from back in September, the cursive slanted and mannered. “Dear Mr. Tishman,” it began. So Cecily had kept, for two months, a letter addressed personally to him. It was dated after he’d been hired but before he’d begun the job. Had Bill passed it to her? And now she was throwing this at him with a day’s notice. Yale would tell Charlie about it when he got home. Righteous anger was a reliable way to break the chill. It continued:
My husband was Dr. David Lerner, Northwestern class of 1912. He passed in 1963, after military service, a medical degree from Johns Hopkins, and a career in oncology. He spoke fondly of his time as a Wildcat and wished to do something for the school, a fact I’ve kept in mind as I’ve planned my estate. My grandniece, Fiona Marcus, encouraged me to contact you, and I hope this letter finds you well. I understand the Brigg Gallery to be building a permanent collection.
This was the aunt, then, that Fiona was talking about last night. The coincidence of it unsettled him. That she should mention it months after the letter was sent, and it would instantly land on his desk. Would Teddy Naples land on his desk now, too, conjured from Fiona’s drunken mind?
I am in possession of a number of pieces of modern art, most dating from the early 1920s. The paintings, sketches, and line drawings include works by Modigliani, Soutine, Pascin, and Foujita. These have never been exhibited, nor have they been in any collection but my own; they were obtained directly from the artists. I’m afraid I have no paperwork on the pieces, but I can personally vouch for their authenticity. In all, I have around twenty pieces that might interest you, as well as some corresponding artifacts.
I am in poor health and cannot travel, but wish to meet with someone who can speak to how these pieces would be cared for. I am concerned that they find a home in which they’ll be exhibited, appreciated, and preserved. I invite you to visit me here in Wisconsin, and hope we may correspond regarding a date for meeting.
With warmest regards,
Nora Marcus Lerner
(Mrs. David C. Lerner, Northwestern ’12)
Yale squinted at the paper. “Obtained directly from the artists” was a little suspect. The men Nora Lerner had listed were not, for the most part, ones who hawked their own paintings on street corners to visiting Americans. And this could be a logistical nightmare. Proving authenticity on any one piece—with no paperwork, no catalog listings—might take years. This woman would need to get everything authenticated before it could be appraised for her taxes, and it would either turn out to be junk, or she’d realize how much she was giving away and change her mind. In Yale’s last months at the Art Institute, a man was set to donate a Jasper Johns (numbers stacked in a glorious mess of primary colors), until he learned the current value of the piece and his daughter convinced him to will it to her instead. Yale was a development guy, not an art guy, or at least he wasn’t supposed to be an art guy, but he had let himself fall in love with that painting. He knew better. Farmers shouldn’t name their animals. But then, the whole reason he’d taken this job was the chance to build something on his own. He ought to be thrilled.
A small, cowardly part of him hoped he’d get up to Door County and find that the pieces were such obvious forgeries that Northwestern could refuse the gift. Better, in some ways, than finding a plausible van Gogh, an invitation to heartbreak. But no, it didn’t make a difference, really, what he found. He’d have to bend over backward for this woman even if these pieces were traced out of an art book, just so he wouldn’t offend an endowment case.
The rest of the file did little to clarify things. There were further letters, far more tedious, about meeting times, and someone in Cecily’s office had assembled a dossier on the Lerners. David Lerner was decently successful, and had given unremarkable amounts to Northwestern when he was alive, but there was nothing to suggest they could afford millions of dollars of art. You never knew, though, where people got their money, or where they hid it. Yale had learned not to ask. And hadn’t Fiona and Nico grown up on the North Shore? There was money up there, even if