Fine Art of Murder Read online

  “Hope I remember,” Meg muttered as she slowly mounted each step of the ladder, pausing as it shifted slightly in the soft, rain-soaked grass. She felt every step, too, through the thin soles of the ballet slippers she wore. They left no tread, Grandpa had told her as he outfitted her with the slippers, tights, a cap, and thin nylon gloves for her night's work. She remembered.

  As she reached the window she felt the facade until she found a stone she could hang onto. She removed the putty knife from her jacket pocket and gently pressed it into the latch as she had been taught.

  Nothing happened. As Meg examined the window more closely she could see it had been painted shut.

  Shit. Okay. Deep breath. That's why you have a putty knife.

  With swift, even strokes, Meg chiseled around the window frame, bits of white flakes floating to the ground. Then she tried the putty knife on the latch. This time it moved and, with a slight creaking sound, it opened.

  Hearing nothing but the slight squeak, squeak, squeak of the window hinge, Meg pulled herself through the opening, crossed the mantel, and dropped to the floor. She paused to listen but heard nothing except the hum of a car's tires on the brick street in front of the house.

  Faint yellowish streaks of light from the street lamps filtered in through gaps in the drawn shades. Meg closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply to steady her nerves. The smell caught her as she sucked in her second breath.

  What was it? Urine? Vomit?

  She immediately thought of Grandma lying in her own sickbed, but as she strained to see around the room she saw a shadowy mass sprawled across the hardwood floor.

  At first it looked like a pile of blankets or pillows strewn across the floor, but, as her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could see it was neither.

  Grandma? But where were Karl and Freda?

  She crept closer, bending down to touch the shoulder of the crumpled figure. As she turned it over, she saw the dark liquid pooled by the head, and then she saw the face, eyes wide open in horror.

  “Aunt Freda!” Meg said aloud, stepping away from the body.

  Okay, calm down. Maybe she's not as dead as she looks.

  She pulled off a glove to feel for a pulse, but there was nothing. The flesh was cold.

  “Oh my God, Freda, what happened!” she said in a choked whisper.

  She looked around the room, half expecting to the find the body of Uncle Karl or worse—Grandma. Meg couldn't see anything else, but she didn't want to go exploring, either.

  What do I do?

  She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering as she stared at Freda's battered body. They'll think I did this! Her grandfather had prepared her for a lot of things, but never anything like this. Okay, Grandpa. Now what?

  “Breathe, little one. Take a deep breath. You aren't caught yet.” It was Grandpa's voice, as clear as if he were speaking out loud to her now.

  She breathed deeply and listened for several long seconds. That's when she realized it. She didn't even hear the wheezing hum of Grandma's oxygen machine. Then, as she slowly surveyed the room again, she saw the crate and stack of paintings were gone.

  Her eyes moved again around the room. She spotted some kind of statue with a thick, bulbous base lying in the pool of blood near Freda's head.

  Uncle Karl's bowling trophy?

  She paused again and then continued scanning the room. And then she saw it—the painting she came to steal, the twenty-four by thirty-six watercolor of that damn chair. Only it wasn't hanging above the organ. It was leaning sideways against the sofa on the other side of the body.

  Meg stepped gingerly over Freda's body and as she did, she felt her foot slip.

  Shit! Blood!

  She ripped off the slipper and jammed it into her jacket pocket. As her heart pounded and bile rose in her throat, she swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

  Just get the hell out of here. Fast.

  But not yet. She picked up the painting and moved away from the body as she scanned the room. There, on the table by Grandma's chair was the telephone. She picked up the receiver, punched in 911, and then dropped it onto the chair. The voice on the phone repeated, “What is your emergency?” and Meg tucked the painting under her arm and slipped out the front door.

  * * *

  Last night. Was it even real?

  Meg's stomach churned as the dark image of Freda sprawled across the floor flashed through her mind. She huddled under the covers staring blankly at the ceiling when she heard the bang, bang, bang at the door.

