Fine Art of Murder Page 23

  “Both good questions,” I smiled politely, “but I said I'd tell you where and how the murder took place. This may make you feel uncomfortable.”

  “Why is that?” Mallard raised his eyebrows.

  “’Cause we're at the murder scene.”

  “What? The murder scene? He was in a dumpster.” Mrs. Lamb tossed her head.

  “She's right.” Mallard drew his eyebrows together. “Wes was found in an alley dumpster nowhere near here.”

  “Yes, and that is a crime scene, but it's not where he died,” I said.

  “Are you implying Weston was killed in this room?” Mrs. Lamb glared at me. “Preposterous.”

  “So, tell us, Detective, why you think he was killed here and how his body ended up in that alley.” Mallard pressed his hands together beneath his chin. So tight his knuckles were white.

  “The murder part's easy. He was struck over the head with the Degas dancer.”

  “This one?” Mallard turned his head and looked at the statuette on the end table beside him.

  “Precisely. Only it wasn't sitting there at the time of the murder. It was over here.” I walked to stand opposite Mrs. Lamb. “There was a chair here. That's where Mr. Lamb was sitting when he died.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mrs. Lamb's voice was shrill. “What….”

  “Why, he's right, Janie. There used to be matching chairs here.” Mallard looked up, surprised. “They sat opposite each other. Wes's was there where the detective's standing.”

  “Shut up, Travis. I think it's time for the detectives to leave. I'm wearying of this charade.”

  “Wait, Janie. I'm curious. How'd you know about the chair, Detective?”

  “Easy. The dents in the carpet. See, here and here? These four little round depressions show where it sat.” I looked at Mallard and smiled. “And here is where the table sat. Smaller circles and less of an impression because of its lighter weight. The Degas was on the table. There was an oval rug here too, between everything. You can see the impression. Barely, but it's there.”

  “That's amazing. Whatever made you think to look for those things? And what does it all have to do with Wes Lamb's death?” Mallard leaned forward to look down at the carpet.

  “On my first quick visit here, I saw something wasn't right. The hair rose on the back of my neck. That's my clue advisor. I got suspicious. Looked around. Noticed the impressions in the carpet. Saw the bronze dancer. Thought it looked like a good weapon. Next time I came, I brought my case with me. Sent Mrs. Lamb out of the room to get the baggies. Took a spray bottle from my case and sprayed a little bit of luminol on the statuette, put on goggles and switched the lights out. I could see where blood had been. I knew then I'd found the murder weapon.”

  I looked at Mrs. Lamb. Her lips were pulled into a thin, tight line. “Don't look so shocked,” I said, barely able to keep from smiling. “You should know from TV shows that no matter how hard someone scrubs, labs can always find blood.” I began to pace again. I always did a lot of pacing when my adrenaline got going. Another thing I did to annoy my ex.

  “So, here's how it went down.” I stopped briefly in front of Mrs. Lamb. She clutched her hands in her lap. Yep, there was fear in her eyes. “Motive? That's easy. Weston Lamb stood in the way of your freedom.” I turned to look at Mallard. “You were getting a divorce to be with her. I suppose you think she killed her husband to be free to marry you.”

  “I think nothing of the sort. I don't believe Janie killed Weston. Why would she? She was going to get a divorce. Like I was doing. I already said I have more money than the two of us could ever use.”

  “But in a divorce Mrs. Lamb would lose this house. You'll probably say that doesn't matter. You've got three of them. But with no children, she's spent the last fifteen, sixteen years of her life pouring herself into this house. Remodeling. Creating each room. She loves this place. Probably more than she does you or Crandall Fry.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?” Mallard flung his hands up in irritation.

  “Also, she'd lose everything else. The jewels. The bank accounts. The retirement funds. Everything. On the other hand, if he's dead, she gets it all. She's the only survivor.”

  “Who the hell is Crandall Fry?” Mallard raised his voice. His face flushed.

