Fine Art of Murder Read online

  The grin slid back on Stanley's face. “Well shit, that little gal of his would be on top of my list. Everybody knew he was getting ready to dump her, and she was plenty pissed. And I think ol’ Jamison Pippin was pretty upset with him over some business deal.”

  “Anybody else?”

  Stanley slid a giant hand across his chin and down his neck. “Hadn't really thought of it until just now, but that artist guy, Mathieu Clemens. His head just seems screwed on a little different. Hell, he even changed how he spells his name so it looks French. But he ain't no more French than me. I know for a fact Clemens grew up in Connersville. Of course, most artists are about five degrees off plumb, if you ask me.”

  “So why did you mention Clemens? Anything particular other than just being odd?”

  “When I was walking around this morning before the gates opened, he actually came out and grabbed me by the arm. He was insistent that I look at his paintings.”

  “That's what he's here to do, isn't it? Sell you something?”

  “Yeah, but this was different. He kept talking about how he knew I hated Tobias for what he did to me. He said that if I really wanted to get back at Tobias, I needed to buy a couple of his paintings. I guess he thought that looking at a painting by someone Tobias couldn't stand was some type of revenge. It just seemed, well, weird.”

  I nodded and thanked him for his time. I walked back to Cheryl. She was watching the artist in the tent mix paints. Behind the artist, an assistant worked stretching a white canvas across a wooden frame. I looked down at my fingers, still carrying the tacky residue from holding a painting.

  The pieces clicked into place.

  “Let's go,” I said, taking Cheryl by her arm. “I know who killed Salyers.”

  * * *

  With Cheryl following close behind, I maneuvered past several people and walked into the tent. Mathieu Clemens was sitting in front of a canvas now splashed with streaks of red, yellow and orange. He turned on the stool to face me.

  “So did you plan on killing Salyers, or did it just happen?” I said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Me? Why would you think it was me?” Clemens's voice was flat.

  “You're an angry man, Mathieu. After talking with Cheryl here, I can see it in your work. And the way you blew up at me when I touched one of your paintings, that was much more than just normal anger.”

  “A lot of people get angry,” he said. His voice was still calm, but his face was beginning to glow pink.

  “As I walked around here today and saw how big this event is, I can't imagine what that did to you when Salyers kept you out last year.”

  Clemens jaw tightened and his face was now crimson, but he said nothing.

  “Bill Stanley told me how you were insistent about him buying one of your paintings. How it would somehow be his revenge against Salyers. Then a few minutes ago I saw an artist in another tent mixing up her paints while someone else was pulling this white canvas over a board frame. And it just clicked. What you said about Salyers being a part of every painting you do. When I saw you this morning mixing up the paint, you were mixing in some of his dried blood, weren't you? That's why his body had slash marks. You drained out his blood and began mixing it in your paints.”

  There was a gasp behind me. I had not realized that everyone looking at the paintings was now listening to my exchange with Clemens.

  “You're just guessing,” Clemens said.

  “What do you want to bet that when we execute a warrant and match microscopic fibers, that the canvas you've been using for your paintings matches exactly with the canvas that was wrapped around Salyers. And you remember me touching your painting, the one you yelled at me about? I'm having Sergeant Etherton here run a DNA test on the paint residue on my fingers, and on these paintings.” I glanced around at the artwork hanging in the tent. “I'm pretty sure we're going to come up with DNA that's going to match old Tobias.”

  Clemens glared at me in a long silence. Finally he spoke through clenched teeth. “He wanted to ruin me. I went to his gallery to see what his issue was with me, and he just laughed. Told me I had no talent and he'd see to it that I never sold another painting. He was hanging paintings in that rat trap in Fountain Square that he called a gallery. There was some wire there. I grabbed a piece and before I knew it, he was dead. Then when I was thinking about what to do with the body, I decided to collect his blood and make that bastard a part of every painting I did. Can you imagine? He so hated my work, and now he's part of it.”

