Fine Art of Murder Read online

  February 1, 1991

  I was at the bus stop at nine the next morning and boarded a southbound bus within five minutes. I got off seven stops later and walked four blocks to the medical school library. I easily found the toxicology section, located a couple of textbooks, and made a few notes in my sketchbook. I looked at my watch. Only ten-thirty, and I had enough background information to make my phone call.

  A woman's voice answered. “Poison Control. How can I help you?”

  “My name's Jeffrey Black,” I began, using the author's name from the textbook in front of me. I consulted the list of notes I'd made while I told her my story. I was concerned about an uncle who'd started to develop a tremor. He'd taken up gardening the previous spring. The tremor became more pronounced. Were any of his fertilizers or insecticides contributing to his problem? The symptoms had peaked around September, but were less obvious now. What should I look for in his garden shed?

  The woman was extremely helpful naming several specific products I should be watching for. I'd accomplished everything on my list. At least, everything on my campus list. I still had one more errand to run.

  I retraced my route and took the return bus back to north Meridian. I decided to complete my last task before returning to my apartment. I crossed 38th Street and walked two blocks to the hardware store. I found two products mentioned by my Poison Control advisor.

  “Getting a head start on the gardening this year, eh?” the mustached cashier asked.

  “You bet,” I said. “I'm hearing that the groundhog won't see his shadow this year. Early spring.”

  “Hope you're right. An early spring would be good for business.”

  I thought of one more item and stopped at the convenience store on the corner, where I bought a tube of toothpaste.

  Once back in the apartment, I threw my purchases onto the kitchen counter and collapsed into a chair. Tomorrow, I'd put the plan into action.

  February 2, 1991

  The sun was hiding on Groundhog Day. I put on the coffee pot and poured four cups of the brew into the large thermos. I added a powder concocted from my purchases of the day before. Then I added water to what was left of the dry powder. I took the toothpaste and squirted out a small amount into the sink. Then I took my solution and used a straw to transfer it into the tube. I kneaded it a little, but didn't want it to look too manhandled. I put the toothpaste into my inner jacket pocket and picked up the thermos before heading downstairs.

  After I knocked, I heard the shuffling before the door opened. “Max! I was hoping you'd come back. Do you have any more of the good coffee?”

  “Indeed I do.” I hoisted the thermos. “May I come in?”

  “Of course, of course. I'll get the cups.”

  It looked like the same cups we'd used were waiting further use in the dish drainer. He brought them to the table. This time he placed a sugar bowl in the center of the table cloth.

  I poured from the thermos into the two cups, the prof's cup close to the brim, my own less than half full. “I've already had two cups this morning,” I explained.

  We took the same chairs we'd used two days ago. “You know,” the prof began, “After you left, I kept thinking about Lorraine Yoder. I think she's married now, of course, and teaches art at Wayne Township. High school.”

  “Is that right?” I felt my heart beat a little faster. I hadn't even considered whether it would be possible to find Lorraine, although he'd mentioned her maiden name—Yoder. “How did you find out?”

  “Well, she did graduate. The school keeps track of their alumni.”

  Interesting. Maybe I could find her, too. I wanted to ask if he'd tried to track her down, but couldn't bring myself to do it. I didn't think I could handle it if he answered yes.

  “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” I asked. “All of a sudden, this coffee's running right through me.”

  “Sure.” The prof said between sips. He gestured with his thumb, behind him. “Just down the hall to the right.”

  I turned on the light and ran water into the sink to cover the sound of opening the medicine cabinet. Sure enough, his toothpaste lay inside on a shelf. I removed the tube from my jacket pocket, and pressed on it here and there to make it look like the one I removed from the shelf. I put the professor's tube in my pocket. Then I flushed and returned to the dining room.

  “Well, about this Lorraine… were you in love with her?” I sat down again.

  “Nah. I was married at the time. Lorraine was just a flirtation, an amusement.”

  “Is that how she looked at it? Your relationship, I mean.”

