Fine Art of Murder Read online

  “Why do you put her on the list?”

  “Everyone knew Tobias was looking to trade in for a newer model again. He was sleeping at his downtown condo rather than their house up in Carmel. I suspect that's one reason he opened the Fountain Square gallery. I don't know if Robynn could actually….” There was a catch in Pippin's voice. “Uh, murder him. But she won't shed many tears.”

  “Anyone else that might have it out for Tobias?”

  “Sure. Do you have the phone book handy?” When I didn't laugh, Pippin continued. “William Stanley would be on top of my list. Bill is a bit of a rough customer. Not the normal person you find in art circles. Made his money manufacturing and selling those pills you see in truck stops and convenience stores, not that I would ever go into one of those places. There are even stories around that he's connected to the mob. He keeps trying to buy his way into social circles. Big contributions to several museums, the symphony, that type of thing.”

  “So why would he want to kill Salyers?” I asked.

  “Bill hired Tobias a few years ago to procure some art for him. You know, the type of stuff he could show off at parties. They made some trips to New York, London, Italy, all on Bill's tab. He bought a lot of art and paid a great deal. Later, he found out most of it was pretty low-rent stuff. It was a major embarrassment. He sued Tobias to get his money back, but lost. Bill isn't the type of guy who forgives and forgets, particularly when it comes to money.”

  I nodded. “Anyone else?”

  “Mathieu Clemens. He's a local artist. Had a big blow up last year when Tobias kept him out of the Penrod Art Fair. You know anything about local art?”

  “Nothing past an eight-pack of Crayolas when I was in first grade.”

  “Penrod is the biggest event of year. It's on the grounds of the Indianapolis Museum of Art. Every regional artist wants to be there. Particularly for young artists, it can be the difference in being able to make a living with your art and having to wait tables. You submit your work and a panel selects who can participate. The selection committee wanted to pick Clemens, but Tobias called his work hackneyed and amateurish. He threatened to resign from the committee if it selected Clemens. So they didn't. But there are no secrets in the art world, and Clemens found out. He came in here looking for Tobias. I've never seen someone so angry. He said if Tobias thought he could destroy someone's life without paying for it, he was wrong.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Pippin thought in silence, then continued. “Kendall Korsgaard might be someone you want to talk to. He owns another gallery. Matter of fact it's just up the street a bit, although you won't likely find him there today. His day job is restoring artwork at the museum. Salyers was very critical of his work over the past couple of years. Wrote some scathing reviews. Said he was nothing better than a color by numbers technician. He's a bit of an egotistical prick, too, but nothing like Tobias.”

  I finished making some notes. “Looks like I've got some legwork ahead of me. You know where I can find these people?”

  “They'll all be at Penrod this Saturday. Korsgaard took Tobias's place on the selection committee. Clemens was actually selected as an artist this year. Robynn has a catering tent at Penrod. And Bill Stanley is always there, I think more to be seen than anything else. I think you could talk to all of them there.”

  * * *

  Later that night I was at home watching a rare, meaningful, late-season game between the Cubs and Cardinals when my cell phone buzzed. It was Cheryl Etherton.

  “Got some results for you on that Salyers matter. Thought you'd want to hear immediately.”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “Looks like death was likely due to strangulation, probably with some type of ligature. The hyoid bone was crushed.”

  “You sure it wasn't just decomposition?”

  “No, not this. Dr. Schopmeier did the autopsy. He was certain. The damage was just too extensive. Date of death is difficult to determine, but it was in the range of eight or nine months, give or take.”

  “That fits with when our guy disappeared,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “One thing that's a bit odd. With that hyoid bone crushed, there's not much doubt about cause of death. But the skin and tissue were pretty well-preserved. There's evidence of some big slashes, one across the neck, one on each leg. They bear all the indicia of being post mortem, although there is a bit of speculation on that.”

  “Strange,” I said, trying to fit the information together.

  “One other thing,” Cheryl continued. “We identified the cloth the body was wrapped in. It's canvas.”

