Fine Art of Murder Read online

  She hovered over me like a linebacker glaring down at a quarterback he'd just sacked. “If I were you, missy,” she said in a deep voice, “I'd get the hell out of here now while you're still in one piece.”

  Melissa didn't have to tell me twice. I jumped off the couch and was out the door in a flash. As I made my way back to my truck, I could hear Willy and Melissa yelling at each other inside their trailer.

  Love was sure complicated at times.

  * * *

  Before going to work on Friday morning, I dropped by Ralph's Diner for my usual—a cinnamon swirl and Diet Dr. Pepper. I'd just taken the first bite of the swirl when I heard my name.

  I turned around on the lunch counter stool. Chief Dan Cobb was standing beside me. I swear, he's the best-looking single man in Bartonsville.

  “Hi, Chief,” I said while trying to swallow the doughy swirl stuffed in my mouth. “What brings you here this morning?”

  “Looking for you,” he replied as he sat down on the stool next to me.

  Oh my God, Dan's finally going to ask me out!

  “Were you at William Watson's place last night?”

  I grabbed my Diet Dr. Pepper and took a long swig.

  How'd he know that?

  “I'm waiting, Candi,” the Chief said, tapping his fingers on the lunch counter.

  “Yeah, I may have been there. You know, I used to live in that trailer park.”

  “You went there to see if Watson stole your painting, didn't you?”

  “Maybe,” I finally replied. I hate it when Chief Cobb grills me like a common criminal.

  “I know because Mary told me all about her conversation with you the other day. I don't know how you learned Watson's name, but when my officers arrived at his place last night to break up the domestic dispute, Watson's girlfriend, Melissa Sharp, said the fight began over some girl named Candi. And, you're the only Candi I know in Bartonsville.”

  Darn. I should have used a fake name to go along with my fake story.

  “So,” I said, taking another sip of my Dr. Pepper.

  “So, I don't want you investigating burglaries on your own. Watson is a dangerous guy and so is his girlfriend. She tried to bite one of my officers. Besides, you may have tipped him off about being a suspect in your burglary and possibly that cold case murder that Mary mentioned.”

  “Sorry, Dan. I didn't mean to do anything wrong. I simply want my painting back.”

  “Visiting Watson's place wasn't the right way to go about it. Do you understand?”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “So, did you talk to Watson while you were inside his trailer?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I pretended to be taking a survey about repairs needed at the trailer park.”

  “Did you see anything unusual while you were there?”

  Wait a minute. Dan's wanting me to be a snitch for him. So now it's okay that I went there?

  “Nothing at first, but before I left, I noticed an empty picture frame propped against the wall next to Watson's recliner,” I said. “But it wasn't mine, so I didn't accuse him or anything. I wanted to get out of there before his girlfriend broke me in two.”

  “That's interesting,” Chief Cobb said. “I'll get back to you.”

  * * *

  My boss, Madge Parsons, leaned down beside me on Saturday afternoon as I was applying a set of acrylic nails for my eighty-year-old client, Lonnie Sparks. “A strange-looking woman up front wants to speak to you right away,” Madge whispered in my ear.

  I looked up and spotted Weird Willy Watson's girlfriend, Melissa.

  What's she doing here?

  I asked Lonnie if she could wait a few minutes. She was in no hurry.

  As Madge and I walked towards the front, I asked her to stand next to the phone and call 911 if Melissa followed through on her earlier promise to break me into tiny pieces.

  “What can I do for you, Melissa?” I asked.

  “We need to talk. Alone.”

  “The laundry room,” I said, pointing to the rear of the salon.

  Once in the room, Melissa insisted that I close the door. I was reluctant at first, but since she'd asked in such a calm voice, I figured she wasn't planning to hit me right away.

  “I need to clear up a few things with you,” she said.

  “If this is about Willy, I'm not one of his girlfriends.”

  “No kidding,” she said. “You're not his type. He likes big, full-bodied women like me. Not skinny babes like you.”

  I wasn't sure how to react to Melissa's comment. I'm a hot babe.

  “What were you really doing at our place?” Melissa asked. “My neighbor said you didn't stop by her place with any survey. She also knows you work here. Tell me the truth. Why were you talking up Willy?”

