Fine Art of Murder Page 3

  I'm frozen. I can't leave him.

  “I said run!”

  Finally, I take off, slowing down when I get to the end of the hall that leads to the warehouse floor. Townes has arrived and is huddling with his thieves.

  I crouch down and quietly zigzag around the big crates and boxes toward the door. My heart is pumping fast. I make it to the front door when it opens and Agent Summers steps in.

  “Thank God, you got my message!”

  His expression is hard, not one of someone who has come to my rescue. He's alone and he doesn't even have his gun out.

  Light bulb moment. I start to back up.

  “Yeah, thanks for the heads up. You kind of screwed up our plans but that's okay.”

  “I get it now,” I say. “Nice little scheme you have. You use Noah's record to set him up. Who would believe an eighty-two-year-old felon, right? You and Townes steal the mosaic and split a nice bundle.”

  Summers smirks. “We already have a buyer for the pretty piece.”

  “You don't even care about destroying an innocent man.”

  Now Summers laughs. “Old coot has lived his life.”

  “You don't get to decide that.”

  “Lady, I'm the law. Haven't you noticed we can do what we want?”

  He steps toward me. “Over here,” he calls to his thieving partners and snakes his hand out to grab me.

  But I have something for him. I pull my fragrance bottle from my pocket. “This is my bestseller,” I say and spray him right in the eyes.

  “Argh. Jesus!” He grabs at his eyes and stumbles, giving me a chance to sprint around him for the door.

  I fling it open and run smack into Officer Billings, who's brought plenty of backup. The officers barrel in and turn their weapons on Townes and his goons who were rushing over to take care of me—or so they thought.

  “I wouldn't move,” Billings warns Summers, who's doubled over and still unable to see.

  I almost collapse with relief.

  “Sorry we're just getting here,” Billings says. “When you called I was in the field taking up the slack for another detective. You know how that is.”

  “It's what we ladies do,” I say.

  * * *

  I want to pinch myself.

  Agent Summers, Brian Townes, and their thieves are locked up in the Marion County jail, and it's standing room only at Cecil's exhibition. Even the mayor is here. “We're thankful to all of you for supporting this event,” Cecil says. “The Community Art Center is where I held my first paint brush and did my first sculpture. Therefore, it's my great honor to announce the mosaic was auctioned for one and a half million dollars—”

  The crowd gasps.

  “—All of which will be donated to this wonderful center to give aspiring artists the same opportunity I had. And I want to say a special thank you to the lady who made this possible, the president of the board of directors, Vera Ames.”

  I'm so tickled I'm blushing beneath my chocolate skin.

  “How about that,” Hampton, looking absolutely yummy in his tux, says to me as we sip the champagne and watch guests swarm Cecil to offer their congratulations.

  Noah clears his throat. “I need to make a toast, young blood. To the fierce woman who believed in an old man. Who's the daughter I never had.”

  My heart is about to burst. I kiss the bruise on his cheek—a souvenir from our little caper—and lift my glass. “To the man who replaced the father I lost too soon.”

  Noah's eyes mist up.

  So do mine.

  Marie Goth (1887–1975)

  N. W. Campbell

  Marie Goth’s life was filled with art. Once she was old enough to hold a pencil, her father, Charles, encouraged her to write and draw. Her passion led to her career as one of Indiana's most successful portrait and still-life painters.

  While a student at Manual High, Goth won an Indianapolis art contest. Her father's cousin, Otto Stark, a Hoosier Art Group painter, directed the arts at Manual. He invited Goth to be his assistant, which she did until 1909. She studied art at Herron and spent a summer at the Cincinnati Art Institute. In 1909, she won an Art Students League scholarship and moved to New York, where she lived at the Three Arts Club on West 85th Street until 1919. This rich environment allowed her to develop aesthetically among musicians, dancers, and fellow visual artists.

  Goth painted portraits, luminous wristwatch faces, and instrument dials for income. She fell in love with a young artist, Varaldo Cariani. The two lived and worked together throughout Cariani's life. In 1919, Goth returned to Indiana. Cariani followed her, but they never married. In 1923, Marie came to Brown County at Alberta Shulz's invitation. Soon, Goth's sister, Genevieve, joined her. The two sisters built a cabin. Genevieve married artist Carl Graf, and Varaldo built a studio nearby. Marie Goth lived and worked there for the rest of her life.