  “Like a tarp?”

  “No. He was an art dealer. It's canvas like an artist uses, like painters or I guess some photographers.”

  I thought for a second. “Can we track down where it came from?”

  “Not really. Certainly it came from an art supply store. But there are thousands of artists, art students, and art instructors in Indiana. And there's no markings to show where it came from. If we have a sample from some other piece, like from a suspect, we might be able to make some micro-inspection comparisons, but I'm not even sure about that. I'll have a report tomorrow, but I thought you'd like to hear tonight.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Then a thought occurred to me. “Hey, your ex was an artist, wasn't he?”

  “My first ex,” she said.

  “You know anything about this Penrod Art Fair thing?”

  “Sure,” Cheryl said. “Love it. Lots of fun. Most years I still go. It's coming up this weekend, but I hadn't made any plans.”

  “Would you like to go this year?”

  There was a short pause. “Why Art, are you asking me on a date?” she said with a lilt in her voice.

  I thought maybe there was a hint of flirting in Cheryl's tone, but quickly dismissed it as my imagination. I was thankful that we weren't on a video conference call. I could feel the color rising in my face and was sure it was turning a bright crimson. “No,” I stuttered. “I mean on the clock.”

  “What do you mean on the clock?”

  “There are several people connected to the victim that I need to talk to. They're all going to be at this Penrod thing. Thought maybe you could come along and help out. You know these people better than me. You can let me know what impressions you have. Make sure I don't miss something.”

  “Count me in,” she said. “But we have to look around some while we're there. Business and pleasure. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I said.

  * * *

  Cheryl met me at Acapulco Joe's in downtown Indianapolis for a breakfast of huevos rancheros and the city's best biscuits and gravy. We avoided shoptalk. Neither of us had children, and failed personal relationships didn't go with eggs and gravy. Instead we talked about baseball, classic rock and roll, and old movies, interests I was surprised to find we both shared. It was the best start to my day for a long time.

  We took my car and arrived at the art museum before nine o'clock. It was still more than an hour before the public would be admitted. I used my credentials to get a parking spot inside the grounds.

  The museum surroundings looked like a civil war encampment. More than a hundred uniform white tents were spread in long rows against a backdrop of rich, green, manicured grass and bright blue late summer sky. We picked up a flyer that included a map, and after a few minutes of study, I found the location for Robynn's Nest Catering.

  After getting our bearings, we made our way to an oversized, glistening, white tent removed from the array of artists’ tents. Folding chairs and tables were set up on the grass for an anticipated hungry throng. A small army of white-aproned young men and women were carrying containers of food, while others were setting up serving tables. In the center of the tent, an attractive blonde woman in her late thirties barked orders in a manner that left no doubt who was in charge.

  Cheryl and I approached her. “Robynn Dresel?” I asked.

  She turned sharply. “Sorry, but I'm busy
now.” She barked out several more orders. As I watched, I noticed several sheathed chef's knives hanging from a belt around her waist.

  “I'm Art Vandever,” I said, making my voice as authoritative as I could. “I'm a detective with the state police looking into your husband's murder. This is Sergeant Cheryl Etherton. We need to talk with you. Now.”

  Robynn turned to face me, her green eyes flashing irritation. “Look, I don't have time. This is my biggest day of the year.” She was nearly spitting the words at me. “You want to know if I killed him? I didn't. God knows I had plenty of reasons. He was sleeping around. He was trying to screw me out of money, including grabbing an interest in my business. I'm not shedding tears over him. He deserved killing. But I didn't do it.”

  “Some people seem to think you might be involved,” I said.

  Her face turned sour. “So who told you I did it? Was it that asshole Jamison Pippin? You want a suspect, you should talk with him.”

  “Pippin? Why him?”

  Robynn's face broke into a sardonic smile. “Tobias told him he wanted to buy Indy Scene. If Pippin didn't sell, Tobias was going to start a competing publication. And with his contacts, Tobias could steal away his writers, his photographers, even his advertisers without a problem.”

