Fine Art of Murder Read online

  The

  Fine Art

  of

  Murder

  The Fine Art of Murder

  Copyright © 2016

  Published by Blue River Press

  Indianapolis, Indiana

  www.brpressbooks.com

  Distributed by Cardinal Publishers Group

  Tom Doherty Company, Inc.

  www.cardinalpub.com

  All rights reserved under International and

  Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a database or other retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 9781681570325

  eISBN: 9781681570402

  Editor: Kelsey Schneiders

  Senior Editors: Diana Catt & Brenda Stewart

  Interior Design: Dave Reed

  Cover Design: Phil Velikan

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  To Catch a Thief

  Andrea Smith

  That Ugly Painting

  Joan Bruce

  Murder Confit

  Marianne Halbert

  Ceilings

  N. W. Campbell

  The Picasso Caper

  S. Ashley Couts

  Expose Yourself to Art

  Stephen Terrell

  Framed

  Diana Catt

  No Good Deed

  Brenda Robertson Stewart

  Pride and Patience

  Shari Held

  The Last Great Heist

  Janet Williams

  Callipygian

  MB Dabney

  Sketches in Black on White

  C. L. Shore

  James Dean and Me, Martha

  Sherita Saffer Campbell

  The Presumption of Value

  B. K. Hart

  The Making of a Masterpiece

  C. A. Paddock

  Portrait of a Rainy Death

  Claudia Pfeiffer

  How to Throw a Pot

  Barbara Swander Miller

  Street Art

  Stephen Terrell

  About the Authors

  Authors and Entities

  Marie Goth (1887–1975)

  N. W. Campbell

  Paul Hadley (1880–1971)

  David Reddick

  Mary Beth Edelson (1933-)

  Stephen Terrell

  John Chamberlain (1927–2011)

  N. W. Campbell

  Olive Rush (1873–1966)

  N. W. Campbell

  Penrod Art Fair

  Stephen Terrell

  Jon Magnus Jonson (1893-1947)

  Janis Thornton

  Alberta Rehm Miller Shulz (1892–1980)

  N. W. Campbell

  Gabriel Lehman (1976-)

  Shari Held

  T.C. Steele (1847-1926)

  Stephen Terrell

  Hoosier Salon

  Stephen Terrell

  Robert Indiana (1928-)

  Stephen Terrell

  The Richmond Artists Group

  N. W. Campbell

  Still Life with Profile of Laval (1886)

  B. K. Hart

  Harold E. Hansen (1943-)

  Stephen Terrell

  Landmark for Peace (1995)

  Stephen Terrell

  Graffiti and Street Art

  Stephen Terrell

  Acknowledgements

  The editors, Brenda Robertson Stewart and Diana Catt, would like to thank the members of Speed City Indiana Sisters in Crime for their enthusiastic support for this project. We had an excellent response to our request for fictional short story submissions and for factual inserts about artists in Indiana. We send special thanks to Travis DiNicola for writing the introduction, and to the wonderful team at Cardinal Publishers Group—especially Morgan Sears, Kelsey Schnieders, Ginger Bock, Adriane Doherty and Tom Doherty—for their support and belief in our group and our latest endeavor. Again, we send our special congratulations to all the members of Speed City Indiana Sisters in Crime for the successful completion of another project to showcase the creative talents of this group of writers.

  Introduction

  Twenty-some years ago, when I was looking for a quote to include in my graduate thesis (on why art museums should use this “new” technology called the “internet” to expand their education and marketing outreach) I found the following by philosopher Nelson Goodman:

  “The only moral effect a museum has on me is a temptation to rob the place.”

  If the words “art thief” don't give you a little thrill, if the thought of how to bypass a museum's security system has never once crossed your mind, and if you've never, ever, thought about the perfect place to hang your own Picasso, then perhaps this book isn't for you.

  But you have thought these things, haven't you? You've been tempted.

  My thesis advisor strongly advised me not to use the quote. He didn't think it was appropriate in an academic paper. I thought it was hilarious, and appropriate. Eventually, I convinced him of the merits of including it, my thesis was approved, and I graduated with a Masters in Art Education.

  The reason I wanted to include it in the thesis is because in the early 1990s most art museums did not want to be on the internet for fear of having their work “stolen.” Curators spoke at conferences and wrote in forums speculating that digital images of their collections could be copied (stolen!) and appreciated outside of the museum walls. Directors feared that people would stop coming to museums if they could access their collections online. These were the same fears that museums had early in the twentieth century when critic Walter Benjamin argued that art created by human hands has an aura that can't be reproduced mechanically. A photograph of an artwork is not the artwork. Museums did not shut their doors.

  Photographs were one thing, but now anyone could “steal” a digital copy of any work in a museum, without even going to the museum.

  And they did.

  And it didn't hurt the art.

  And the museums didn't have to shut their doors. And today, every art museum in the world has their collection available online.

  At some point the museums realized that it was a good thing that people wanted their own copies of art they loved. It wasn't a crime, and it didn't keep them from coming to see the real thing.