  With a sudden motion, Clemens flung his easel at me and took off for the open side of the tent. I lunged at him, but he was past me before I could get to him. He ran toward the tent entrance where Cheryl was standing. In an instant, Cheryl grabbed a hanging framed picture and swung it sharply, edge first. The frame edge caught Clemens square in the chest, then like an uppercut, smashed into his chin, where it shattered. He went down in a heap. Cheryl was immediately on top of him, flipping him onto his stomach, pulling his arms back and handcuffing him. It was over before I could even reach her.

  “Nice work,” I said admiringly.

  She looked up with a smile. “Performance art,” she said.

  * * *

  Within ten minutes, uniformed Indianapolis Police officers were on the scene. They took Clemens into custody and led him off to a nearby cruiser. Other officers sealed off Clemens's tent with crime scene tape.

  I called Marda to update her and get someone working on a search warrant for Clemens's home and business. Cheryl worked on getting her techs out to the scene to take control of the paintings, canvas, and paint.

  As we stood catching our breath, Kendall Korsgaard walked up. “Is it true that Clemens was mixing Tobias's blood in his paints?”

  “Looks that way,” I said.

  “Brilliant,” Korsgaard said, a huge smile beaming across his face. “How utterly brilliant. Can you imagine how much people will pay for his paintings now?”

  Cheryl turned with a look of appalling disbelief. “You've got to be kidding.”

  “Not at all,” Korsgaard said. “Everyone will want one. You obviously don't know much about the art world, my dear. You simply must expose yourself to art.”

  Cheryl slid her arm inside of mine and leaned close against me. She gave me a small wink. “Well, Art, I think that's exactly what I'm going to do.”

  Penrod Art Fair

  Stephen Terrell

  Penrod Art Fair, perhaps Indiana's most prestigious art festival, celebrates its fiftieth anniversary in 2016. It is promoted as ‘Indiana's Nicest Day.’ The event is named for Penrod Schofield, the precocious 11-year-old boy that is the subject of Indiana author Booth Tarkington's book, Penrod.

  The one-day fair is one of the highlights of summer in Indianapolis. It is held on the Saturday after Labor Day, rain or shine, and draws over twenty-five thousand people. It features over three hundred artists with works that include painting (oil, acrylic, and watercolor), sculpture, jewelry, textiles, ceramics, woodworking, photography, and mixed media. Penrod also features live entertainment on multiple stages, a variety of food and beverage vendors, many local arts-related organizations, and a children's area.

  Penrod is a showcase for the grounds of the Indianapolis Museum of Art, which is the uncredited star of the event. Robert Indiana's iconic LOVE statue, the Lilly Mansion, the Hundred Acre Woods, and the immaculate grounds along the banks of the White River are the perfect setting for the sea of white tents that house the artists and vendors.

  The art fair is planned and hosted by the Penrod Society. Proceeds benefit a wide variety of central Indiana arts organizations.

  Framed

  Diana Catt

  “Bertie,” my mother said in a lilting voice which echoed up the stairway. “Find Jenny and come down to the parlor. Monsieur Lemmen has arrived.”

  I sighed. I'd hoped Mama would change her mind. I didn't want to sit for a portrait, motionless for hours, only to end up framed for eternity. And getting Jenny t
o sit still for anything other than a book was impossible. The whole project spelled disaster. Maybe the artist would take one look at us and turn down the job. I mussed up my hair and sauntered down the hallway.

  “He's here,” I announced upon entering Jenny's room.

  She put down The Experiences of Loveday Brooke: Lady Detective and looked up. “Do we have to do this?”

  “Maybe if you beg and throw a tantrum,” I said, “we might get out of it.”

  Jenny marked her place in the book and looked thoughtfully at me. “You're right. That usually works for me. I'll see what I can do.”

  I put my hands on my hips and growled at her sarcasm. “Just come on. Mama wants us downstairs.” I led the way out of Jenny's bedroom and downstairs to the parlor.

  I'd had a glimpse of Monsieur Lemmen last month at our parent's dinner party to ring in the New Year, 1894. He'd perched on the edge of the dining room chair, thin and hawkish around the nose and eyes, as he engaged my father in passionate conversation. My older sister, Yvonne, was an artist-in-training with Monsieur Lemmen and, as a result, he and my father had become fast friends. I believe that was when Mama began the campaign to have our portrait painted by the famous artist. I wished Yvonne would do it instead. I always liked sitting for my sister when she was practicing her talent.

