Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Gary put his empty coffee cup down, opened the folder, and sought Pete Raskin’s number.
“Why are you calling him?” Dan asked. “We don’t have any new information for him.”
“I’m hoping he’ll have information for us.” Gary dialed. “Mr. Raskin? Detective Mitchell here. I’m putting you on speaker.” He clicked the icon.
“Good morning. Have you learned anything new?”
“Kind of. I’m calling about Cheryl’s sideline.”
“Her portraits, you mean?”
“No, her other sideline.” Gary paused. “The one she didn’t want you to know about, but the way I see it, that was a long time ago, and you might be able to help us.”
“I think you’d better tell me what you’ve discovered.”
Gary told him about the copy of the Vermeer, and how the senator had said she’d produced three or four such copies. “What we don’t know is where she painted them. It obviously wasn’t at the cottage in Lenox.”
“I had no idea. So you mean she had another studio someplace?”
“We assume so, but we have no clue where it might be.”
“Well, I certainly don’t. At least she never mentioned one.” He paused. “Wait a sec. One of her friends might know. Lori. I mentioned her, right? And I remembered her surname. Dettweiler. She’d be a good place to start.”
“Thank you, Mr. Raskin.” Gary glanced across to Dan’s desk, pleased to see him making a note.
“No, thank you. You’re the ones trying to find Cheryl’s killer.” He disconnected.
Gary gazed at Dan, who was peering at his monitor. “We could have this all wrong, you know. Maybe there was no second studio. She might have painted them in a friend’s guest room.”
Dan shook his head. “No, we’re on the right track, I’m sure of it.
She wanted privacy for this. There has to be a studio somewhere.
” Then he smiled. “Got her. Lori Dettweiler is the Collections Care Specialist at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.” He tapped his phone screen. “And now you have her number.”
Gary retrieved it and hit Call.
“Lori Dettweiler.”
“Ms. Dettweiler, I’m Detective Gary Mitchell. I’m investigating the death of Cheryl Somers, and I was hoping we could meet with you.”
He didn’t miss her gasp. “This isn’t a joke, is it?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Why would the police be investigating Cheryl’s death after all these years?”
“Because her father would like answers. And seeing as he says you were her friend, we thought you might want them too.”
Lori sighed. “Okay. Then call me Lori. I hate all that Ms. crap. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have no new information about Cheryl that might be of any help.”
“We’re looking for her studio,” Gary informed her.
“In Lenox at her dad’s place? Surely he can’t still be working there. He ought to be retired by now.”
“He is, and no, not the Lenox one—the other one.”
Beats of silence.
“You know about that?” Lori spoke in a hushed tone.
“It was a hunch, which you just confirmed. Well, can you help us?”
He caught her wry chuckle. “Seeing as I’m the one who rented it out to her—yes.” There was a pause. “My lunch break is in two hours. Can you meet me here at the museum? In the Japanese garden, near the fountain?”
Gary scribbled a note. “We can do that. And thank you, Lori.”
Another chuckle. “Thank you. With one phone call, you restored my belief in miracles.”
Gary and Dan strolled into the Japanese garden.
Here and there, people sat on benches, eating or drinking from plastic bottles or insulated mugs.
Gary followed the sound of trickling water, and they found a small fountain, a bench to one side of it.
As they drew closer, a woman, approximately in her mid-fifties, rose to greet them.
“Detective Mitchell?” She smiled. “I’m Lori Dettweiler.” Her shoulder-length blond hair was shot through with streaks of silver, and the contrast with her green eyes made her appearance striking.
Gary introduced Dan, and the three sat.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with us,” Gary began.
Lori waved her hand. “I come here every day.” She gave Dan a frank stare. “You’re the psychic who helped the police catch that serial killer this summer, aren’t you?”
Dan nodded. “And now I’m working with the police to solve cold cases.”
She arched her eyebrows. “And you’re investigating Cheryl’s death.” She straightened. “What do you want to know?”
Gary removed his notepad from his pocket. “When did you first meet Cheryl?”
“In 1982. She’d have been eighteen years old at the time, about to go to college.”
“So before she transitioned?” Dan asked.
“Yes. At that time, I worked as an art conservationist at the Boston Athenaeum, and Cheryl was a frequent visitor. She used to sit in front of the paintings for hours, studying the artist’s brushwork, use of color.
She’d bring an easel sometimes and paint from them.
It was obvious from the start she had enormous talent.
” Lori frowned. “Then I didn’t see her for a few years.
I thought she’d left Boston.” She bit her lip.
“I have to admit I was shocked when she turned up one summer. It must have been… 1985, maybe? Yes, of course it was. That was the summer she started working at the Athenaeum. Anyway… gone was the gawky, awkward young man, and in his place?” Lori smiled.
