“Did you take the melatonin like I told you?” My mother had become one of those people who believed melatonin was the answer to all the world’s problems, even if it wasn’t sleep or stress related. She also felt that way about hydration and a good book. Panaceas all.
“I will,” I lied. There was no way to ease into the out-of-the-blue discussions, so I plunged in. “Mom, the reason I’m calling is because I’ve run into a bit of a situation here in Paris. It’s professional, but it’s also personal.” The last thing I wanted to tell my mother was that the Panthéon Sketches had been stolen from my hotel room. The maternal freak-out factor would be too much for me to take at the moment; plus, she was someone who had schlepped a lot of artwork in her time and never lost a piece, so I fudged the details. “Remember that I told you the potential buyer of the Panthéon Sketches was a possible acquaintance. Well, I still don’t have all the details, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure that the buyer is a guy named Peter Beckman. He used to be in a band called the Ravens. I think you and Dad knew him. I’ve had some . . . communication with him that I need to ask you about. Does that name ring a bell?”
Is there a silence that is deader than dead silence? A hollow silence? An echoing silence? Because the void on the other side of the phone line was palpable, like my mother had dropped off the planet and was drifting in deep space. “Mom? Are you there? Are you okay?”
I heard breathing but no words for another half minute. Then my mother, the iconic Suzi Clements Blakely, the definition of American cool, calm, and collected, sounded off in a string of expletives I didn’t even know she had in her vocabulary before putting the phone back up to her mouth. “I can’t talk about this over the phone.”
“What? What can’t you talk about?”
“It’s, it’s . . . ,” she stuttered. “I have a lot of anger toward him. He really, really let me down when I lost your father. He could have called. He owed me, that’s all I’ll say. He really owed me, and he didn’t deliver. I can tell you all about it when you get home, but not over the phone.”
“Mom, I’m in a little bit of a time bind. As I said, it’s a situation—and not a good one. He is holding on to the sketches and refusing to return them, so I need to secure payment. Or lose my job. His behavior seems to be connected to his relationship with Dad somehow. Maybe even you. I need your help.” The Daughter Card ought to get her to open up. I hadn’t asked for help in years. “Who is this guy to you?”
More silence, then my mother spoke in a collected voice. “Peter Beckman was, is . . . like a bright burning firework, you couldn’t take your eyes off him. He was magnetic. Onstage and off.” Oh, God. Maybe I don’t want to hear about my mother’s relationship with this guy, I thought. “He was very close to your father, at times like a son or brother to him. But he could be very destructive and hurtful to those around him. Your father was so patient with him, so supportive. He got him sober, kept him clean, seemed at times to put him ahead of, well, us even. You and me. Peter used to suck your father in. They had similar backgrounds, both with very restrictive religious parents that messed with their heads. Both were artists who could get totally lost in the work. Both had substance issues. Both wicked smart.”
“What do you mean that he let you down? How?”
“Your father was a good, good friend to Peter Beckman. He even testified at some ridiculous trial for him as a character witness. Beckman was drunk and out of control on a plane and destroyed a drink cart or something. Not only was he thrown off the plane but he was thrown in jail, and your dad was there for him. He missed our anniversary once to go see this guy in jail after he’d been sentenced. But when your father died, I never heard one thing from him. Not one. I could have used . . . his support. He owed me that.” My mother wasn’t a scorekeeper; she didn’t tally up who did what and when. Instead, she welcomed people into her life when they were there and wished them well when they ventured off. She was forever introducing people she hadn’t seen in twenty years like they were the best of friends in each other’s lives every day. It was a quality I admired. I was surprised that Peter Beckman’s alleged snub was even an issue. Maybe she was more conscious in the aftermath of my father’s death than I had given her credit for. “It hurt.”
I paused because her pain was real. Then said gently, “But he did reach out, Mom. Those letters you stockpiled, my grad student Kiandra found a bunch of letters that I believe are from him. You’d never opened them. Did he call you ‘Suzannah’?” There was a sharp intake of air from my mother, answering my question. “And did he sign his letters with a drawing of a black bird, a raven?”
“Yes.” Disbelief.
“Well, he wrote six times over two years. In these letters, he claims he has something of Dad’s.” I had seen the scans of the emails that Kiandra had sent. They were legit even if the details were vague.
“I can’t believe it. All these years, I thought . . .” She drifted off and then, “He wrote letters? What kind of nonsense is that? I have a phone.”
“From what I can tell, he seems like a bit of a drama queen. Prefers complicated to clean. Fair to say?”
“That’s an understatement. What does he have of Henry’s?”
“I can’t say for sure. I’m not trying to be mysterious. His, um, writing style is obtuse on purpose. But I think it may be Dad’s notebooks. At least some of them. Or pages of them.” There, it was out. For a second, I thought my mother might question my sanity, because, honestly, what rational reason could there be for him having all those notebooks?
“Oh, Joanie. Really?” My mother softened considerably. Her voice filled with hope, as I knew it would. Damn, I thought, this guy better have at least one notebook. “How do you know? Are you sure? How is that possible? It’s possible, right?”
“I guess so. Somehow. I’m supposed to meet him tomorrow.” I didn’t add “if he reads Polly’s blog” or “if he shows” because the whole tale was too long and too sordid. I was dying to tell her about Jacques and the hairdresser, and about Nate, of course. But I had to stay focused. “Is there anything else I should know about Peter Beckman, Mom? I don’t want any surprises, because there is a lot on the line for me at work with this transaction. And if he does have the notebooks, I want to be . . .”—What? What did I want?—“. . . solid in my approach. Something’s not a hundred percent aboveboard with him.”
“He’s a romantic.” Not the answer I was expecting. I was thinking more psychopath or narcissist. My mother explained, “When he was sober, he was a true romantic. And when he wasn’t, he was even worse, darkly romantic, theatrical, in deep all the time. I don’t know what else I can tell you. It’s been such a long time. Listen to his music. He’s in there.”
My mother’s voice ended on an up note, like she was going to say something else but decided against it.
Oh no. Don’t make me say it. But I had to. “Mom, I have to ask, did anything ever happen between the two of you?”
“Joanie, I can’t talk about this over the phone.”
My phone rang again. I felt like I’d slept for about four minutes with a vise screwed to my head. “Mom? What is it?”
“It’s not Mom. It’s Mike.” I checked the clock. I’d actually slept for four hours, so it was late in Los Angeles but a reasonable time in Paris. “Sorry to call so early, but I want to make sure I understood your texts.”
“You’re right. I’ve owed you a call. I didn’t know what to say because there were so many loose ends.”
Mike didn’t need details. “Where are we now? I have to let the museum know first thing tomorrow LA time that the sketches are gone. I can’t keep this from them any longer than that.”
“I know. Here’s what I can tell you. I think I know who has the sketches and it’s personal. Like, very personal. I’m going to need you to check someone out.”
“Who?”
“A guy named Peter Beckman. But let me give you some background first . . .”
From PasadenaMeetsParis