Fine Art of Murder Read online

  I was gaining some respect for pot-bellied Lester. He didn't back down. Maybe he had known Keither so long he didn't think Keither would actually kill him, or maybe he realized if this wasn't resolved soon, it might be resolved badly. But Lester didn't back down. “You don't even have working utilities. No phone, no plumbing.”

  For the first time, Keither seemed genuinely apologetic, at least toward Lester. “I found something today. You know, I'd proposed to her the night before she died. She was giddy. Not at the thought of us being engaged, rings and paper didn't bind us, we both knew we'd be eternal. She thought of the fun the critics would have with it,” and he tilted his head, dark waves spilling over his shoulders and rested his gaze on Hector. “Artist and artist's model wed. ‘What fun it would be,’ she'd said. And she wanted to commission a piece, a wedding present for her. She knew how I liked to use a variety of elements in my work, not just the paint, but tangible, three-dimensional objects, of personal meaning. A collage. I didn't realize until today that she'd gotten started so quickly on finding the items for this new piece. Not exactly something old, something new. But something from everyone in this room. Everyone who had an impact on our lives in that moment of time.”

  I hadn't noticed the box until then. There were a number of boxes throughout the entryway, the foyer, the studio. They'd all struck me as so benign, holding drop cloths or wood screws. But he shoved one near his feet, pushing it like an accusation toward us.

  He pointed the gun at Hector. “I found a list in there. Her handwriting. Your name's on it and crossed off, so I figure something of yours is in the box. Take it out.”

  Hector moved away from the stone wall, a few delicate splinters of glass dropping from his curls. He seemed a little relieved. “That's it? You and your sleuthing skills couldn't figure out my contribution?” He approached the cardboard box, and pulled back the lid. He reached in and retrieved a newspaper clipping. “My rave review of ‘The Eve of Waning.’ I should have titled it ‘Folderol and Gimcrackery.’ Why the public raves for your collage of worthless trinkets escapes me. You know,” he chuckled, “she offered to sleep with me if I gave you a good review in the London Times. And here it is. Although the little tease never did make good.”

  “There's motive,” Erbie slurred. “Might not be just the duck cooked in its own fat today. Right Hector? Or should I say Critic Confit?”

  “Francophile,” Hector spat.

  “Philistine,” Erbie mumbled.

  Erbie shuffled in Hector's direction. His loafers were soft, almost silent on the floor as he moved away from the bar. “You may be one of the most well-respected art critics in the Western Hemisphere, but my sister….” it came out sisser thanks to the bourbon, “was too smart to pimp herself out to a guy like you.”

  Arthur offered to go next. He knelt down, his silver ponytail streaming down his back like a river between his mountainous shoulder blades. He sifted through the box, carefully. For a moment I thought he wouldn't find anything, but then he pulled out two small black wire circles, hooked together. He palmed them, then opened his hand, held his arm out toward Keither.

  “What is it?” Lester asked. Keither hadn't moved, but he was studying it, no recognition showing on his face.

  “Rings of course.” Arthur smiled. “Critics compared us, art-houses wanted us to be rivals, but our work is completely different. I work in metals. You never have. I used a wire-cutter to snap this small bit off a hanger used in one of my earliest pieces—”

  Now recognition dawned on Keither's face. Recognition, and disbelief. “It's not from the hangers—”

  “The ones that held her wedding dress and his navy uniform. The ones I used in ‘Parental Ascent.’ I only used part of the wire for that piece, saved some for me, and some for, shall we say a special occasion.”

  “It could be him,” Hector said, brushing more glass from his hair. Maybe Hector was beginning to take this seriously after all, now that he'd been tagged with a motive. “You two were rivals, different styles, sure, but we compared you all the time, and let's face it, the rich can only put so much artwork in their homes. Your profit was his loss, and everyone knew Evangeline was your muse. Without her you'd fall apart. You have fallen apart. How much art have you sold since her death, Arthur?”