  “Lovely,” M. Lemmen said as he tilted Jenny's face toward the light. She stuck out her tongue and squinted her eyes.

  “Jenny Serruys, behave yourself,” Mother said. “I'm so sorry, Georges. She's only eight. I hope you have patience.”

  “Patience, yes, my dear Marie, but only in limited amounts. After a point, the price… it goes up.”

  My mother gave a little laugh, but I could tell she thought he might be serious. “I'll speak to her.” She gestured toward the cloth-covered table in the corner of the room. “I was thinking about this spot, no?”

  The artist studied the corner and positioned Jenny and myself near the edge of the table. “We need something….” He looked around the room and spotted the gold vase containing a dried arrangement of Lunaria. He moved it to the corner of the table. “There, perfect. We will start at once.”

  I raised my eyebrows at the back of Jenny's head. She couldn't see me, of course, and remained silent. No tantrum on the horizon. Just then, the front door opened and Papa's voice boomed into the house. “Marie? I'm home.”

  Jenny was faster off the mark than I and beat me to the doorway where she threw herself into Papa's arms. But I was a quick second. Papa hugged us both warmly, then he kissed Mama and shook M. Lemmen's hand. He hadn't even released the artist's hand before there was a knock on the front door.

  “Are you expecting someone else?” he asked Mama.

  She shook her head and peered through the curtain. “I don't recognize him.”

  M. Lemmen lost Papa's attention as Claudia, our maid, answered the door.

  I could hear the stranger introduce himself as Reverend Vermeulen and request an audience with my father. I peeked around the doorway and saw Claudia escort the visitor into the library. All I witnessed of him was the back of his gray overcoat, tattered at the hem, and long, black hair atop his uncovered head. I whispered his name to myself, spilling it over Jenny's head and toward M. Lemmen's ears. I thought I caught a spark of recognition in the artist's eyes.

  “I know of this Reverend Vermeulen, my friend,” M. Lemmen said, also in a whisper, to Papa. “He is a missionary to CFS. Probably wants money. I wonder if he knows about the rumors?”

  I knew CFS stood for Congo Free State, which, according to Papa, was one of our King's most prosperous holdings. I didn't know anything about rumors. Later, I wished I had noticed more about the missionary because our house turned out to be the last place he was seen alive.

  The front door burst open again and Yvonne bustled in, all arms and sketch pads and easel boards. “Sorry I'm late, Georges,” she said, unloading her burden in the living room. “Mama, you look divine as always.” She kissed our mother on each cheek. “Papa.” She kissed him likewise. She unwrapped her scarf, tossed her coat onto the sofa, and then opened her arms. “Jenny, Bertie, a hug first, then to work.”

  We embraced our sister, and then returned dutifully to our positions next to the little table. Yvonne took out a sketch pad. “I'm going to do a few sketches for M. Lemmen, then he will choose the final pose.”

  “Vonnie, can we talk or do we just have to stand here?” Jenny asked.

  Yvonne shot a glance at M. Lemmen before she answered. “You know how fast I can sketch. Just try and hold still for a little bit. But if you must speak, please try not to move your head, my darling.”

  Jenny giggled and her head definitely moved.

  “Stop it,” I said, gripping the edge of the table. “We'll be here forever and you won't get back to your precious book.”

  I wished I'd spoken sooner. Jenny whipped around to face me and sent me a glare, but her laughter stopped. Now, maybe she'd turn on the whine.

  Papa intervened. “Hey, you two villains in disguise, settle down, please. You know my dream is to hang both of you in the library.” He laughed at his own joke. Jenny turned back to face the front with a muffled huff only I could hear. I straightened out the tablecloth and relaxed my hand again. We both knew better than to try any more delay tactics after Papa's intervention.

  “Georges,” Papa said with a click of his heels and a slight bow, “I entrust my beautiful Serruys women to your artistic influence. Good luck , mon ami.”

