Fine Art of Murder Read online

  “Thanks guys. Leave me to clean up the mess,” she said as she tossed the alcohol-soaked rag into the kitchen sink.

  She picked up a piece of the shattered frame and peeled away the torn and paint-smeared canvas. The frame was hollow, she was surprised to discover, but one piece appeared to have something wedged inside.

  Some kind of scroll?

  She spent a couple of minutes trying to pry the document loose with her fingers when she gave up and got a pair of longnose pliers from her toolbox. Gingerly, she slid the pliers into the hollow of the frame and snagged the document.

  What in the world is this?

  It was a piece of canvas that Meg carefully unrolled.

  What else were you up to, Grandpa? Some kind of message?

  She recognized her grandfather's precise cursive writing on this slender document, so she poured herself a glass of wine and sat down in that same tan chair to read it. Not a message, but a list, she realized. And then it dawned on her. This was a list of every single painting the old man had done over the years. But that wasn't the surprising part. Next to each title was a dash followed by the name of one of the works they had stolen.

  “All this time. Those paintings were right in front of us all this time. You painted over every single one. And now they're gone.”

  Meg smiled and raised her glass. “To you Grandpa. To your last great heist.”

  T.C. Steele (1847-1926)

  Stephen Terrell

  Perhaps the greatest tribute to the importance and influence of Hoosier artist T.C. Steele came sixty years after his death. In 1986, two Indianapolis art dealers were charged with dealing in forged paintings. The New York Times reported that it was the first time a state's forgery statutes were used for paintings. And the artist whose work was forged was T.C. Steele.

  Born Theodore Clement Steele in 1845 in Owen County, Indiana, Steele was educated around the Midwest, including at what would become DePauw University. In the 1870s, he eked out a living in Indianapolis, painting portraits and commercial signs. But in 1880, a patron saw Steele's potential and funded Steele's study at the Royal Academy in Munich. Five years later, his talents honed, he returned to Indiana.

  In 1890, Steele published a book of twenty-five paintings. His work drew the attention of national art critics. Over the next quarter century, his paintings were included in prestigious international exhibitions in the United States, Europe, and South America.

  Steele purchased two hundred acres of wooded land in Brown County. At his “House of the Singing Winds,” he focused on his landscapes, working with light and shadow amid the tree-covered hills of Brown County. However, Steele continued to paint portraits on commission, including poet James Whitcomb Riley, President Benjamin Harrison, and the official portraits of several Indiana governors.

  Steele was the most famous of the “Hoosier Group” of American impressionist painters, which included J. Ottis Adams, William Forsyth and Otto Stark. Steele's Indianapolis studio became the first Herron School of Art. His works grace many private and museum collections in Indiana and throughout the United States. His Brown County home is now the T.C. Steele State Historic Site and is open to the public.

  Callipygian

  MB Dabney

  “Wrap your lovely lips around this.”

  Taken aback by the sudden and unwanted flirtation, Kendall Hunter turned. And despite her government training, her heart nearly stopped. She was face-to-face with the most gorgeous man she had ever seen in person. As she opened her mouth to voice her indignation, a fork full of cake passed between her lips. The frosting was a delight to her taste buds and the man a delight to her eyes. Both were a creamy chocolate. She imagined his face, with its light-brown bedroom eyes, full lips and well-defined cheek bones, was chiseled personally by the gods.

  Kendall took all this in in the span of two seconds, and hoped he didn't notice her brief bewilderment. “It's delicious. Thanks,” she managed after swallowing.

  His smile was charming and his white teeth were a perfect counterpoint to his dark skin. “My name is—” he started.

  “Hampton Simmonds,” she finished for him, having recovered her composure. “It's you we're all here to celebrate.”

  “Ah, yes, well, I suppose you are right about that,” he said, sounding modest and nearly embarrassed as he looked around the art gallery at the crowd of beautiful people in their best formal attire. Men generally look good in a tux. But Hampton Simmonds's six-foot frame looked positively spectacular.

  He handed the plate with the remains of the cake to a passing waitress. “You can just call me Hamp,” he said to Kendall.

