In the mid- 1880 s, Caxton became enamored of the bohemian lifestyle of many of the young artists living and working in Paris. He bought several apartments in Montmartre and let some of the struggling upstarts live there rentfree, in exchange for paintings that he took to America.

On one of his trips, drinking in the nightclubs with Toulouse-Lautrec, Caxton took up with a dancer, whom he married and brought back to the States. Their son, Lowell II, inherited the entire fortune-the money and the art-when both of his parents died in the sinking of the Lusitania, in 1915. He was thirty years old at the time.

As though the passion for art had been genetically transmitted, the junior Caxton carried on his father’s interests, patronizing the creators and expanding the family collection. He was a popular figure at Mabel Dodge’s “evenings” in her home at 23 Fifth Avenue, where he championed the Postimpressionists to Lincoln Steffens, Margaret Sanger, John Reed, and the other intellectuals who gathered to exchange ideas while Dodge puffed on her gold-tipped cigarettes. It was at one of those soirees that he met his wife, a guest of Gertrude Stein’s named Marie-Hélène de Neuilly, who was a well-known patron of avant-garde art before the First World War. Our host, Lowell III-or Three, as his father liked to call him as a boy-also had the love of art in his blood.

“The first artist I ever met was Picasso,” Caxton continued, “at our home in Paris, before he went off to Spain to fight. He was having an affair with my mother at the time, although I was much too young to pick up on that. And in case you’re wondering, it was perfectly all right with my father. Got him some stunning paintings for his collection. You might like to see them someday. They’re in my bedroom-never been shown publicly.”

“Do you mind if we talk about your wife, Mr. Caxton?” Chapman asked.

“I’ve had three, Detective. I assume you mean Deni?”

“Well, actually, why don’t you tell me about the other two first? Then, yes, I’d like to know as much about Denise as possible.”

“Not much to say about them. Rest in peace.” Caxton looked over at me, daring a smile. “I married Lisette in France at the beginning of the war. She died in childbirth. Tragic, really. I adored her. My second wife was from Italy. She raised Lisette’s child and then two more daughters of our own. Killed in a boating accident in Venice.”

“Aha!” Chapman said under his breath, shifting in his chair and leaning across to me. “ Rebecca. I told you so.”

I ignored the crack and went on. “Where are your daughters now?”

“All grown, married, living in Europe. And if you want to know whether or not they liked Deni, they didn’t. She was younger than all of them, and they never got along very well. But they’ve had absolutely nothing to do with her for years.”

“I understand,” Chapman said. “We will, of course, need to get in touch with them at some point.”

“I’ll have someone from my office get you all their information.”

“Back to Denise, if we may.”

“Certainly, Detective. I met Deni nearly twenty years ago, in Firenze. She was-”

“You were widowed at the time, Mr. Caxton?” Mercer asked.

“Widowed once, Mr. Wallace. My second wife was alive and quite well. Her mishap occurred several years thereafter. In any event, I had flown over to look at a Bernini sculpture that I wanted to bid on. It was at the gallery that I first saw Denise, and I was more infatuated with her than with the statue. That hadn’t happened to me in years.”

“And she was there to bid on the same piece for the Tate?” I ventured, having found that item of her biography on-line the previous night in an old magazine clipping about a museum opening.

Caxton smiled. “I should think you’d know better than to believe everything you read in the newspapers, young lady. Deni was just off her year as Miss Oklahoma, and a verydistant-second runner-up in the Miss America Pageant. You were probably too busy with your nose in your schoolbooks,” Caxton said, with a nod in my direction, “to be watching that year, but she was the kid from Idabel with great looks and no talent to speak of-traded in baton twirling in favor of reading a soliloquy from As You Like It. Not exactly a crowd pleaser. She took her ten-thousand-dollar scholarship prize and escaped. Worked her way over to Florence to study art, which she didn’t know the first thing about at the time. Figured if Andy Warhol could fool the world with what he was selling, she could catch on and find a niche.

“I decided to follow my grandfather’s route, Miss Cooper. What Denise lacked in breeding, she made up for in-shall we say?-élan. She was a marvelously quick study and I enjoyed teaching. All she needed from me was to create a provenance for her, no different than a clever forger would do for a fine painting.

“I gave Deni a vague and somewhat mysterious background-orphaned as a young child, with a trust fund. Raised abroad in a series of boarding schools. Moved her from the pensione she was living in to the Excelsior, where I was staying when I came to town. Had her tutored in French and Italian- she was adequate in the former and tolerable in the latter. Most of the men who met her were intrigued and forgave her the minor incongruities. She didn’t care much about what the women thought of her. Denise was never a contender for Miss Congeniality.”

“What did your second wife think of her, Mr. Caxton?” Mike clearly was fascinated by the circumstance of the thricewidowed husband.

“I’m not sure she ever knew about Deni, to tell the truth. She was riding in a cigarette speedboat when it flipped, killing her instantly. I had only known Deni a few years at that point. The whole arrangement was working perfectly for me. And yes, Mr. Chapman, there was an inquest when my wife died. Accidental death. I’m sure Maurizio, my assistant, can get you all the records that you need.”

“How long have you had the gallery in the Fuller Building?” Mercer wanted to bring this story up to the present.

“Deni and I moved back to New York twelve years ago. We bought this apartment so that she could open our gallery. For me, the satisfaction has always been in finding and collecting the great pieces-more than a century of Caxton taste that I can surround myself with in the privacy of my own homes. Not entirely selfish, mind you. We frequently exhibit portions of the holdings, whenever asked, and many of my mistakes have wound up permanently on the walls of museums all over America and most of Europe.

“But Denise also liked the game itself. It wasn’t enough to gift her with unique art or jewels, which worked very well at the beginning. She had come from nothing-her father was a soybean farmer-and she really needed to prove she was as smart as any of the rest of us out there. She liked the hustle of the art world. She adored being a tastemaker, if you will. But I suppose your research has revealed all of that.”

Now I was doubly sorry that I had suggested I knew anything about either of the Caxtons. “Not at all, Mr. Caxton. Forgive me, but I only tried to acquaint myself with information about Mrs. Caxton’s business when I learned that it was she who had been killed. It’s always helpful to me if I can get as close to the victim as possible-to try and understand why she might be a target for someone. That is, if her loved ones allow me that kind of access.”

“Anything you’d like, Miss Cooper. Perhaps it would help if we took a walk into Deni’s quarters, to give you an idea of how she lived. Would you like that?”

Chapman was on his feet before I could answer. Caxton moved to the double doors as Mike leaned in behind me and whispered, “Very smoothly done, blondie. Keep batting those eyelashes and you could be the fourth late Mrs. Lowell Caxton. A very temporary position, from the looks of it.”