Fine Art of Murder Read online

There was a canvas before me and I stared at it for a minute, picked up the brush and paint palette, and began to paint what I always painted when I was disturbed or looking for an answer. I swished my brush in the dark green and began to make tiny leaves. I felt Dean pass behind me rather than saw him. Surprised he used the same gallery I did as I'd never seen him here before. Maybe it was the first time for him. Maybe he had been following me longer than I thought. Maybe I was crazy. But, why, if he was a regular, had I not noticed him before? Not too many people knew about this gallery. You had to turn off the highway, chug down this squiggly road, and park beside a faded wood and glass building that appeared to be hiding in a magic grass circle surrounded by woods. It concealed the budding and professional artists within from the view of glaring strangers. And from the view of all the cars buzzing down the highway. Maybe we artists were indecent.

  Then the thoughts quieted down, my brain switched to another channel, and I began to paint green leaves—teeny tiny leaves, middle-sized leaves, and bigger leaves. I mixed paint on my palette with diverse shades of green and brown contrasts, starting wrongly from the top instead of letting the tree grow from the roots through the trunk. I felt the breeze and the wind blowing through the forest enter my mind and body and whisper softly to my soul as the tree grew and covered my canvas. I was standing in the forest as I continued to paint, and as I changed colors and shading, I smelled the musty odor of herbs and flowers growing around my tree. Heard the birds. And felt the wolves walking over crushed leaves. I sensed, as I always did, the shadow behind me. Then I started to scream but only squeaked.

  A hand touched my shoulder and some place my cell phone was ringing. I turned around, tears running down my cheeks. Jimmy, eyebrows raised, pulled me to him.

  “That must be some tree you're painting.”

  “Rendezvous at road park, now.”

  Jimmy gave me a hug. “Forgot I have a damn board meeting. See you later.”

  He almost ran to the door. I cleaned my paints carefully. Placed everything in its place then beat it out the door. Watched Jimmy head for his car, then watched him leave as I sprinted for my car. Turned the lights so they would not switch on automatically, and drove toward the road park.

  Jimmy flew down the highway. I followed. We had to be going to the same place. We pulled into the park, him first, me in the shadows of the shelter. I shut off the engine and coasted, then parked.

  He got out of his car and walked toward a bunch of trees.

  I slid out my door and closed it without a click. Carrying my purse, I reached my hand inside and rested it on the gun. A man walked out from under a big maple, and he had a gun pointed at Jimmy. I pulled my gun out and shot the same time Jimmy did.

  Both shots hit the man. I ran ahead and dropped to my knees and checked. He was dead.

  “What the hell?” Jimmy asked as I opened my switchblade. Jimmy got there as I was digging out the bullet. I placed a spent bullet from an old crime scene in the wound. Jimmy did the same. I hid our bullet casings in a tampon carton. We pulled our gloves off, slipped them into my secret pocket, and I said a prayer to Saint Anthony as five unmarked cars pulled up.

  I turned on the tears as a plain-clothes detective got out of the car. “He was trying to rob us. He shot at Jimmy.”

  The detective took the gun out of my hand. Another started to read the infamous Miranda as he looked at Jimmy and me. I don't think he could read the Miranda to Jimmy with a straight face, so I was going to get the full treatment to ease his confusion. How do you read the Miranda to someone who is supposed to be dead? I thought.

  “Don't you understand she's with me? She's one of us,” Jimmy said.

  “Shall we adjourn this little meeting, lady and gentleman? To your diner, James?”

  We went to the diner and straight to Jimmy's office, the back way, with special parking and all. I had reached into my pocket and flipped on my recorder. After all, someone on my side needed to have an idea where I was. I still didn't know how I got into these messes.

  Jimmy explained everything. The Captain just listened and watched me like I was going to fly away. The lieutenant took notes.

  “Comments? Anyone?” the Captain said.

  “No, sir,” I said.

  Jimmy said the same.

