Half in Love with Artful Death (14 page)

“I was going to the restroom,” Seepy said as they passed a shelf of figurines holding musical instruments.

“Thanks for sharing that,” Rhodes said.

Seepy ignored him. “It's way back in the back, and on the way I had to pass this shelf.”

Seepy hadn't stopped at the figurines. He was a few steps beyond that shelf, standing in front of a tall bookshelf made of some darkly stained wood. It held a jumble of dolls, some of which were missing an arm or a leg; a couple of plastic horses, both of which had all their limbs and one of which even had a saddle; several jigsaw puzzles, which Rhodes suspected might be missing a piece or two; a jar full of marbles; some old vases, one of which had plastic flowers in it; a tangle of electrical extension cords; and three plastic bags filled with remote controls of various sizes.

Stuck behind the plastic bags was a bronze bust of Dale Earnhardt, Junior.

Rhodes knew there could be more than one bust like that in Blacklin County, but the odds were certainly against it.

“You didn't touch it, I hope,” Rhodes said.

“I know better than that. It's a clue. I called your office as soon as I saw it.”

“Did you mention it to anybody else?”

“No. I didn't even tell your dispatcher.” Benton paused and looked thoughtful. “I think he's mad at me about it.”

No question about that, Rhodes thought. Hack would get over it, though.

“It is Dale Earnhardt, isn't it?” Seepy said.

“Junior,” Rhodes said.

“Right,” Seepy said. “How did it get here?”

“That's what I'd like to know,” Rhodes said.

 

Chapter 12

Rhodes and Benton stood in front of the shelf and looked at the bust. Rhodes thought about how it might've gotten there. Eric Stewart came to mind first. He lived there, after all, and he managed the store. If he'd taken the bust from Burt's house, it might have seemed logical to him to hide the bust in plain sight, or in almost plain sight. Rhodes remembered something else from that high school English book where he'd read about the chambered nautilus.

There had been a story by Edgar Allan Poe called “The Purloined Letter.” Rhodes had thought that the story was pretty ridiculous, considering that the story's detective, whose name Rhodes had forgotten, would have had to have vision like Superman's to see all he'd seen in the dimly lit room where the letter was hidden. Rhodes couldn't remember whether he'd mentioned that little fact to his English teacher, so he probably hadn't. She would have set him straight if he had, he was sure.

The point of the story wasn't the detective's vision anyway. It was the idea that counted, and that was to hide things in such an obvious place that they'd be overlooked except by someone keener than most persons. Seepy hadn't overlooked the bust, though.

“Did you ever read a story called ‘The Purloined Letter'?” Rhodes asked.

“Sure,” Seepy said. “In high school. I was nearly as good in English as I was in math. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

Rhodes wondered other things, too. He wondered if finding the bust hadn't been just a little too easy. What if someone had put it on the shelf expecting it to be found? What better way to throw suspicion on Stewart?

The problem was that there was no way to know exactly when the bust was placed on the shelf. All Rhodes knew was that no one had pointed it out until now, which was only logical because hardly anyone else knew its significance. Except the killer, of course, and the killer wasn't going to be the one to bring it to anybody's attention.

Rhodes considered his suspects. It would have been difficult for Ella Collins to put the bust there. Highly unlikely, in fact. Manish Patel? He hadn't mentioned dropping by the art gallery that morning, though he could have. Rhodes would have to check on that.

Some of the other suspects were right outside. All Rhodes had to do was ask them. Somehow that seemed a little too convenient, but Rhodes didn't have an objection to anything that might make his job a little easier.

“Ask Eric Stewart to step back here,” Rhodes told Seepy.

“All right,” Seepy said, and left.

Rhodes contemplated the bust while he waited for Stewart. He found himself thinking of his English class again, and Edgar Allan Poe. All the bust needed was a raven perched on top of it. Not that Poe would have used Dale Earnhardt, Junior in his poem, even if he'd heard of him. It wouldn't have fit the mood.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” Eric Stewart asked.

Rhodes hadn't heard him walk up. He was very quiet. Or was “sneaky” the word?