  I looked at Melissa and could tell she was being sincere, so I told her how I suspected that Willy broke into my apartment on Sunday afternoon and stole my favorite abstract painting. I tried saying it as nicely as I could so she wouldn't go ballistic. She didn't.

  “Funny you mentioned that,” Melissa said. “Willy's been acting strange lately.”

  “How so?”

  “He got a call from his cousin, Peter Shaw. Willy told me later that they talked about some artwork. Then, Willy went to check on some paintings at this old woman's estate sale. He never goes to auctions.”

  “Melissa, I think Willy and Peter murdered an Indianapolis art collector a decade ago and stole some of his valuable paintings. They must have hidden them at Agnes's house.”

  Melissa looked stunned. Then she turned and stormed out of the laundry room. “Wait till I get my hands on Willy,” she shouted.

  “Stop, Melissa,” I yelled at her, but she was already at the front door. Confronting Willy on her own didn't sound like a good idea to me. I went back to my nail station to finish Lonnie's acrylic nails. Then, I called the Police Department and asked for Mary Donovan. I told her about Melissa's visit.

  “I'll have Chief Cobb check out Watson's place,” Mary said. “I agree. It sounds like his girlfriend could be in danger.”

  After hanging up, I glanced at the clock on the back wall. It was nearing four o'clock. I tidied up my station before telling Madge I needed to leave early to run an errand.

  As I drove up to Willy Watson's trailer fifteen minutes later, I noticed three police cars parked out front with their red lights blazing.

  I stepped out of my truck and walked towards Watson's trailer. “What's going on?” I asked a neighbor who was standing there.

  “I think the cops are going to arrest Willy,” the woman replied. “If you ask me, it's about time they nailed him for all the terrible things he's done to Melissa in the past.”

  A few minutes later, two officers walked out of Willy's trailer carrying several paintings. They opened the trunk of their cruiser and carefully placed them inside. A third officer brought out Willy in handcuffs and not-so-carefully placed him in the backseat of his cruiser. Finally, Chief Cobb and Melissa appeared. The Chief said something to her before speeding away in his own car.

  All this time, I stood behind the woman I'd been talking to so Chief Cobb wouldn't see me and yell at me later for being there.

  Once the cops left, I walked up to Melissa. She was still standing in front of her trailer with her arms crossed.

  “What happened, Melissa?” I asked.

  “You were right, Candi,” she said. “Willy and his cousin did steal some paintings a long time ago. He also admitted to breaking into your apartment.”

  “Did he tell you why?”

  “He didn't get the chance,” Melissa said. “The cops pulled up right then and arrested him.”

  “Did you happen to see my painting?”

  * * *

  On Sunday afternoon, I was watching a made-for-TV movie on the Hallmark Channel when my doorbell rang. It was Chief Cobb.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked after opening the front door.

  “I've got something for yo
u,” he said, reaching behind his back and pulling out my abstract painting.

  “Where's the frame that goes with it?” I asked.

  “It's still part of our evidence,” he explained. “After stealing the collector's paintings, Willy and his cousin realized reputable collectors weren't interested in buying stolen property, so they hired a neighborhood kid to paint some blank canvasses. They placed them in front of the collector's originals and hid them at Agnes Murphy's place. When she passed away, Willy tried to retrieve them at her estate sale, but he apparently missed the one you bought.”

  “Thanks for returning it,” I said, hugging my painting. All I needed now was to buy a new picture frame at Walmart.

  Paul Hadley (1880–1971)

  David Reddick

  To mark Indiana's centennial in 1916, the Indiana Daughters of the American Revolution held a statewide contest to create a state banner.

  Paul Hadley of Mooresville submitted the winning design. A yellow torch, symbolizing liberty and enlightenment, was at the center of the design. Thirteen stars representing the original states formed an outer circle around the torch while an inner circle of five stars represented those states that became part of the Union following the country's Declaration of Independence. A large star representing Indiana was positioned above the torch.

