Page 31 of The Librarians
“A bit convenient, don’t you think, just when the police come knocking?”
Hazel crosses her feet at the ankles. “In that case, it would have been far more convenient for me to have gone with him and be out of the country too.”
Detective Chu takes another sip of his coffee—and finally bends forward to add sugar and cream to the remaining brew in his cup. He stirs it with an antique silver spoon, part of a set of twelve, a family heirloom from the Georgian era that Hazel’s mother-in-law received from her own mother-in-law upon her wedding to Kit’s father.
I don’t know about the luck attached to those spoons, Hazel’s mother had commented in private, as Kit’s parents are not only divorced but acrimoniously divorced.
Hazel shrugged.It’s their tradition. You have to let people keep their traditions.
Now she wonders whether her mother was right and the gift was tainted with the senior Asquiths’ marital failure.
Or maybe she is trying to deflect blame elsewhere, and even a set of spoons will do for a scapegoat.
“Ms. Lee, I hope you understand that these are extremely serious charges,” Detective Chu begins again, fortified by less bitter coffee.
She makes no reply, waiting for him to go on.
“Explain to me again what he does.”
“He is an art dealer. He has two art galleries, one on Lock Road, the other in Soho, in London.” Words dribble from her lips, a listless trickle of syllables—she sounds like a street vendor at the end of the day, too tired to hawk her wares anymore. “He sells art that he acquires, or sometimes on commission, depending on the preference of the artist. He works with museums and corporations, connecting them to emerging artists or older works that have been overlooked. He also works for an art investment fund.”
The one he stole from, apparently.
“He is properly credentialed for this line of work?”
“He has a postgraduate degree in art history and experience working at both the Tate Modern in London and the Museum of Modern Art in New York—if those are what you would consider proper credentials.”
Detective Chu’s lips slant—maybe he heard a rebuke in her sluggish reply. Who knows, maybe she intended one, too.
“Have you ever been to his galleries?”
“Yes, both.”
“Did you not notice the scarce foot traffic?”
“Art galleries are not grocery stores or movie theaters. Foot traffic is not how one judges their success or lack thereof. A large portion of sales can take place in the back rooms, or by catering to the tastes of art collectors who may never set foot inside a showroom.”
Now she sounds like the audio track for a self-guided tour, giving out a string of archaeological details.
“My husband has always appeared busy. He always has calls to take and travels to arrange. And he has always paid into our pool for household expenses promptly—and bought me gifts and holidays.”
“You are not acquainted with the actual financials of his enterprises?”
She shakes her head, too weary to be going over everything yet again. “I believe I’ve mentioned that our prenuptial agreement specifically precludes that.”
“And you and your family allowed it?”
She deliberately sat with her back to the sunrise, but even the light sweeping across the policeman’s face sears her vision. She blinks, which somehow only makes her eyes feel grittier.
“He and his family allowed much more, if that is your line of reasoning. My grandfather’s lawyers drafted the document, which bars my husband from not only touching my inheritance but also any involvement in any Kuang family holding or venture. It did not seem terribly unreasonable, then, for him to ask that I and my family also stay out of his business. I know my grandfather gladly agreed to it and even commended my then-fiancé’s attitude, which he gauged as cooperative without being obsequious.”
“What did your husband think of the document?”
She desperately wants to rub her eyes but forces her hands to remain still on the armrests. “He thought it was par for the course—no man marries Bartholomew Kuang’s granddaughter without such a document, especially if he’s a foreigner.”
“He is considered some sort of a relation, though, is he not? And your union an example of intermarriage upon intermarriage?”
This is at least a new question. Perhaps as his subordinates searched fruitlessly, the detective read up on Hazel and her husband to greater depths.