  “Meg! You in there? Open up!”

  Tim. He'd come for the painting. Meg scrambled to get out of bed and wrapped herself in her bathrobe before heading for the door.

  Tim hammered again before she could get there. “C'mon, Meg. Open up!”

  “Hang on. I'm coming.” As she brushed her hair back with one hand she opened the door and Tim pushed past her into the room.

  “Where is it?” he demanded, scanning the living room of the tiny, one-bedroom apartment.

  “And good morning to you, too.”

  “Cut the crap and just give me the painting.”

  Before Meg could say anything, Tim marched into her bedroom, scanned the room and then looked behind her dresser and under her bed. Meg grabbed his arm to stop him, but he shook her off as he opened her closet and shuffled through her clothes in search of the painting.

  “It's not here,” she said. “You think I'm crazy enough to bring that thing here?”

  Tim eyed her, trying to figure out if she was telling the truth.

  “Okay, where is it? And where the hell have you been? We've been trying to reach you for hours.”

  “Asleep. I was asleep. Late night.” She tried to control her hard, angry tone.

  Before Tim could utter another word, his phone rang. “Yeah, she's here,” he said after a moment. And then, “Oh, my God. Seriously? She's dead? Are you sure?” He hung up a minute later and turned, wide-eyed, to Meg.

  “What was that about?”

  “That was Tom. He said the police came by looking for Uncle Karl,” he said, dumbfounded. “They said Aunt Freda was dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yeah. Dead.”

  “What else did they say?” She clenched her jaw as she tried to maintain a stoic expression.

  “Nothing. Just that she was dead and Uncle Karl and Grandma were missing.”

  Grandma missing too?

  Before she could say anything, Tim pressed her about the painting.

  “It's in a safe place,” she said.

  “Listen, you screw with us and we'll make sure everyone knows about you.”

  “I don't even want that damn painting, but do you really think it's smart to drag it out now?”

  Tim thought for a moment, then nodded. Meg ushered him out the door after a few more exchanges with a promise to connect later. As she closed the door behind him, she was astonished that her cousin never asked whether she knew anything about Freda's death.

  Not too bright, thank heavens.

  Meg's mind spun to last night. With one foot covered only by a sock, she had limped to her car several blocks away. After securing the painting in the trunk of her car, she briefly considered returning to remove the ladder and close the window.

  Too risky. Police on their way by now.

  It was a mess, she knew, but she couldn't undo her mistakes. She just better be sure she didn't make any others. She released the brake on the car and engaged the clutch, letting it roll down the hill before starting the engine.

  Meg drove less than a mile to a row of old garages off an alley. She opened the second garage door and stashed the painting inside, covering it with an old tarp. This was Grandpa's lair and few people knew of it. This was where he had hidden their stolen artwork years ago, but now all it held were old paint supplies, bent and broken easels, and battered canvases.

  Meg wasn't done yet. She still had to get rid of the bloodied slipper and her jacket, too, because of the blood
smeared in the pocket. She sorted through the pile of damaged canvases until she found some rags and an old roll of duct tape. She bundled the slippers and jacket, wrapping them with stained rags and then bound them with the tape. She grabbed a football-sized chunk of concrete that lay in the alley and wrapped it and the bundle with more layers of tape.

  Good thing Grandpa saved all this crap.

  Meg then drove to the aging, two-lane bridge that crossed the river running through her small town. Pausing to check for traffic, she edged across onto the bridge and stopped in the middle. There, she got out, and after a quick glance around her, dropped the bundle into the water below. As she heard the splash, she got back into her car and headed for home and maybe, if she was lucky, a few hours of sleep.

  * * *

  Grandpa had told Meg that the most difficult part of any heist was waiting. Waiting for the right time to do the job and waiting afterwards to see what the fallout might be. What did Grandpa hear through his art world sources? Would the victims call the police? Unlikely, since she and Grandpa—and one time, Tim and Tom—only stole works of art that had been stolen from museums or private collectors. A few of the works had been looted by the Nazis.