“I was wondering about one of the things here on this shelf,” Rhodes said.

“Everything's for sale,” Stewart said. “I might even give you a discount. What are you interested in?”

Rhodes pointed. “That bust there. How long has it been here?”

Stewart leaned forward and looked where Rhodes was pointing. “I don't remember seeing that here before.” He straightened. “Lots of things were already on the shelves before I got here, though. That could be one of them.”

Rhodes couldn't tell if Stewart's forward lean had been calculated to conceal surprise or had been entirely innocent.

“Looks almost new,” Rhodes said.

“The fact that I haven't seen it before doesn't mean much,” Stewart said. “It could have come in only a day before I got here, or it could've been here for a long time. I haven't taken an inventory of this place.” He waved an arm. “It would be impossible.”

Rhodes had to agree with him on that point.

“I wonder who it is,” Stewart said, peering at the bust. “Doesn't look like anybody famous.”

Stewart wasn't a NASCAR fan, or he'd have known who the bust represented. Rhodes didn't think that was a clue, however.

“It might be evidence in a case I'm working on,” Rhodes said. “I'll have to confiscate it.”

Stewart grinned. “I said I'd give you a discount, Sheriff.”

“I'm not joking,” Rhodes said. “I'm going out to the car to get an evidence bag. Don't touch that bust.”

Stewart looked uncertain. “I'll have to tell Lonnie.”

“Good idea,” Rhodes said. “You can call him while I'm getting the bag.”

Rhodes left Stewart standing in front of the shelf and went back through the gallery. Seepy Benton was indulging in the snacks, so Rhodes stopped and grabbed some cheese and crackers. While he was eating, Benton asked him what was going on.

“I'm going for an evidence bag,” Rhodes told him.

“You really should make me a deputy,” Benton said. “I found an important clue.”

“You're a math teacher,” Rhodes said, getting himself a cup of punch to wash down the crackers and cheese. “Not a cop. And we don't know how important the clue is just yet.”

“I've helped you a lot.”

“Stick to the classroom,” Rhodes said. He took a drink of the punch. “It pays better.”

Benton looked thoughtful. “Probably true. You could make me an honorary deputy, though. Lots of places have them.”

“Honorary deputies don't help with investigations. They help support the department by raising money and buying equipment that the county doesn't provide. Things like that.”

“I don't like raising money,” Benton said. “I'm an introvert.”

Rhodes was glad he'd finished the crackers. He might have spewed them all over the place on hearing that statement, which Benton had made with a straight face. Maybe he even believed it.

“I'm going for the evidence bag now,” Rhodes said. “I'll be right back.”

Benton reached for a cookie, and Rhodes left him there. Marilyn Bradley was still talking to the two women. She was very animated, waving her arms as she talked. The women had backed a few paces away from her.

Don McClaren was gone. Interesting, Rhodes thought. He wondered why McClaren had left. He could have a perfectly good reason, or he might have guessed what Rhodes had been looking at back in the store. Maybe he'd return later.

Rhodes got an evidence bag and some nitrile rubber gloves from the county car and went back inside. Benton had moved over to Marilyn Bradley and the two women and joined in the conversation, or tried to. It appeared that Marilyn was still doing most of the talking, and now she was gesturing at Benton's painting.

Rhodes went on through the gallery and into the store. Stewart was sitting in the old armchair, but he didn't look comfortable.

“Lonnie said it would be all right for you to take the bust,” Stewart said, standing up. He did so easily, without having to put his hands on the arms of the chair and push. “I'm sorry if I appeared to be hesitant.”

Was he hesitant because he was worried, or because he didn't like the idea of letting store property leave without getting paid? Rhodes couldn't decide. He put on the gloves and put the bust into the bag.

“Hoping to find fingerprints?” Stewart asked.

“It's a possibility,” Rhodes said, stripping off the gloves.

“Well, you won't find mine on there. I never saw that thing before.”

Was he protesting too much? Again Rhodes couldn't decide.

“If you haven't touched it, you don't have to worry,” Rhodes said. “I hope you haven't dusted it.”