  But this book you are holding is about crime and art. And, it is about the real thing. Because people don't kill for a copy.

  That temptation, to possess the original, is also real. It can be overwhelming. That temptation leads to motivation—motivation to steal, and motivation to murder.

  Art and mysteries. Two of my favorite things.

  I blame my mother. They are two of her favorite things as well.

  I grew up surrounded by art and by murder mysteries. Every vacation led to a museum and at least a few bookstores. Prints of Picasso, Klee, Rothko, Monet, Duchamp, and Matisse covered the walls. Copies of Christie, Spillane, Rendell, Hammett, James, and Highsmith filled the shelves. One year, for her birthday, of course I bought her a replica of the Maltese Falcon statue.

  The stuff that dreams are made of: Art & Murder. The Fine Art of Murder.

  And those dreams, those temptations, have led me here. I've made a career of them.

  As the Executive Director of Indy Reads, Indianapolis's adult literacy program, I also founded the bookstore, Indy Reads Books – where we sell a lot of mysteries to support our program. In my other role, as the co-host of WFYI Indianapolis Public Radio's “The Art of the Matter,” each week I get to talk with artists about their work. I pay
my bills because of art and murder mysteries. My mother is very proud.

  This is why I so gladly agreed to write this introduction for the Speed City Indiana Chapter of Sisters in Crime. What could be better than mysteries with art? Having them written by Indiana authors with most of them set in Indianapolis! There are even references to my NPR station, my Mass Ave neighborhood, and my favorite minor-league baseball team, the Indianapolis Indians. How could I say no?

  This is a great collection of stories. Hardboiled and cozy. Abstract and impressionist. Like any good museum collection, there is something here for everyone. This book is filled with temptations. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I did.

  Now, I've got to go help my mom find a perfect place to hang her new Picasso.

  M. Travis DiNicola, April, 2016

  To Catch a Thief

  Andrea Smith

  My friend, Noah, slides into the booth and sits facing me. His smile is so broad it stretches the lines in his weathered brown face.

  “Vera Ames, little girl, you look more delicious than my sweet potato pie,” he bellows above the din of people chatting and enjoying his southern fare.

  I purse my lips. I'm fifty-four, a long way from being a girl. “Don't waste your charms on me.”

  His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Just speaking the truth, pretty girl. You're always so put together. Now if you didn't have that big ol’ husband and I was ten years younger, I—”

  “Would still be ancient, you eighty-two-year-old flirt,” I say without cracking a smile.

  Noah slaps the table and we both collapse in laughter.

  When you've been friends for thirty years like Noah and me, teasing comes as naturally as breathing. We've been an unlikely team of sorts since we organized to keep my sons’ and his granddaughter's school from closing. My hubs was working and going to grad school. I had left my corporate manager's job to open the Beauty Emporium. Noah sent clients my way when only a handful of customers would take a chance on my skills. His beloved wife, Ella, was one of the first ladies to sit in my chair. She had thick, gorgeous hair and the sweetest personality anyone could want in a client. I was there for Noah when she passed away after fifty years of marriage, six sons and so many grandkids and great-grandkids I doubt Noah even knows the number. Now we're trying to keep the struggling Community Art Center afloat.

  Which is why sitting here laughing with Noah, inside I feel like a first-class heel.

  A backstabber.

  A snake.

  I'm not just here for his comfort food and laughs.

  I'm here to betray my friend.

  I sip my strawberry iced tea hoping to ease the dryness in my mouth. It doesn't help. When I run my tongue over my teeth, it feels like sandpaper.

  “Mary,” Noah calls to one of his servers. “Folks at table twelve been waiting too long for their order. They don't want me coming back to the kitchen. Tell ’em to step it up.”

  Mary nods and scurries off.

  “You don't miss a thing,” I say.

  Noah leans forward. “Like I told you when you opened that fancy beauty salon, no one will take care of your business like you. You have to be watchful at all times. Especially during your rushes.”

  There's always a rush at Noah's restaurant, A Taste of Heaven. It's so popular, celebrities, athletes, and politicians make it a must stop when they breeze through Indianapolis. Photos of Noah with his famous diners decorate the restaurant walls.

  “You sounded a little stressed on the phone. What's making you so anxious about tomorrow?” Noah asks.

  The server brings my crab cakes. They smell divine, but I'm going to have to fake an appetite for them. “Don't you mention this to a soul because it hasn't been confirmed yet. The auctioneer says it's possible Cecil's mosaic might sell for one million dollars.”

  I watch Noah's expression for a hint of anything unusual.

  He whistles. “Are you serious, little girl? That kind of money could turn an honest person into a thief.”

  That comment pricks my spirit but I tell myself I'm probably reading too much into it. “Remember, Cecil pledged fifty percent of the profits to the art center. With that kind of a donation we can finish the renovations and increase the number of scholarships.”

  “Mighty generous of that young man. Was it only five years ago he was a skinny kid who barely spoke a word? Then you got him enrolled in art classes at the center, and overnight he's doing custom work for rich folks. Shows you not everybody forgets where they came from when they make it. Your crab cakes okay? You're barely touching your food.”

