Murder at the National Gallery by Margaret Truman

Author:Margaret Truman [Truman, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-8041-5282-2
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2014-09-30T16:00:00+00:00

“What do you think?” Carole asked after Annabel had dropped the paper on the table. Annabel shrugged. “Maybe the good father was a disciple of John Dillinger, robbing the church because that’s where the money was. Sorry, Carole. Don’t mean to be flippant. It would be a shame for such a story to run in conjunction with the opening. But I don’t see any real damage to come from it, except to feed the skepticism of the already skeptical. If Father Giocondi had been the one to come forward with Grottesca, I would say the situation might be more serious. But Luther Mason was the one who found the painting in the church. With his credentials and credibility, the fact that the priest might have stolen something in the past, and was defrocked, doesn’t mean too much. At least that’s how I would respond, if we’re challenged by Time, or anyone.”

“I agree,” Carole said.

“Not only that, the experts who’ve examined it, with one or two minor exceptions—and even they haven’t ruled it out, just adopted a wait-and-see attitude—say it came from Caravaggio’s hand. No, I really don’t see any great harm from this, aside from having to explain it to another group of journalists who’ll want to follow up. Which means even bigger crowds, not to sound cynical.”

Carole Aprile sighed deeply, spread her hands on the table, and smiled. “You’ve made my evening, Annabel. I needed reassurance.”

“Of course, Carole, my first response could be conditioned by what I want to come of it. Mac always says a person’s hopes or wishes don’t make for perfect prophecy. Naturally, we’ll have to follow up. Do you intend to tell Court Whitney and Mason? Want me to do it?”

“Court has to be told, of course. I’ll give him a call in the morning. No sense injecting this sort of thing into a pleasant evening. Thanks for leaving that handsome hunk of a husband. Even for two minutes.”

“The old man does look stunning in a tuxedo, doesn’t he?” Annabel said, her voice cheerful. Both women wore evening dresses they’d purchased at Claire Dratch’s boutique on Connecticut Avenue, Annabel’s of guipure lace the color of sandstone, Carole’s dress a pale-blue silk.

“Let’s get downstairs before we’re missed,” said Carole.

If the Italian contingent to the party expected the White House to do what the National Gallery had done at its first black-tie dinner—create a menu to honor their ethnic tradition in food—they were to be disappointed. Few knew that Vice President Aprile’s dislike of pasta rivaled George Bush’s hatred of broccoli. It could have created an international incident if it got out, to say nothing of a serious drop in pasta sales, so popular was the VP. They dined on watercress soup with sesame seeds, roast tenderloin of beef in a truffle sauce, tiny roasted potatoes, haricots verts and baby carrots, and a mixed green salad with herb dressing. Lime sorbet with a wine mousse, fresh raspberries, and cookies constituted dessert. Accompanying the meal were three wines:

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