Stewart smiled. “Does anything in here look as if it's been dusted?”

Rhodes shook his head. “Not in this century.”

“That's about right,” Stewart said. “Good luck with that bust.”

“Thanks. You can go back out and talk to the visitors now.”

Rhodes started back toward the gallery, and Stewart followed right behind.

“We haven't had that many visitors,” Stewart said. “More than I thought we'd have, though. Jennifer Loam's reports have stirred up some interest. I think it was the riot more than the art.”

“It wasn't really a riot,” Rhodes said.

“Close enough for Clearview,” Stewart said.

Rhodes went outside and locked the bust in the trunk of the county car, then returned to the gallery. Don McClaren was still not there, and the two women who'd been talking to Marilyn Bradley had left as well. Stewart, Bradley, and Benton were the only people left in the big room. Rhodes stopped at the snack table and picked up a cookie before walking over to join them. The cookie was chocolate chip, Rhodes's favorite. He'd have to remember to pick up another one later.

“I wouldn't call my work representational,” Benton said as Rhodes walked up.

“Ha,” Marilyn said. “I don't know what else you'd call it. It actually looks better with that stripe of paint across it. That old man was right about your painting, at least. It's improved.”

Benton looked hurt, but he didn't make any remarks about staircases in the sky. Rhodes thought that Benton showed remarkable restraint.

“As I mentioned yesterday,” Benton said in his teacherly way, “all my work is based on the Golden Ratio. The mark on the painting detracts from that. It's almost as if someone had drawn a mark across da Vinci's Vitruvian Man. That image is found all over the place, even on NASA's spacesuits worn during extravehicular activity. Would someone draw a mark across an image on one of those suits?”

“It's not the same,” Marilyn said. She was even more agitated than before. Her orange hair shook as she jabbed her finger at Benton's chest. “We're not talking about da Vinci's work. We're talking about ours. My painting, now, is different from something like a seashell. Mine had ethereal meaning before that mark was put on it. It wasn't earthbound like yours. Mine suggests regions beyond the world we know and the difficulty of ascending to higher knowledge. Sometimes an ascension isn't even possible.”

So that's what the staircases in the clouds meant, Rhodes thought. He was glad she'd explained it. He'd never have guessed it for himself. If he was to judge from the looks on the faces of Benton and Stewart, they wouldn't have guessed it, either.

He looked around the nearly empty gallery. He wondered about Don McClaren, and he also wondered where McClaren was. So he asked.

Marilyn clearly didn't like being interrupted. She started to say something, but Stewart got the first words in.

“Don had to run out to the college,” Stewart said. “He didn't say why. Maybe he wanted to pick up something from his office.”

“Did he say what it was?” Rhodes asked.

“No. Just that he had to pick something up. Probably something for our final session. Now that the judging's over, we're doing something just for fun. Everyone's out painting now. Don's going to join them and be sure things are going smoothly. He was really upset by what happened yesterday, and he doesn't want anything else to go wrong.” Stewart paused and looked at Benton and Marilyn. “What I meant to say is that everyone's painting now except these two. They didn't want to paint the fall colors.”

“I prefer flowers,” Benton said. “Like sunflowers and daisies. The process of phyllotaxis is easily observed in them.”

“Let me guess,” Rhodes said. “That big word has something to do with the Golden Ratio.”

“Right,” Benton said, as pleased as if Rhodes were some apt pupil in one of his classes. “You see—”

“Never mind,” Rhodes said. “You should paint an imaginary sunflower or something for the last class. It would do you good to be outside.”

“I'll think about it,” Benton said.

Marilyn Bradley said nothing. Flowers and trees might not be ethereal enough for her.

“When is the final session?” Rhodes asked.

“It's this evening. We'll meet here and talk about everyone's work. I'll take down these paintings, and we'll hang the new ones when they're brought in.”

“That's the problem,” Marilyn said. “Creation in a single afternoon? Real art can't be rushed. It takes days, weeks sometimes, to produce real art.” She looked at her painting. “The work of weeks can be ruined in seconds, however.”