Woman-Ochre: Partners In Crime

Creative Nonfiction by Lilianne Milgrom

Did they, or didn’t they? Could a reclusive couple have masterminded one of the most brazen art heists in US history?

2018

Ron

No matter how many times Ron was grilled by local detectives, friends and strangers, he could offer no insights or theories as to why Aunt Rita and Uncle Jerry might have done what they were accused of doing. It all seemed inconceivable–no one in his family had even racked up a speeding ticket. To his recollection, there simply were no red flags. When the indisputable facts had first come out, he was more surprised than anybody else. To him, Rita and Jerry Alter were, well, just Aunt Rita and Uncle Jerry–not the sort of people who made it to the top of the international-art-heist list.

However, when faced with the evidence, Ron couldn’t help but wonder just how well he had really known them. Were they really capable of committing such a brazen crime–one that had gone unsolved for thirty-two years? He would never know now because the truth was buried along with them. Aunt Rita had passed away the previous year, in June 2017, five years after Jerry. They had both expired at the respectable age of 81, a detail that perfectly symbolized their synchronicity. The Alters always seemed happiest in each other’s company. It occurred to Ron that the deep, dark secret they had shared all those years might have been at the root of their special bond.

His own relationship with his aunt and uncle had been warm but nothing that exceeded familial norms. For the most part, Jerry and Rita had kept largely to themselves. The remote neighbors who saw them on occasion described them as a ‘lovely’ couple, quiet and law-abiding. Aunt Rita had a naturally sunny yet reserved disposition while Jerry’s bookish appearance belied a keen wit. Aside from Jerry’s oversized black-rimmed glasses, the pair would have been unremarkable walking down the street–a pleasant-looking woman with shoulder-length, wavy brown hair walking hand-in-hand with a trim gentleman of average height.

The Alters’ two grown children–Ron’s cousins–had not been particularly close with their parents and after the Alters left New York to settle in New Mexico, distance had further estranged the older and younger Alters. Ron had made it a point to visit Jerry and Rita every few months at their twenty-acre retirement ranch on the outskirts of Cliff in the New Mexico desert. They had treated him like a surrogate son and it came as no great surprise when they named him executor of their estate.

After Aunt Rita’s passing, Ron had set about liquidating the couple’s assets, beginning with their ranch-style home. Aside from Jerry’s thousands of travel slides and the hand-carved rocking chair that had belonged to his grandmother, Ron put the remainder of the home’s contents up for auction. On a windy Saturday in late October, several early bird buyers were already parked outside the Alters’ home by the time Ron pulled into the driveway. They followed him into the house in an orderly manner and dispersed while he stationed himself at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. Antique dealers and estate sale bargain hunters arrived throughout the day, picking through the Alters’ life like a flock of discerning vultures. By nightfall, the house was picked clean, save for a macramé wall hanging, a set of damaged luggage and a packet of plastic corn holders.

Over the next few weeks, Ron busied himself getting the house ready for sale, unaware that one of the items sold during the estate sale was attracting an inordinate amount of attention in a Silver City antiques store some miles up the road. When the first phone call came in from the FBI, Ron thought it was a prank. But the FBI agent explained that they were calling about a certain painting recently sold at the Alter’s estate sale to an antiques dealer in Silver City.

Ron had only a vague recollection of the painting they were describing. He’d never even set eyes on it until the day before the sale. He recalled entering the master bedroom and being struck by the aroma of his aunt’s perfume, a jolting reminder of her absolute and irrevocable absence. After taking a cursory glance around the room, he took a peek behind the bedroom door and was surprised to discover a large abstract painting in a cheap gold frame. It was an awkward spot to hang a painting, visible only from the bed and only when the door was fully closed. Aside from noticing that the painting was in desperate need of a dusting, it did not make a lasting impression on him. Ron occasionally asked himself what he would have done if he knew then what he knew now about that garish painting behind the door.

1985

Rita and Jerry

Rita and Jerry arrived in Tucson on Thanksgiving afternoon. They dropped off their overnight bags off at the hotel and went for a leisurely stroll in downtown Tucson to stretch their legs after the long car ride. The weather was crisp but not unpleasantly so. They meandered through the empty streets, stopping now and then to look at the shop windows seasonally dressed in fall colors.

Life was good. They were still relatively young, carefree and living their dream. After Jerry’s early retirement from his post as a music teacher thirteen years before, they had abandoned the claustrophobia of New York City, opting instead for the open vistas of New Mexico. Rita continued to work as a speech therapist at a local school, but at the end of every school year, as soon as that last bell sounded, Jerry whisked her off on one of their many adventures to distant lands. One hundred and two countries and counting–the more exotic, the better. As soon as they returned from their travels, they began to plan their next adventure.

