apprehending whoever did this. Is it possible someone was furious over a painting? The artwork in his apartment is astonishing.”

She smiled a bit. “Millions. He built such an impressive collection and he started small. Do I think someone killed him over a Thomas Hart Benton? No. You can see by what art interests me that we differed somewhat. Hence the not really arguments but lively discussions.”

“He must have met many rich people,” Rick simply stated.

“Pierre could get along with most anyone. Even as a child. He was two years older, he had an entertaining way of observing events and people. As for his art collection, we took classes together. He had an interest but declared that men don’t go into art history. Hence the business major.”

“How did he wind up as a private investigator?”

She laughed. “He liked business, he liked politics, and in his senior year he worked on a local campaign. That’s when he discovered that politicians and businessmen are two hands washing each other. The corruption intrigued him, especially how congressmen and businessmen were not above blackmailing one another, not that the word would be used. A private investigator always had business. Given Pierre’s discretion, he was a natural, and, well, he was smart. He originally found a job at Minton Agency in Washington, where he learned his trade, and oddly enough, he loved it.”

“When was the last time you talked to your brother?”

“Last weekend. He came down for a gathering of old classmates at Quirk Hotel. He also wanted to see the artwork displayed there.”

“Do you remember the friends?” Rick inquired.

“I thought you might ask that. I wrote down the names and his relation to each one, not just those at the gathering but in his circle generally. I marked with a star those that are closer to Tinsdale and myself, but Pierre did know everyone.”

“Did he have a girlfriend? Or an ex-girlfriend? Someone who might be angry at him.”

Marvella paused for a long time, then looked into Rick’s eyes. “My brother was a homosexual. It is—or was, anyway—more difficult for a black man to be gay than a white man. Pierre, when young, engaged in furtive affairs. We would talk. My biggest regret for my brother is that he never found a partner or thought that he could. When I would bring it up, citing that times have changed, he’d say, ‘Marvella, no one wants a fifty-eight-year-old man.’ As far as I know, he never spoke of this in his work or his social life. And I hasten to add, Pierre did not indulge in rough trade. He didn’t have a hidden sex life or a bar kind of life. I guess you would say he had evolved to the point where he lived in a closet with an open door, but unfortunately he lived there alone.”

Cooper lifted her eyes from her reporter’s notebook to gaze on a beautiful Parisian street scene, a young woman fashionably dressed in baby blue, stepping into a carriage, the hackney horse as elegant as the woman. Her left ankle is clearly visible covered by a sheer white stocking. Risqué for the time.

Marvella noticed. “Jean Béraud. When I first started collecting you could purchase his work for a song. All people wanted were the Impressionists, Picasso, paintings like that. Béraud was a sly social commentator and the draftsmanship is secure, the paintings themselves lovely. I snapped up as many as I could, all the while Pierre kept telling me, ‘Focus on Americana.’ ” Tears suddenly spilled down her cheeks. “How I will miss him. I don’t think it’s hit me yet.”

“Mrs. Lawson, you’ve been generous with your time.” Rick rose, reaching inside his front uniform pocket, retrieving a card. “If you think of anything, no matter how trivial you believe it is, call me or call my deputy.”

Cooper also gave Mrs. Lawson her card.

“Two lists.” Marvella handed him neatly handwritten lists on expensive paper. “These are his dearest friends, and then others in his acquaintance that I can think of farther down. And this one is, to the best of my memory, when and where he acquired each of his paintings and the pencil sketches. Those sketches brought him into contact with so many people. When he was ready to buy oils, he had made many friends.” She took a long breath.

Cooper walked closer to the Jean Béraud. “You almost feel as though you’re in the painting. That it will come to life.”

“Yes, you do.”

Now at the front door, the maid, standing in as a butler, opened the door. She was watchful of Marvella suffering from this shocking loss.

Rick did not step through it but turned. “Mrs. Lawson, have you any idea why this might have happened?”

“In a sense, I do. Pierre was handsomely paid by his clients. Whatever this is about, there is a great deal of money at stake and possibly reputation. My brother was a careful man. Someone killed him before a public investigation could come to light.”