  “Was that what they were meeting about just before your husband disappeared?”

  “Don't call him that,” she snapped. “He didn't deserve the honor. I don't know for sure, but that's my guess. Jamison doesn't need the money, but that publication is the one thing that makes him important, at least in his own mind. One way or another, Tobias was going to take it from him. If I were you, that's where I'd be looking. We'll have customers in forty minutes. I've got to go.”

  “She's a gem,” Cheryl said, as we walked away from the food tent. “Did you catch those knives she was wearing? Those could make the wounds I saw on the body.”

  I nodded. “She certainly feels she is a woman wronged. But I don't think she fits this one. She's too open about not being sorry he's dead. I'm intrigued by Pippin, though. It seems he didn't come clean when I talked to him.”

  “Where are we going now?”

  “Let's check out that artist, Mathieu Clemens. I think his tent is just down here.”

  * * *

  Clemens's tent was located at the end of a center row. Twenty or more paintings were set out in full display, disturbing images of abstract figures and anguished faces in deep reds, oranges, purples and blacks.

  As we walked into the tent, Cheryl gently placed her hand on my shoulder. “I like his stuff,” she whispered. The artist was on the far side of the tent, setting up a blank canvas and arranging his paints. He was tall, perhaps six-four. His arms showed the well-developed muscles of someone accustomed to working out. In his late twenties, his black hair was gathered in a ponytail that stretched to the middle of his back.

  “I'm not open yet,” Clemens said in a harsh voice, not bothering to turn around. “Come back later.”

  “We're not buying,” I said. “Police. We need to talk with you.”

  Clemens turned around, stirring a small paint can in his hand. “Sorry, but as you can see, I'm mixing paints. Always draws more attention if you actually work on something at one of these shows.”

  “We need to ask you about your relationship with Tobias Salyers.”

  Clemens put the can down and walked to us. “I heard about Salyers on the news,” he said. “Awful.”

  “We understand you had a run in with him. Made some threats.”

  Clemens shook his head and gave a half laugh. “Well, yes. I guess I did. But that was ages ago. I actually owe a lot to Salyers.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “After our little row where he kept me out of this show last year, I rethought my work. Salyers was right. It was formulaic. It said nothing about the human condition.” Clemens swung an open hand indicating his displayed paintings. “But I've evolved. My recent work captures the frustration and isolation of human life in an age of technology. It's become my message. A year ago I was struggling to get five hundred dollars for a painting. Now, I am getting noticed in galleries in Chicago and even one in New York. I have Salyers to thank for that. You might say he's a part of every painting I do.”

  I got some particulars on when Clemens had last seen Salyers, but nothing seemed significant. As we were leaving, I stopped to look more closely at one of the paintings, holding the corner in my hand.

  “Stop that!” It was a sharp rebuke from Clemens. I turned to see the artist, his eyes filled with anger, marching toward me. “Don't touch my work. I don't care who you are.”

  I let the painting slip back into place, feeling the tackiness of a trace of paint left on my fingers. “Sorry,” I said.

  As we left the tent in search of Kendall Korsgaard, Cheryl leaned close. “He may be a jerk, but his work really is quite amazing. Very powerful. If I had some extra money laying around, I would seriously consider buying one of his paintings.”

  “If it's not on black velvet, I don't have much interest,” I said with a wink.

  * * *

  We found Kendall Korsgaard standing in front of the Lilly Mansion, an enormous ornate building that dominated the grounds. It seemed too large, a private home more suited for a French nobleman than an Indiana businessman. Korsgaard stood, hands on hips, surveying the grounds with only minutes to go before the gates opened. He was dressed in soft yellow slacks, a rose polo shirt, and a light tan sport coat with an IMA chevron on the breast pocket.

  We talked in general about Salyers, but Korsgaard kept scanning the grounds watching for the crowds to appear as the gates opened. After a few minutes of getting nowhere, I said, “Salyers attacked you pretty viciously about your restoration work. Might give you a reason you would like to see him harmed.”