  “Those sons of bitches are getting what they deserve,” Grandpa would say to justify the thefts.

  Eventually, that justification wasn't enough for Meg and she refused to steal for Grandpa. He drafted Tim and Tom into the business, but on their first and only job they were nearly caught. Grandpa decided it was a sign he should retire. He left that business and pursued his own painting with a renewed vigor.

  Meg never knew what became of the paintings they stole. As far as she was concerned, their whereabouts died with her grandfather and that was fine with her.

  Now Meg was waiting. Waiting to find out what happened to Uncle Karl. Waiting to learn what happened to her grandmother. Waiting for the police to figure out that she was in the house the night Aunt Freda died. Waiting.

  She only had to wait until that evening when there was a knock at her door. Tim or Tom, she thought as approached the door.

  “W-who is it?”

  “Ma'am, I'm Detective Sam Browning here with my partner, Detective Angie Santorini.”

  “Ah, just a minute.” Meg tried to sound calm, but her heart began pounding and her hands trembled slightly. Her first instinct was to back away from the door, toward her bedroom and a window that led to a fire escape.

  “Ms. Klein, we just need a few minutes.” It was a woman's voice.

  “I'm coming,” Meg replied.

  Maybe running's not such a bright idea.

  She slipped into the bathroom and flushed the toilet before opening the door. “Sorry, I, ah, was in the bathroom.”

  The female detective, tall and thin with short dark hair, gave her a slight smile while the other, short, stocky, and bald, pushed his way in. They both flashed their badges.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “You Margaret Klein?” Browning asked.

  “I'm Meg Klein,” she replied.

  “Sorry, ma'am, but we have a few questions about Karl and Freda Klein. They're your uncle and aunt, right?”

  Meg nodded, plunging her still shaking hands into her jeans pockets.

  “And you heard about what happened to your aunt, right?” Browning was doing all the talking.

  Meg nodded again, breathing slowly and deeply to keep the rising panic at bay.

  “Well, we understand you might have been the last person to see them.”

  “Me? The last person to see them?” Her voice was calm even as she pictured the detectives leading her out of the apartment in handcuffs.

  “Yes. Your cousins told us….” It was Detective Santorini.

  “Tim and Tom?”

  “Yes, we talked to them earlier today,” Santorini said.

  Oh, God, what did they say? Breathe. Breathe. You haven't been caught yet.

  “And they said you went to see Karl and Freda a couple of nights ago,” Santorini continued.

  “A couple of nights ago?” A wave of relief washed through her. “Yes, I stopped by to see Grandma but they wouldn't let me in.”

  “Who wouldn't let you in?” Browning asked.

  “They, both of them. No, wait. It was Uncle Karl at the door but I could hear Aunt Freda in the background. I think she was the one who didn't want to let me in.”

  The detectives asked Meg a few more questions about the encounter before stepping closer to the door.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Meg asked and the detectives nodded. “How did Aunt Freda die?”

  “Can't tell you that,” Browning said.

  “Okay, then. What happened to Uncle Karl? And where's my grandmother?”

  Santorini looked at Browning, who gave her a quick nod before she answered. “It seems your aunt and uncle moved your grandmother to a nursing home about two weeks ago. It looks like they were planning to sell off your grandfather's paintings when….”

  Browning cut her off but Meg finished the sentence, “… when Karl killed Aunt Freda?”

  “You didn't hear that from us,” Browning said.

  Santorini nodded knowingly at her, adding, “But we've got a lot of loose ends to figure out.”

  “A lot of loose ends,” Browning echoed as they headed out the door.

  Yeah, and I bet I know just what they are.

  Meg closed the door, slumping against it in relief.

