As Malcolm exited the cab, the rain continued to fall in great cascades. Soon, he knew, the storm drains on the Upper East Side would fill and begin to overflow. Worst of all, his mother and her car were nowhere to be seen. Walking briskly through the downpour to the entrance so that he could get out of the rain Malcolm again wondered why she had requested he meet her outside and who would be joining them. At right of the main entrance, off to the side, there was a gentleman whose profile he recognized but could not place. He had a paunch that was common to men in their seventies. He carried it well, aided by a long frame and commanding posture. Despite wearing a bespoke suit, coat, and hat, the elder man did not look to be disturbed by the weather.
"Young Mr. Bright, good to see you again." He said as Malcolm placed his hand on the door. "Fred Avery, I am sure you don't remember me. We last met when you were quite young."
At the introduction Malcolm was able to retrieve him from the depths of his childhood memories. Prior to his fathers arrest the family had spent the worst of the August heat at the Milton Family estate in Rhode Island. It was in the company of his now deceased grandfather when he last encountered a much younger Fred Avery. Malcom opened the door to the older gentleman and proceeded to follow him, bypassing the marked walking paths and cordons, straight to the Thannhauser Collection exhibition. Here the works of Mondrian, Degas, and of course Van Gogh graced the gallery walls.
"Thank you for coming to me. When your mother called to ask for my assistance this morning, I had a previously scheduled appointment with one of the restorers in the annex."
"I was led to believe she would be joining us."
"I requested to meet you alone." Implying that Malcolm could discuss this matter here with Mr. Avery, but that it would be best not to share more with anyone else. "I have found that it is best to discuss matters of provenance as privately as possible."
Malcom pointedly looked around at the tourists milling though the gallery.
Mr. Avery continued while directing him towards a Kandinsky, "The best place to discuss art is in gallery."
"What do you know?"
"Your mother did not share anything beyond the need for an attorney with a familiarity of the art world. From my own inquiries, I know that Detective Lawrence visited you this morning. I assume this is about the Goya. While it was not part of the evaluation we conducted when we established the ownership rights of the works in your grandfather's portfolio, the provenance is well established. If it does end up in an unfamiliar storage vault, we can make the case that it was stolen for illegal trade and transport." The older gentleman did not look at Malcolm; while he was speaking, he removed a pair of reading glasses from an inner pocket on his suit. All his attention was intently focused on the piece in front of him, appreciation evident in his practiced gaze.
"I think you might be mistaken. The Goya is still on my wall. Detective Lawrence visited me about a Van Gogh."
"Really? That is interesting." Mr. Avery turned his away from the piece to look down at Malcolm over his glasses. After making eye contact with the shorter man, he began "After all of the problems with the family art portfolio in the '90s, your grandmother transferred the last Van Gogh to the Rhode Island School of Design Museum as part of the Milton's permanent collection. I was under the impression that the family had moved all of the works of questionable provenance into storage at one of the Art ports or returned them to their original owners."
"This is not a Milton family piece." Malcolm replied. Taking a step away from the wall of Kandinsky's, he proceeded to walk towards Marcel Duchamp's Apropos of Little Sister.
Throughout his teenage years Malcolm had visited the art museums of New York regularly to escape the suffocating silence in his home. In his younger days, he had never been drawn to the early works of Duchamp, preferring instead the moodiness found in the collection pieces by Picasso and Chagall. However today, in light of everything that had transpired with Ainsley, this painting spoke to him. He knew that this painting had several interpretations, a young girl working, a woman considering a chess move, but today he saw the artists intended perspective-a younger sibling defecating on a turn of the century toilet. Many critics deemed this painting to be an illustration of the Freudian notion relating elder siblings to their younger rivals; today it felt especially suitable-all a younger sister can do is create a mess for a brother to clean up.
Staring intently at the work, Malcolm continued. "A crate was left at my door this morning, it contained Poppy Flowers." The older man beside him did not react at all at this statement. Malcolm was certain that he knew the painting. An attorney in the business of securing, protecting, and trading masterworks for over 40 years would of course know the painting and the mystery behind its disappearance. "Detective Lawrence informed me that it is the second Poppy Flowers to make an appearance in the past year. He also intimated that he believed the example delivered into my custody was the original. However, he did note that it would take his technician a while to confirm."