  “I don't know. She didn't seem to mind, I guess,” he said.

  Was that any way to treat a woman like Loraine? “Seems like she stands out to you, though. You haven't forgotten her.”

  “She was a beauty. And the sculpture of her was some of my best work. I thought so, and my critics thought the same.”

  “Would you say you owe her something? Lorraine, I mean.”

  “No. She was paid. I didn't owe her anything more.”

  Really. “Well, I'd best be going.” I stood. “Keep the coffee. You can enjoy it the rest of the afternoon. I'll come back and get the thermos later.”

  “Okay.” The old man didn't make a move to get up. “Thanks.”

  February 3, 1991

  The prof was still alive the next morning. I went to the lobby to get my mail and saw him standing there. I didn't want to talk to him, but I didn't need to worry. “Oh! I gotta run,” he said, and scuttled out the door. I saw a yellow taxi waiting at the curb.

  The Poison Control lady said the effects of the garden substances would accumulate over time. I'd carried out my plan and decided not to change anything. But I experienced a few seconds of panic when I got back to my room. What if McCutcheon was going to a doctor who would pinpoint the exact substances? I realized the thought was close to ridiculous, and got out my charcoal and sketchbook. I looked over the six I'd drawn so far. I'd started with a sketch based on the photo of Lorraine on the prof's wall. I added more sketches of the same pose, but from different angles, constructed in my mind's eye.

  February 12, 1991

  An ambulance with a stretcher pulled up yesterday. I saw the attendants on the sidewalk, but they weren't rushing. I sighed. It was over. I would keep my distance. Sooner or later, I'd hear who found him and the circumstances.

  The prof's obit made today's paper and it was a long one. A lot about his career. His wife's name was Martha and she'd been dead for six years. I felt sorry for the woman, God rest her soul. A daughter and a married son survived him. Funeral would take place on Valentine's Day at a downtown church with interment at Crown Hill cemetery.

  I resolved to go to the graveside service. For one thing, I could take the bus to Crown Hill. The cemetery was a beautiful and historic place. James Whitcomb Riley has a picturesque tomb on the crest of a hill. In high school, my buddies and I dared each other to stand on Dillinger's grave on Halloween night. Yes, I'd go.

  February 14, 1991

  About an inch of snow fell before dawn. I put on my new suit and the coat I'd bought at the consignment store and headed for Crown Hill. I allowed myself enough time to find the grave. Crown Hill Cemetery is a big place. I discovered they had an office, and a helpful person pointed me in the direction. I timed my arrival just about right—the pallbearers were carrying a stainless steel coffin to the gravesite as I approached.

  A dozen people clustered under the canopy. Two women and a man sat in folding chairs nearest the grave, the rest gathered behind. Everyone was wearing a black or gray coat. Even the pine tree needles sticking out from under the snow looked more gray than green. It occurred to me a black-and-white sketch of the scene would look no different than a color photograph.

  A man stood near the grave and read a few Bible verses. He gave a final blessing, and it was over. The people standing near the grave began to turn around.

  A woman wearing a black beret caught my eye.
It was the scarf around her neck, and a pin attached to her lapel that got my attention. Both were bright red, welcome dots of color. Her hair was loose and was graying, now a faded brown. She'd combed it back from her face, and her beret held it in place. The face was heart-shaped . Lorraine. In spite of the years, her eyes held the same intensity I remembered.

  I closed the distance between us in four steps. “Lorraine? Hi, I'm Max. I sat next to you once in a sketching class. Years ago. Freshman year. 1970, actually. You probably don't remember me.”

  I could see her eyes retreat for a second while she searched for a connection to the name. “Max! I do remember you. You were so shy.”

  “Well, you know what they say. Have to watch out for those quiet ones.”

  She laughed.

  “So, you were close to the professor?” I asked before her laughter ended.

  She looked down and shook her head before meeting my eyes again. “No, I wouldn't put it that way, exactly. But I did learn a lot from him. I came today for a sort of closure.”