  “This is no time to be pointing fingers at each other,” Lester said. “Keither, the fact that this box exists doesn't prove anything, she still may very well have—”

  “It's him,” Hector said. He'd switched suspects pretty fast.

  “What?” Lester said. Trying to act dismissive, but some worry over any possible suspicion was obvious.

  “She was going to have Keither fire you,” Erbie mumbled. “You knew it, and having a grieving artist as a client, an artist who might make a comeback is better ’an having no client at all. He was so successful, you put all your million dollar eggs in one basket-case.”

  “That's ridiculous. She wasn't going to have Keither fire me.”

  I felt sorry for Lester. At first, because of how his voice had changed, stuttering on the words ridiculous, and me, begging for confirmation, but mostly, because of how his eyebrows went up when he looked at Keither's face. Keither's expression said it all, but Lester pressed him, “Was she?”

  Keither seemed uncomfortable. “She thought you were pushing too hard for me to do what was commercially profitable—”

  “And that's a bad thing?” His stout arms raised above his bald head. “It paid for this house. It paid for her ring—”

  “She knew I wanted to pursue some of my own projects. I had creative needs that wouldn't have made much money.”

  “So suddenly you want to be the starving artist? Die broke and let our grandkids appreciate your genius?” Lester was so hurt, I don't think he even realized he'd quashed Hector's possible theory regarding motive. Lester hadn't known he was on the way out.

  “Lester, it was just talk, nothing definite,” Keither said.

  “Just talk,” he huffed, his short legs marching toward the box. “No wonder she was able to fool Einstein over here into writing a good review, she sure fooled me that morning into thinking this really meant something to her.” He rummaged, more roughly than the others had, and a faint tinkling of glass emanated from the box. “Here, here, happy engagement.” He crumpled the paper and threw it at Keither's chest, where it bounced off harmlessly and landed at his feet. Lester walked away, bellied up to the bar, and sat there, too hurt to even bother making a drink.

  Keither retrieved and unfolded the paper. “The bill of sale. From the first piece you sold for me.” His eyes narrowed as he tried to make out something on the paper. “Twelve years ago. Has it really been that long?” he whispered.

  “How many more names on the list?” Hector asked. “Are we all there?”

  “Two,” Keither said.

  “Two? Then who's missing?” Arthur said. “Erbie, let's get this over with.”

  I also wanted this night to end.

  “No one is missing,” I said. They all turned to me, all with surprise, except for Keither, who of course knew my name was on the list.

  “But you're just the delivery girl,” Hector said.

  And he was right. Just the girl who worked at a restaurant, delivering fine food to customers who could afford it. Sashimi grade ahi with ginger wasabi, and Crepes Suchard the day they broke ground on the mansion. I recalled how they had spread a blanket, and were half-way through a bottle of Dom when I arrived, sunlight shimmering off of their golden-stemmed champagne glasses. Knowing that she would disrobe before he painted her. Watching how his arm draped her waist, and how she laughed and pushed him off so she could pay me.

  The following week, the foundation was coming along, and he wanted to paint her in the open field, windflowers and mountains as the backdrop. That afternoon I brought them grilled Portobellos in a garlic vinaigrette, salmon Caesar, and espresso mousse. I hesitated when I saw her posing, her skin so exposed. So perfect. Keither, oblivious of the
paint covering his hands, some swiped on his brow, so focused. They didn't even notice me. I left the food and sent a bill.

  At least once a week it went like that, for nine months. And each time I would linger an extra moment or two, watching them, their passion for the art, for each other. I stepped forward now, toward the cardboard box. That put me closer to a breeze coming through the open wall, and I caught a whiff of the duck sauce from my shirt, and vanilla from my hair. I knelt down by the box. Only a champagne glass, a tube of paint, and a small piece of paper remained. I took the paper out.

  “A receipt from the night you proposed. She called me that morning, asked if I still had a copy.” I'd kept a copy of all their receipts. A memory lane of stolen moments. “Duck confit. Broccolini. Crème Brulee. For two.”