"Interesting. Did he happen to share if the borders matched?" Mr. Avery questioned.
"It was a quiet call." Malcolm responded in reply to the question. His eyes narrowed at the painting in front of him. He could just make out the outline of the young girl's retrousse nose. It reminded him of his own sister's profile.
"Of course, he has never been one to say five words when three will suffice." Mr. Avery replied while moving on to the next painting.
"Have you crossed paths before?" Malcolm queried upon following the older gentleman to look out at the Calder mobile suspended in the rotunda.
"Several times. The art world is quite small, and several clients were impacted by the Kapoor investigation. While the good detective has an excellent team, I do not know that the technician at the NYPD has the requisite skill to confirm a work of this magnitude. I am sure someone from this institution or the Met will be called on to support the investigation." Malcolm tipped his head in agreement. Mr. Avery continued this time stopping at a "Have you been contacted by any other authorities yet?"
"Not yet, though I was warned to expect inquiries later today."
"Yes." He replied while removing his spectacles. After returning his glasses to their original home in the front pocket of his suit jacket, he extracted a card from within the folds and handed it to Malcolm. "If you are contacted by them, please let one of my associates know."
Malcolm glanced down at the card. It listed the firm as Avery, Webb, and Associates, but provided the contact information for an C.E. Avery. Looking up in surprise, the older man responded to the implied question "Our meeting today was fortuitous, I am quite interested to learn more about this matter and plan to make some private enquiries. But I have moved into the emeritus stage of my legal career; I check in periodically and will be informed if you reach out. In the meantime, please contact my daughter Camille. She will be available if you need counsel when questioned."
A woman in the gallery above waved at the two gentlemen. The older gentleman's eyes softened as he nodded and smiled broadly in reply. The open fondness playing on his features was evident as the young woman made her way through the gallery and down the circular walkway to their location.
"My lunch appointment." He said by way of an explanation. "I must excuse myself; please extend my felicitations to your mother when you see her."
"I will." He replied as the older gentleman walked to meet his lunch companion. She was significantly younger than she had appeared at first glance and could not have been much more than twenty years old. Malcolm watched as Mr. Avery greeted the young lady by gallantly taking her arm in the crook of his elbow. They were of similar height, though the younger woman was slight, with auburn hair, and covered in a paint spattered smock.
Initially he did not move from his spot in front of the rotunda; instead, Malcolm elected to observe the closeness between the pair. He knew from the sprightly step in the older man's gait that this was a much-loved granddaughter. As he watched them enter a nearby elevator, he considered the familiarity and closeness that families unmarked by adversity could share. The family business was secure in the trusted hands of a daughter, a heritage of protecting the arts cemented by the generation that followed.
His own family was not quite so fortunate in the legacy that was passed down. Instead of an appreciation of similar academic and artistic pursuits, his father has shared a fondness for mayhem and subterfuge with his daughter and his own unique brand of madness with his son. Malcolm and his sister both inherited their inquisitiveness from Jessica, and he also suspected, her relentless persistence. Together these gifts were a toxic and reckless combination which threatened to consume and destroy all who entered the Whitley orbit.
As Malcolm made his way to the first floor, he noted in the front doors that the rain continued to belt down outside. Setting aside thoughts of his sister and father momentarily, he reached into his coat for his phone, puzzled by the incomplete lunchtime missive. To his surprise he found a message waiting from his mother directing him to meet her at Sant Ambroeus, a café he found tolerable. It was rare that Jessica selected restaurants that he preferred as he seldom ate when they dined together. After signaling to the concierge at the information desk to hail a cab, Malcolm pulled his coat collar to shield the back of his neck, exited the building, and walked out into the early spring downpour.
Today he was fortunate, while the rain was insistent there was a cab waiting for a passenger on the road beyond the gallery entrance. Either the consequences of his request or by divine intervention, Malcolm did not care; he hopped in and directed the driver to his next destination. It was a short drive to the restaurant, and had it been a clear spring day, he would have elected to walk the ten blocks south. In less than five minutes he was exiting the cab and making his way through the main doors to the maître d's station at the front of the dining room. After providing the Whitley name, he was directed to the coat check and, once his dripping coat had been stored, escorted to a table at the rear of the restaurant.