  She wore a form-fitting blue evening dress with a modest neckline and spaghetti straps. Her white pearl necklace and pearl earrings were her only accessories. “I'm Kendall Hunter.”

  Hampton smiled again and his right hand engulfed hers in a strong, confident, but not crushing grip. “It's nice to meet you.” He didn't release her hand, but guided her toward the wall to her right. “Let me personally escort you through the gallery.”

  When Hampton released her hand, he seemed to carry her along through the force of his personality. They moved into a room of contemporary paintings. One wall was dominated by a ten-foot-wide painting in off-white with five diagonal splashes of deep red. Kendall stopped, stared, and frowned, but felt Hampton observing her.

  “You don't like?” he said.

  “I can't wrap my mind around what it's supposed to mean,” Kendall said. She studied the information card on the wall next to the painting to avoid looking at the luscious man next to her.

  They started walking again and took the stairs to the second floor. “I don't get it, either,” he said with a chuckle. He lowered his voice to a conspiratory whisper. “I've never liked that artist. She's tremendously overrated.”

  Kendall began to relax as they continued, with Hampton pointing out bits of information as they passed more art. Occasionally, someone would catch his eye and nod but no one interrupted them. Kendall's sister's eyes bugged out when she spotted them together but Kiara quickly turned back to a sculpture of a pair of steepled hands.

  “Are you a collector?” Hampton asked. “I think I've met all the major black collectors here in Indianapolis. But I don't think I've seen you before.”

  “I'm originally from here, but I live in Philadelphia now,” she said. They entered the main room on the second floor. On the opposite wall were three abstract paintings.

  “And what do you do in the City of Brotherly Love… and Sisterly Affection?” he said, flirting directly once again.

  She didn't skip a beat. “I'm a special agent with the FBI. I specialize in criminal profiles.”

  That stopped him in his tracks. “Really?”

  Kendall smiled and started them moving again. In social situations such as this, she loved revealing her occupation, as if being a tall, attractive black woman and an FBI agent were mutually exclusive.

  “I'm home for a short vacation. Visiting family. As a matter of fact, you know my sister, Kiara. She works for Mitch, the gallery owner. Does the PR. She had an invitation, of course.” Kendall held up the embroidered invitation in her left hand. “I'm her plus one.”

  “Oh, yes, Kiara. I do know her,” Hampton said, turning to look back over his shoulder to where Kiara had once stood, then back at Kendall. “And I'm certainly glad you're her plus one. Otherwise, I might have been bored out of my mind this evening.”

  The waitress appeared again, this time carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres. Her presence was announced a second earlier by the fragrance she wore. The waitress offered them sausage-stuffed mushrooms, which Kendall declined. Hampton popped one into his mouth as the woman moved on.

  “Those are your paintings, aren't they?” Kendall asked.

  Hampton reached around her waist in a particularly intimate way and pulled her toward the wall where the paintings hung. “What do you think? This is my series celebrating the female form.”

  Kendall
stared. “I'm not sure what to think.”

  “The one on the left is called A Woman's Eyes,” Hampton said.

  It was an abstract with bright primary colors and broad, yet soft brush strokes for the facial lines. In the profile facing to the right, both eyes appeared on the same side of her face.

  “The one on the right is simply called Bosoms of Love,” he commented.

  Like the others, it was in a simple dark frame. But it didn't look like the breasts of any woman Kendall had ever seen.

  “You can see the outline of the torso from the neck down to the narrow waist.” Hampton continued. “But see how the painting draws your eyes to the center of the female form. It's not sexual but it encompasses the wholeness of womanhood. Do you see that?”

  Kendall wanted to say no, but just nodded instead. Finally, Hampton brought her attention to the painting in the middle.

  “This is Callipygian. My masterpiece,” he said, almost as if in a dream.

  “Callipygian? What does that mean?” she asked.

  Hampton smiled and scratched his shaved bald head. “You'll just have to figure that one out.”