  Understanding dawned on the men in the room. Understanding about why Evangeline would want the receipt, but they couldn't have understood how much I belonged in this studio. How intimately I'd known her. When Arthur had said we all loved her, he was right. Each of us, in our own way.

  Keither seemed agitated. All of us were done except Erbie, and it didn't seem we were any nearer to a motive, or a killer. I'm sure Hector resented her for using him, Arthur may have realized that without her, Keither would no longer be a competitor, and Lester could be feigning surprise over her suggestion that he be fired, but it was clear Keither hadn't zeroed in on any of them. He was trembling with frustration.

  “Erbie, come over here,” Keither demanded.

  Erbie was leaning up against the half-built wall. His eyes looked tired.

  “What's the point Keith? The cops ruled it suicide. I can tell now you don't really believe any of us could have hurt her.”

  “Erbie, what did you bring her?”

  Erbie shrugged his slender shoulders, and shuffled in his soft loafers toward the box. “Alright, alright.” His feet stood still once he got there, but his head wobbled gently from side to side as he tried to focus. “Paint and a glass left. A glass, from my mother's collection.” There was a note of melancholy in his slurred words. “I brought two glasses to Evangeline, to use how she wanted. To celebrate, to put in the painting, wha'ever.”

  Keither narrowed his eyes. “You brought her the glasses?”

  We all knew there was only one in the box. The other had broken five months ago, and a large, sharp piece of it had slit the artery of Evangeline's wrist. In the serious, vertical kind of way.

  Erbie nodded, and a sob escaped his throat.

  “What about the paint?” Keither asked, waving the gun in Erbie's direction.

  “What about it? She wanted you to do a painting, she got paint. Not exactly shocking.”

  For the first time that evening, I heard a certainty creep into Keither's voice. “Evangeline would never have bought that paint for me.”

  Erbie looked offended. “It's the same kind you always used, she knew that—”

  “It's the wrong size.” Something changed in the air just then, and I could sense everyone bracing for a revelation. “I only bought titanium white in the large tube, and she knew that.” I couldn't tell if Keither was more excited that he may be onto something, or more horrified that it may have been her own brother, her blood, who killed her. I knew Erbie was lying about bringing her the gold stemmed glasses. I'd seen her and Keither use them before. I looked at the stain on the floor, the large, dark, dried pool, and the words beside it. Poison Pain. I imagined an artist adding oil to pigment, and longed to interpret Evangeline's desperate message. To go back to the moment when the letters flowed. There had to be more she was trying to say, but what? The words ran through my head again and again. What was she trying to say? I looked at Evangeline's scrawls, written in her own blood, and couldn't help notice the confit sauce in the shape of a cross, or, a letter….

  “Not poison pain,” I whispered. Keither looked at me, looked down to the words on the floor. He didn't understand and flew toward me, gripping my arm.

  “Poison paint,” I said. “She died before she could finish. No time.” For an essay, or even complete sentences. Erbie would have known how Keither worked. He wasn't a neat artist. The art was always brilliant, but during the process, Keither was covered in paint. His hands, forearms, face. Terre verde, raw sienna, titanium white. Keither must have been making the same connections I was, and he grabbed the tube out of the box and opened the cap. He approached Erbie with the gun in one hand, paint in the other.

  “Why don't you paint a picture, Erbie?”

  Erbie waved a drunken arm at Keither.

  “Why did you do it?” Keither demanded, the gun inches from Erbie's face. “Why Evangeline?”

  “It wasn't supposed to happen like that,” Erbie slurred. He seemed to be talking to Evangeline, looking at the portrait. She refused to look him in the eye. “I haven't managed my share of our inheritance very well.” Then he turned to Keither, as though it were all his fault. “If you two got married, then I was out of the picture if anything ’appened to her. As her husband, all of her inheritance would go to you.” He raised his glass, “so you had to go.” He drained the glass, and his head drooped. His voice trembled when he spoke again, feeling sorry for her, and for himself. “She wasn't supposed to know, or get hurt, but she figured it out and we argued. She had already set those glasses in the box, and when I'm angry, I have a tendency to break things.”