  “It took me a while to get a report on you ma'am. Any comment on that, ma'am?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Like why you don't officially exist?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Or why you used to exist? Or knew that was a drug drop? Or that that art studio was somehow a drop in some way I or anyone else can't fathom?”

  The Captain looked at me, at Jimmy, waiting.

  “We have been watching that gallery, studio, as a possible drug drop,” he added.

  We both nodded.

  He stared and drummed his fingers. His phone rang. He glared at us. Then said, “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” He hung up. “Could you men step outside for a minute?” he asked the detectives. They looked a little surprised, but left.

  “Could I see the cards now?” the Captain said to us.

  Jimmy and I looked at each other, reached into our billfolds, and handed him our pretty charge cards. He looked at them, turned them over, reached into his pocket, pulled out a lighter and held our cards one by one over the flame until the Agency's symbol popped into view. He flipped the lighter shut and gave the cards back.

  “Okay. We've been checking that damn studio for months. Could never find anything. Where was it? In the paint?”

  “That was my first choice,” Jimmy said. “But, it's in the frames. They sell the paintings to certain buyers. Who….”

  “Sell it on the street,” I said.

  “They said I could ask why… both of you… why?”

  “Why I do this?” I asked. “I had a son. Someone introduced him to drugs. I found him after a long search. But I didn't get there in time. He was dying. I made a pledge as he died. Whatever it took, I would find the sons of bitches.”

  “And did you? Find them?”

  “It took a while. But I did.”

  “And?”

  “I shot them all. The whole bunch. Hunted them down. Like mad dogs. Killed everyone I could. With a .22 rifle when I couldn't get close enough to use a German Luger.”

  “And?”

  “They caught me, of course. Offered me a deal. Work for them or go to prison. It was a no-brainer. I went to work for them.”

  There was silence. He looked at Jimmy.

  “I wasn't driving my car that evening everyone thought I died. My friend was and he was higher than a kite. He wrecked. I climbed out. Slept it off in a cheap motel. I thought no one saw me, but it was reported in the papers that someone was seen running away from the crash. The Feds found me. Offered me a chance for a new life with a mission. I took it.”

  The lieutenant walked in. “Their rides are here.”

  We got up and walked to the door. Jimmy and I shook hands with the Captain. We rambled to his new car and new assignment. There was a long silence.

  Then he said, “And?”

  “And what?” I asked.

  “Why do you always paint trees with all those tiny individual leaves?”

  “Every little leaf stands for a kid who died or whose life was ruined by drugs. If you look closely, you'll find a red circle on some.”

  He raised his eyebrows and looked at me very hard. Like he knew he was going to hear something a little weird.

  “The leaves with the red dots are for the pushers I shot.”

  Then I walked to my new car. My driver told me the house had been cleaned out. All traces of me erased. He handed me a new identity.

  “Your new paint supplies and canvas are in the trunk,” he said. I knew he was watching for any reaction.

  “Thank you,” was all I said. I sat in silence while he explained my next assignment.

  All I asked was, “Will Jimmy be there?”

  The Richmond Artists Group
r />   N. W. Campbell

  In 1870, a group of largely self-taught artists came together in Richmond, Indiana, to form the Ramblers’ Sketch Club, later the Richmond Art Group. Richmond's rapid development from a pioneer community to a center of industry and commerce attracted many artisans—architects, pattern-makers, printers, builders, interior decorators, stone masons, and mechanics. Many were attracted to the en plein air, or outdoor, practice of sketching landscapes and nature scenes, a movement that developed in France at the Barbizon colony during the 1830s.

  The Ramblers camped on weekends and holidays to sketch, paint, encourage one another in their work, and share music and entertainment. Many were Quakers who, unlike others of their faith who saw the visual arts as frivolous, embraced their talent and sought outlets for its expression. The establishment of Earlham College's arts department led many Ramblers to seek formal arts training and to develop their skills as painters. They developed a distinctive impressionistic style that Ella Bond Johnston would show off to Indiana and the nation in the first of several Richmond Art Association traveling exhibitions in 1910.