  “If you'd looked through all the photos you would've met him. He and Mrs. Lamb liked the same B and B, too. And I think there's one of her at the elegant Towers with a Jeffrey Combe. I don't know how many others the PI got. I only asked for a couple.”

  “What the hell is he saying, Janie?” Mallard turned toward Mrs. Lamb.

  “I don't have the foggiest.” She raised her chin and looked him straight in the eye.

  Mallard stared at Lamb, then opened the envelope and pulled out the glossy prints. As he flipped through them, his face got redder and redder. “What is all this, Janelle? What the hell's going on? We're getting married. Honeymooning on my island. What's with these other men? What about these suspicions of murder?” He stood suddenly. Threw the envelope on her lap and turned to me.

  “What am I doing here? Am I under suspicion in this depravity?”

  “You were for a while.”

  “We had to deal with the question of how Mr. Lamb's body was disposed of,” Rosie popped up. She was giving me my next lead-in.

  “We gave that a lot of thought. You're a big man. Perfectly capable of doing it. We had to see if you were complicit in the disposal. That was an easy question to answer.” I held my hand to Rosie again, and she gave me our file. I took out two surveillance photos we got courtesy of the PI. They had date and time stamps. I handed them to Mallard.

  “These photos show you were home the night of Weston Lamb's murder. From early evening to well past the time the body was found the next morning. Alone. These surveillance photos clear you completely.” Mallard glanced at the photos and slumped into the chair.

  “So, okay.” I looked at Mallard and then at Lamb. “Time for specifics. We've got the where and the why. We've got the murder weapon. I guess next would be figuring out the who.” I tapped my lower teeth with my thumbnail and paced, my head lowered. “It would have to be someone left-handed.” I stood behind the spot where the missing chair once sat. “His head would've been hit like this,” I swung my hands through the air as if holding a heavy object, “and forced blood that direction.” I pointed.

  “Left-handed? You're a lefty, Janie.” Mallard looked at her with wide eyes. She stood and glared at him.

  “Please sit down, Mrs. Lamb. I'm almost done here. Let's go back to the oval indenture,” I pointed downward, “and the rug on top of the carpet.”

  She didn't answer. Simply stared, eyebrows raised.

  “I'll tell you how I think things went.” I held up my hand and counted on my fingers. “First of all, you drugged your husband with the sleeping medicine. Maybe in his tea? He was probably reading. When he fell asleep, he slumped forward. The back of his head made a good target.” I held my hands in a circle about where his head would have been.

  “You grabbed the statuette and slammed him with it. Right?” I held up my second finger. No answer from the widow, of course. I held up finger number three.

  “You rolled him down onto the rug.” I gestured, then held up the next finger, “and rolled him up in it.” Next finger. “Carried him out to the SUV. Carried the chair out too.” Time to move to the other hand. “Drove to an isolated alley. Tossed him in the dumpster.”

  “And how do you suppose a woman could do all that?” She sat and crossed her legs, lifting her brows in distain.

  “Maybe most women couldn't, but you're not the average woman, Mrs. Lamb. You're in exceptional shape. A marathon runner. A dancer. A weight lifter. Taller and stronger than your frail, crippled husband who weighed so little.” I was no longer counting on fingers. I was simply standing in front of the grieving, glaring widow.

  “Yes, Mrs. Lamb. It was you who dumped him like a piece of trash. But not before y
ou removed his cash and put the baggie in his pocket. That done, you disposed of the bloody rug and chair. We haven't found them yet, but I have no doubt we will someday.” I shrugged. “Doesn't matter. We have so many other things with which to hang you. No matter how hard you cleaned, we'll no doubt find trace evidence in the SUV. We'll find spatter patterns on the wall in here. Maybe the end table. The book he was reading. Oh, you burned it? Well, we'll have to dig through the fireplace ashes.” I paused and left some silence for her to think.

  Mallard broke into the quiet. “So what made the hairs on the back of your neck go up, Detective?”

  “This painting.” I turned to face Rain and pointed. “The spatters at the bottom. Some are blood, not paint.”