  Hadley was born in Indianapolis on August 8, 1880 and attended Manual Training High School where he studied art with Otto Stark, a member of the Hoosier Group. Following graduation, Hadley studied at the Pennsylvania Museum and School of Industrial Design. His early career was spent designing stained glass for a company in Chicago.

  He moved to Mooresville following the death of his father, and was responsible for helping to design the family's first home there. Hadley was an accomplished watercolorist, and operated a studio in Indianapolis for many years before spending ten years as an instructor at the Herron Art Institute.

  In 1955, the Indiana General Assembly made Hadley's design the official state flag. Previously, it had been recognized only as the state banner. The Legislature also added the word “Indiana” above the large star. In 1966, the town of Mooresville was officially proclaimed the home of the state flag, and the town's new middle school was also named in honor of Hadley.

  For the state Bicentennial in 2016, a state historical marker honoring Hadley's design was erected in downtown Mooresville.

  Hadley died on January 31, 1971, and is buried at Crown Hill Cemetery in Indianapolis.

  Murder Confit

  Marianne Halbert

  Evangeline's long-dried bloodstain lay a few feet from me, permeated into the plywood, caked and dark. Dull compared to the glossy sheen of the duck confit sauce that was now splattered and soaking into the floor.

  “You're positively mad,” Lester breathed. He said it to Keither, but then his eyes roamed the room, looking for confirmation. I knew ‘mad’ could mean angry. Really, really pissed off. I knew it could also mean insane. Out-of-touch. Delusional. When Lester used it to describe Keither, I think he meant bat-shit-crazy. But when I looked at the revolver trembling in Keither's hand, looked in his smoky eyes, to me, it definitely applied in every possible way.

  “Keither,” Lester said, “you called us all out here today under the pretense of a celebration. You were going to start painting again,” and he looked at me. I'd almost felt invisible for a few minutes, and even that small gesture made me self-conscious of the stains across my white shirt, the Crème Brulee clinging to the short spiral curls of my dark blonde hair. “Christ,” Lester continued, “you even ordered all your favorite foods, the ones you and Evie used to get.” He looked at me again. “Scared the poor delivery girl to death when you pulled that gun out. And this turns out to be a fishing expedition? To garner a confession from one of us? I may be your agent, but I'm not a fool.”

  Keither's gaze was fixed on him.

  Erbie was at the bar, silver forked tongs dropping ice cubes, clunk, clink, into his tumbler. He'd brought his own supplies, ice and booze. Perhaps as a house-warming gift, or just insurance that he'd be able to numb himself. Standing this close to his sister's portrait, to that stain, couldn't have been easy.

  Arthur took a small step toward Keither. Besides Keither, he was the only artist in the room, and as he stretched out his hand, I could imagine him molding his metals, bending them at will. Arthur towered over the rest of us, and the word Gumby flitted through my mind. His face seemed to have turned a shade greener ever since the gun had made its appearance. He was lanky, but had a broad forehead, and his shiny silver hair was pulled taut in a long ponytail. It seemed as though each hair might just pop out of that broad forehead, straining his long neck the way he was, Adam's apple bobbing up and down before he found his voice. Arthur spoke then, his voice just a pitch too high to convey confidence, but steady enough for sincerity.

  “Look, chap, we're all broken up over Evangeline. We all loved her.” Then remembering I was in the room, he glanced at me. All of us except, of course, the girl who delivered the duck confit, was what that look said. Almost as an afterthought he added, “In our own way.”

  “Some of us more than others,” Hector snickered. He was studying the painting of Evangeline, tracing the birthmark on the small of her back with a lover's caress more than the art critic's eye he was known for. He still seemed to be taking all of this as a joke, in spite of the gun. Not like Erbie, Evangeline's brother, whose slender, delicate hand was pouring black label bourbon over the ice, merely disinterested in the drama unfolding. Ignoring us the way he might ignore a couple arguing on the train home, or several ants underfoot, fighting over a crumb.

  Arthur, on the other hand, Keither's oldest competitor in the art-world, was taking it seriously, but only in the therapeutic, let me help you through it sort of way, instead of the barrel the guy down, cuff him, ask questions later sort of way. Except I couldn't picture a therapist's Adam's apple bobbing while his soothing tone hypnotized his patient. In fairness to Gumby, I don't suppose many patients point pistols at the good doctor during their sessions.