  John Elwood Bundy, a North Carolina Quaker by birth, is considered by many to have been the most influential leader of the group. Bundy's work is widely exhibited in the US and abroad. With him was the sketch artist and painter Marcus Mote, who lobbied the Indiana legislature tirelessly to have arts education included in the public school curriculum.

  Shaun Thomas Dingwerth's The Richmond Group Artists (Indiana University Press, 2014) is recommended reading. Works by Richmond Group artists are on public display locally at the Indianapolis Museum of Art and the Richmond Art Museum.

  The Presumption of Value

  B. K. Hart

  Felicity stretched from her place on the step stool, reached across her mantle, and finished the last few wipes with her dust rag. Outside, the engine of her half-sister's sports car revved as it made its way down the drive, past Felicity's cottage, and up to the main house. Constance, the perpetually tardy. The reading of the will was scheduled for ten. It was half past and the estate attorney, Doc Jamison, had arrived nearly an hour ago.

  She sighed, lifted her chin, and squared her shoulders. How long could it possibly take? An hour? Then Constance would leave and Felicity might never need to see her again. She could do this. Gramps would expect her to be civil. He called it good breeding. Certainly the Donovans could claim some good genes, but Felicity wasn't sure she could take credit for any of the ‘good’ part of the breeding. And, what happened to Constance? She was half Donovan, and she sure didn't show much breeding, unless you measured it by the cost of her handbag.

  Felicity rubbed her hands down the sides of her grubby jeans, tossed the rag onto her coffee table, and picked up a pair of box cutters, slipping them into the side pocket of her pants. If she remembered, she'd cut some of the pink roses in front of the mansion on her way back to the cottage.

  She wandered up the drive to the front entry of the main house, stepping out of the way of auction assistants and holding open the door for two of them as they dragged in more staging equipment. It was disconcerting to think new owners would be taking over the estate now that her grandfather had passed. Still, it was what the old house needed. Certainly deeper pockets than she had to keep up on repairs.

  Her sister's agitated voice echoed from the den two doors down on the left. Disturbing. Felicity wished the lawyer had picked a different room, the study perhaps. The den doubled as the TV room and was filled with years of kindness and familiarity. It would now be tainted with the final encounter. Not that Felicity would be spending any future evenings here, but it was a shame to ruin the memory all the same.

  “Finally, Lecia, you'd think you could show up on time, since you live here,” Constance said.

  “I was here, Connie. Doc told me to come back once you'd arrived so I wouldn't be in the way of the auctioneer.”

  “You know I hate that name.” Constance, pristine in a white tennis skirt, tank top, and matching Puma tennis shoes, turned away from her and started in again on the attorney.

  Yes, Felicity did know the nickname was hated, just as Constance knew that Felicity hated being called Lecia.

  “I just don't think it's prudent,” Constance continued, “that the auctioneers have first rights to paw over the antiques before the will is actually probated. Don't we have any rights as the heirs?”

  How convenient. Now, ‘we’ have a common enemy.

  Felicity rolled her eyes and took her usual position in the corner of the leather couch. She turned her attention toward the fireplace, watching the fire crackle and pop as she tuned out her sister's whine. She already knew the contents of the will. They all did. This meeting was a formality. Gramps knew it would be necessary so Constance understood the will was non-negotiable. Felicity expected no surprises.

  Twenty minutes later, Constance started in again. Or, more accurately, had never really stopped.

  “I understand Grandfather's thinking, it's that I hardly see how this is a fair distribution to his heirs. I get two lousy antiques,” Constance said throwing her hands in the air.

  “The will stipulates that you get your choice picks of the antiques. The items that hold the most sentimental value to you, I am sure, will be set aside by the auction house and arrangements made to have them delivered,” Doc replied, sliding his glasses off to polish the lens with a piece of cloth.

  “What if one of the items I have sentimental attachments to is that painting?” Constance said, pointing to a replica of Van Gogh's The Lovers: The Poets’ Garden IV. The painting was the sole item Felicity had been left in her grandfather's will. The Lovers depicted a couple, a man in pale blue clothing with a yellow hat and a woman in a pink shirt with a black skirt. The scenery was lined by a row of green cypress against a pink sky and a pale lemon crescent. With signature Van Gogh flare, the foreground was only a vague landscape sprinkled with sand and thistle.

