Murder at the National Gallery Read Free Page B

hinges at the corners of his mouth didn’t allow his lips to part very far when smiling, resulting in what appeared to be pained, insinceresmiles. Luther’s smile, on the other hand, had an openness to it that was, at once, inviting and genuine.
    Whitney directed the meeting back on course. “As all of you are aware,” he said, “the new administration has expressed a keen interest in the artistic life of this nation. Among many things President Jeppsen has managed to accomplish in the early days of his presidency has been the establishment of the White House Commission on the Arts, spearheaded by Vice President and Mrs. Aprile.” He looked to Annabel. “I understand the first person Mrs. Aprile called was you, Mrs. Smith.”
    “Carole Aprile and I were college roommates,” Annabel said. “And please call me Annabel.” As she mentioned her personal history with Carole Aprile, she wondered if her appointment to the commission might be viewed by some as an example of bureaucratic cronyism, a pal’s patronage. She let that thought pass. What did it matter what anyone thought? The fact was that after having abandoned a lucrative career as a matrimonial attorney, and with the unbridled support of her husband, handsome, urbane law professor Mackensie Smith, who’d closed his criminal law practice to teach after losing his first wife, and son, in a Beltway accident, she’d indulged her dream of opening a pre-Columbian art gallery in Georgetown. It had flourished, along with her stature in Washington’s increasingly vibrant arts community.
    Whitney continued: “Mrs. Aprile has appointed Mrs. Smith—Annabel—as White House liaison to the Caravaggio exhibition. Needless to say, there are significant political ramifications to this show. Those of you who have been dealing with the Italian government know how difficult they’ve made it for some of the Caravaggios to travel here, and then on to the Met, and London. I’m personally gratified at the level of interest shown by the White House in resolving these problems, and I know I speak for everyone in this room, Annabel, in welcoming your direct involvement.”
    “I’m glad I can be a part of it,” she said. “Ever since Carole—Mrs. Aprile—asked me to become involved, I’ve been reading more about Caravaggio. Not only a master, a controversial fellow as well.”
    Luther Mason laughed. “A gentle characterization from a gentle lady,” he said. “Just because Caravaggio was in the habit of killing people shouldn’t taint our opinion of him.”
    Until his death a dozen years ago, Roberto Longhi had been considered without peer as a Caravaggio scholar. At his passing, that appellation was passed to Sir Denis Mahon, although a growing number of unofficial judges of such things had come to view Mason as being, at least, on a par with Sir Denis. Mahon was in his late eighties; unless he possessed centenarian genes, Mason would find himself standing alone one day as Caravaggio scholar
par excellence
.
    There were, of course, dozens of others with a deep knowledge and appreciation of Caravaggio’s work. But they were bunched well behind in second place. Mahon and Mason had already crossed the finish line.
    Remembering Carole’s comment about her staffer’s report of a rift among the Gallery’s hierarchy, Annabel made it a point to observe the interplay between Whitney, Mason, and Bishop. There was a certain tension, she decided, but nothing overt. Paul Bishop’s responses to comments made by Mason tended to be curt, even gruff on occasion. But Bishop was gruff with everyone. And Whitney demonstrated at times what Annabel thought might be a patronizing patience with Mason. But on the whole, the Gallery’s director and his two senior curators acted like the busy professionals they were. At least that was Annabel’s perception.
    What she didn’t know—yet—was that Luther Mason disliked the new director intensely—“Oh, for the good old days of Carter