Fine Art of Murder Read online

  Daniel's expression didn't change. He said nothing.

  But that wasn't the most pressing issue Charles had at the moment. This business with Clarisse was what concerned him now. Clarisse, whom Daniel had publically embraced and kissed in a tawdry display of affection. Clarisse, who should, by rights, belong to him—not Daniel. Daniel was trying to take her away from him, too.

  Charles pulled himself together. “But that's history,” he said. “Despite our differences, I do recognize your talent. That miniature you made of Clarisse was exquisite.” Charles pulled his checkbook and pen out of his jacket pocket. “How much do you want for it?”

  “It's not for sale,” Daniel said.

  “Don't be ridiculous. Everything comes down to money in the end. Name your price.”

  “No, really. It's one of my best pieces. I've booked five commissions for miniatures just from that one show. It'll be good for business. That's something you should understand.”

  “You can paint another subject that can serve in that capacity.” Charles uncapped his Mont Blanc pen, scribbled something on a check, tore it out, and dropped it on the desk. “This should change your mind.”

  Daniel picked up the check. It was for twenty thousand dollars.

  “Seriously?”

  “When have you ever known me to not be serious about money?”

  “You've got a point, but I'm afraid I can't accept your money. In case you didn't notice, Clarisse has become more than just my muse. We haven't announced our engagement yet, out of deference to your father's recent death, but Clarisse and I are getting married. And, somehow, I don't think selling a miniature of my future wife to another man would be appropriate.”

  Daniel rose from his chair, tore the check in two and tossed the pieces in the air.

  “It will never work, you know.” Charles was seething, but he kept his face controlled as he smoothed his coat. “Clarisse is used to a lifestyle far better than you can ever give her. She'll soon tire of taking long walks through the woods and watching old movies in front of the TV. Girls like Clarisse long for designer dresses, fine dining and heirloom jewelry. I'll wager you'll never even make it to the altar.”

  “That's one bet I'll take you up on,” Daniel said. “Oh, and not that I don't trust you, but after I spray Clarisse's miniature with a protective coating and let it dry here overnight, I'm putting it in my safety deposit box. Better take a good look at it on your way out. It's the last time you'll ever feast your eyes on it.”

  * * *

  If anyone was going to possess Clarisse's miniature, it was Charles—not Daniel. Clarisse was a vain woman, and when Daniel painted the miniature of her, she fell for his charm. What girl wouldn't have her head turned by something like that? But money and a prestigious lifestyle was a faster and more reliable route to a woman's heart.

  Charles picked up the phone. “Clarisse, it's me. I know it's last minute, but I was wondering if you could meet me for lunch at the Club today. I could sure use your help on some of the things concerning the estate. I've got a good grasp on the finances, but for some of the other things it would be nice to have a woman's input.

  “11:30, then? I can swing by and pick you up at your office. And, Clarisse, thanks. You've always been there for me from the time we were kids playing hide and seek. You don't know how much your help means to me.”

  * * *

  The luncheon had gone exactly as planned. He might have overplayed the sympathy card, but Clarisse didn't seem to mind. She'd agreed to help him and was coming over this weekend. Ostensibly she'd only be there during the day, but Charles knew he could remedy that. After all, who could refuse a bereaved son—especially when he was rich, eligible and a long-time friend. If that ruined any of Daniel's plans for the weekend, all the better.

  And speaking of Daniel, Charles wasn't going to let that artist son of a gardener have that miniature. If Daniel was going to remove it tomorrow, he'd take it tonight. He had the keys to all the buildings on the estate, and he was pretty sure Daniel wouldn't have changed the locks. If Daniel had, well, that's what crowbars were for. He'd toss the place and make it look like vandals had done it. That might be fun.

  Anyway, he'd have the miniature in his possession by midnight, one way or another, and Daniel out in the street by the end of the month.

  * * *

  Charles decided to walk to the gallery. It was barely within walking distance, but he didn't want to chance that anyone would see his car. His Jag was well-known in the community.

