The Blood of Art

By John A. MacEachern

The Blood of Art is an international thriller based on a young man, Tom Adams, from Appalachia finding a valuable work of art hidden between the walls of a house he is renovating. When he takes it to America's largest and most prominent gallery specializing in early American art he find gallery founder and philanthopist , Robert Creighton, bludgeoned to death behind his desk. Meanwhile, Maunders, a disfiggured and handicapped loner, living in a one room walk up flat on the Lower East Side of Manhattan finds himself fencing stolen fine art for the New york Mafia to the wealthiest and influential leaders in the world, including to a couple of senior officials in the U.S. government.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483551968

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The door was ajar as Tom knocked and slowly opened it, only to find in the spacious office a massive amount of blood splatter on the wall and floor-to-ceiling window behind the large Early American pine desk. He was shocked at seeing an outstretched hand lying on the floor behind the desk. A bloodied fire axe had been carelessly thrown into the corner of the room.

Having checked in at reception, Tom Adams had walked resolutely through the gallery with a large painting under his arm wrapped in butcher paper and duct tape. He was heading directly to the office of philanthropist, gallery founder and lifetime curator Robert Creighton. It was the fall of 1967 and the gallery had just reopened after undergoing some very costly and controversial renovations.

Over the past couple of years as a waiter at Hobos, Tom had come to know and admire the aging curmudgeon for his incredible knowledge of early American art, which Tom knew absolutely nothing about, his philanthropic generosity and his incredible business sense, which made his art gallery the top attended gallery in all of the U.S., with the lowest operating costs. Tom had waited on the founder many times, so many times that when he saw Mr. Creighton coming through the door he ordered the gallery owner’s usual drink: a double Perfect Manhattan, well chilled, served straight up in a frosted, stemmed glass garnished with two maraschino cherries. Many times the drink would be waiting for Mr. Creighton when he arrived at his table. Tom had called the gallery owner that morning.

Mr. Creighton? he asked, surprised that the director answered his own phone, and his executive assistant, Janice Sweetman, had not picked up the line first. It’s Tom Adams from Hobos.

Yes, Tom, what can I do for you?

I’ve found a painting between the walls of the old farmhouse I’m renovating, and I was wondering if you would care to look at it and see if it is worth anything.

Is it signed?

Yeah, it’s pretty faint, but I think that it says John Singer Sargent, whoever he is.

Well, my son, I don’t want to get your hopes up, but if you have a John Singer Sargent I’ll give you a million bucks, said the gallery owner with a cynical chuckle. But yes, I’ll be happy to have a look at it. When do you want to bring it over?

After the lunch crowd. Maybe between three and four.

Okay, just come directly to my office after you check in at the desk. I’ll tell them, as well as Janice, to expect you. See you then. And he hung up.

* * *

The Creighton American Collection of Art had over the past two years undergone a huge thirty-two-million-dollar renovation that caused great national furor and debate because of the gigantic cost overruns and the shoddy treatment shown to the founders, Robert and Sonya Creighton. The Creightons had spent a lifetime collecting early American art, specializing in the Impressionists and their contemporaries at the turn of the twentieth century. They had given their entire collection of over 300 priceless works, as well as their sprawling estate, Breagh in Riverport, just outside of Cambridge, to the people of Massachusetts. Like many small American towns, Riverport had a seamy side to it with many secrets kept between its inhabitants. There were constantly changing rumors of who was sleeping with whom, and the stories included every stratum of the local society, from garage mechanics and bank tellers to Harvard professors, and both genders and their sexual preferences were not spared.

A few provisos, in return for their gift, were that the Creightons be allowed to live in Breagh until their death, and they were also to sit on the board of directors with complete veto powers over other board members, as well as act as lifelong curators of the gallery. At the early age of fifty-six, Sonya Creighton developed breast cancer, and in spite of every treatment known to man, available to her due to Robert’s incredible wealth, she only lasted twenty months before dying in her beloved Robert’s arms at Breagh.