They had traveled to Morocco the previous summer. Jerry had taken thousands of slides of colorful bazaars and vibrant portraits of locals. Their vivid memories of Fez and Casablanca had fueled their conversation for weeks afterwards. When people asked them how they managed to maintain their exciting lifestyle, they merely smiled and credited their thrifty spending habits throughout the year.

Jerry and Rita made a quick stop at their hotel to change for dinner. Jerry had made advance reservations at a restaurant that had advertised a full-on Thanksgiving dinner–turkey, sweet potato casserole, Brussel sprouts, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie. The works. The meal turned out to be delicious, and they even agreed that the pumpkin pie one-upped Rita’s. Jerry had brought his trusty camera along and asked the maître d’ to take a photo of them. They smiled happily into the camera’s eye, the wine and the festive atmosphere having made them both a little giddy. When the maître d’ wished them a pleasant stay in Tucson, the couple smiled at each other knowingly.

Rita and Jerry awoke before dawn the following morning. The adrenaline coursing through their veins had made for a fitful night’s sleep. They were both eager to leave Tucson and get back home to New Mexico, but they had something important to do first.

By 7:30 a.m. they were dressed and packed and took the elevator down to the hotel dining room for breakfast. Rita wore a nondescript skirt and sweater, and her hair was partially covered by a beige headscarf. Jerry wore a brown corduroy jacket and dark polo neck sweater. They chose a corner table and ordered coffee and toast.

By eight o’clock they were done with breakfast and headed out to Jerry’s red sports car, parked in the parking lot beside the hotel. It was too cold to put the top down. Jerry opened the glove compartment and removed a small plastic sheath from which he extracted a fake mustache. Rita squeezed his shoulder and smiled at him mischievously as he adhered it to his upper lip. After checking his reflection in the rear-view mirror, he took one more look at the map spread out on Rita’s lap and steered the car in the direction of the University of Arizona.

Ray

Ray could barely drag himself out of bed. He still felt sluggish from all the food he had consumed the night before and swore he would take it easy on his mother’s creamed potatoes next Thanksgiving. Despite his grumbling, Ray could not afford to be late for his shift as a security guard at the University of Arizona’s Museum of Art. He had lost his last job for turning up with a hangover and his girlfriend had been none too happy. He shrugged into his uniform, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with each successive button he secured over his taut midriff. If he were in charge, he would make the day after Thanksgiving a national holiday.

Ray clocked in at the guard station at 8:50 a.m., grabbed the heavy set of keys and hooked his walkie talkie onto his belt before walking to the adjacent building to open the museum. He had barely turned the key in the main lock when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. Swiveling around in surprise, he found himself face to face with a middle-aged woman in dark glasses and a headscarf. Her male companion was standing several paces behind her.

The woman smiled at him apologetically.

“Oh, gosh! I’m sorry to give you a fright. I know we’re a bit early–the museum opens at nine, right? Do you think we could sneak in a few minutes early before the crowds start arriving? It’s been years since I’ve visited my alma mater!”

Ray wasn’t expecting to see many visitors today, having made the assumption that most people would be suffering the aftereffects of their own Thanksgiving indulgences. He couldn’t see any harm in the woman’s request even though he seriously doubted there would be any crowds. Even on a regular weekend, the university’s museum was not exactly a crowd magnet. He ushered the couple in but the woman continued prattling.

“I’ve always loved this museum…The whole campus, really. Such happy memories! I really miss living in Tucson. Have you always lived in Tucson or are you an art student–is that why you work at the museum?”

Ray didn’t know which question to answer first, but it was nice to have someone pay him some attention. Most visitors totally ignored him. After chatting for about five minutes, he caught sight of the woman’s shadowy partner descending the steps in quick strides. Ray later admitted to the FBI that he had been so busy talking with the woman that he hadn’t even noticed her companion making his way up the stairs in the first place. It had all happened so fast that he couldn’t remember a lot of details. He did remember thinking it strange that as soon as the man exited the building, the woman turned on her heel and followed him.

Ray felt a sudden prick of fear climbing up his neck as he watched the two visitors hurry to their rust-red vehicle and speed off into the distance. Something wasn’t right. The couple hadn’t been in the museum for more than ten minutes, and the woman hadn’t even gone upstairs to visit the galleries!  He grabbed his walkie talkie and climbed the stairs two at a time, sweat pooling under his armpits. He rushed madly through the museum’s galleries, not quite sure what he was looking for–until he reached the third floor.

There, on the back wall of the gallery, a frame hung askew with a gaping emptiness where a painting should have been. A few ragged threads around the perimeter of the frame were all that remained of the missing canvas. Willem de Kooning’s famous Woman-Ochre, the museum’s prized possession, was gone.

