Fine Art of Murder Page 21

  * * *

  Each morning, filled with hope and passion, started the same: he would stroke her sleek, black hair, brushing away any stray strands as he traced her alabaster chin and slid his hand down to caress her tight breasts. Staring lovingly into her green eyes, glistening in the early sunlight, he would whisper in her ear, “Your beauty and love inspires me today. I can see in your eyes your desire to fulfill my every dream. And, you are, mi cara, you are. You love me for me, and you understand me. What more can a man ask for?” He would then throw back his head and let out whoops of happiness.

  For the first time in his life, he felt invigorated. He could accomplish anything. With her help, he began to feel as if he were talented and deserved the high praise he received in reviews of his work. He even dug out old newspaper articles, the few he still kept, and read them to her.

  “Listen to this, cara: The Indianapolis Star once called my exhibition, ‘mesmerizing by the sheer detail of emotions that exudes from his medium. He knows what his creations feel and exhibits this empathy in a way that forces one not to look away.’ I can't believe I didn't realize they were calling me a genius at the time. At my next show you will be by my side, and then they really will know what an artistic genius I am!”

  As the days went on and he realized she was not going to leave him, he revealed to her the struggle he had growing up in this house with only his grandmother, and the secrets he kept.

  “When I was little boy, I would cower in the corner and close my eyes so tight that I imagined they would disappear into little lines under my brows. This way she couldn't find me to whip me with the switch she broke off of the maple tree out back. I never knew what I had done or what I said to make her so angry.” He put his head in his hands.

  “She'd yell the same thing at me every time, in that scathing, growling voice of hers, ‘Boy, you'll never amount to nothin’. Just like your ol’ mama. She thought she could play music better'n anyone else. Thinkin’ people would pay to hear her play that guitar and sing. But the only thing they'd pay her for was a good time. And look'n what she got out of that—you! A ugly, bratty ball chained around her waist. No wonder she run off after seein’ you come into the world.’

  “That's when I would retreat into my little corner to draw and imagine how I'd escape this hellhole one day. I created this whole world where I'd become a famous painter with people telling me how smart I was and how my art was the best they'd ever seen. People would love me!” Tears slithered down his cheek as the memory played in his mind.

  “Oh, don't look at me with those sad eyes. I survived—even thrived. Some folks from town even took pity on me when my grandmother died and helped me go to the Herron School of Art in Indianapolis. And look at me now—I AM a famous artist with the most exquisite woman and muse one could have.”

  While the days were filled with dreams and possibilities, the nights with her took on another sensation. The seed of doubt had started to grow again, and crept up on him to murmur in his ear. “Those folks are as dumb as a box of rocks if they think what you make is somethin’ special. You're still the poor, stupid boy who couldn't paint himself out of this ol’ shack your grandad built. You're a fool if you think she is going to change that for you. I ain't gonna ever let you forget that.”

  Now each time he looked at her, he glanced away, not wanting to see the disappointment in her eyes. In fact, the smile that once captivated him, now seemed to mock him wherever he went. He would curl up in the corner to hide from her penetrating stare, the stare he knew reflected the darkness in him.

  For as long as he could, he tried to ignore her as if she were a sore on his side, aching and festering until he could not bear the incessant pain any longer. Then he would rush to her side to stroke her hair once more, to feel the passion he once felt for her. But all he could see were her cracked lips and flaking skin.

  * * *

  Still on his knees, he gapes down at her, her radiating beauty gone. His rage returns, bubbling up like the bile rising from his gut and explodes through his mouth.

  “How dare you betray me! You weren't smiling at me when I first saw you because you got me, got my work. You smiled because it was the most hideous thing you'd ever seen. What a liar you are!

  “You seduced me into thinking you were my muse. You stole the best time of my life from me, leading me on, all along knowing that I would fail again.” He picks up the knife, still wet and sticky from his sweat, and begins to stab her once more.

  “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you! I hate you!” he repeats with each stab.