  Lester, Keither's agent, was the only one losing it. Lester may have been the only one to know sometimes if you cuff ‘em too late, well then, it's just Too Late. He brushed his hand up over his forehead, probably a life-long gesture from when he'd actually had hair to sweep off his face, and I was thankful that he didn't have a comb-over. He was the least attractive man in the room, so it didn't really matter. With the stains, with a man holding a loaded gun, a mad man at that, and probably a murderer among us, a comb-over shouldn't have mattered at all right then. But I was nineteen. So in spite of a slight pot-belly, legs a bit too short to aesthetically support his torso, and a mostly bald head, Lester never gave in to the comb-over and I was grateful. Lester, who had known Keither longer than anyone in the room. Longer even than Evangeline, who in her own way, was in the room with us. Yes, Lester, the only one, besides me, who knew Keither wasn't only angry, wasn't just bluffing, he was Mary-mother-fuckingout-of-his mind with grief.

  “She wouldn't have left me,” Keither insisted. “She wouldn't have committed—” And there was a moment—five seconds, maybe ten—when someone could have overtaken him. He was trying to spit out the word. Suicide. His eyes squeezed shut, his knees buckled. His arm, the one holding the gun, drooped. But Erbie was too busy pouring his liquid bronze over the ice, Hector too busy trying to come up with a witty retort. Lester, Arthur, and I, well we weren't busy or ignorant, but for our own reasons, we didn't overtake him. Then the moment passed.

  Keither circled the room.

  “For months, for the last five friggin’ months, I didn't question what they said. She'd written it in her own blood.” His voice sounded so anguished. “Poison. Pain. Only we all know she wasn't poisoned. Her wrist was slit on glass shards. So what the fuck did she mean.” It wasn't a question. I mean it was, but not really. More of a challenge. He was desperate to believe someone in this room knew what Evangeline had meant when she'd written it.

/>   Hector stood near the painting hanging on the half-finished wall behind him. Exposed two-by-fours, no drywall, just the large gray outer stones for a portion of the wall, then nothing but the two-by-fours, and the open air beyond. I wasn't standing close enough to know if a breeze caused his goosebumps, but his muscles flexed, stretching his evergreen polo tight over his chest and tan biceps. Ever the critic, he proceeded to criticize. “Well, there's the obvious. She knew you'd be the one to find her. Your love was poison, you caused her pain.” Sandy blond curls almost fell across one eye. His eyes never seemed entirely open, squinting, glaring, maybe genetically that's just how they were, but I didn't like looking at them, in spite of how blue they were. The little bit I could see, that is, with him glaring that way. “Guess bleeding out the way she did, she wouldn't have had the time for an essay on the subject, or even complete sentences.”

  The bottle almost caught poor Lester's bald head. Maybe it was fate that his legs were so short, but it soared just over him and made straight for Hector's blond curls. Hector must've caught sight of it, squinty eyes and all, and lucky for him his reflexes were quick. He ducked and it shattered against the stone wall, little shards of glass showering his curls. The liquid bronze didn't look so bronze on the stone. It just looked dark, and where some had sprayed in little droplets, it gave the illusion that it had rained, on the inside of the stone wall. Evangeline continued to look away on the canvas above. Everyone turned toward Erbie, who was already kneeling, looking for another bottle of booze, to replace the one he'd thrown.

  Lester ran his hand over his head again. This time it appeared he was making sure it was all still there. “Jesus. Keither, enough's enough. You start building this mansion on the mountain for Evangeline, now it's become some kind of half-built shrine to her. I thought after five months it would be finished, but it hasn't changed since the day… since that day. There are still builders’ tools scattered around here, like they dropped ‘em and ran.” He was stating what we all had to be thinking. It was surreal. The front gate, the long driveway, the façade of the mansion. Then to enter it and see tile floor that suddenly stopped, a wall completely open to the elements. There was even a staircase in the corner that went up and ended midair, leading to nothing. Lester's voice was trembling, but I could see him struggling with it, struggling not to lose it, and I was pulling for him.