2017

David Van Auker

Owner, Manzanita Ridge Furniture and Antiques, Silver City, NM

“It was just a routine estate sale, know what I mean? I go to one of those at least once or twice a week–that’s where I pick up most of the inventory for the store. I got there early and waited outside with a few of my competitors–Charlie Smith was there, and Johnny B. This guy Ron arrived and let us in. Nice enough guy. The living room had some interesting pieces of furniture but I always head to the back bedrooms because I want to be the first to scope them out. The master bedroom had a decent bedroom set and there were some framed photographs and paintings that looked in good shape. I offered Ron $2000 for the lot, loaded it all up and off I went. The next day, me and my partners priced the new merchandise and distributed everything around the store. I put the largest painting of the lot on an easel near the front door. About an hour later, some guy with long hair comes in and makes a beeline for the painting. He’s lookin’ and lookin’ and then bends down to take a real good look. I had to step in when he starts scratching at a corner of the painting. Wo, buddy! What ya doin’? I said. He told me he was an artist and that he was almost sure this was an original de Kooning. I thought he said Coony. I’d never heard of de Kooning but I looked back at the painting, and there was the signature on the bottom: de Kooning. Still didn’t mean anything to me at the time. He eventually left and the next day, another dude comes in and stares at the same painting, telling me he thought this was the real deal and offers me $20,000! I didn’t take it because by now I wanted to do some of my own research–I mean, I googled it, right? And fuck me if it doesn’t come up as a stolen painting worth over a hundred and fifty million dollars! I just couldn’t believe it. The first thing we did was lock it up in the back toilet. It’s the only room in the whole place with a lock. We all agreed that we had to call the museum. The painting belonged to the museum, there was no question in our minds. I called and told the secretary what I was calling about and she made me repeat what I said about three times before putting me through to the curator, Olivia Miller. Olivia didn’t exactly laugh at me but she was awfully suspicious. She asked a ton of questions and waited on the line for me to send her some close-up photos from my phone. When she saw them, she got real serious and told me she wanted to bring her team down the next day to authenticate it, but she was worried about leaving it in the toilet overnight. So, me and my buddies waited till it got dark, snuck the painting into my truck and headed over to a friend’s house who’s got security cameras and alarms and whatnot. Real cloak and dagger stuff! We were all pretty riled up. The next morning Olivia turns up with about ten people. We took her downstairs to where the painting was, and she literally dropped to her knees and started crying. It was a good moment.”

2019

Interview with Chief Seastone

Local TV station, Arizona

–You were the first officer on the scene of the crime thirty-four years ago, is that correct?

–Yep, sure was.

–Can you walk me through what happened that day? The day after Thanksgiving, 1985.

–Well, as I recall, I got a frantic call from the University of Arizona museum around nine o’clock in the morning, day after Thanksgiving. It was the security guard, Ray Gibson. He was yelling so much it was hard to know what the heck he was saying. I jumped into my cruiser and I must’ve arrived on the scene within fifteen minutes or so. He led me up the stairs, all panicked and such. And there it was, this empty frame. I didn’t know what to think. This wasn’t something we’d ever dealt with before. They don’t teach you about that at the police academy but anybody could see that someone had cut the painting right out of that frame.

–Did you see anything else that seemed suspicious to you or out of place?

–Nope. Just the crooked frame with nothing in it. You have to remember–back then the museum didn’t have any security cameras or nothing like that. And according to Ray, the whole thing happened in under ten minutes. Real slick job. The guy just waltzed in and waltzed out with a painting tucked under his jacket while the lady distracted Ray. Classic decoy move.

–When were the FBI brought in?

–We brought Ray back to the station to take his statement and right away the chief called the FBI. It was such a slick operation that we thought we were dealing with some career criminals or even organized crime. Back then that painting was worth four hundred thousand dollars! Today it’s worth over a hundred and sixty million or thereabouts.  The FBI brought in one of their sketch artists to make a sketch of Ray’s description. A woman with glasses and a scarf and a man with a thick mustache and clunky glasses. That’s all we had to go on. And the reddish car.

–How long did you work on the case?

–I’ve never really stopped. Neither has the FBI to my knowledge. The case was just so puzzling. It keeps me up at night! At least once a year I drag out the cold case file to see if I missed anything, but I always come up empty. It was a real head scratcher. No clues. No leads. Nothing.

–Until now.

–That’s right. Until now.

–Correct me if I’ve got the facts wrong: According to my sources, the painting was discovered at an antiques store in Silver City in 2018. The store owner bought it at an estate sale in a house that belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Alter of Cliff, New Mexico. After the store put the painting on display it didn’t take long before some folks recognized it as a de Kooning painting and the rest is history. How did you feel when you heard that the painting was found and that the thieves were an ordinary couple who kept it in their house for thirty-two years?