  Exhausted from his tirade, he pauses and watches as a drop of perspiration falls from his brow and lands on what would have been her cheek and slides down to her chin. It is in this moment he grasps with increasing horrific disbelief the magnitude of his actions. Not only did he destroy his dream, but also the perfect culmination of his work. As his angst overcomes him, he hears the whisper of his grandmother's voice, “Now look what you've done. You're a loser like you always been, and now a murderer to boot.”

  With one last look around his shambled studio, he turns his hand, still gripping the knife, and plunges the blade into his side, plunges it, plunges it, until the crimson completely covers his trembling hand and drips from his wrist. He registers its metallic taste as he collapses onto what is left of her mangled face.

  * * *

  A woman in her sixties wearing blue polyester pants and a red short-sleeve knit top covered with a flowered smock dries her hands on a towel hanging from the stove handle. A large silver safety pin holding a wad of material at her waist sticks out from the side opening of her smock. She saunters over to the kitchen doorway and looks into the paneled room where her husband sits in his green Lazy Boy chair, staring at the wide rectangular screen.

  “Honey, did you see where that famous painter who lives down the road died? They say he killed himself. Can you believe that? They said on the television that the police found his place a mess. They said his body was laying on top of a ruined painting of a beautiful woman. They called it his masterpiece, his Mona Lisa, whatever that means.” The woman leans on the once-white door frame.

  Minutes pass before he responds. “What did you say, babe? I was watching the IU basketball game.”

  Harold E. Hansen (1943-)

  Stephen Terrell

  Nestled in rural Wisconsin, not far from the art community of Cedarburg, Hoosier native Harold E. Hansen lives with his wife in a renovated 1847 farmhouse. In his nearby gallery, he works amid antiques and books more than a hundred years old, creating his intricate artwork with a stone lithograph that dates to another time.

  Hansen is a throwback to another time. Born in rural Rush County in Indiana during the midst of WWII, he graduated from Herron School of Art. He spent the first fifteen years of his career focused on painting before finding a desire to focus on printing and stone lithography.

  Lithography is a labor-intensive art form with few practitioners. The heavy stones, creaking press, and intricate work are far more demanding than an easel and palette of oils. But Hansen's love of his subjects and the process of creating lithographic prints are evident in each piece. Hansen's meticulously detailed lithographs range in size from the massive prints of the lions that stand outside the Chicago Museum of Art to award-winning miniature prints of antique toys, fishing flies, old household items, and Scottish landscapes.

  While printing, Hansen did not abandon painting. He has completed more than six hundred watercolors as well as his lithographs. In 1985, he published Sketches of Cedarburg, a book of lithographs celebrating the town's centennial. Recently, he created images from his travels to Scotland, Ireland, England, France, and Germany. Hansen's work hangs in private and corporate collections throughout the United States and as far away as Australia. One of his most recent exhibits was “Harold E Hansen: Paintings and Stone Lithographs, From Far and Near,” at the Cedarburg Art Museum.

  In addition to his art, Hansen has a passion for single
malt scotches. His personal notebook lists more than 740 single malt scotches he has tasted—in order of preference.

  Portrait of a Rainy Death

  Claudia Pfeiffer

  Rain is my favorite Durato painting. In keeping with her artistic style, she left much of the white canvas untouched. An indistinct cabin emerged from behind suggestions of bending trees and her signature spatters. In most of her paintings the spatters appeared in the lower realms of the canvas in wide sweeps from left to right. Sometimes there were a random few throughout the painting, but not many. Except in this work where they descended from top to bottom straight down. Like rain. Though semi-abstract and nearly monochromatic, life pulsed in this painting. The gray tones evoked a cold atmosphere. A subtle hint of pale orange suggested the warmth inside the cabin. The heavy downward strokes recalled the power of the rain. Its wetness in the glistening white pinpoints. The subdued spatters of earth tones at the base came down from the rain and flowed to the right, alluding to the hope of life-giving moisture. Yes, definitely my favorite.

  “I see your husband was an aficionado of Celeste Durato. Three of her paintings in one room. Impressive,” I said.