  James Whitcomb Riley is one of her best-known portraits. Florence won the Julia A. Shaw prize of the National Academy of Design in 1931. In 1975, she died, leaving six hundred thousand dollars to the Brown County Art Gallery, stipulating that her works and those of Genevieve, Carl Graf, and Varaldo Cariani be displayed there.

  That Ugly Painting

  Joan Bruce

  “Where'd you get that ugly painting?” Mandy Malone, my best friend since first grade, shouted from the middle of my tiny living room on Sunday morning.

  “At an estate sale last Friday while on my way to work,” I said, stepping out of my bathroom. “Do you like it?”

  “No, it's ugly.”

  “No, it's not.”

  “Yes, it is. How much did you pay for it?”

  “Twenty dollars,” I said. “It's an abstract. It's supposed to be unusual. I think it looks great.” I eyed it hanging there on the wall between my two small windows.

  “You were robbed,” Mandy said, turning away from the painting. “Wait a minute, you're not wearing that outfit to go shopping, are you?”

  “Huh?” I said, glancing down at my black mini-skirt to see if Mandy had spotted a stain. “What's wrong with it?”

  “Candi DeCarlo, you're over forty. Women our age don't dress like that when shopping at the Fashion Mall,” Mandy said. She was wearing a beige silk blouse and floral print skirt that reached down to her ankles. “You might wear that if you're looking to get lucky on Saturday night at Ray's Hideaway Lounge, but not to go shopping in Indianapolis. Put on a pair of slacks instead.”

  “Whatever.” I sighed before turning on my four-inch heels and stomping off to my bedroom. “When did you become my mother?” I muttered under my breath.

  * * *

  It was nearing six o'clock when Mandy dropped me off in front of my duplex on Elm Street and sped away in her shiny, black Jaguar.

  I trudged up the rickety outside steps that led to my second-floor apartment. It'd been a productive shopping trip. Lots of fifty percent off sales. My hands were full of shopping bags. Once on the landing, I dropped the bags and rummaged through my hobo bag looking for my keys. As I stuck the key into the lock I noticed one of the panes of glass in my front door was busted. I twisted the doorknob and the door opened in my hand. Damn. Somebody'd broken into my apartment! I dug through my bag for my pepper spray. Somebody was about to become a blind man.

  “Anybody here?” I shouted as I stepped through the front door. That was dumb, Candi. Nothing like letting the burglar know you're home.

  Fortunately, nobody answered. I headed straight for my bedroom to see if the burglar had taken any of my clothes or costume jewelry, but nothing appeared to be missing.

  When I stepped back into the living room, I noticed my new abstract painting was missing. Snatched right off the wall. Who'd stolen it? I reached for the cell phone in my bag and called Mandy.

  “Somebody broke into my apartment while we were shopping and took my new painting,” I yelled into the phone after she picked up.

  “Who knew Bartonsville still had a good Samaritan?”

  “That's not fu
nny, Mandy,” I said. “I really love that painting. What should I do?”

  “I suppose you could offer a thousand dollar reward for its safe return, or file a missing painting report with the police.”

  * * *

  It was just after three on Tuesday afternoon when Mary Donovan, a dispatcher with the Bartonsville Police Department, walked into Tips & Toes for her regular nail appointment.

  “Heard your place was burglarized the other night,” she said, plopping down in front of my nail station.

  “Yeah, they stole my new painting right off the wall,” I replied.

  “I also heard you bought it last week at Agnes Murphy's estate sale.”

  “Yup. So, have you guys found it yet?”

  “No, but I talked to Chief Cobb briefly before coming over here,” Mary said. “Your case is more complicated than he first thought.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Chief's first homicide when he worked for the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department involved a reclusive art collector named Russell Thompson. The Chief and his fellow detectives believed two men broke into Thompson's house on North Meridian Street a dozen years ago, stabbed him to death and made off with his most valuable paintings.”