  I pick up my fork and stab at the crisp patty. “Oh, they're wonderful as usual. I, uh, had a huge breakfast and didn't realize I was so full. You know Hamp, always over-doing it in the kitchen. Maybe he should come work for you.”

  Noah laughs. “Send him on. Be glad to teach him a few things. Course it's not as important as what he does, finding medicines to treat diabetes and such.”

  I summon the guts to ask what I think might be revealing. “The value of the mosaic has me wondering if Allied's security plan is good enough. I—”

  “Worry too much,” Noah says waving at the air. “They do all right on the basketball tournament. Nothing's ever gone wrong there.”

  I scoot a piece of crab cake around on my plate. “You don't think we need to make any changes for tomorrow night's exhibition? It'll most likely cost us more, but if the mosaic sells for that price, we'll be able to absorb it easily.”

  Noah shakes his head. “Seems fine to me, but if it'll make you feel better, you've got my board vote to make whatever adjustments we need.”

  I'm grateful. “Appreciate that. I'm going to have a sit down with that Brian Townes at Allied. Maybe he can ease my mind.”

  * * *

  When I call Allied Security, the assistant tells me Townes is in a meeting and she'll have him get back to me. Since I can't see him right away, I head to my salon to make sure no one has given a client a bad haircut or made them wait too long for service. Most of my stylists have been with me long enough where I know I can be away without chaos breaking out. But Rhonda, my receptionist, has only worked for me for a month and I'm monitoring her closely until she gets proficient with my system. Sure enough, Rhonda is wearing an anxious expression when I step through the door.

  “Oh, Ms. Vera. So glad you're back.”

  “Is something wrong?” I ask, hoping nothing's gone horribly haywire with the new digital scheduling and payment program my son, Nathan, installed for me.

  She gives a nervous giggle. “Just have a couple of questions about entering repeat appointments. Had a few requests like that today.” She picks up her notepad. “I wrote down everything that needs to be entered and I checked to make sure there were no time conflicts.”

  I'm relieved she thought to do that. I'm showing Rhonda how to enter repeating appointments when the last person I want to see right now buzzes the door.

  “I'll be with you in a minute,” I say when I let him in.

  He nods. “Take your time, ma'am.”

  I cringe. I've gone from being a little girl to a ma'am. I'm guessing he's in his forties, yet he says ma'am as if I could be his mother.

  “Think you got it now?” I ask Rhonda.

  She nods, and after a furtive glance at our visitor, buries her face in the computer screen. Exactly what I would do if I didn't have to talk to him.

  I head for my office with him lumbering behind me. After he eases his long legs into my black leather chair he tells me, “Unfortunately, I have more bad news. We've picked up increased chatter about the impending theft of the Davis piece now that word is out it's selling for one million dollars.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. He's not a bad looking guy, clear skin and a muscular frame beneath his custom-tailored suit. It's his full-of-himself attitude that's unattractive. “Tell me, Agent Summers, how is it this chatter isn't telling the FBI's Arts Crime team exactly who might be planning to steal it?”

&
nbsp; “Sorry, there are certain details I can't divulge about our operation, ma'am,” he says in a too-patient tone.

  I think if he calls me ma'am one more time, I may end up under investigation.

  “I realize it's difficult to accept your friend is a thief—”

  “It's not difficult,” I interrupt. “It's impossible. I didn't believe it yesterday when you came here asking for my help and I don't believe it now. The Noah Gardner I know is an honest, hard-working family man. A war hero. He's not about to ruin the art center he's worked so hard to help build.”

  His body stiffens as if he's bracing himself for me to become unhinged. “We didn't make up Noah Graves. A.k.a. Nick Gardner. A.k.a. Noah Gibson. That's just a few of the aliases he's used. Arrested three times in the fifties and only got caught when he made the mistake of bringing in a partner who lost his nerve and spilled his guts to the cops. They were waiting for Noah at the gallery he was about to hit and he did a year in jail. We suspect the list of thefts he pulled off is longer than we'll ever know.”

  I take a deep breath. “You really believe he would go back to that life? At his age? He's not stupid—or suicidal.”

  Agent Summers gives me that patient look again. “Last week we finally caught a ninety-one-year-old bank robber we've been chasing for years. He took up his life of crime when he turned seventy.”

  Summers pops up from the chair and strolls his smug self out of my office.

  I need to verify what he's just told me about Noah. In my dealings with law enforcement, I've found some have a tendency to jump to conclusions before getting all the facts. I leave the salon in the capable hands of my head stylist, Thelma, hop in my Prius and head for IMPD headquarters to see Officer Janice Billings. I got to know Janice when I helped one of her lazy detective colleagues solve the murder of one of my employees. The detective didn't seem to care that an innocent young man had been killed and wasn't conducting much of an investigation. So I did the investigating for him and nailed our delivery driver for the crime. Janice had helped by giving me details her colleague wouldn't share. She's become a friend—actually more of a kindred sister.

  “You said this was urgent when you called. Which detective are you helping this time?” she asks with a chuckle.