The Corpse with the Garnet Face Read online

  “All but three,” he replied, looking rather pleased with himself. “I’ll take the chance to have a bit of a breather while you fill me in on what you’ve found out about Jonas in your searches, then I’ll tackle this last wall. The missing pieces must be hidden in here somewhere—it’s the only section I haven’t been through yet.”

  Bud perched himself on the only rickety chair in the space, which sat in front of an empty easel. The fading sunlight streamed through the window at the front of the house and gave his silver hair the look of a halo. His face was in shadow, which made me think of his uncle’s birthmark.

  “First things first,” I said, holding a photograph in a silver frame so Bud could see it. “Any idea who this might be? Seen him in any of the paintings up here?”

  Bud took the frame and peered at it, shifting it about to get rid of reflections. He smiled. “I’ve seen a lot of this guy. His face appears time and time again, from when he was a young man until he was really quite old. But he isn’t one of the guys on the list—at least, I don’t think he is because I haven’t found the paintings of The Geographer or The Glass of Wine yet, so I guess he could be one of those two guys. Why? Where was this?”

  “This, and about ten others of the same person, were all in the drawer of his bedside table. This was the only one in a frame. The others looked as though they’d been handled a great deal. They show the same man at many ages, and always in the same setting; a dark, curtained background. In each of them he’s simply looking directly at the camera, smiling. The photos are quite—well, disarming, I suppose. They show the man in an open and honest way, but he’s not displaying any real emotion. Is it possible Jonas was gay? Maybe it was a part of his psyche that he couldn’t deal with when he was young, a contributing factor to his leaving his family. It’s not unusual even nowadays, and back in the forties I dare say it was even more of a challenge for a young man to come to terms with his sexuality. If he had no friends, as your mother said, and his father was already beating him, it’s likely he had no one to turn to.”

  Bud shook his head. “No idea, Cait. That would be more your department. Find anything else that throws light on his life—any part of it?”

  “Lots. Where would you like me to begin?”

  Bud shrugged. “How about you do it like you used to when you consulted for my homicide team? That usually worked quite well. You choose—general to specific, or vice versa.”

  “Okay,” I replied, sinking onto a shabbily upholstered chaise longue, “if you’re comfortably perched then I’ll begin.”

  Bud settled himself more steadily, and I began to tell him what I’d discovered. “Whatever his sexual preferences, he lived alone, that’s quite clear, and I don’t get the impression he entertained. He has one or two of most eating and drinking requirements, and no stash of glasses or plates to cater for company. There’s the possibility people would visit and bring their own supplies, but that seems unlikely. His bed tells me he slept alone, and favored the middle of the bed. It’s an old bed with an old mattress, and the indentations make that much clear. He was generally clean and neat; unlike this room, his clothes, accessories, and so forth are all washed, pressed, and neatly hung or folded. He didn’t have many clothes—in fact, surprisingly few—but even those covered in remnants of paint are freshly laundered. There’s no way for him to have done that here, unless he washed by hand in either the kitchen or bathroom sinks, which seems unlikely. His toiletries speak of a man who shaved, kept his teeth clean, and showered rather than bathed. His towels are old and worn, unmatched, but clean. There are a lot of them, which might suggest he used them only once, or showered often. As I said, he didn’t have many clothes, but those he had were well made, and old. Some darning and mending has been done on some items, not terribly well. He liked hats—he had about a dozen—and favored caps made of corduroy. He had almost as many outdoor coats as pairs of pants, which suggests a life spent outside a good deal, even in heavy rain or low temperatures, as signified by the rubberized waterproofs and heavy winter coats. Stout shoes, rubber boots, snow boots, and sandals were his choice of footwear—again, all well made, but worn. I’d say he invested in his clothing—none of it is what you’d call fashionable, but the chap was in his eighties after all, so I’d suggest he’d bought good clothes in his sixties, and had kept them going.”