Twenty years after the gallery had been gifted to the State, the Department of the Interior unceremoniously closed it for renovations. The gallery had now amassed over 2,500 works of art through Robert’s continuous efforts to persuade collectors to donate their full collections or individual pieces for federal income tax receipts. In 1949 Robert Creighton had singlehandedly lobbied Congress and the president to introduce and eventually pass Bill 178, better known as the American Art Donors’ Act, or The Creighton Bill, which allowed American citizens to donate their artwork to federally funded art galleries in return for a full income tax receipt, and the amount, if not used up in one year, would be carried over for the number of years it took to finish the full amount of the credit.

In 1966, with only seven days notice, the Creightons had been unceremoniously evicted from their modest apartment in the gallery, which caused an outcry across the nation at this incredible indignity suffered by America’s favorite philanthropists. It could not have come at a worse time since Sonya had just been diagnosed with cancer. Numerous factors had come together, from a power-hungry board, art critics, and state and federal politicians who wanted to get the votes and fundraising efforts of the deep pockets of the art collectors. The outcry from millions of Americans of every stripe, color and creed at the way the country’s most popular philanthropists were being treated was so loud the president could no longer stand the heat from the press, and he ordered his secretary of the interior, James Blount, to reinstate the Creightons to their former positions on the board, restore them to their positions as curators, and move them back into their home.

This prompted a press release from architect Irving Meltz and contractor Mark Connell stating that the return of the Creightons would increase costs to the project and that they could not take responsibility for the safety and well-being of the couple. The board of directors resigned en masse, with the exception of board chair Cicely Thornton, who had assumed the chair’s position only months before the Creightons were returned. The other directors saw their authority over the gallery had been expunged just after they had worked so very hard, behind closed doors, to get rid of the Creightons.

Cicely Thornton, although not pleased with the executive order, decided it would be better to stay on to complete her long-term goals, and she also thought it wise to give up her chair on the board to Robert Creighton, to whom she reluctantly pledged her continued support.

The presidential order did not please the art intelligentsia, which had been embarrassed over the years by the gallery’s success, especially when they thought it was run by a businessman who, in their opinion, had no understanding of fine art.

Janice Sweetman had been the Creightons’ executive assistant from the time they had opened up their summer home, Breagh, to the public. She was responsible for creating and promoting educational school tours as well as the hugely popular Art in the Park programs on weekends, when throughout the sprawling grounds people could learn from some of America’s finest artists, weather permitting. Concerts were also featured every Sunday. There was a very modest fee of two dollars per person, and seniors and children under twelve got in free. All expenses not covered by the admission fees were taken care of by the Creighton Foundation. The gallery was staffed by an army of docents, ground personnel, building maintenance and security, generally local people from the neighboring village of Riverport overlooking the picturesque Charles River.

* * *

The executive assistant was not at her desk, and Tom had noticed that the door to the founder’s office was slightly ajar.

Now he looked behind the desk and found the lifeless, battered corpse of Robert Creighton. He set his painting down on the floor, leaning it up against a chair, ran out into the gallery and yelled to a startled docent.

Help. Call the police. I think Mr. Creighton has been murdered … call security.

At this point, the docent, Sandy Gordon, pulled her walkie-talkie off her belt and relayed the message to the desk and the security office while she and Tom hurried back to the founder’s office and gingerly peeked behind the desk. There were bone fragments and what appeared to be pinkish brain matter on the wall, and chunks of them had hit the floor-to-ceiling picture window, along with massive spurts of blood that had pulsed out of a severed jugular. The blows were so severe that Creighton’s glasses had flown across the floor and were staring out the same window that commanded a most magnificent view of the valley and the meandering Charles River. This was not a simple murder, if any murder could be considered simple. It was clearly a slaughter caused by pure hatred.

Visitors would often comment that the view from the window was as beautiful and as peaceful as any painting in the gallery. The spectacles were the only witness to the two scenes: the murder and the scenery. Sandy sat down on the chair where Tom’s picture was leaning, her head bowed, shaking.