  Closure. I liked that new lingo.

  “Life treat you well, Lorraine?”

  Her smile returned. “Yes. A beautiful family, a chance to teach art to talented students, and a few commissioned sculptures around the city. How about you?”

  I lied to her, of course, and watched her walk away toward the line of parked cars.

  Robert Indiana (1928-)

  Stephen Terrell

  Robert Indiana was born Robert Clark in 1928 in New Castle. Early on, teachers recognized his artistic talent. In 1942, he graduated from Arsenal Technical High School in Indianapolis. Despite later adopting his home state's name, Robert's education was anything but provincial. After three years in the Air Force, he studied at the Art Institute of Chicago, the Skowhegan School of Sculpture and Painting in Maine, and the Edinburgh College of Art in Scotland.

  In the mid-1950s, Robert Clark joined the hotbed of modern American art in New York City. When he found too many other artists named Clark, he changed his name to that of his native state, and Robert Indiana was born. Within a decade, he drew recognition as a rising star in the arts, working with various media and dramatically using numbers and short impactful words at the center of his work. In 1964 he was commissioned to create a twenty-foot electrified “EAT” sign for the 1964 New York World's Fair.

  In 1965, his LOVE painting was selected by the New York Museum of Modern Art for their Christmas card. As they say, the rest is history. In modern jargon, LOVE quickly went viral, even appearing on a best-selling U.S. postage stamp. The Indianapolis Museum of Art purchased one of Indiana's LOVE paintings in 1967, and later acquired his 1970 LOVE statue, which graces the IMA grounds and is the most recognized piece in IMA's collection.

  Robert Indiana's work is now displayed in dozens of museums throughout the United States and around the world, as well as in numerous private collections. In a 2014 article, he said that he felt ignored by the art world after the overwhelming success of the LOVE paintings, prints and sculpture. In 1978, he moved from New York City to Vinalhaven, a remote island in Maine, where he still resides.

  James Dean and Me, Martha

  Sherita Saffer Campbell

  I was gliding along on my skis, riding on the tiptop of the waves as they rolled up high on their way to shore. No panic, no fear. I had never felt so free. It was like flying. I felt something slide down my leg like the softest touch of a breeze, or like fish when they slide down a part of your skin trying to nibble and see what kind of food you are. Then it was soft, finger-like tendrils, and they began to move slowly upward, soft tiny nibbles moving up my body, tasting. Then little flicks of tongue.

  Damn, was it a fish or a snapping turtle? Then it reached my waist. Damn, that wasn't a fish!

  “Holy shit!” I struggled for air. Tried to move my arms in a butterfly movement to reach the water's surface, fighting with everything I could muster.

  “Hey, surfer girl, take it easy. You are in the shallows.”

  I felt heavy breathing and the faint smell of Artemis, which began to stir my senses a bit. “What the hell? Dear God!” I fell back against the pillows. “James Dean, it is you. Really you. It's not a dream.”

  “You bet your sweet life it isn't.”

  I looked up at him as he looked down at me—he apparently was well on the way to the top. “It's morning, isn't it?” Then came a long thoughtful kiss.

  “You bet your sweet you-know-what it is.”

  We kissed again. It had been a long time since I had a kiss like that.

  I opened my eyes wide, pulled him tighter. He didn't seem to mind. We sort of collapsed together. I could barely breathe. I wondered if he needed a nitroglycerin tablet. He raised an eyebrow. “No, do you?”

  I just smiled.

  “Been a while, hasn't it?”

  “For me or you?” I asked.

  “A lady never asks,” he said, giving that wicked smile.

  “Neither does a gentleman.”

  “Then I gather neither one of us is a lady or a gentleman.” There was another slow and very tender kiss. I looked at him for a long time. He slowly moved to his pillow then looked at me for a while.

  “I'd offer you a cigarette, but I can't smoke anymore.”

  “Me either. You make a good whiskey sour. It's an art form if you can do that.”