  He dressed down in a denim shirt, jeans, and hiking boots. The material felt coarse to the touch, but the woods were dense and held all manner of flowers, vines, and vegetation. Daniel's father, Ben, had been responsible for all of it, with Daniel helping him as a child. But after Ben died, only the formal gardens were tended by a landscaping service. Everything else had run amuck. Charles just hoped he wouldn't run into any poison ivy.

  The gallery lights were dimmed. Good. I can get the miniature and get home at a decent time. Charles tried his key. It worked. It was almost too easy.

  He stepped inside, and sure enough, the miniature sparkled on its pedestal. Charles removed it from the glass display and stroked it reverently, then brushed his lips across it before putting it in his pocket.

  As he turned to leave, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was Daniel.

  “I suppose you're going to ask me to return this?” Charles asked as he drew the miniature from his pocket.

  “No. It's all yours, Charles. In fact, I made that one just for you.”

  “Really? I thought you said….”

  “That was before I realized you'd stop at nothing to get it.”

  “Smart man.”

  Daniel looked up at the wall clock. “You should begin to see, and feel, just how smart right about now.”

  “What are you talking about?” Charles felt peculiar, like a war was raging within him that no one was winning. He slumped down on the floor.

  Daniel plucked the miniature from Charles's outstretched hand with a pair of tongs, and placed it in a liquid-filled jar. The liquid began bubbling, and the miniature disappeared before his eyes.

  “What did you do? What's happening to me?” Charles asked as he grabbed his stomach and groaned.

  Daniel ignored his questions until he'd replaced the destroyed miniature of Clarisse with the original.

  “Well, Charles, I may only be a gardener's son, but at least that taught me to stay away from the deadly monkshood in your woods. I coated the miniature you attempted to steal from me with monkshood root—the most deadly part of the plant. You did the rest. All it takes is a touch, and you didn't just touch it. You stroked it and kissed it. An unexpected bonus! Right now it's attacking your internal organs. Soon it will get into your blood stream. And, if you're thinking this is a prank, let me assure you, it's not. Monkshood's fatal in the dosage I gave you. As fatal as that shove that killed my father.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “I saw you,” Daniel said. “There wasn't anything I could do at the time, but I'm patient. I was willing to wait until you had the most to lose. The money. The estate. The business. They'll never be yours to manage. Now, let's get you to your feet.”

  Charles could hardly piece together what he'd heard. But he offered no resistance when Daniel helped him stand.

  Maybe if I walk a bit, I'll feel better. Surely Daniel's joking. He can't possibly have seen me, and even if he did, the gutless twerp doesn't have it in him to carry this out.

  Daniel walked Charles deeper into the woods, then pushed him into a clearing filled with beautiful purple flowering plants. Charles staggered, then fell. He felt paralyzed and unable to concentrate. His breathing began to slow.

  “Too bad you don't appreciate flowers,” Daniel said. “They'll be the last thing you see.” He turned away.

  “This one's for you, Dad,” Daniel said softly as he walked back to the gallery.

  Gabriel Lehman (19
76-)

  Shari Held

  Indiana native Gabriel Lehman didn't take up art until 2009. At the time, he lived in Wilmington, North Carolina, a city known for celebrating art and fostering artists.

  Lehman worked hard, laying carpet during the day and perfecting his craft at night. The self-taught artist's fanciful artwork is his own unique concoction of surrealism, impressionism and the cartoon world.

  He reached back to his childhood in Elkhart, Indiana, for inspiration. Lehman has conceptual dyslexia, so as a child, he took up drawing for escapism.

  “I wasn't that good at it,” he says. “I did a lot of cartoon characters.”

  He counts the rather unlikely trio of Rene Magritte, Norman Rockwell and Bill Watterson—the cartoonist/author of the Calvin and Hobbes comic strip—among the artists whose work he most enjoys. While you can see elements of each in his work, his pieces are truly original.

  “Surrealism is fascinating to me,” he says. “That's why you see giant teapots that fly around in the air with a bunch of balloons attached to them—and bowler hats and top hats. It's very cartoony and it lends itself to the type of colors I like to use.”

