Wendy Hornsby - The Hanging

“Not Sly specifically, no. Clearly, Park had a favorite candidate; he lobbied us to select him. But we chose Sly.”

“Who did Holloway prefer?”

“Franz von Wilde. According to Park he’s a fairly well-established artist from the Santa Barbara area. He has a relationship with a reputable gallery on State Street and has had his work exhibited in some regional art museums. And of course, he had once been a student here.”

“Sly told me that Holloway wanted to display the work of a professional artist,” I said. “Was this von Wilde’s proposal to the committee of museum quality?”

“Frankly, I thought it was ordinary,” she said. “Derivative. Belonged in someone’s backyard spouting water. And I said so. But Park, well,” she smiled grimly, “he could have been a used-car salesman. He said that the committee was biased toward Sly, which was true, and that his only interest was in seeing that the decision was fairly reached.”

“The committee was biased,” I said. “Between you and Lew…”

She smiled. “And a few others. Sly made such a wonderful presentation to the committee. We fell in love with the way he incorporated history and geography into his artistry. His design belongs to this place as none of the others would. The work is not only beautiful, lyrically so, but there is whimsy.” She raised her hand toward the ceiling and inscribed the path of a flying dove. “There is definitely whimsy.”

“Is that coffee I smell?” Lew Kaufman shambled in. There was a new smear of something across his cheek. He selected the next-least-objectionable mug from among the collection on the counter and filled it from the pot. “So Bobbie, Maggie. What’s up?”

He carried his mug to the table, leaned down to kiss Bobbie’s proffered cheek, and left a terra-cotta streak behind; the Mark of Lew, I was beginning to think.

Bobbie thumbed the smear off her cheek. “I was just going to tell Maggie about something I learned this morning.”

“What’s that?” He slurped his coffee.

“You know that Park tried to get money from me last fall to buy the bronze bowling pin from Whatshisname if Sly…”

“Bombed?” Lew said. “Yeah. Franz von Wilde. Bullshit. When he was a student here his name was Frankie Weidermeyer. Putz.”

“You knew him?” Bobbie asked, taken aback. “You never told the committee.”

“Didn’t want you to think I was prejudiced.”

“But you were,” she said, smiling broadly.

“Sure, but not toward Weidermeyer. Back in the day, he took a few of my studio classes. I always thought he was more arts-and-crafts than fine arts; not top of the heap, talentwise, even there. But when your mommy owns a big gallery, I guess talent doesn’t matter so much.”

She repeated, “You never said.”

He laid a big stained hand on her shoulder. “Bobbie, I knew I didn’t need to. I trusted your good judgment.” He chuckled. “Did look like a big bronze bowling pin, didn’t it?”

“Well, hell.” She cocked her head to study his long, expressive face. After a moment, she said, “The thing is, Lew, I just learned that Park bought the bowling pin after all. That’s why he wanted to take down Sly’s work. He’s stuck with that ugly thing now. Probably embarrassed.”

Lew slammed a hand on the table, upsetting my mug. “Dammit,” he spat, rising to grab paper towels. “If there was ever someone who needed to be strung up by his balls, it’s that bastard. Of all the colossal gall.”

He mopped the table with paper toweling off a big roll and slam-dunked the sodden wad into a trash can. Still upset, he refilled my cup, nearly overfilling it when he looked away to speak to Bobbie.

“How the hell did he manage to come up with the money?”

“He went out on his own and raised it. Kate and I turned him down when he solicited us, but others wrote checks,” Bobbie said.

“Several others,” she added. “And he did it without going through the Foundation. David Dahliwahl had pledged money for an engineering scholarship. But when Joan Givens took tax forms to David, expecting him to give her a check, he told her that Park had already collected. In December.”

“Aha,” Lew said, catching my eye. “That’s what Joan wanted to talk to Park about after our meeting.”

“Could be,” I said.

I thought of the file she brought to the meeting and the papers she was laying in front of Holloway when the rest of us left. The Foundation was the only legitimate fund-raising organization on campus, and apparently Holloway had sidestepped them. Illegally.

Lew dropped back into his chair. “Who else did the bastard tap?”

“I made some calls for Joan,” Bobbie said.

Lew gestured for her to go on.

“Ruth Carlisle, Melvin Ng, and the Montemayors all gave checks to Park. There were others.”

Bobbie looked from me to Lew, making sure she had our attention, drawing out the drama a bit. “Park collected enough loot to buy that awful piece several times over. And none of it went through Foundation accounts.”

“Bastard,” Lew spat, happy, I thought, to have something more to hold against Holloway.

“I think we’ve established that,” I said. “What happens now?”

“Joan is taking what she has to the Board of Trustees,” Bobbie said. “I hope we can avoid legal action, but that will depend on Park’s response.”

I slid off into a sort of nether zone, thinking about a possible film project-Park Holloway-and didn’t hear what they said next. Lew called my name and brought me back into the grubby comforts of the faculty lounge.

I said, “Sorry. What?”

“I asked if you were finished for the day,” Lew said.

“Pretty soon.” I glanced at my watch. “In another hour the light should be right to film the stairwell.”

“Couldn’t it wait until Monday?”

I shook my head. “It’s supposed to rain again on Monday. This may be my last, best shot before the piece goes up next week.”

“You might run into Park,” Lew said.

I shrugged. “So what if I do?”

“Didn’t Sly say something this morning about taking a twelve-bore?”

“And didn’t I tell him to watch what he says?”

With the puzzle of Park Holloway on my mind, I went into my little office with about an hour to kill. Right away, I turned on my desk computer and Google-stalked him. There were over a hundred thousand Internet hits. Getting through them would take half a week, time I did not have.

Not so long ago, I would have called on my personal assistant, Fergie, to see what she could find, and Jack Flaherty in the network’s Archives and Research department to do the same. The two of them together could, and did more than once, find the proverbial needle in a haystack for me. But I had been severed from those resources.

When my series was canceled, my entire production unit at the network was laid off. I knew Fergie was still looking for a job, so I called her, hoping she had some time I could buy.

“How’s the job hunt going?” I asked her after we had established that we were both just fine, thank you.

“Oh, Maggie.” She burst into tears. “There’s nothing out there. I went to an interview this morning and there were thirty people filling out applications. For one half-time file clerk position.”

“Damn,” was all I could think to say.

“It’s hopeless.”

“Fergie,” I said, “I need some help doing background research. Would you be interested?”

After a pause, she asked, “For pay?”

“Of course.” I told her what I wanted. “Right now it’s just exploratory. Snooping actually. If we come up with something, I’ll go look for backing to make a film.”

“If there’s something to find, I’ll find it,” she said, sounding like my fierce assistant again instead of a defeated whelp. “And if you decide to make a film, you better hire me, boss.”