Head of security Brian Burke suddenly appeared at the door, and after surveying the grisly scene for himself, he had Tom and Sandy escorted to his office until the police turned up. It seemed like only a couple of minutes before the Riverport police arrived at the scene. Everyone was asked to leave the office and a ribbon of yellow police tape was tacked across the door. Janice Sweetman’s desk and phone became command central as phone calls were made to the Cambridge Police department and the Massachusetts State Police since the Riverport police did not have a homicide division and basically covered traffic and parking violations and minor break-and-enters.

Two homicide detectives eventually arrived from the nearby Cambridge detachment of the State Troopers, accompanied by a number of crime scene investigators who busied themselves photographing every aspect of the scene and fingerprinting what seemed like every inch of the desk, including two used coffee mugs, the telephone and the massive windows. One gloved investigator gingerly picked up the axe and placed it in a plastic evidence bag, along with other items of interest.

They took Tom and Sandy to different rooms and questioned them separately and extensively about who found what, where and when. When Sandy was released by her interrogator and just as she opened the office door to leave, the stretcher carrying Mr. Creighton’s body in a large burgundy body bag was wheeled past. Tom was asked to go with the police for further questioning at the Cambridge police station.

I already told you that I had called Mr. Creighton and asked him if he would look at a painting I found. He said to bring it over between three and four, which I did. Listen, can I call work? I’m supposed to be working a double and I’m obviously going to be late for the dinner shift.

Yeah, go ahead, answered the detective.

After dialing Hobos, Tom asked to speak to his manager, Jack Souster. Jack, it`s Tom. I’m at the Cambridge police station. I don’t know if you heard, but Mr. Creighton has been murdered and I discovered the body.

What the hell? I had a meeting with him this morning and he was fine. What happened? What does Janice have to say?

She’s isn’t here, but I’m calling you because the police are questioning me and I won’t be there in time for my shift.

Not a problem. If you need a lawyer, I know a good one in Binghamton. It’s funny Janice wasn’t there, Souster said. She was there this morning, ’cause she served us coffee.

No, I won’t need a lawyer. I didn’t do anything.

Tom hung up and the questioning continued for another half an hour before the police let him go, only after checking out aspects of his alibi, such as the time he checked in at the reception desk and the estimated time of death of the victim, which they had received from the coroner.

Okay, you’re free to go. I’ll have a squad car take you back to the gallery, where you can pick up your car, said the detective.

Can I get into the gallery to pick up the painting I left in Mr. Creighton’s office?

What painting? There was no painting left there; we cleaned out every piece of evidence in that room and the only paintings that are still there are hanging on the wall.

I left it leaning up against a chair. It was wrapped in brown paper. You can ask Sandy, the guide.

Nope, never saw it.

As they arrived at the gallery gates, they were waved through a myriad of television trucks, one from each network, as well as a number of Boston and Cambridge radio stations. When they reached the gallery parking lot at the end of the long, wooded, weaving driveway, they found themselves in the middle of a group of forensic vehicles, police cars and vehicles from the Massachusetts coroner’s office and two Boston homicide vehicles. Tom and his two escorts were guided to the murder scene, where Tom pointed out exactly where he had left his painting. He happened to glance at the wall to the right of Robert Creighton’s desk and noticed that a painting had been removed.

Look at that wall, he said. There used to be a painting there as well. The hook is still in the wall and you can see the mark of the outline of the frame on the wall.

What was it of? asked the officer.

I don’t know, I think it was blue but I honestly can’t remember.

What was yours of?

It was a bunch of guys a long time ago when they cut wheat by hand with sickles, sitting around taking a rest amongst some wheat sheaves. It was signed by John Singer Sargent and dated 1885. I described it to Mr. Creighton over the phone and he said it was worth millions if it was really a John Singer Sargent. That’s why I brought it to him to see, but he never got to see it.

Where did you get it?

I bought the old Dempster property at the edge of town for back taxes, and I was starting to fix it up. When I tore down a wall, there was this painting.