  * * *

  Uncle Karl wasn't on the run very long. He was caught two weeks later in Brownsville, Texas trying to sell one of Grandpa's paintings to a local art dealer for enough cash to escape into Mexico. He was back in Wittenberg within the week, and the rest of the artwork was auctioned off at the Frick as Karl originally intended. Only the proceeds went into a trust for Grandma's medical care.

  Almost as soon as Karl was back in town, the cousins were at Meg's door demanding the painting.

  “No. Not now. Not yet,” she told them as she closed the door behind them.

  “What do you mean not now?” Tim asked.

  “Hand it over or we go to the cops,” Tom said.

  “And say what?” she asked.

  “They might be interested in knowing you were there that night.” Tom was in her face.

  “Yeah, and who planned it? If I'm in deep shit, then so are you.”

  Tom opened his mouth to lash back but Tim raised his hand to stop him. “Okay, so what do we do now?”

  “We wait some more.”

  “And what? You steal our painting?” Tom growled.

  “Right. I steal a worthless painting.” Meg shook her head. “Listen, I don't want the painting. I never wanted that painting. But if it shows up now it will raise too many questions.”

  “It ain't gonna show….” Tom started to say before Tim cut him off.

  “Maybe she's right. Wait until this thing with Karl blows over,” Tim told him.

  Tom was ready to argue when Tim gave him a knowing look. Tom relented, saying, “Yeah, okay. We wait.”

  * * *

  The case was settled faster than she expected. Uncle Karl admitted hitting his wife with the bowling trophy but maintained he was defending himself against one of her tantrums. Prosecutors didn't buy his story, accusing him of staging a faux break-in to cover up his crime and pointing to the ladder and open window as evidence. They were prepared to charge him with murder, and the threat of a life sentence was enough to convince him to plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter. He got twenty years.

  Before Tim and Tom could make another demand for the painting, Meg summoned them to her apartment. The first thing they saw when they entered was the object they sought for so many months, perched on the very subject of the painting.

  “Okay, you were right. She didn't screw us,” Tom said to Tim as he rushed to grab the painting.

  As Tom held the painting, Tim pulled a bottle of rubbing alcohol from his pocket, and after dampening a rag, he began gently rubbing a corner surface.
The paint began to rub off onto the rag, but Meg couldn't see what was revealed underneath.

  “C'mon. What's it show?” Tom said.

  “Just hang on a minute. We don't want to ruin it,” Tim replied as he continued to gently rub the surface of the painting with the alcohol.

  “Ruin what?” Meg asked, trying not to choke on the alcohol fumes that filled the room.

  “Just you wait,” Tom said.

  “You may as well know,” Tim said, facing her. “That last painting Grandpa stole, you know, the one you wouldn't help with?”

  Meg nodded.

  “It was a Monet. Grandpa knew the guy we took it from got it on the black market,” Tim said. “Grandpa said it belonged in a museum.”

  “That's what he said about every painting we stole,” Meg said.

  “Yeah, well about a week after that, me and Tom went over to see Grandpa. He was in that little studio of his painting this picture over the Monet,” Tim explained.

  Meg's eyes widened and her jaw dropped in astonishment. “That's a Monet under that ugly painting?”

  Tom nodded as Tim returned to removing the layer of paint, slowly erasing bits of the chair and the background. But his work only revealed plain white canvas, and as it did, Tim began wiping the surface more vigorously. Still, only more white canvas. He had removed about a quarter of the paint and with nothing more than the plain canvas showing.

  “What the hell is this?” Tom turned to Meg in a fury. “You swap out our painting?”

  “Don't be ridiculous. This is the same stupid painting I took that night.”

  “Then what? Where is it?” Tom asked.

  Tim began softly laughing as he tossed the rag to the floor. “Grandpa. He must have done something else with it, especially if he thought we saw him paint over it.”

  “Damn that old man!” Tom picked up the painting and slammed it onto the chair, tearing the canvas and breaking the frame.

  “Hey….” Before Meg could say anything else Tom charged out of the apartment with Tim close behind.