–Well, hang on a minute. The Alters are the number one suspects but there’s still a lot of unanswered questions that I’m not at liberty to discuss. But you can bet that I’m thrilled the painting’s been returned to the museum where it belongs. I was there when the museum curator and her team first examined the recovered painting. That woman had tears in her eyes! It was a sight I’ll never forget.

–Are you saying that it’s possible the Alters weren’t the ones who stole the painting or that others were involved? The evidence against the Alters seems overwhelming. The FBI report clearly indicates that they knew exactly what they had–they kept it behind the door to conceal it from prying eyes and to protect it from light damage. The bedroom window had black-out curtains–none of the other bedrooms had black-out curtains. And there was a long screw in the baseboard, apparently to prevent the door banging into the painting. And what about those copies of de Kooning sketches made by Mr. Alter himself? It seems like that’s more than a coincidence, wouldn’t you say? There’s also that short story published in a book written by Mr. Alter about a couple who steals a jewel from a museum and hides it in their house so that no one except them would be able to look at it. That sounds like a veiled confession if I ever heard one.

–You’ve got all your facts right but there’s no hard proof they had it in their house for all those years. I will tell you that the FBI are still looking into the possibility that the Alters could’ve purchased the painting from someone else.

–Don’t you think it’s suspicious that the Alters had a million dollars stashed away in their bank account. What’s that all about?

–I really can’t disclose any more details about the case. Just remember–innocent until proven guilty, young man.

2016

Rita

Nine-thirty already? With those heavy drapes it could be noon and you’d think it was midnight. I’d better get up. Ron’s coming by at eleven to take me to another surgeon for a second opinion. Such a good boy. My hip’s been aching something terrible. I’m not getting any younger, that’s for sure. I didn’t even think I’d make it this far. Eighty! That’s a pretty big number whichever way you look at it. But I can’t complain. I’ve had a good life, a very good life. It was a lot better when Jerry was around though. Oh, Jerry! I miss you so much. I always thought I’d be the first to go. No, I hoped I’d be the first to go. You were always the one I relied on, always so sure of yourself that I was afraid I’d be lost without you. And in some ways, I am.

Remember our first date? It feels like yesterday. You took me to that cute drugstore in Queens and we had ice cream sundaes! You were a skinny thing but you acted so sure of yourself that you made up for it. You looked me straight in the eye and asked me to go steady. I don’t think you would have taken ‘no’ for an answer. And it was like that the whole way through our courtship and our marriage. I didn’t mind because I liked being with a strong-minded man. Young women these days wouldn’t like that, but I did. You were a wonderful husband and father even though the children complain about the both of us. Seems like adult children these days don’t know when it’s time to grow up and stop dwelling in the past.

Life was never boring with you, I’ll say that much. All our friends stayed on in New York, but the city hemmed you in. Neither of us could stand the idea of becoming our parents. We wanted adventure and excitement and thrills. You said you wanted a life with wide open vistas and a big sky over your head and you had a plan. You had it all figured out.

That first trip to Egypt went exactly as planned. When we left Egypt, the customs people waved us through and on the US side, they didn’t even bother checking our bags. We were just a couple of ordinary American tourists. Even if they did check the bags, the artifacts were well hidden inside your camera bag. I never asked you who the buyers were–I didn’t want to get involved in the details. You were very discrete. They paid you in cash and you deposited it into our bank account in small sums. We travelled the world thanks to you. We never hurt anybody. There was only that one time where we took a risk. I think we were both ready to up the game.

You always admired de Kooning’s work. We both did. When you first told me about your plan, I thought you were pulling my leg until you laid out all the maps and the building plans and such. You had it figured out down to the minute. You’d seen a picture of Woman-Ochre in a magazine and it stirred something inside you. You had a special gleam in your eye when you spoke about it. You just had to have it. It deserved to be loved–those were your words. I couldn’t resist that gleam in your eye and I agreed to do it.

She really is a beauty. I’m more grateful than ever that she’s the first thing I see every morning when I open my eyes and the last thing I see at night. She reminds me of you. She’ll always be our little secret…

---

Bio: LILIANNE MILGROM is a Paris-born, internationally acclaimed artist and award-winning author residing in the US. She holds two degrees from Melbourne University, Melbourne, Australia. Her debut historical fiction L’Origine: The secret life of the world’s most erotic masterpiece is the recipient of six literary awards. Lilianne’s articles have appeared in publications such as HuffPost, Ceramics Art and Perception, Funds for Writers, Daily Art Magazine and France Magazine. She was a semifinalist for the TV pilot of America’s Next Great Author and her essays have been included in two published anthologies. She is currently working on her second novel.

Cover Photo: Painting Woman-Ochre by Willem de Kooning

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