  “Sensible way to be,” said Bud, who has been known to invent bizarre ailments just to avoid going shopping for clothes.

  “Yes, dear,” I countered, drawing a smile. “Other than the familial similarity in your attitude toward clothing, there’s not much else to suggest anything of a lifestyle that took him away from his love of art. I’d say Menno’s summary of his life is borne out by what I have seen here.”

  “Did you think Menno wasn’t telling the truth about Jonas’s life?” Bud sounded surprised.

  I decided to come clean. “I get it that the Dutch are blunt, but Menno seemed disconnected from emotion when he spoke about Jonas. His micro-expressions suggested he was concealing either facts or at least an emotion he didn’t want us to observe. He might have been acting in a culturally normal way, and yet he was still hiding…something.”

  Bud looked thoughtful. “I didn’t get that from the guy at all, and even though we have our differences, we’re not usually that far apart when we’re assessing someone. It could be that I’ve let my cop senses dissipate a bit since I retired. I wasn’t focusing on whether he was telling the truth. Why were you?”

  I paused for a millisecond. “I always do, can’t help myself. Is that bad?”

  Bud smiled warmly. “Not bad, but a bit sad, Cait. Sometimes I wish you could just relax and swim with the current. Like all that stuff going on back at home. You need to let go and wait to find out what the real plans are for your department.”

  “Not now, Bud. Let’s focus on this, please?”

  “Okay, agreed. So, you think Menno van der Hoeven was hiding something, and you don’t trust him, right?”

  I shrugged. “Afraid so.”

  “Leaving that aside for a moment, did you spot anything here that might suggest there’s more to Uncle Jonas than Menno told us?”

  “Menno mentioned that Jonas said he was writing a book. There’s no computer here, and I can’t find anything that looks like a hand­written manuscript, which is odd, if Menno was telling the truth.”

  “What if Jonas wasn’t telling Menno the truth?”

  “Fair enough. However, there should be a computer, surely? In the letter from Jonas we read in Canada, he mentioned using the Internet had made it easier for him to follow news about you. So where is his computer? All I found was half a charger cable.”

  “Half?”

  “You know, they come in two pieces—one part has the transformer on it and hooks into the computer, the other part goes to the power outlet. All I found was half a cable, under his dining table, coming out of the power outlet. It suggests to me that someone removed a computer and part of the cable, not realizing that another part of the cable remained in the wall.”

  “Find anything that looks as though it might be opened by our mystery key?” Bud stood up and arched his back like a cat—I suspected he’d been bending for some time.

  “Nothing. No boxes, cupboards, not even a locked drawer. Did you bring it with you?” I asked.

  Bud thrust his hand deep into the pocket of his khaki pants and pulled out the key. Once again I was struck by how small the turning end and opening end were when compared with the length of the barrel. I took the key from Bud and rolled it in my hand.

  “It had to be designed to fit into a lock deeply set within something,” I said.

  “We already agreed on that back in Canada, before we left,” replied Bud, now stretching his arms above his head. “It doesn’t mean we’re any closer to finding out what it opens. Have you checked the locks on all the doors
here?”

  “Yes. There either aren’t any, or they are the wrong type or size. I hoped that just by looking at it again, something would come to mind.”

  Bud waved his arms around the studio space. “It’s not for anything up here. There’s nothing but walls and windows, and all these pieces Jonas painted. Speaking of which, how about you help me find the last ones. Just try to find anything with a note on the back—he wrote people’s names in fat pencil on the one’s I’ve found so far.”

  “Okay, I’ll start at this end, and you at the other.”

  It took us only another ten minutes or so to find all the remaining pieces. Soon we were able to assess the nature of our tasks. One thing was clear: the oversized portrait of The Laughing Cavalier was by far the largest piece, which was a relief.

  “I’m going to suggest he bought canvases to stretch onto frames here. The supplies in that corner suggest he made them himself. And look at all this paint and acrylic. He must have been an art supplier’s dream customer,” I observed.