You mean you found it in that old shack?

Yep.

Well, I’ll put it in my report, but good luck. With all the people crawling over this place, there’s no telling where it might have gotten to. Okay, let’s get you back to your car and let’s get out of here.

CHAPTER TWO

Robert Henry Creighton was born in 1890, which made him seventy-six at the time of his murder in 1967. He was raised by his single mother in the Ironbound area of Newark, New Jersey, better known as The Neck. His father had left them when he was two years old, and he was an only child. Robert was the pride and joy of his mother Colleen, who was of Irish descent. They lived in a small one-bedroom apartment in a small four-plex of wooden construction — a pure firetrap. Colleen worked at a local bakery, where she would go in at five in the morning with Robert still asleep in his little bundle bag, and Colleen would start baking the bread for the day. After she was finished letting the bread rise a second time she would put the pans in the large ovens, at which time the owner would come in and take over. Colleen, with Robert in tow, would then go two doors down the street to work the produce area of the local grocery store and relieve on cash. As Robert got older he was looked after by Mrs. Cardwell, an aging widow who was loved by everyone on the street.

Sundays were reserved for attendance at St. Stephen’s Cathedral, where Colleen played the organ, and then home to try her hand at watercolors, if she could find the time. Robert got his appreciation of art and music from his mother. Ironbound was a rough neighborhood that got its name from the fact that it was surrounded by railroad tracks and was just east of Pennsylvania Station.

There were also many foundries and forges in the area, and as Robert entered his teen years, even though he was tempted to join a number of gangs, he was devoutly loyal to his mother and soon got a job picking up scrap metal for Charlie Scant, a large scrap metal dealer. Shortly after the Depression, without graduating from high school, Robert started his own scrap metal business and auto wrecking yard. By the 1940s, Robert had parlayed his business into the largest auto wrecking company in America, with wrecking yards in almost every major city in the country. An offshoot of this enterprise was his towing business, which he was able to get most police departments to use whenever there was an accident and a tow was required. He was favored by the police because he was the largest contributor to the American Police Association’s Benevolent Fund, which helped widows and children of police officers who had been killed in the line of duty. Cars were automatically towed to his wrecking yards until arrangements could be made to have them towed to a collision specialist who was on the Creighton payroll or left with Creighton’s Auto Wreckers for parts. Once a vehicle was in the grasp of Creighton Towing’s clutches, big money was made.

Robert had met his wife, Sonya Jensen, at a party thrown by a mutual friend. He was instantly attracted to her tall, blonde, statuesque figure, and he soon discovered she had received her Master’s degree from the fine arts department of Vassar College. At the time, she was apprenticing as an art appraiser for Sotheby’s of London’s New York office. Robert knew, thanks to his mother, enough about art that he was able to hold his own in a conversation with Sonya, and his spunk intrigued her. She was fully aware of his lack of education but was enthralled with his moxie and his energetic approach to life. His basic knowledge of art and his thirst to learn more endeared him to her. Although he was barely five foot nine with freckles and auburn hair, there was something about Robert that caught Sonja’s attention. He was extremely successful in his business and he just swept me off my feet, she would later confide in an interview. They eventually purchased a large tract of land just outside of Riverport, Massachusetts, which they named Breagh or Beautiful in Gaelic.

They had a son, Carsten, whose name was soon shortened to C.C. He lived a storied life, having been raised by numerous nannies and sent to the finest prep schools. He did not let his parents down and eventually ended up with a Ph.D. in chemical engineering from MIT, marrying his long-time sweetheart Charlotte Webber, a striking debutante of the Newport, Rhode Island, social scene. Charlotte had been the captain of Vassar’s field hockey team and president of the student union. She was very ambitious and would not let anything get in the way of attaining her goals. C.C. was her ticket to eventually inheriting one of the world’s great art collections.