  “Did they ever find the murderers?” I asked.

  “No, it's a cold case, but the Chief says he always had a gut feeling about who did it.”

  “I don't understand. What's that got to do with my missing painting?”

  “Among the suspects were two guys from the Bartonsville area, but IMPD couldn't prove they stabbed Thompson.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Does the Chief also think those guys stole my painting?”

  “I can't say anything more,” Mary said. “I've already told you too much. Let's try a different color on my nails today.”

  * * *

  After Mary left with her new tangerine nails, I started thinking about the two Bartonsville guys she mentioned that were art thieves and murderers. Who were they? I must have known them. I knew practically everyone in town. And, finally, were they the ones that broke into my apartment and stole my abstract painting? I needed some answers and fast. I missed my painting.

  I called Mandy to ask for her advice. “What are you doing?” I asked when she picked up.

  “Ravishing the boy toy who showed up on my doorstep a half hour ago,” she replied. “What do you think I'm doing?”

  “Let's see, its eight o'clock,” I said, after glancing at my Betty Boop watch. “You're probably taking a bubble bath and sipping a glass of champagne.”

  “Bingo. You win. Why are you calling me? You know I hate being disturbed while I'm enjoying my bubbles.”

  I apologized and then told Mandy what Mary Donovan had said about the two Bartonsville guys suspected of murdering an Indianapolis art collector and how they may have stolen my painting.

  “That's highly unlikely,” Mandy said when I finished. “Why would two guys who are used to stealing valuable paintings want your ugly thing?”

  Mandy had a point. I only paid twenty dollars for my painting, but it wasn't ugly like she kept claiming. It held a lot of sentimental value. It's the first time I've bought a painting somewhere other than Walmart.

  “Remind me again where you bought that ugly painting?” Mandy said.

  “At Agnes Murphy's estate sale.”

  “I remember her. Sweet old lady, but she had this worthless nephew named Peter Shaw. He hung out in the same motorcycle gang with my first husband, Butch Muldoon. They called him Dead Eye Pete because he wore a black patch over his left eye, and he could shoot a gun really well.”

  “Sounds charming,” I said. “Did Dead Eye have any close friends?”

  “Yeah, a cousin,” Mandy said. “Weird Willy Watson. Sounds like a professional wrestler, doesn't he? The story goes that Willy earned his nickname for doing crazy things when he drank too much or smoked pot.”

  “Think they still live in Bartonsville?”

  “Doubt it,” Mandy replied. “Last I heard Dead Eye and my ex were cellmates at Pendleton. Each doing ten years for beating up a liquor store clerk one night. I don't know about Willy. Why?”

  “I want to ask him if he stole my painting.”

  “Candi, you're crazy. Even if you find Willy, he's not going to admit to stealing your ugly painting. Instead, he's liable to hurt you for asking. Stay away from him.”

  * * *

  I decided to ignore Mandy's advice. Despite her warning, I needed to check out Weird Willy on my own, so after work on Wednesday night, I came home, changed into the shortest mini-skirt and tightest sweater I could find in my closet, and drove to Ray's Hideaway Lounge. I figured Willy might hang out there.

  “Well, look who's here,” Ray Ives said as I strutted into his bar. “You're looking mighty fine tonight, Candi. What brings you out on a weeknight? Can I get you a drink?”

  “I'm looking for a guy,” I said as I sat down on a barstool and waited on Ray to fix me a strawberry daiquiri. “Weird Willy Watson.”

  “What do you want with that troublemaker?” Ray asked, setting the daiquiri in front of me.

  “I need to ask him a few questions,” I said, sipping my drink. It tasted wonderful.

  Before Ray could reply, someone spun me around on my barstool and planted a juicy, wet kiss on my lips. It was my ex-husband, Bobby DeCarlo. Damn, he still looked as good as he did back in high school.

  “What are you doin’ here, Candi?” he asked, wiping pink lipstick off his lips. “Still looking for the man of your dreams?”

  “No, I don't need another guy to ruin my life,” I said. “I was asking Ray if he knew Weird Willy Watson.”