  The widow's head came up fast. She peered around me at the painting. “What are you talking about? There's no blood on that painting.” She stood and leaned closer. “There are no red spots.”

  “Not now, but there were. You never thought about blood spattering there, did you? It would've been red at first, but as blood dries it takes on a brownish tone.” I pointed to flecks near the bottom. “Notice, they're not the same brown the artist used with her other earth tones.” I straightened and looked at Mallard. “This painting has always been my favorite Durato work. I've pretty well got it memorized. She has a distinctive signature with her spatters. Always downward and to the right. First time I came in here, these spatters bothered me.” I pointed to a section of the painting. “They go upward to the left. Consistent with blood from a victim sitting about there,” I gestured, “and hit with a left-handed blow from behind.” I pulled my handcuffs from my belt.

  “Next time I came here, I brought cotton swabs and evidence bags with me. Got a sample off several of the flecks.”

  I reached out and turned Mrs. Lamb around. Brought her hands to her back and cuffed her. She pulled and twisted to face Mallard.

  “Travis, are you going to just sit there and let them insult me this way?”

  He ignored her. “What'd your tests of the flecks show, Detective?”

  “They were all human blood.” I nodded to Rosie. She closed the catalog case and picked it up. “You're free to go, Mr. Mallard. You can keep the photos or not. I have copies.”

  He glanced at Mrs. Lamb, then left. I heard the front open and close. I guided the widow toward the door.

  “You have the right to remain….”

  Landmark for Peace (1995)

  Stephen Terrell

  One of the potentially most explosive moments in the history of Indiana took place at the intersection of 17th and Broadway in Indianapolis during the early evening of April 4, 1968. Robert F. Kennedy, campaigning for President, was scheduled to speak that evening to a large, mostly African-American crowd.

  When Kennedy arrived in Indianapolis, he was notified that Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated in Memphis. A half hour later, against the advice of police, Kennedy was standing before the crowd on a flatbed trailer. In the recording of the speech, gasps and cries are clearly heard as Kennedy revealed the news of Dr. King's death. Kennedy then proceeded to give perhaps the greatest extemporaneous speech in American history and it was only five minutes long. Kennedy concluded: “What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence and lawlessness, but is love, and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or whether they be black.”

  Dedicated by President Bill Clinton in 1994, Landmark for Peace shows the bronze figures of King and Kennedy reaching out to each other across a walkway at the location of Kennedy's speech, now Martin Luther King Jr. Park. Indiana artist Greg Perry designed the Memorial from the idea of Hoosier politician Larry Conrad. Indiana sculptor Daniel Edward created the bronze figures. The memorial is made from confiscated guns that were melted down and reshaped into a symbol of peace.

  How to Throw a Pot

  Barbara Swander Miller

  “Oh my gosh!” Marti gasped as she leaned her sturdy frame toward the glass museum case. “Will you look at that?”

  Janice, her younger sister, whistled. “Those ancient Peruvians certainly were… lusty, weren't they? I thought they were just into silver and gold.”

  “We did see that incredible silver in the other room. But it takes a back seat to these figurines in their… uh… creative poses.”

  “I like the jugs that look like faces. Ha! That one looks like your neighbor, Leo!” Janice laughed.

  Marti tore her eyes away from the graphic display and smiled. She glanced around the small, dimly lit room. “I'd hate to have my students see me in here!”

  Janice smiled, “No worries. Remember, you're retired now. And it's art. Expensive, too, by the looks of these cameras and locks.”

  “Well, no wonder.” Marti read from the typed sign on the wall near a display. “It says they are from 100–800 AD.”

  “Take a last look, sis, because where we're headed, we won't be doing much touring. I don't think they even have museums,” Janice said.

  Marti stepped out of the room of artifacts and into the gift shop. Amidst the colorful textiles and replica statuary, a book on Peruvian pottery caught her eye. She flipped through the pages and saw that it covered many periods of pre-Columbian history. “I think I'll get it. I need some reading material.”