  Doc Jamison pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “The instructions are clear. The painting goes to Felicity. You, Constance, may select any two other antiques. A small cash bequeath is to be delivered to several small charities and the remaining proceeds and estate grounds are being left in the care of the National Arts Foundation.”

  Constance swept a long blonde strand out of her eyes, her long, graceful neck red from heightened irritability. “The rest of the estate, but Felicity gets the gatehouse. That's hardly fair, either.”

  “If I recall correctly, Gramps paid a half-million dollars for your home to be built upon your twenty-second birthday,” Felicity pointed out. “After which, he felt obligated to even the distribution and spend the same amount on me for a house. I refused and he insisted I take the cottage. I could hardly turn him down since I was already living there but I can assure you it's not anywhere near the same value. And this is ancient territory. The cottage hasn't been part of the estate for almost five years.”

  “Still,” Constance dismissed Felicity with a wave of a manicured hand and turned on the attorney again. “How could you have allowed him to pass the estate out of family hands? I think we need to question whether there was a competence issue here. Do I need to retain my own lawyer in order to protect my inheritance?”

  Felicity nearly laughed aloud. Poor Constance, poor little rich girl.

  “Both Doc and I can vouch for Gramps's competency, you know that. He explained why he was handling the estate this way in his letter, Constance. Give it a rest. You and I both have trust funds from our father. There is no hardship here.”

  “And you are perfectly fine with this?” she demanded, pointing again at The Lovers. “It's not even an original, it's only a replica. But you don't care? Gramps screwed your inheritance too, but you don't give a shit. And I look like the bitch because I think I deserve more than the National Artist Society.”

  “It's the National Arts Foundation,” Doc corrected.

  “Whatever. The point is, what did they ever do for hi
m?”

  Their grandfather and Carleton Smith had created the National Arts Foundation together. Charley Donovan would have been a recognized co-founder with Uncle Carleton except that he chose not to have his name on any of the foundation documents, preferring to remain anonymous. He made a substantial contribution to the foundation every year of his life. Constance would know this if she had ever cared to inquire.

  It was just sad. The entire scene made Felicity sad. She leaned her head back on the couch, propped her feet up on the coffee table, and stared up at the painting. It held a prominent position over the fireplace. The plasma screen was to its left. How many nights had she come up to the house and watched Wheel of Fortune, or Friday nights watching a movie? Gramps was always partial to action-adventure or war flicks. How many times had he insisted they watch The Monuments Men? She smiled. You can never go wrong selecting a movie with Clooney in it. She'd drool, Gramps would make commentary.

  “This movie is supposed to be based on all those documents they released from WWII, but they made up most of it.”

  “I know, Gramps, you told me. A real Monuments Man wouldn't have told anybody about any of these art retrieval projects. But what you never tell me is, how do you know that?”

  “I was in the service during the war. I know these things.”

  It was a familiar exchange. Felicity's gaze drifted away from the blank screen back to the painting. The soundtrack of their discussion had worn a groove in her mind, in a good way. The Lovers had been ripped on the bottom left corner from a moving accident Gramps once said. The jagged tear noticeable now only if you had an artist's eye and knew what to look for. Gramps had been a master conservator, a plastic surgeon for art. Everything Felicity had learned over the years about art restoration was due to Gramps. He had been a wealth of information, and yet, she would never match his skill level.

  Once, Felicity had caught him staring above the fireplace at the Van Gogh on the mantle, a far off look in his eye and a half smile on his lips. She wondered why it evoked such a look of adoration. She knew the story behind the original painting. The real Van Gogh had been lost during World War II, assumed to be one of the pieces Hitler had destroyed. The replica itself was reportedly created from a letter to brother, Theo Van Gogh, describing the canvas in minute detail. It seemed impossible to Felicity that anyone could create such a remarkable likeness simply from a letter.