  M. Lemmen returned the gesture and Papa headed toward the library, handing off his coat to Claudia. I noticed he left the door open a crack and wished I could eavesdrop on the Reverend's strategy to see if it worked on Papa. Not that I had any intention of becoming a missionary. I wanted to become an artist like Yvonne and for that I'd need the patronage of someone maybe even wealthier than my father.

  * * *

  Georges Lemmen stationed himself near the living room doorway, ostensibly overseeing his lovely apprentice, Yvonne, sketch her younger sisters. In reality, Lemmen intended for his departure from the Serruys residence to coincide with the missionary's. The evangelist was fresh from the Congo and should have some answers to the ugly rumors circulating among Lemmen's dissident artistic community.

  Yvonne picked up on her mentor's agitation. “Have you told my father what you've heard?” she asked.

  “What?” Jenny asked. “What have you heard?”

  The child's round cheeks took on a pink flush. It was so striking Lemmen momentarily debated whether or not to capture that exact color in his finished portrait. He returned his thoughts to what elicited that lovely response in the child, then made a face at Yvonne and tilted his head toward her younger sisters.

  “This is not the place.” But he knew Yvonne was correct. And though he'd spoken with Edmond about the political unrest, he wanted to have eye-witness testimony, not rumor.

  “Would you do a few sketches of the girls in those red dresses they wore at the New Year's dinner?” Lemmen asked Yvonne, knowing the garment color would help him decide on the skin tone for the portrait.

  The buzz of conversation from the library took on the air of finality and the master artist whispered his farewell to Yvonne. He took up his coat and reached the front entry as Edmond and Reverend Vermeulen emerged from the library. Vermeulen stood ram-rod straight, shoulders back, and slipped a thick stack of bills into his shabby coat. Lemmen realized that Edmond not only supported the arts, but his faith and charity as well. Lemmen approved of his patron and dared not endanger him with subversive conversation of rumor discussed openly in his own foyer. Lemmen waved his farewell and exited the house only seconds before the missionary. His last glance into the living room caught the taller daughter, Berthe, watching the money exchange with the same intensity he felt.

  Lemmen walked slowly and soon Vermeulen caught up to him. “Good evening, Reverend,” he greeted the minister and provided his name. “I pray your quest with M. Serruys was a suc
cess.”

  The innocent man's face lit into a ready smile. “Indeed, the gentleman was most generous.”

  “May I offer you a drink and a warm meal, sir, and give you a chance to tell me of your mission? I've heard… staggering reports.”

  Vermeulen's smile faltered and he paled beneath his mass of dark hair. “What have you heard?”

  “Come, let's speak freely and honestly, in the warmth of the tavern ahead.”

  The missionary nodded, held his coat together against the cold, and followed the artist to the inn.

  Lemmen spotted his friend and compatriot, Guillaume, sitting at an isolated table in the far corner of the room. On his way to the table, he greeted Felecia, the barmaid who was also his sometime model, and ordered meals and pints for three. Guillaume stood at their approach and Lemmen introduced his guest.

  “Ah, Monsieur, we have many questions,” Guillaume said with a vigorous handshake.

  “First, let us eat, drink, relax,” Lemmen said. “Tell us, Reverend, about your journey home from Africa. Were the seas favorable?”

  Following the meal, Guillaume again broached the topic of their concern. “Reverend,” he began, “Georges and I, as well as others in our community, have heard disturbing rumors that our King is profiting from the rubber production at a horrific human cost. His exorbitant income at the expense of the workers’ lives is reprehensible to many honorable Belgians.”

  The missionary began to shake and glanced over his shoulder to survey the room. He let considerable time pass before responding. “I have witnessed horrors beyond belief,” he said when he turned back to face his hosts, lowering his voice. “There are many souls in need of salvation and we can't reach them all before they are dispatched to the afterlife.”

  “So the rumors are true?” Lemmen asked. “People are being tortured and murdered?”

  Vermeulen took a long pull on his pint of ale, but it did not steady his tremor. “Gentlemen, it is impossible for anyone sitting here in the comfort of this warm, friendly establishment to fathom the true conditions in the Congo.”