  “Gracias,” she said, rifling through her wallet for a purple hundred soles bill. As her slim younger sister joined her at the counter, Marti said, “I'm guessing the people up north are probably more interested in basic survival than in preserving ancient relics.”

  Walking out into the courtyard of the mansion-turned-museum, Marti stopped to admire the cascades of vibrant fuchsia bougainvillea that tumbled down the stone garden wall. “Jan, take my picture, would you? I still can't seem to get a good-looking selfie.”

  Janice took her sister's phone and laughed. “It's not about your age, is it? I mean you are two years older than I am.”

  Marti made a face and changed the subject. “Seriously, Lima has been incredible, don't you think? I just want to get a few more pictures before we leave. I could use them in my class. “Marti stopped abruptly. “I mean, I love the bright flowers against the yellow buildings.”

  Janice sighed. “My favorite so far has been walking in Barranco and seeing the beautiful old homes. Who knows what those carved wooden doors are hiding.”

  “Well, it's time to head north,” Marti said. “I hope this volunteer vacation will be a good blend of relaxation and helping others. I never thought I'd feel so useless when I retired.”

  The next day, after the exhausting bus ride from Lima to Huaraz and the cramped taxi ride to their host's house, Marti stretched her legs. She hated to leave their exotic bed and breakfast perched on the cliffs of the Pacific to head to the grimy downtown Lima bus station, but she brought her new pottery book to read on the winding trip. She was glad Janice felt comfortable admiring the changing scenery as they wound their way from the desert into the mountains.

  Eight hours later, Marti steadied her rolling luggage on the sloping street in Huaraz, trying to get her bearings. The air was thin in the Cordillera Blanca mountains that loomed behind the low and jagged city skyline. Huascaran, the tallest mountain, jagged and dark, looked as if its peak had been hastily frosted by an impatient baker. A lazy dog looked up from a shady doorway.

  Marti read the addresses painted on a stucco-covered house wall. “I think this is it,” she huffed as she rang the doorbell. A little boy welcomed them to their temporary home.

  After two days of volunteer teaching at the grade school, Raul, their host, invited the sisters to explore the open-air third floor of their lodgings. With no rails on the concrete steps, Marti was nervous climbing up to the bird's eye view of the town.

  “I don't care if the scenery is gorgeous, Jan. I don't like this,” Marti said as she gingerly stepped onto
the top floor. Her arms spread out as if she were walking a tightrope. “I think I'll go hang out in the library and read my book about the Moche.”

  “I'll stay here,” Janice replied adjusting her camera. “I'd like to get some shots of the city.”

  Later that week, Janice stopped by the library on her way to the rooftop. “How was your day at the school?” she asked her sister.

  “I hate to complain and I know I shouldn't judge how they do things.” Marti paused.

  “Go on,” her sister prodded.

  “Well, learning English with worksheets is just not best practice,” Marti said as she put several nonfiction books into a pile. “It's just so boring for these kids. It's hard to think I am making a difference here.”

  “Too bad you're not teaching theater. You probably never used a worksheet in your classroom. But I'm sure what you are doing is helping, even if it is short-term.” Janice plopped into the settee to chat. “I know it's hard. At the community center where I'm working, everyone gets fed and no one is sick, even though their sanitation seems somewhat lacking. Maybe we have too many regulations and requirements back home.”

  Marti turned from filing books. “I don't know about regulations, but I know I'm ready to have some fun and not on that rooftop.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Well, for starters, I am tired of potatoes and rice. I suppose we could find a restaurant with something sweet.”

  “How about something a little more adventurous?” Janice suggested. She got up to look at the bulletin board on the wall above the yellowed Compaq computer. “It looks like there are day trips to the hot springs. Or how about an overnight mountain hike?”

  “Not likely with this knee,” Marti said, rubbing it. “It's been hurting ever since we got off the bus.”

  “You seem to love that pottery book. How about this?” She read from a flyer: “Pottery lessons—Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. It says it's in a village outside of Huaraz. I'll bet you could catch a bus.”