  “Didn't you see the paintings before?”

  “Yeah. Briefly.” I scratched at the stubble on my jaw. “We met in the living room but took a quick tour of this office.”

  “Well, his love for Durato started with her.” Janelle Lamb gestured toward an eloquent ballet dancer caught in a burst of varicolored floodlights, their oval radiance spilling over into droplets of color sweeping rightward. “Wes said she reminded him of me—of how I touched his heart when I danced.” She dabbed her eyes gently with a tissue.

  “So you were a dancer? Were you in the ballet company?” I set my briefcase down. Actually, it's a catalog case. It can hold a lot of files and stuff. Heavy son of a gun. I glanced down at the carpet, took a big step forward and looked up at the painting of the rain, now so close I could reach out with my hand and touch it.

  “No. I had six years of ballet and jazz before college and enrolled as a dance major. Wes was my instructor for two years.”

  “But you're a corporate lawyer. That's a b-i-g step away from a dance major.” My eyes continued to rove over the painting, stopping briefly at the warm, orange window and traveling downward with the rain to study the beginnings of life at the bottom.

  “It was the sensible thing to do. Two years into the dance program, I realized I could never be the prima ballerina. At nineteen, I was already considered too old. And I wasn't interested in simply dancing in the corps or teaching children, so I switched my major to pre-law.”

  “Betcha Mr. Lamb was upset. No worry though. He obviously got over it. You were married quite a few years.” I glanced around the room. Bookcases. Large desk. Filing cabinet. Small upholstered chair opposite where I stood. End tables on either side, one with a lamp and the other holding a bronze replica of Degas's Little Dancer.

  “Yes, he was livid. I wanted to continue taking classes just for the exercise. He refused.”

  I studied her. In tee and slim yoga pants, her well-toned body was evident. She looked in better shape than me, and I'm proud of my physique. Between gym workouts and boxing at the precinct, I'm in good form. Can still run a mile in less than eight minutes. Faster when chasing a suspect. That's pretty good for a man of forty-three. But I've never run a marathon. This woman finished two, both times in the top third.

  “Do ya dance now, Mrs. Lamb?”

  “Yes. Jazz classes two nights a week.”

  “Jazz can build a body like yours?” I knew it was an offensive question but figured she was vain enough to answer it.

  “Jazz is for fun. Weight lifting is how I keep in shape.”

  “Oh? Where do ya do that?”

  “The gym on Castle. Four times a week.” She lifted her chin with a look of arrogance then quickly dropped her head to dab at her eyes. “But what's this have to do with my husband's murder?”

  “The painting of the tap dancer.” I pointed to another Durato hanging behind the desk. “It's a grand one for its small size.”

  “I got it for Wes. To bribe him. He still wouldn't let me back in class but did invite me to move in with him.” She tossed her head. “Two years later, we got married.”

  “Lemme figure. Hmmm.” I tapped my lower teeth with my thumbnail, a habit my ex-wife hated. Tried to break me of it for five years. Finally divorced me. Not because of that. Because she hated being married to a cop. “Wasn't that about the time he took over Paravael Ballet?”

  “Yes. Wes saved the company. Brought it from the brink of bankruptcy to one of the top dance companies in the nation.”

  “Made him a lotta money too, didn't it? But I guess he didn't really need it. You married a pretty wealthy man.”

  “Wes deserved every penny he inherited from his parents. They treated him terribly for going into the arts. And as for Paravael, they only paid him what he deserved. He was a genius when it came to dance.”

  “From what you say, he wasn't so smart when it came to drugs, huh?”

  Her expression changed from condescending to grief-stricken widow in an instant. She wiped her dry eyes, then walked to the chair and sat delicately on the edge. “He couldn't help that. The arthritis got so bad.” She sniffled, a dry sound.

  “He didn't have a doctor?”

  “Of course he did.” She looked at me defiantly. “But the imbecile limited the number of pills Wes could have. The more crippled he got, the worse the pain. The doctor wouldn't increase his prescription, so he turned to the streets.”