  While it was still abstract, Kendall was able to discern the curve of a woman's back, from just below the neck down to the round, full hips, sweeping inward again to reveal muscular legs. The brush strokes were soft and feminine, the colors bright and vivid.

  It was obvious Hampton was a man who loved the female body. He put his hands on the curve of her hips as he leaned in to whisper into Kendall's ear, “You should model for me sometime.”

  The man's breath in her ear warmed Kendall much farther south. And it surprised her. But then she sensed, rather than noticed, someone approach from their left.

  “Hampton, darling, you're ignoring the other guests,” said a woman in a silver dress, who glided up with such stealth she could have been a ninja. Of average height and build, she wore a smile that contained neither humor nor warmth.

  Hampton pulled away from Kendall. “Oh, I'm sorry. How thoughtless of me,” he said, ever the charmer. “Kendall, this is my wife, Celine. Celine, this is Kendall Hunter of the FBI.”

  Celine appraised Kendall in a not-too-subtle way before extending a hand. “It's a pleasure to meet the FBI,” she said. Kendall couldn't determine whether she was cold by nature or circumstance. But she was territorial. Celine effortlessly positioned herself between Kendall and Hampton. “I hope my dear husband isn't being too much of a bore. When he's talking about his work, he gets that way. Loses all sense of the moment.”

  “No, he's been fine,” Kendall tried to reassure.

  “Hampton, you need to mingle,” Celine said, taking his arm just below the elbow and pulling him away. As an after-thought, she said to Kendall, “You don't mind, do you?”

  “Of course not,” Kendall said as they moved away. “It was wonderful meeting you both. And thanks, Hamp, for the art lesson.”

  Hampton waved a hand to her as he departed. Celine steered him into the center of a group of men and deposited him there. Kendall grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and downed most of it. With one last glance at Callipygian, she moved on.

  As the evening was winding down, the waitress suddenly arrived at Kendall's side, handing her a card with a name written in platinum. It was raised and embossed. “He wanted you to have this,” the waitress said.

  Kendall looked at the card, then around the room until she saw Hampton. She turned the card over and saw handwriting on the back. There was an address and cell phone number. Give me a call and come by for a Private Lesson. She looked up at Hampton, who winked.

  * * *

  “Oh, God, my feet are killing me,” Kiara said from the passenger seat of Kendall's BMW. Kiara reached down to unfasten the ankle straps on her black, five-inch heels.

  Kendall took her eyes off the road only briefly to see Kiara wiggling her toes, a luxury that would elude Kendall for the twenty-five minute drive back to Kiara's house.

  “I saw you talking to Hampton Simmonds.”

  A bit of anger rose up through Kendall's chest but she was able to clamp it down before it escaped her lips. She swerved into the left lane at the last second to avoid hitting another car as she passed it. “So? I talked to a lot of people tonight. And besides, the event was for him. Of course I talked to him.”

  “He's a player and everybody knows it, Kendall,” Kiara said, adjusting her seat to lie back. “He's hit on me several times, even though he's a married man.”

  “Married, I know. I met Celine. Charming woman,” Kendall said. She didn't know if Kiara caught her irony. But the car seemed to speed up as the tension inside the vehicle increased. “He gave me his personal card.”

  “And you took it?” Kiara said, alarm in her voice. She sat up. “I would think you, of all people, wouldn't want to go there.”

  Kendall faced her sister. This time, she didn't hold back her anger. “Because my husband couldn't keep his fucking dick in his pants and ran off with some fucking woman. Is that what you are saying, Kiara? That I shouldn't be a whore like that bitch and screw some married man? For your information, it's none of your business whomever I choose to fuck.”

  There was quiet in the car. Finally, Kiara said, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean….”

  Kendall looked over at her dejected sister and then down at the speedometer. She slowed. “All men are dogs, you know. The entire species. They're all dogs.”

  “Not my Perry,” Kiara said timidly but with sincerity. “My Perry's a good man.”

  Knowing she had wounded her sister more than she'd ever want, Kendall reached over to take Kiara's hand. “You're right. He's a great guy and a wonderful father. And I'm glad you're together and happy.” Kendall squeezed her sister's hand tightly and then placed both her hands back on the wheel. “But all the rest are dogs.”