C.C.’s brilliance was not lost on the Chief Executive Officer of Cardiff Chemicals, and after a few short years he was chosen to become the director of research at the head office in Wilmington, Delaware. Robert was very proud of C.C. and particularly pleased at his selection of Charlotte as a wife. Her status in society brought Robert into a class of people he had always envied, something, being a product of The Neck, he thought he would never be able to achieve. He was now in with the movers and the shakers. He also was very attracted to Charlotte in a way he thought was not becoming a father-in-law and made a mental note that his infatuation with her must not be obvious to others, especially to her, although this did not prevent him from teasing her with little flirtatious winks, which she returned with a playful pucker. C.C. disregarded these little gestures between Charlotte and his father, thinking it was wonderful that Charlotte was truly welcomed by his parents. Life for Robert Creighton could not have been better.

* * *

Tom Adams was a mountain boy from the hills of Kentucky. He was born in a holler just a couple of miles outside of Buckhorn, which was in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains, 28 miles from Hazard and 17 miles from Booneville. His mother, Jean, had been a Tolliver, and his father Seth’s family had been living in the area for generations. Seth had hurt his back coal mining so he picked up small, light jobs and Jean cleaned houses and did laundry to help cover the daily living costs.

Their home was extremely modest; half of it was the original log cabin that great-great-grandfather Tolliver built when he settled there in the 1850s. It was on a dusty and sometimes muddy dirt road, but their home was always welcoming, and neighbors would often walk a mile or so on a Friday or Saturday night to bring out the guitars and banjos for some great bluegrass music and to have a few swills of Seth’s grandfather’s recipe, a family tradition Seth continued by slowly cooking the mash out in the still hidden in a shed in the woods a good distance from the house. They were fine, God-fearing people and did not deserve the moniker white trash, but it came with the territory of being poor mountain folk.

Tom and his younger sister, Mary-Ellen, went to a nearby one-room school and were excellent students. They enjoyed school since it was an escape from the chores around the house and the life of continual financial hardship. Tom’s pride and joy was the family Bluetick Coonhound, Babe. Tom could remember back to the days when he was a toddler and the numerous Blueticks his father always had for hunting. When he and Mary-Ellen would come home from school, Babe would bay incessantly, wanting one of them to take him out for a run in the hope of chasing down a racoon, squirrel, possum or some other critter he could tree.

Tom and Mary-Ellen eventually graduated from their little school and were bused to the consolidated high school in Booneville. Their biggest ambition was to make something of themselves. They shared their dreams about getting a job in Hazard or working as a librarian in Booneville, and as much as they loved their parents, they did not want to live what they saw as a treadmill life of perpetual poverty. Tom’s science teacher suggested that Tom apply to Berea College, about seventy miles from Buckhorn. It was a unique school in that it catered to the impoverished people of Appalachia. Tom certainly met the educational requirement to get in, and, after taking a financial means test, it was determined that he qualified for entrance to the school without having to pay any tuition. In turn he would have to work at various jobs at the school, for which he would get credit equal to his educational marks and cover his room and board. It was there that Tom met the love of his life, Sissy Skaggs.

Tom was in his senior year and Sissy had just entered as a freshman. She came from just outside of Pikeville at the far end of the well-forested Hart Hollow Road. She was sitting in a corner of the school cafeteria quietly humming an old mountain tune while reading a letter her momma had sent her and looked up to see Tom standing in front of her.

Nice tune. What is it? Mind if I join you? he said in a string of questions as he sat down, not waiting for an answer to his last question.

No, not at all, she replied. It’s a Jean Ritchie song called ‘Golden Ring Around the Susan Girl’. It’s an old mountain tune with a nice melody and a good beat. I like it a lot.

You’ve got a beautiful voice. Do you sing often? Tom said as he admired her shiny, coal-black hair that fell down to the middle of her back, the sun streaming through the window picking up light blue highlights. It was kept back by an old, faded green velvet band that was showing its frayed age.

"Yeah, I always seem to have a tune going on in my head at some time or another, and it just seems to flow. Makes me happy, ’specially at times like this when I