“Whose idea was that?”
“It was yours, Mr. Anderson,” Perrin said. She folded her hands on top of a manila folder that lay on the table directly in front of her. She tried to appear calm but didn’t quite manage it.
“Since when did you start listening to me?” Anderson said.
From the spelling of his name, I knew Anderson was Norwegian, which made him part of a dwindling minority. Used to be you couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting a Norwegian around here. Not so much anymore. While Minnesota’s population is still essentially white and Northern European, the number of our Asian, Hispanic, and African residents is increasing steadily. That has annoyed some people, mostly politicians, who have demanded that the cops conduct “immigration stops” to make sure they’re all here legally, Minnesota Nice be damned. On the other hand, the food is better.
“Can we get on with it, please?” asked one of the more serious members.
“For the benefit of Mr. McKenzie,” Perrin said, “I will introduce each member of the board.”
She went around the room. Everyone was a mister, everyone was a prominent something or other. When she reached Anderson, he said, “Geezuz, Stewart,” and made a big production out of looking at his watch. “I need to get back to the office.”
Finally Perrin reached the sixth man.
“Mr. Randolph Fiegen,” she said.
Fiegen was in his late fifties and elegantly dressed. He reminded me of Donald Trump in that he sported the most elaborate and artful comb-over that I had ever seen. Certainly he had that look of contempt on his face that some people get when they’ve been ordering people around for a long time. He didn’t give Perrin a chance to add any accolades.
“I think I speak for all of us when I thank you for agreeing to help us, Mr. McKenzie,” he said.
“I didn’t agree to anything yet.”
“Oh?” Fiegen’s sad, cold eyes regarded me carefully. “I was under the impression that you had. You see, the future of this fine museum may very well hang in the balance.”
“How so?” I asked.
Fiegen spread his hands wide. “For a young institution like ours,” he said, “reputation is everything.”
“How does this work?” I asked. “Who owns the museum?”
“City of Lakes is a nonprofit organization,” Perrin said. “By definition, we do not have private owners, and while we are able to earn a profit, or, more accurately, a surplus, none of the moneys are paid out to shareholders. Instead, such earnings are retained by the museum for our self-preservation.”
“Bullshit,” Anderson said. “We own it. When I say we, I mean the board of trustees, because we’re the ones that’ll be picking up the tab should this place fail. Right now there are forty-seven members on the board. You become a trustee when you contribute half of seven figures or better to the museum, except for the mayor of Minneapolis, two state senators, and a couple members of the state house who are honorary members. The trustees elected the six of us to serve three-year terms on the executive board. I should point out that we all ran unopposed. No one else wanted the job. Madam Executive Director here was hired by the executive board to oversee the day-to-day operation of the museum. She serves at our pleasure. How’s that working out, by the way?”
Perrin didn’t reply, although, from the look she gave Anderson, I thought it fortunate that the formidable conference table lay between them.
“Calm yourself, Derek,” Fiegen said. To me he added, “Derek enjoys comporting himself in an insouciant manner. Clearly it is a facade.”
Anderson smirked. I might have, too, if only I had known what “insouciant” meant.
“Tell me how the Lily was stolen,” I said.
“Is that necessary?” Perrin said.
“It’ll give me an idea of who I am dealing with,” I said.
Anderson rubbed his hands together. “This is my favorite part,” he said.
Perrin scrunched up her face, and for a moment she looked less like Heidi Klum and more like Margaret Hamilton, who played the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz. She unscrunched and started speaking slowly and carefully, as if she were afraid I might ask her to repeat something. She started by saying that the City of Lakes Art Museum had the most sophisticated electronic security system available; that it had been thoroughly vetted and updated just six months earlier. Anderson had a nice laugh at that, but Perrin continued.
“A forced-entry theft or a smash and grab, I believe that is what it is called, is virtually impossible now,” she said. “The crime was an inside job.”
“They usually are,” I said.