“She was growing her hair, and she wore a cream dress, a summery, flowing sort of garment. She wore a little makeup too, but to be honest, she could have gotten away without it. What a transformation.” Lori’s face glowed.
“But it was the way she carried herself, the air of confidence that had been sadly lacking before, that made the biggest impression.”
“Did she resume her painting sessions at the Athenaeum?” Gary inquired.
“No, because by then she’d started painting portraits, and my God, they were amazing. I was in awe of her talent. So young, so much promise….” She swallowed.
“Did you work together?” Dan asked.
Lori nodded. “We were in the same department. She was a joy to work with. Now and then we’d meet up during the lunch break, and she’d show me photos of what she was working on.
She used to take Polaroids of all her paintings.
” She paused. “Then one day in 1987—it was the summer, June, I think—she met up with me during the lunch break as usual, but something was different.” Lori smiled. “She was bubbling with excitement.”
Saturday, June 20, 1987
Lori couldn’t help but smile. Cheryl’s effervescence was infectious. “What’s gotten into you? Have you finished that portrait you showed me last week?”
“I need a place to paint,” she blurted, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed.
Lori frowned. “But… you have a place. Haven’t you been working at your dad’s cottage?”
Cheryl’s eyes widened. “No. I can’t do this there. Dad can’t know about this.”
“Know about what?” Lori placed her sandwich on the bench beside her and gave Cheryl her full attention. “Talk to me, please. You’re not making any sense.”
Cheryl took a deep breath, then fished a folded sheet out of her purse. She handed it to Lori, who opened it. It was a computer printout of a painting that she recognized instantly.
“Okay. It’s a Vermeer. Why has this got you so excited?” It was of a young woman seated at a virginal, her gaze fixed on the artist painting her.
That sparkle hadn’t left Cheryl’s eyes. “This belongs to a friend of mine.”
Lori blinked. “You have a friend who owns a Vermeer? Girl, you are clearly moving in more exalted circles than I’d ever imagined.”
“That’s not the best part.” Cheryl’s face glowed. “He’s asked me to do a copy of it.”
Lori frowned. “This friend of yours…. How good a friend can he be if he’s asking you to do a forgery?”
She gaped. “Oh God, no. I wouldn’t do that. This is legit. He’s getting a little nervous about having something so valuable in his house, so he’s decided to have a copy done—a copy, mind you, unsigned—and move the original to someplace safe. That way he can still enjoy looking at it.”
“Cheryl, please. Breathe, honey.”
She chuckled. “The thing is I want a place to paint where Dad won’t see what I’m doing. This is going to take time, research. But I’d need a place with plenty of light, space”—she smiled—“and I thought of you.”
“Me?”
Cheryl nodded. “You’re selling your studio apartment, aren’t you? The one in that restored Catholic school in Jamaica Plain? You were telling me all about it last month.”
“Yes, I’m selling it.” Lori had found a better apartment more centrally located.
“Well, can I see it? Because if I like it, you could… rent it out to me?”
Monday, July 23, 2018
“I take it she liked it,” Gary remarked.
Lori nodded. “It was the perfect space for her, a five-hundred-square-foot studio with a wall comprised entirely of windows. She took one look at it, and that was that. So instead of selling it, I agreed to rent it to her.”
“What did you do with the studio when she disappeared?”
“I did nothing for three months. I was convinced that any minute she would stroll into the museum, an easel under her arm. After that, I finally admitted something had to have happened to her. So….” She shrugged. “I rented it out.”
Gary stared at her, aghast. “But what about all her work? Her materials? Her things? What happened to them?” He hated to think what they might have lost in the way of evidence.
Lori tilted her head. “You think they might have proved useful?”
“Possibly. It doesn’t matter now. God knows where it all ended up.”
Lori smiled. “I can tell you exactly where it ended up.”
Dan grinned. “You kept it all.”
She nodded. “I couldn’t bear to throw any of it out.
What if a miracle occurred and she turned up again?
So I stored everything in the loft.” Her face fell.
“When she turned out to be the body in the tunnel, I should have gotten rid of her stuff, but I couldn’t.
All that talent thrown out with the trash?
So it stayed in the loft. The tenants don’t have access, just me.
” Then her smile returned. “And if it helps you find her killer, you’re welcome to all of it. ”
“How much stuff are we talking about?” Gary had visions of renting a truck.
Lori counted off on her fingers. “There are canvases, paints, easels, a lot of books, camera equipment, lights, folders… oh, and a box of floppy disks.”
Gary stilled. “You just said something interesting.”
Judging by Dan’s gleaming eyes, he’d had the same thought.
Floppy disks meant one thing—information.