Malcolm was not surprised that he was not the first to arrive. His mother sat behind the table, a negroni, half consumed in one hand, eyes narrowing at his somewhat sodden appearance before her.
"Did you walk through every puddle on your way here?"
"Hello Mother" Malcolm replied. While her eyes expressed care and concern, her tone was biting. Jessica Whitley always said exactly what she was thinking to her son. If there was one thing he could appreciate above all else in his mother, it was that she always shared her unvarnished opinion. He knew that, unlike his father, his mother did not attempt to hide her true nature or feelings from those closest. In its own way, he realized that this familiarity of manner was comforting. Even as his sister was evolving into someone he did not know and could not understand, his mother remained herself. "I did not bring an umbrella when I left the house."
"You must be freezing." The care now breaking through her tone, as she motioned to a hovering waiter. "Bring him a Sogno D'amore with a splash of amoretto…"
While drawing out his chair, he interjected "Hold the amoretto."
"I will have the Carciofi and the Dover Sole with the citrus sauce, and he will have the soup and the Torta di Frutta." Jessica continued while Malcolm settled himself at the table. As she was ordering what he knew he could eat, Malcolm had no objections to the rest of the instructions given. "Now, let's talk about this morning." She said, turning her full attention to away from the waiter towards her son.
"There is not much to tell that I am not sure you do not already know."
"I know practically nothing." She said quickly, "Gil sent me a message little after eight, about you needing an attorney well versed in fine art. Given your surprising delivery this morning, I can only guess what you received."
"I am sure you could not guess." Malcolm replied with a touch of exasperation. He loved his mother, but she was trying at the best of times. He had not called on her to share the details of his impromptu encounter with Detective Lawrence. What he wanted from this lunch was information. "And, following my conversation with Mr. Avery, I will not be sharing any additional information on this matter with you, or anyone else, in the near future."
At that final statement Jessica looked hurt, but the initial pain quickly faded into a practiced and tight smile. Instead of speaking further, she lifted her drink to her mouth and took a long sip. Malcolm knew from years of observation that this was a rehearsed gesture she used as a means to regain composure and prepare her next observation.
"Well, if Fred said it was best to keep things close, then I suppose we must." She replied in a tone that was more high-spirited than expected, as the hint of a smile played at the corner of her eyes.
"How well do you know him?" Malcolm asked, suddenly curious about the attorney's relationship with his mother. He knew from her facial expressions she was fond of the man, but he could not tell if her expression was wistful for a brotherly figure or something else.
"Fairly well. He took care of several paintings from the Milton collection your great-grandfather acquired in the 30's." She replied, "It was a tricky situation, but he helped to resolve everything to the satisfaction of all parties involved."
Malcolm did not need her to elaborate. Many of the paintings collected by American dynasties in the 1930's had been acquired at auctions in Europe. Several had questionable provenances and a majority of the ownership claims were settled outside of the courtroom in the 1990's and early 2000's. He knew that, though his family had once possessed numerous examples of late 19th and early 20th century European art, very little was kept at the Milton family estate or in private homes; most could be found in museum collections up and down the New England and Mid-Atlantic seaboard.
"Your grandfather liked him." Jessica continued, "He was sharp. He never abandoned the Milton family through the scandals brought on by your father." Finishing her statement with the breathy contemptuous tone she reserved for remarks referencing his father.
At that Malcolm waited a beat; he had questions for his mother but wanted to give her the opportunity of a mental reset to pivot away from the actions of Dr. Martin Whitley. The waiter brought over his tea; instead of drinking from it immediately he began to adding lemon and honey to the cup applying all his attention to the task at hand, as his mother looked on over her cocktail. Picking cup the up, he felt the acute contrast between the cool dampness of his hair and the steam billowing across the surface of the liquid. Never one to put off gratification, Malcolm took a deep sip of the scalding beverage and exhaled in appreciation. The sweet notes from the apricots, berries, currants, and flowers, played with the sour citrus and lemon flavors on his tongue; it was exactly what he needed. For one fleeting moment, he was at peace with all the chaos circling him.