  She smiled at her sister. Kiara smiled back, closed her eyes and within moments, was asleep.

  * * *

  Perry looked up from his morning paper as Kendall entered from outside, carrying a cardboard tray with three tall cups of coffee. It was 8:10. Kendall wore running pants and her top was pasted to her body by her perspiration.

  Kiara entered the kitchen wearing a thigh-length pink robe. Her hair was a mess, her eyes barely open. “Coffee. I need coffee.” As she headed for the coffee maker on the counter, Kendall handed her a cup. “Ah, thanks,” Kiara said, taking a sip. “When did you go out for some coffee?”

  “I didn't want to wake you guys. I went for a run on the Monon Trail around six and stopped at a coffee shop on the way back.”

  “You slept in your pearl earrings?” Kiara noticed, reaching up to touch Kendall's ears. “Isn't that uncomfortable? I could never do that.”

  “Uh….” Kendall hesitated to reply. She touched her ears. “I guess I was too tired to notice when we got in. It was a long evening.”

  “Kiara, you'd better hurry. You'll be late for work,” Perry said.

  The wall-mounted telephone rang and Kiara walked over. “It's all right. Mitch said after last night, I could sleep in and get into work around 10:30,” she said as she grabbed the phone from the wall. “Hello.”

  Perry and Kendall looked over at Kiara when she nearly dropped her coffee. “What? Oh my God. When? They took all three? The cops are there? I can't believe this. Yes, yes, I'm coming. I'll leave immediately. If you need me before I get there, call my cell.”

  “What's up?” Kendall asked.

  “The gallery was burglarized. They took all three Simmonds paintings. They're worth more than a million dollars,” Kiara said. “I gotta go in right now.”

  Kiara headed out of the kitchen but then turned back. “Kendall, back East you guys probably get cases like this all the time. But not here in Naptown. It's a rarity. Why don't you come along? The local cops could probably use your insights. I know Mitch won't mind. He likes you.”

  “As long as I'm not in the way,” Kendall said.

  They took quick showers and dres
sed. Kiara pulled out of the driveway in under thirty minutes.

  “Kendall, I can't tell you how much I appreciate you coming. With you on vacation and all,” Kiara said.

  “No problem. It'll give me something to do.”

  * * *

  The August Gallery was in a two-story building on Indiana Avenue, just a block southeast of the historic Madame C.J. Walker Building. The block was closed off with police cruisers and unmarked law enforcement cars. Kendall recognized the FBI vehicles. But she expected that. Art theft was a federal crime.

  Kendall was in jeans and a white blouse, but her FBI identification got her through the door while her sister went off looking for her boss.

  “Who's in charge?” Kendall asked a man in a blue FBI jacket. She was directed to see Agent Arthur Dennis on the second floor. When she got there, she saw a short, older white guy in a dark suit and white shirt. Kendall knew the type. Old school FBI.

  Agent Dennis stood in front of where the Simmonds paintings had once hung, talking to two local police detectives and a woman. Kendall pegged her as an insurance investigator. They'd speak, occasionally look at the empty wall and then up to the ceiling and skylight.

  They all turned as Kendall approached.

  “Special Agent Dennis? I'm Special Agent Kendall Hunter of the Philadelphia field office,” she said, showing her ID once again. “Is there some way I can help?”

  “Philadelphia?” the two detectives said.

  Dennis looked puzzled and shifted his weight from side to side. “Why's someone from the Philadelphia office interested in this theft?”

  Kendall explained the circumstances of her being at the scene, including the fact that they would want to interview all the guests from last night.

  They all seemed to accept her logic and offer of help. “I'm glad to have your help,” Dennis said, although Kendall wasn't sure it was sincere.

  “What do we know?” she asked.

  One of the local detectives, a man named Jefferson, picked up the thread.

  “Sometime in the wee hours of the morning,” he said, “someone by-passed the security system, probably entered through the skylight—there was evidence of that on the roof—took the three pieces, and exited, also probably through the skylight.”