  “I know that dude,” Bobby said, sitting down next to me. “We've worked on a couple construction jobs. He's a decent carpenter. Saw him last week outside the courthouse. Wondered if he was in trouble with the law again.”

  “Know where he lives?”

  “Wait a minute, Candi, you're not thinking of hooking up with him, are you?” Bobby asked. “Willy's bad news.”

  “No, I only want to talk to him.”

  “Yeah, I know where Willy lives, but it's going to cost you.”

  “You're not getting another kiss,” I said. “Ray, grab Bobby a beer and put it on my tab.”

  “You don't need to buy me a beer,” Bobby said, as he grabbed the bottle from Ray. “I was hoping you'd like to do something else tonight if you catch my drift.”

  “Bobby, I'm not interested in you anymore,” I said. “Remember, we're divorced.”

  “I know…. I know,” he said, taking another long swig of his beer. “Remind me again how all that happened.”

  “Simple. You liked spending more time with your girlfriends than you did with me. Now, are you going to give me Willy's address?”

  I took a pen out of my bag and reached across the bar for a paper napkin so Bobby could write down directions. When he finished, I slapped a ten on the bar and shouted to Ray, “Bring Bobby another beer, and keep the change.”

  “Thanks, Candi,” Bobby said as he slammed his empty beer bottle on the bar.

  * * *

  Once outside, I glanced at my watch. It was nearing nine o'clock. Probably too late to pay a visit to Willy's house. Besides, I had a busy schedule tomorrow at Tips & Toes and needed to go home and get some beauty rest.

  Thursday turned out to be a bust at work. A couple clients called early to cancel their afternoon appointments. I hate it when that happens. It means fewer tips in my pocket.

  I hurried home from work, ate a small salad from the Grab ‘n Run, and then stood in front of my clothes closet, trying to decide what to wear to Willy's place. How about an outfit like I wore last night to Ray's Hideaway? No. Willy might get the wrong idea about my visit. I settled for black jeans and a loose-fitting top.

  * * *

  Willy lived at the Heaven's Gate Trailer Park on the east side of town. I knew the place very well. My mom, my brother, and I lived there for a short time
while I was growing up. It's a dump. I steered my F-150 down the main gravel road. Willy's mobile home was next to a bright yellow trailer with at least a dozen wind chimes, just like Bobby had drawn on his map. After parking out front, I walked up to his front door and knocked.

  “Come on in, the door's open,” I heard a voice calling from somewhere inside the trailer.

  I stepped through the doorway. Willy was sitting in a broken-down, faux leather recliner in the middle of his living room. He wasn't anything like I imagined. Willy had to lose weight to get to three hundred pounds. He was wearing a dirty white T-shirt and wrinkled black pants, and he had big holes in his smelly-looking athletic socks.

  “Well, well,” Willy said, a big smile forming on his face. “Who are you, darling?”

  I was ready for his question. On my way to his place, I made up a story about why I was there.

  “I'm Candi. Your landlord hired me to find out what he can do to make the trailer park a better place to live.”

  “Looking to raise my rent again, is he?” Willy said. “How much time you got to listen to my complaints?”

  “A few minutes,” I said, pulling a small notebook and pen out of my bag. “Go ahead whenever you're ready.”

  Willy was like the Hoover dam suddenly bursting at its seams. He spent the next fifteen minutes talking non-stop about everything that was wrong with the trailer park. It included the unpaved roads, potholes as big as moon craters, and weeds growing alongside the road as high as some of the trailers. I didn't expect a guy like Willy to even notice his surroundings.

  I sat across from him on the edge of his couch and pretended to write down his every word. Actually, I scribbled circles in my notebook while casually glancing around the living room for any sign of my painting or any other artwork he'd stolen.

  Willy had moved on to the trailer park's faulty septic system when the front door opened and in walked a tall, heavy-set woman with a cigarette dangling from her lips.

  “What's going on here?” she screamed after spotting me. “Who's this bimbo, Willy? One of your little girlfriends?”

  “No, Melissa, Candi's doing a survey for our landlord,” Willy tried to explain, but his friend wasn't in any mood to listen.