  Keither looked like he was going to be sick, but he steadied himself. He kept his eyes on Erbie. “Lester, do me a favor. Use your cell phone to dial the police. We have a confessed murderer.”

  Erbie shoved Keither, and ran toward a door at the end of the room. Keither looked horrified, and shouted, “Erbie, no! Stop!” but it was too late. Erbie had already flung the door open and was stumbling through it, arms flailing, and I saw him disappear. His scream carried through the open doorway, faded, then cut to silence.

  We all stood there looking at each other, stunned. Arthur's voice had gone back to its normal, low pitch.

  “He had way too much to drink tonight.”

  I think when Arthur said that, he didn't realize what he'd put in motion, but Lester's wheels were turning and we all followed his momentum.

  “Yes, way too much,” Lester said. “Toxicology will confirm that. And he was distraught over his sister's death.” He looked at Hector who realized what they were thinking, and Hector hesitated, deciding whether to play along or not.

  “Keither did tell him to stop,” Hector said, “but he was at the precipice before any of us could reach him.” Then they all looked at me. I looked down at my shirt, at the food I'd spilled when Keither had pulled the gun.

  “He ran past me,” I said. I hesitated, waiting for approval. Lester nodded slightly and his eyes told me to go on. I felt slightly more confident when I said, “Knocking the tray right out of my hands.”

  We all looked at each other, a look of understanding, conspiracy. Keither hadn't deserved Evangeline's death, and he didn't deserve to be blamed for Erbie's.

  It was about a month later when he called me to come to the house. But he didn't want any food. Just me.

  I walked up the cobblestone drive, and stepped around to the back side of the house. Scaffolding climbed to the doorway where Erbie had exited this world, and I could see an elaborate balcony under construction. I turned and saw two headstones under a black cherry tree, and I walked toward them. One said merely, Evangeline. The other had no name, only a prayer:

  Confiteor Deo omnipotenti,

  mea culpa,

  mea culpa,

  mea maxima culpa.

  I turned back toward the mansion, walked around front, and entered the foyer. I saw men working. Keither had installed utilities. I walked into the studio, and was relieved the wall hadn't been completed yet. The breeze felt good on my face. I looked down and saw that tile flooring covered the entire room. He had his canvas ready, brushes and paints. All he needed, he said, was a model.

  He watched as I shed my clothes. I stood near the o
pening in the wall as he got the angle and lighting just right. I wondered about the stains buried under the tile, and wondered if Evangeline was at peace. A mourning dove flitted in and landed briefly on a support beam, cooing, almost purring, before departing.

  Keither approached me, putting his hands on my waist and arm to position me. He moved one hand to my face to tilt it. One moment he was the artist, and I was the model. No different to him than his brushes, the canvas, the paint. A means to an end. His eyes studied my skin tone. He remarked that I was a shade darker than her. His fingers moved up my ribs. Then spontaneously his lips brushed mine. His hand wrapped behind my neck and he kissed me. I relented and our tongues teased each other, hungry and searching. But when he pulled back, I knew he'd kissed someone else.

  “I can't love you,” he grumbled, as though I had asked something of him. He became somber and retreated back to his canvas. I felt even more naked than before.

  I looked out across the exposed vista. Past the gravestones, the lazy field of tilting windflowers, and beyond the lavender ridges in the distance. Keither's words ran through my head, and I realized I didn't need him to love me. For today, I just needed him to paint me.

  Mary Beth Edelson (1933-)

  Stephen Terrell

  East Chicago native Mary Beth Edelson has been one of the strongest voices of the feminist art movement in the United States for more than forty years.

  Educated at DePauw University in Greencastle and trained at the Chicago Art Institute, Edelson sent an early signal of what would become the theme of her life's work. In 1955, one of the paintings in her senior art exhibition was removed from display because it was “an affront to ministers and small children.”