  “One of his Group of Seven is just such a dealer—look,” said Bud, holding the list Menno had given to him so I could see it.

  “Well, that’s a bonus,” I replied, “and it’s the guy who’s in the massive piece, Willem Weenix. According to my handy-dandy tourist map, it looks like his shop isn’t more than a ten- or fifteen-minute walk from here.” As I pointed out the street Bud looked relieved. “We won’t need a vehicle for that delivery, at least; we can just wrap it up and carry it ourselves. Of course, we’d have to be pretty careful, given how many people are on the streets.”

  “It might as well be a giant pane of glass,” said Bud glumly. “You’re right, though. I wonder if there’s any packing paper here. Seen anything like that?”

  I shook my head. “He has a lot of old sheets, and I found some string. We could use those.”

  “Good idea, but let’s do that tomorrow. I suggest we go back to our hotel room so I can wash all this dust off me, and get rid of the smell of old paint.” Looking at his watch, Bud added, “It’s getting on, Cait, and I don’t think we should stay here too much longer. Let’s make sure everything is secure, then head back to the hotel, get cleaned up, and start phoning people to make arrangements for our deliveries. Fancy dinner out somewhere, or should we just fall back on room service again?”

  “Bud, Amsterdam has great food, and it’s not a culture that shuts its doors at nine o’clock at night. We’ve got time to do everything we need to do, and go out to eat. I have a hankering for Indonesian food—how about you? Okay with that?”

  “Indonesian? Here?”

  “They have some fantastic Indonesian restaurants in Amsterdam. Don’t forget, Indonesia was a Dutch colony up until the end of World War II; they arrived in the archipelago in the late 1500s and stayed. In fact, as I recall, Amsterdam is one of the best places to eat nasi goreng, which has all but become a Dutch national dish. There’s something called rijsttafel too, with lots of different dishes all served at once, covering the table. When I was here decades ago it was a great treat for the four of us. With the years of training I’ve put in since then, I bet just the two of us could manage a smaller version. It would be tasty, and there are such fun places to eat—let’s not just hide away while we’re here, Bud.”

  “Agreed, but nothing too spicy for me. You can look online to find somewhere while I shower. Maybe that laptop of yours will prove useful after all. Now, come on, help me shut up the place. I’ll go down the stairs ahead of you, just so you have a soft landing if you stumble.”

  Still Life: Exotic Foods

  THE FRANTIC PACE OF TOURISTS pounding the streets of the museum district surrounding our hotel hadn’t slowed at all. Bud and I hurried along, avoiding pedestrians and cyclists alike, arriving at Sama Sebo at 9:28 PM precisely. There had been a last-minute cancellation at the restaurant. We didn’t stop to take in much of the exterior, but when the door opened, the aroma of spices and the cacophony of dozens of diners overwhelmed us. The woman who welcomed us requested that we have a drink at the bar while the wait-staff prepared our table, which we were happy to do; it gave us a chance to soak up the atmosphere. Weaving our way across the room, Bud and I agreed the quirky mix of Indonesian artefacts comprising carved wooden figures and richly decorated fabrics worked well with what otherwise looked like a slightly quaint Dutch restaurant. Squeezing in at the bar, Bud ordered a cold Heineken for each of us; I was just taking my first sip when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Menno van der Hoeven beside me, beaming what seemed to be a genuine smile.

  “You found this place, and you got a table?” He sounded amazed.

  “A cancellation,” I replied.

  “You were lucky. It is always completely full.” Menno cast his gaze around the packed restaurant.

  “I don’t think they could fit another table in if they tried,” replied Bud.

  Waiters were holding trays of food above their heads as they wriggled between the tightly packed seats. I suspected that being slim might be a job requirement at the place.

  “I am here with clients. I would ask you to join us but I cannot. You understand, of course.” Menno’s tone was matter-of-fact.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” beamed Bud, then his arm was tapped by a waiter who apparently wanted to seat us as quickly as possible. “Have a great evening.”