"Now that you are appropriately sated, can you tell me what was so urgent that you requested I meet you for lunch today?" His mother asked. "When we spoke this morning, you were not particularly effusive."
"Of course, Mother." Malcolm replied. While her question broke his reverie, he was happy to move forward with the conversation. "I was asked if I was acquainted with a Miranda Long this morning. While I recognize the name, I do not know that I have ever met the person. I figured, I must have met her through you, I am curious how you know her."
"Oh. I am not sure why I would have mentioned her." Jessica replied. For a moment she looked confused. "We have only met a couple of times. Occasionally I see her when she is in town. She lives in Chicago or Pittsburg, somewhere in the Midwest, and you know my plane does not stop between coasts if we do not have to. If I remember correctly, she currently serves as the Chairman of a business her grandfather or great-grandfather started."
"When was the last time you spoke with her?"
"I do not know that I know her intimately, Malcolm. I have been in social Antarctica for most of the past 20 years, and aside from the people who I work with on the boards and my immediate family, I do not speak with anyone regularly." Jessica responded with frustration. "Miranda Long is merely an acquaintance; someone you meet and exchange pleasantries with when you attend a fundraiser or gala. I have always had the impression that she keeps quite busy. She is a lot like your Aunt Birdy, constantly flitting here and there." This was not the response Malcolm had expected. As hers was a name he recognized he had assumed his mother would have more than a passing connection with the woman.
Malcolm was prevented from asking his next question by the arrival of their meal. Jessica watched him intently though her salad was placed first. It was clear from her stare that she would not begin eating until he had at least sampled the soup in front of him. While he was not fond of savory food, the soup was warm, and the vegetable broth was inoffensive. He knew that if he deigned to consume at least a third of what was before him he would be free from her ministrations for the rest of the afternoon.
Jessica began to eat her salad but stopped after a few bites. As Malcolm looked over at her plate it dawned on him, his persnickety food habits came from his mother; yet another legacy passed down the family tree. While Malcolm had a physical and psychosomatic reaction to most food, Jessica's habits were unquestionably the product of her Milton upbringing. Not a physical reaction to food, but a psychological distaste of rapaciousness, pleasure, and exuberant indulgence. It was everything that her parents had hated about his own father and their relationship. Dr. Whitely had encouraged Jessica to set aside her strict and circumscribed upbringing to live out a fantasy whirlwind romance. After marrying young, the pair turned New York society on its head as the picture-perfect couple. They had the pedigree of the Milton's and the Surgeon's brilliance and skill; at their zenith, the Whitley's were the family everyone envied, the addition of a son and later a daughter completed the tableau. However, following his father's arrest and Jessica's subsequent fall from the heights of society she reverted back to the conventions of her Milton upbringing, even as she maintained her former husband's name.
After the waiter replaced her discarded salad with the fish, Malcolm put his spoon down and asked his mother a question he had not considered asking before this moment. "How are you Mother?"
Jessica looked up, startled at the question. It was not surprising, it was quite unlike him to ask about another person, most especially his mother. Malcolm knew that, although he cared about his mother deeply, their relationship was not reciprocal. Jessica was the one who pulled information out of her children, she was the one who looked after their wellbeing, she was the one who made sure the people in her orbit were protected, safe, and secure. It was a role she fell into and later resolutely inhabited, perhaps at the expense of her own wellbeing.
"I am fine Malcolm." She replied, as she continued, she reached over and took his hand, "Thank you for asking." Warmth echoing through her voice, though her final word was firm. This would be as much as she would share with him today about how she was coping with the current disorder in her ordered life. While Jessica returned her attention to her meal, Malcolm signaled to the waiter to remove the dish in front of him. He knew that lunch would soon be coming to an end.
After pausing a moment to reflect on the information his mother had shared, Malcolm asked himself in a bewildered tone "How did I know the name Miranda Long?"
Much to Malcolm's surprise, Jessica responded to his question. "I am not surprised you knew the name. Her family business has something to do with medical or agricultural products. Her brother and father testified on the opposite side of her grandfather at a congressional hearing several years ago. Once the dust settled and her grandfather stepped down, she took over as chair. You would have been in D.C. when the hearing was going on, I am sure you must have heard about it."