  “You know I'd rather have a comment on my studly behavior than my drink making abilities.” He handed me a Lifesaver pack.

  I took it. “My breath bad?”

  “No, just if you unwrap it slowly, it takes the place of a cigarette.”

  I started laughing, and unwrapped the Lifesaver. Strong mint.

  He pointed across the room. “Shower.”

  I stretched and headed to the bathroom. He followed. We hit the shower almost together after a pit stop. Two toilets, small glass panel between. He was a cad. A well prepared cad. And a nice one, I thought, as we stepped into the spray. The shower was up-to-date James Bond, but advanced James Bond. It even had a comfortable seat, which came in handy. The shower was warm, bordering on boiling. The soap was probably mixed by elves in a magic woods in a secret garden. We stepped out of the fragrant rain forest, and he held up a fluffy white robe. Honey, I mean fluffy terry cloth robe. He held both doors open and pointed me to a small glassed-in breakfast room.

  Someone was there. A butler? Servant? I had no idea. “What will you have ma'am?”

  Isaac, I thought. Isaac.

  “How about a veggie omelet?”

  Isaac looked me in the eye. “Good choice,” he said as he looked at my chubby little self.

  Gay, I thought.

  “No, I am not. Just psychic,” he said as he disappeared into the kitchen.

  I could smell the food as he brought it in. I devoured it without looking up. Drank the orange juice. Fresh squeezed, of course.

  “Dessert?” Dean asked, his hand on a bell.

  Good Lord. Was I dreaming my secret desire? “I think I had it already.”

  He choked on his juice. “Then I suggest coffee and a meeting of our minds about our respective lives and desires.”

  Good Lord, I thought, as Jeeves—no, Isaac—poured my coffee and set down a small pitcher of whole cream and diet liquid sugar. I looked at Isaac. He smiled evilly. I was beginning to like ole Jeeves/Isaac. He laughed this time.

  “I want to make you a proposition,” Dean said.

  I sat down my cup. Gave him a long, hard look. “I thought you already did.”

  “Not unless you think I'm going to pimp you out or….”

  “Or I'm pimping you out,” I said.

  “That's settled. I need a business associate.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “What kind of business?” I don't know why I asked, if it meant time with him.

  “I am sort of in the same kind of business you are, sort of….”

  “And which business would that be?”

  “Well it's hard to define. I do research. And I write… ar
ticles, after I do research.”

  “As do I.”

  Isaac came back carrying an Indiana's Hollywood version of a French phone. I raised an eyebrow. He shrugged.

  My cell phone rang.

  “I have to go,” Dean and I said at the same time.

  I jumped in my car, headed to a designated drive-in, pulled in and ordered a Coke.

  The deep voice that seemed to control too many minutes of my old-aged life, spoke.

  “The art studio at the Oaktree Crossing. They need students who want to learn to paint and be in their show later on. Be there. Twenty minutes ago.”

  “But….”

  “I understand you were busy last night and might be tired, but you could use some art instruction.”

  “Listen you….”

  He hung up.

  I wanted to rip the phone apart when it rang again. It was hewho-knows-all again.

  “You know where it is. You should be driving there now instead of talking and looking at the road.”

  “You….”

  But he hung up with, “Tsk, tsk.”

  I looked around, saw nothing, heard the passenger door close, no person in sight, but a complete paint case was lying on the seat with a thermos. I looked around. Not a creature was stirring. I picked up the thermos, opened it, and smelled the contents. Whisky Sour. My drink of choice since ninth grade. Closed the lid. “How the hell did…?”

  My check came. I looked around. A car left. My Coke came. I sipped it slowly as I backed out of the parking space and headed to the gallery.

  When I walked in, the attendant nodded at me and I went to the station with my name on it.

  “We reserved it as soon as your assistant called. He gave us your name and needs, charged to your account of course,” she said.

  I smiled. Of course.

  “Thank you,” I said. Mentally, I understood how Alice felt when she fell down that rabbit hole.