  “Did you find anything interesting at your uncle’s house? I came across to find out. You have been there, of course,” said Menno as Bud and I began to move away.

  “Everything will be sorted,” shouted Bud over the noisy patrons, and a moment later we were seated at a table that, thankfully, was close enough that I’d only had to ask two diners to move their seats so I could pass.

  “He’s surprisingly eager to know what we’ve been up to,” I observed as I picked up the menu.

  “Cait, stop it. He was just being pleasant,” replied Bud while I hunted about for my reading cheats. The lighting wasn’t overly bright, so I spent some time contemplating what to have. My mouth watered even as I read through the list of dishes and ingredients.

  “Fancy the rijsttafel?” I said eventually.

  Bud looked alarmed. “It says it’s twenty-three dishes. Twenty-three. That’s a lot of food, Cait. I’m not sure I could manage it.”

  “They’re all tiny,” I said, smiling sweetly. “Not much more than a mouthful for each of us, really. Look, they’re having it over there.”

  Bud followed my glance and said, “The entire table is covered with food. What if it’s all spicy?”

  “It won’t be. This is a tourist area, Bud. For all that they give the place an authentic Indonesian air, I can’t imagine they want to scare off their main source of income. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Come on, let’s risk it.”

  It took no longer than ten minutes for the plates and bowls to arrive, and, when it was all laid out, our table looked like an ocean of food.

  Bud looked less than enthusiastic as the waiter explained the dishes, and I could see him taking note whenever the word “spicy” was mentioned. But I couldn’t wait to dive in.

  An hour later I admitted defeat; I’d managed to clear most of the little bowls of their luscious, glistening, steaming contents of meat and fish, but it was the rice that did for me. Bud had stopped grazing long before I did, and I watched him as he studied Menno and his companions across the busy restaurant.

  “Not much of a talker, considering he’s supposed to be entertaining clients,” observed Bud. “I see what you mean about his manner. Even I can tell from here he doesn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor about him. He doesn’t really engage, does he? Is that a Dutch thing?” he looked around. “I’m not sure it can be—there are a lot of animated conversations going on in here, and I can’t believe everyone is from another country.”

  “I still reckon he’s hiding s
omething. I hope his mother will be more open when we meet her tomorrow,” I added. “Great job lining up all our appointments, Husband—even though we’ve had to spread them across a couple of days. I hadn’t realized two people were so far out of town until we saw their locations on that map.”

  “We’ll be busy,” replied Bud, “but I think it’s right to start with the art supply store, where we need to deliver the biggest piece. Once that’s gone we can collect everything else from the studio for tomorrow and put it all into a cab.”

  “Or cabs,” I managed as I munched. “We’re not going to want to be just in and out of the homes of these people, Bud. The whole point of this exercise is to take the time to get to know about Jonas, not just to dump the paintings and run.”

  “I know.” Bud looked pensive. “I wonder if this is the sort of place he came to, or if it’s too touristy. Cait, are you sure I’m not going to have to roll you back to the hotel—you’re looking a bit hot and bothered, you know.”

  “I’m still just about okay, but I’m glad I stopped eating when I did.”

  “Here comes Menno,” said Bud, giving me a gentle kick under the table. He raised his hand to shake the lawyer’s. “Good meal?” he asked.

  Menno’s expression hardly changed. “It is too much food for four, but I made some effort. My guests did the hard work. As you did, I see.”

  “It’s delicious,” I said, wiping my mouth after a swig of beer. “We loved the variety of dishes, but you’re right, it’s a lot.” Menno’s slim frame suggested he didn’t eat much of anything at all, and I felt myself blush. “Do you eat here often?”

  “Only with clients.” He seemed to be implying the place was only good for out-of-towners and I felt quite cross.

  “Not the sort of place for locals then?” I added grumpily, fielding a burp.

  “No.” One word, speaking volumes. I bit.