At this Malcolm thought back to his years at the Bureau; every day in the District there was some a congressional hearing in progress. Malcolm's work at the time was mostly concerned with the identification and apprehension of violent offenders. Like most people who lived and worked inside the beltway, as he did not work in a political position, he did not pay much attention to the routine choreography of the political theater that was endemic to Washington.
"You are smiling." His mother commented. The arrival of dessert had transported him back to his adolescence when he would sneak away from his mother's driver to walk home. He would stop for sweets at one of the many East side confectionary shops that lined his clandestine route. This was not solely a sugar concoction; the base of the tart contained a thin layer of marzipan between the custard and sable base. The small dessert before him was topped with a selection of berries, candied citrus peel, and a glacé finish. It was the closest he had found to food which, in the broadest interpretation, was not candy. While he never consumed the entire sweet, he always finished the candied peel.
"I am happy to be dining with you Mother." Malcolm said in response, though they both knew his smile was prompted by the confection in front of him. And yet, he knew that his reply was not untrue. He had asked for this lunch, and while it had provided him with less information than he anticipated, the trip uptown had not been unproductive. At the very least he had a starting point for his inquiries into Ms. Long and a firm on retainer for his next encounter with law enforcement.
A vibration in his coat pocket surprised him and broke the silence that stretched between them. Reaching in for his phone his mother could not help but comment in a terse tone, "If that is Gil with a murder, I will kill him myself." Then realizing what she had said in public Jessica exhaled. In a tense but high-spirited tone she said, "Say hello to him for me, my dear."
"It's not Gil, it's Ainsley." He said ignoring the call.
"You still are not speaking." His mother commented. There was no judgment, merely resignation in the statement. "I had not planned to speak to you about this today. With the police visiting you this morning you had enough on your plate, but now that she has called, we can talk about what the next steps are."
"Mother, I do not want to talk about this right now." Malcolm replied.
"Fine. Then Sunday, before we sit down and talk as a family, you need to tell me what I need to say to get her to see reason."
"That's the problem, I don't know that there is anything we can do." Malcolm said. "The best person to speak to her may not be you or I."
"Then who do you propose she speaks to, a psychiatrist, the police?" Jessica said in an angry whisper. Malcolm looked at her and raised his brow hesitantly. "Surely you are not suggesting she speaks with your Father. He is the reason she is in this situation!"
"He is also someone who already knows what happened. He might be the only person to help her to see sense."
"He might also turn her into his next apprentice." Jessica hissed back at him in her low breathy tone. "No. I forbid it."
As his mother drained her drink, Malcolm finished the last bite of candied peel. Lunch was clearly at an end. Jessica excused herself to freshen up, while he arranged payment for the meal, called Adolpho to bring his mother's car around, and moved to the front of the restaurant to coordinate retrieval of their coats. When Jessica emerged from the powder room, she walked directly to him and lightly kissed his cheek. It was a familiar gesture, a signal that any disquiet or dissent was momentarily paused. Malcolm helped her into her coat, and they walked out into the rain together, her hand in the crook of his arm, his mother's umbrella lifted high above their crowns. "I will see you Sunday at Ten." Jessica said as she squeezed his arm.
"Of course Mother." He replied. She pressed her umbrella into his hands as she stepped off the curve into the waiting car. He closed the door behind her. Standing in the downpour now protected from the elements, Malcolm took a moment to consider his next move. He could hail a cab to return home or head across town and try to find the Gil's crime scene.
Before he could decide, his phone rang again. It was the New York Bureau office. It seems the decision of where to go next would be made for him. Lifting the phone to his ear, Malcolm answered the call as he turned to hail a cab south.
So, a couple of things. First all readers should know that I am horribly dyslexic, I am not a strong reader or writer. If you are reading this far, then that means you have connected with this tale. It also means, it also means writing does not always come quickly or clearly. I sat down to write this four days ago and could not start it until yesterday. Even with all my plot diagraming. That being said, I now have a diagram and a fully mapped plot.
Second, my goal is to write all of this before the show returns from the spring hiatus. I know from my past writings that once something new cannon-wise is introduced I am not good at completing stories.
As always, I ask that if you find errors or points of confusion please let me know, and thanks for reading.