  “He did? For sure?” I walked to the desk and leaned against the corner. Thought maybe if I acted more nonchalant, she'd break out of her controlled stiffness. I'd never seen a surviving spouse with such discipline. Especially a woman. I don't mean that in a patronizing way. Just an observation from being a cop for twenty-plus years. Nine of them detective.

  “Yes,” she stated. A look of aggravation flickered. “I thought we already had that established. His nightly forays I told you about. The baggie you found on his body. The ones I found in the bathroom trash.”

  “Yeah. Can you get them for me?”

  “Right now? They're upstairs.”

  “If you don't mind.”

  She left the room. Was gone just long enough. Returned with the baggies. I dropped them into my briefcase. “This one's got the dancers beat.” I gestured toward the painting of the rain. “They're active. Dancing, leaping, while this one's a stationary building, but the rain gives it more dynamism than a whole passel of dancers.”

  “I disagree.” She shook her head. “I've never liked that one. It's just a bunch of paint dribbling down. I like the realism of the dancers. Abstract background, but you can tell they're people.”

  I turned to face Mrs. Lamb. “I take it you didn't buy this one.”

  “No. Wes got it at a fundraiser. Paid way too much for it.”

  “Still, it's a powerful painting. I noticed it when we were in here last time. You ever get tired of it I'll take it off your hands.” I laughed.

  She continued to watch me with the same aloof expression.

  “Your husband have any enemies?”

  “I'm sure he did. Everybody has people who don't like them, Detective, even you.”

  “Oh, you got that right. I got more than my share. But I'm talking about someone who might wanna kill him.”

  “Well, there's Corrina Belle. She's been on his back for years about a dance number she claims he stole from her. Foolishness, of course.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Wes developed a lovely pas de trois for his spring program three years ago. The critics raved about it. Corrina demanded Wes publicly admit he stole the piece from her. She claimed she did it for a class assignment. She harassed him by mail, phone, even personal contact. I told him to have her arrested. He thought ignoring her was the best way to handle the situation.”

  “So when was the last time you saw
Ms. Belle?”

  “Maybe two months ago. She banged on the door for an hour. When I went out later to get the mail, there was a dead rat on the front steps. I'm sure she left it there.”

  “Did you report it?”

  “Wes wouldn't let me.”

  “I'll need her address and all,” I stated. She walked to the desk and scribbled on a tablet.

  I bent to study the statuette of Degas's Little Dancer. “I've always loved this sculpture. This is a splendid reproduction. Looks heavy. Bronze, is it?”

  “Yes.” She handed me a paper with Corrina Belle's contact information. “When will you release my husband's body? I don't like the idea of him being in cold storage. You're done with the autopsy—a terrible thing to do to him. Was it really necessary?” She stood ramrod straight. I only had her by a few inches, and I'm a tall guy.

  “We found his body in a dumpster, Mrs. Lamb. That's suspicious. Autopsy was the best way to find out what happened to him.”

  “But that was obvious. You said blunt force trauma, right?”

  “Yes'm. Back of the head.”

  “So, why an autopsy?”

  “To clear up questions. Was he dead before or after he was hit? Did he have a heart attack and fall, hitting his head? All kinds of things.”

  “Detective, there is no reason to be facetious. People don't have heart attacks in dumpsters.” Her voice was hostile.

  “Yes'm. You got that right.” I turned to go. She put her hand on my arm.

  “You didn't answer my question. When will you release the body?”

  “We will release the body when we're done with our investigation. Good day, Mrs. Lamb. I can find my way out.”

  The body? Did she actually say that? It seemed cold. Her husband of almost sixteen years was found in a dumpster with the back of his head ripped open. Well, like they say, it takes all kinds.

  I ran to my car, slid behind the wheel, and wiped the rain from my face. I pulled out my cell. Called my partner. She answered on the third ring. Sounded like shit. I guess she wasn't fooling when she called in sick. Wasn't keeping her from working, though.