  In August 2014 at the Noblesville Art Fair on the Square, Lehman got his first big break. He gave an attendee permission to take some photos of his artwork, which were then posted online. “My work went global overnight,” Lehman says. His website almost crashed several times, and he had his hands full just shipping orders.

  He now has an international distribution deal. His work no longer shows in art galleries but is available on line through Gabriel Prints.

  The Last Great Heist

  Janet Williams

  Meg couldn't believe what she just heard.

  “You want me to do what?” she asked. Her cousin, Tom, gave her the kind of slight, knowing nod that one might see in a spy movie.

  “Let me get this straight. You want me to rob Grandma's house?”

  Again, the slight tip of the head toward Meg.

  Is that a yes?

  She turned her attention to Tim, the slightly smarter twin, who sat across the table beside Tom.

  “Listen, we know you're good with… ah….” Tim struggled to find the right words. “You're good with things that require a light touch.” Tim reached across the table, stained with coffee and cigarette burns, to grab hold of Meg's hands.

  She pulled back, crossing her arms as she balled her hands into fists.

  Light touch. Nice way of saying I'm a thief. But a thief who's never been caught.

  “You better spell out exactly what you want from me,” Meg said.

  Tim and Tom looked at each other. Tom cleared his throat as he reached into the breast pocket of his shirt to pull out a pack of cigarettes and put one to his lips. Unfiltered Pall Malls.

  As he began flicking the lighter, Meg said, “You really going to smoke that? Smells bad enough in here.”

  “Hey, my place, my rules,” Tom said, flicking the lighter one more time. But before the flame reached the cigarette, Tim grabbed the lighter.

  “You can wait,” Tim said.

  Tom hesitated, then dropped the cigarette onto the table.

  In truth, one more cigarette wouldn't have made much of a difference. The ashtray in Tim and Tom's garage apartment overflowed with cigarette butts, and the tabletop was smeared with grease and remnants of ketchup, making Meg want to gag as soon as she walked into the place.

  Why did I even agree to come here?

  After another knowing sideways glance at Tom, Tim spoke, “We need you to get in and take that chair painting Grandpa did.” Meg must have looked as puzzled as she felt because Tim followed with, “You know, the one hanging over Grandma's organ.”

  Meg knew exactly what he was talking about—a watercolor painting of a simple tan arm chair with dark brown trim and brass buttons where the wood met leather. It sat alone against a bluish-green background and hung in a plain wood frame on the living room wall. Underneath was Grandma's organ, untouched for nearly a decade.

  “You want what? That old painting? For heaven's sake, why?” she asked.

  Tom opened his mouth like he was about to say something when Tim interjected, “None of your business. We need you to get it for us.”

  “Look, if you guys want that chair, why settle for the picture? Grandpa gave me that chair, the real chair, before he died. If it means that much to you, just take it.”

  Tim shook his head no, then Tom followed, a wave of head shakes. Tim and Tom did that a lot—one gestured and the other echoed.

  “Ain't gonna work,” Tom said.

  “It's the painting we need,” Tim said, as if he and his brother were completing a single sentence. “And only you can get it for us.”

  “Why don't you just ask Uncle Karl for it? What can that old painting matter to him? It's not even one of Grandpa's best.”

  Again, the twin heads swayed back and forth, telling Meg no. “He ain't gonna give us nothing.” Tom again.

  Meg should have figured that. Uncle Karl and his wife, Freda, moved in with Grandma after Grandpa died. Grandma had Alzheimer's and needed round-the-clock care, so Uncle Karl and Aunt Freda volunteered, much to the astonishment of the rest of the family.

  In retrospect, it shouldn't have surprised anyone. They now controlled Grandma and therefore her late husband's considerable estate. That included a collection of original watercolors painted by Grandpa, who was a respected, if unknown, artist at the time of his death.

  “Why not wait until after Grandma….” Meg started to say.

  “You mean… dies?” Tom asked.

  “Yeah, I guess that's what I mean.”

  “Can't wait,” Tim said, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. It was a clipping from the local newspaper about an auction at the city's most exclusive gallery, featuring the work of the late Benjamin Klein.

