We agreed. We would help Mrs. Alese Steiner try to figure out who had been sending her death threats. We explained that we would begin today. No time to waste. We asked her some particulars including what type of threats she was receiving. If any of them were in print. If any of them were made orally via telephone. If anyone left a name, rank, or serial number along with the threat. That last one was wishful thinking. In all cases, no one left anything besides some nasty words.
All the threats came via the mail. Letters. Snail mail. Paper shoved in an envelope and sent from a variety of places across the United States. In addition, the letters arrived in your favorite movie or television serial killer format. Cutouts of letters of all different shapes and sizes from various magazines glued into words on a piece of paper that formed sentences that then formed threats. It screamed amateur hour, but at the same time it also screamed scary shit.
Alese also shared with us the name of the painting and showed us an image of it hanging in her house on her phone. The painting that Mrs. Steiner had in her possession was indeed a big deal. One that would certainly garner worldwide attention. One that could certainly raise some suspicion as well. Schubert at the Piano was one of Klimt's works—I had confirmed it. On the internet. So it must be true. Bad joke. And according to every bit of research, the painting was destroyed by the Nazis in 1945 when they burned the Schloss Immendorf to the ground.
But I had seen it. Hanging on a modern day wall in a modern day house. She had shown us the picture where it sat prominently in her living room for her eyes only. Sheltering this masterpiece from Klimt lovers. From art lovers. From the world.
We needed to see the physical evidence. The letters. The envelopes. The painting. So when Alese left we agreed that we would stop by her place later in the day. Right now we had other things to attend to. Namely, reviewing the suspect list, I mean the list of tee times and who was out there on the course yesterday.
Imogen was in her office, so I strolled across the hall and surprised her. I saw her sitting at her desk, staring at her laptop.
"My love," I said, standing at her doorway.
She didn't look up from the monitor. She was immersed in whatever she was looking at.
"Have you taken a look at this painting, Max?" she asked.
"Yes, of course."
"It's beautiful, Max."
"It is."
"But it was destroyed, burned by the Nazis in 1945," she said.
"I read the same thing."
"How could she have it if it was destroyed?"
"I don't know, my love. Maybe her family is from Germany?"
"But all the accounts of the day say that it was burned. Even if she was from Germany how could she have it?"
"Are you saying…"
"I'm thinking that the only way she could have that painting is if someone in her family was a Nazi and stole the painting before they burned the museum to the ground."
"That's some serious stuff, Imogen."
"I realize that, Max. But, it's the only explanation that makes any sort of sense."
"And if that's true, if someone in her family was indeed a Nazi and stole that painting, then there's a true owner out there, and the provenance of the painting is tarnished. I don't know how she could auction it off."
"Money, Max. An authenticated Klimt doesn't come up every day. People will pay for it, whatever the provenance."
"I know that's true, Ginny. But there's something very wrong about that."
"I think we should head over to Campbell Auction House. Maybe they can enlighten us on this painting."
"That's a start, my love. But first things first, we've got a murder to solve. What do you say we go through that tee-time list? See what we've got."
"Sounds like a plan, Max.
Nazis. Stolen art. And a murder on a golf course. Things were getting interesting.