  “Oh that,” Korsgaard said off-handedly. “That was just Tobias being Tobias.”

  “You weren't upset?”

  “Oh, a little peeved, but not really upset. Everyone knows Tobias. They know he spouts off and likes to make a commotion. Well, he used to. Don't get me wrong. His art critiques were incredibly insightful. But sometimes he just liked to stir the pot.”

  “You didn't have any repercussions with your restoration job at the museum?”

  “Oh, not at all. The Director knows me and my work.” Korsgaard looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then spoke in a voice just above a whisper. “It's not been announced yet, but I'm being elevated to the head of the restoration department.”

  I obtained contact information for the director to confirm Korsgaard's story, but it was so easily checked that I had little doubt about its veracity. “Any idea where I could find William Stanley?”

  “Bill?” Korsgaard rubbed at his chin. “I saw him just a bit ago. As a museum patron, he has some special privileges, like early admission. He was wandering around getting a head start on the crowd, making sure he gets first pick of the art he likes. He's a huge man, maybe six-five. He's wearing a big white cowboy hat and a god-awful multicolor Hawaiian shirt.” Korsgaard pointed out to the sea of tents. “But the crowd is coming in now. It might be hard to find him.”

  * * *

  Korsgaard was right about the crowd. It swept through the grounds like an all-encompassing wave. Trying to find someone, even a person who apparently stood out as much as Bill Stanley, was a challenge. As we wandered, we kept one eye out for Stanley and the other on the artwork on display. Cheryl gave me an impromptu art lesson. She took my arm and directed me to pieces she particularly liked, commenting on various styles of painting, sculpture and even crafted jewelry.

  At the entrance to a tent featuring large rural landscapes, we spotted William Stanley. He was as big as advertised, maybe bigger. He was accompanied by a tall, buxom blonde woman, her natural height elevated by four-inch red pumps. She was in her mid-forties but trying to look like she was still in her twenties, and largely succeeding. She wore skin-tight designer jeans and a crisp
white cotton shirt unbuttoned enough to show a glimpse of a bejeweled bra. On her left hand was a wedding set with a diamond so large that I wondered if her hand got tired toting it around for public view.

  I introduced myself to Stanley and directed him to a corner of the tent. Cheryl subtly kept his wife a few feet away. “I'm investigating the death of Tobias Salyers. Several people have told me that you were quite angry with him, that you had made threats.”

  Stanley's face expanded into a broad friendly smile. “Shit, at one point I'd have liked to have killed that sumbitch,” he said, speaking with more than a trace of a southern Indiana accent.

  “Did you?”

  Stanley's brows furrowed for a moment, then he laughed. “Hell, no. I didn't kill that peckerwood.” The smile disappeared and he lowered his voice. “He stole money from me, just as sure as if he had a gun and took my wallet. I paid for two trips to Europe. Paid him a commission on everything he used my money to buy. Eighteen pieces. Spent close to a million dollars. Then when I got back here and got it appraised for insurance, I found out it wasn't worth half that. Oh, there were a couple of decent paintings, but most were by these young artists that Tobias had a thing for. But apparently no one else does.”

  “That's half a million reasons to want him dead,” I said coolly.

  “Don't get me wrong. I was plenty upset,” Stanley said, his eyes boring into me. “Just between us boys, I know people that could have made him disappear. Would have done it just as a favor to me. But I didn't. Half a million isn't chump change, but it ain't going to break me. I took him to court. I lost. Cost me even more money ’cause I had to pay my peckerwood lawyers.” Stanley gave a shrug of his massive shoulders. “So now I'll just hold onto that crap and hope it appreciates. I ain't all broke up over Tobias being dead. But I worked too hard, and I got too good a life to risk it all over some piss ant.”

  I nodded. Stanley seemed too candid to be hiding something. “Who would you look at if you were trying to find who killed Salyers?”