  “The Frick? They're auctioning Grandpa's paintings at the Frick?”

  This has to be the work of Karl and Freda, but why and how?

  “And they'll be picking up Grandpa's stuff from the house next weekend,” Tom said.

  “Which means we have to act fast,” Tim added.

  “Let them sell the stuff. Why should we care?”

  Tom opened his mouth to speak but Tim stopped him, saying, “That don't matter. We just need you to get in there and get it out or else we….”

  “We tell that ritzy boyfriend of yours about how you used to do these break-ins all the time for Grandpa.” Tom jabbed his finger at Meg's face.

  The words felt like a slap.

  “You can't really expect me to do this,” she said, weakly pushing the finger aside. “And you can't tell Brian. I mean, this affects you, too.”

  “But we ain't got nothing to lose,” Tom said.

  Right. I'm screwed.

  * * *

  It had been months since she'd been inside the house, so Meg decided to pay Grandma a visit, or, as she told her cousins, she needed to do a little recon. It was the middle of a sunny afternoon and the shades were still drawn. A trashcan, which sat next to the driveway at the rear of the house, overflowed with garbage, and the lawn, always immaculate in Grandpa's day, was so long that it was beginning to go to seed.

  Meg picked up the bundle of mail that was jammed inside the door as she knocked and listened for a sign of activity. Nothing. After a minute or so she knocked again, this time a little harder. Again, nothing. She pounded a third time when finally she heard a thud and then footsteps lumbering to the door.

  Meg noticed one of the window shades slowly moved and she thought she caught a glimpse of Uncle Karl. Then a brittle female voice said, “Get back. Get away from there.”

  “It's the kid. Let me see what she wants.” Meg recognized that grunt-like whisper of Uncle Karl.

  “Make it quick,” hissed a voice, which Meg presumed to be Aunt Freda.

  Slowly, the door creaked open, but only enough to reveal Uncle Karl's face through the crack.

  “What
are you doing here?” Karl asked, with a grunt.

  “U-u-ncle Karl, I-I just wanted to see Grandma.” Meg wedged her foot inside the door so Karl couldn't shut it on her.

  “Your grandmother can't see nobody. It just upsets her,” Karl said.

  “I won't upset her. I promise,” Meg said, pushing her foot against the door, forcing Karl to open it a little wider. As he did, she tried to scan the living room through the slim opening and in the reflection from the mirror over the fireplace mantel.

  “Please,” she added after a moment when Karl didn't respond.

  “Look, Meg, I'm sorry. But I can't let you in. Ain't nobody seeing her.” Karl sounded almost apologetic.

  “Just a few minutes?” Meg tried to push the door open, but Karl pushed back.

  “No,” he said firmly, shoving her away as he closed the door.

  What the hell is going on in there?

  Meg fought the urge to bang on the door and force her way inside, but that was a battle for another day. Today, she got what she needed—confirmation that the painting still hung on the wall opposite the fireplace and above Grandma's organ. She saw, too, that the rest of Grandpa's paintings were there, stacked haphazardly against a crate next to the organ.

  * * *

  Two nights later, Meg found herself in the alley outside Grandma's darkened duplex with a cheap wooden ladder that she leaned underneath her point of entry. She didn't have Grandpa to give her a boost like he did when she was a gangly preteen learning the fine art of burglary. This rectangular window above the mantel and next to the fireplace was Grandpa's favorite for teaching her how to break into houses. He taught her to hoist herself to the window ledge and then, while hanging onto a crevice in the stone facade with one hand, use the other to jiggle open the window latch with a putty knife. It would swing open into the room and then she would slide across the mantel and lower herself to the floor below.

  It was practice, he told her. Move slowly, as quietly as possible and listen, always listen. She mastered these lessons and moved on to slipping into the houses of some of the wealthiest residents of Wittenberg and stealing paintings so valuable they had no real price tag. But that was a long time ago, before her conscience began bothering her so badly that she told her grandfather she couldn't steal for him anymore.