Murder Had a Little Lamb (16 page)

We watched in silence as Falcone hurried off. I noticed that the extra-thick heels on his shiny black shoes clacked against the cobblestones.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Forrester commented, “I don’t know why you insist on antagonizing him, Popper.”

“He started it!” I cried, not even caring that this was another one of those times when I sounded like a four-year-old.

Forrester just laughed.

But I forgot all about Falcone the moment I followed Forrester inside. I braced myself for what I was likely to find, assuming from the appearance of the building’s exterior that I’d be confronted by splintery wood and lots of straw.

Boy, was I wrong.

Nathaniel had converted the long, flat building into a fantasy land.

The interior was pretty much one long narrow room, no doubt the way it had been back in the days when fowl had called this place home. But the furniture was arranged to create various types of living
space, with the walls of each segment painted a different color.

A
bright
color. The living room area was sunshine yellow, the dining area to the right of it a fiery orange, the kitchen just beyond a deep turquoise. Next came the part of the house used for the bedroom. Its walls were painted a deep purple that was the exact color and texture as a shiny eggplant.

Superimposed over each of the shockingly brilliant colors was another paint job, no doubt Nathaniel’s handiwork. The living room walls were splashed with gigantic flowers. Some reached up to the ceiling on spindly stems, while others were lush blossoms the size of a couch, painted in brilliant pinks and lavenders. Fantastical animals gathered around the dining room table. Friendly-looking behemoths that were a cross between elephants and hippos romped with big green and yellow cats that had both the stripes of a tiger and the spots of a leopard. The walls of the kitchen were splashed with food: a tremendous stalk of celery, a bunch of bananas, a strawberry ice cream cone as big as the refrigerator.

Amid all this visual chaos, there was one oasis. The space just beyond the bedroom had walls that were painted a stark white. I walked over to that area, taking care not to touch anything or even to brush against the furniture.

Once I reached this final section of the house, I saw that no fewer than three skylights had been cut into the low ceiling. The glaring light shining through practically made the walls luminescent.

I would have recognized the space as Nathaniel’s
studio even without the smell of turpentine still lingering in the air. Another clue was the huge canvases leaning against the walls, three and four deep, their backs facing outward.

In the center, set up directly below one of the skylights, stood a wooden easel. Despite my intention not to touch anything, I couldn’t resist pulling up the paint-splattered white cloth draped over it.

I peered at the large canvas, which was smeared with several blobs of color superimposed over a pale blue background. Frankly, it was hard to know if it was a painting that Nathaniel had barely started or something abstract that he’d nearly completed.

As I stood there studying what for all I knew had been Nathaniel’s last creative endeavor, Forrester came up behind me.

“Hey, we’re not supposed to touch—what’s this?” Forrester’s mouth twisted into a thoughtful frown as he, too, examined the canvas. “Was Stibbins dabbling in expressionistic art?”

“Either that or it’s unfinished.”

Squinting at the canvas, Forrester said, “I may not know much about art, but if you ask me, that baby’s a long way from being finished. And frankly, the way he started doesn’t make it look too promising.”

“Oil paintings are created by putting layer after layer of paint on a canvas,” I explained. “Artists start by blocking out the different sections of the canvas with big areas of color. Then they keep adding to it. Subtracting, too, by painting over what’s already there. That flexibility is why oil paints have been such a favorite medium for so long.”

Forrester stuck both hands in his pants pockets and gently rocked back and forth. “I’m impressed,” he said. But he was looking at me, not the painting.

“Gee, you’ve just made my day,” I replied sarcastically.

But while I usually enjoyed insulting Forrester, this time my heart wasn’t in it. I was too busy contemplating the canvas.

I had to admit that there was something exciting about seeing a work-in-progress, especially one being created by an artist who was apparently on the verge of greatness. I felt a tingle over getting a behind-the-scenes peek at how real artwork is made.

But seeing something that Nathaniel had left undone also saddened me. The unfinished painting was a sad reminder that a man of talent would never have a chance to see his dreams of finally achieving fame and fortune come true.

But I didn’t have time to relish either the sadness or the momentousness of the occasion.

“Hey, check this out!” Forrester exclaimed, stepping across the room.

He pulled back another paint-splattered cloth, revealing a tall, narrow bookcase lined with videos. Unlabeled videos, their edges nothing more than plain, black plastic spines.

Illegal tapes? I thought, glancing at him questioningly.

I went over and pulled one off the shelf, swallowing hard. I immediately saw a hand-printed label stuck on it. I held my breath as I focused on the words.

METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART, NEW YORK,
2001:
RUBENS EXHIBIT
.

Not what I’d been expecting. But I still wasn’t sure if it was time to start breathing again.

I pulled out another.
TATE GALLERY, LONDON, TEN NEW ARTISTS TO WATCH,
2003.

I checked four or five more of the tapes, pulling them off the shelf one by one. All of them were variations on the same theme.

These were illegal tapes, all right. But they were nothing more onerous than videos of art exhibitions.

I’d started breathing normally again, relieved that the only crime I’d discovered Nathaniel to be guilty of was sneaking a video camera into the world’s greatest art museums.

At least, so far.

I started in on a lower shelf, just to be sure. They, too, appeared to be bootlegged, since they also lacked a box and bore only a handmade label.

But these turned out to be professionally produced movies.
Paradise Found
(Life of Gauguin).
Vincent and Theo
(Life of van Gogh).
Pollock
—the film in which Ed Harris played Jackson Pollock.
Camille Claudel
, which I knew was a biography of the accomplished but underappreciated French sculptor who was also Auguste Rodin’s lover.

From the looks of things, all Nathaniel had cared about was art.

Forrester seemed to read my thoughts. “Looks like the guy had a one-track mind,” he commented.

“He was clearly passionate about art,” I agreed. Given the fact that it seemed to be all he cared about,
I couldn’t help wondering if in some way his dedication to art had gotten him killed.

“Seen enough?” Forrester asked, glancing at his watch and frowning. “This isn’t the only story I’m working on today.”

I shook my head. “I haven’t looked around his bedroom yet.” Anxious to alleviate his impatience, I added, “That is where most people keep their really personal stuff, isn’t it?”

I was relieved that he laughed. Not that I was trying to flirt with him. It was more like I was trying to buy myself more time.

“Good point,” he agreed.

He followed me back to the section of the house that had clearly been Nathaniel’s bedroom. It contained a king-size bed flanked by two small tables and a large dresser. Built into the back wall was a closet.

“I wonder how thoroughly the police checked this place out,” I mused, running my eyes around the room.

Even though I was speaking more to myself than to Forrester, he answered anyway. “I’m sure they did the usual search.”

“Yes, but I still can’t help thinking it’s possible they missed something.”

I was disappointed to see that the room contained few personal touches. No framed photographs, no enticing diaries left behind on one of the night tables, not even any books or CDs that might provide any hints about the man who had lived here.

Even the murals Nathaniel had painted didn’t reveal a thing. He had copied some of the most familiar
images from the greatest works of art, integrating them in an amusing way. Matisse’s circle of joyful nudes danced amid the strange-looking beasts from Rousseau’s jungle paintings, while Gauguin’s Tahitian natives mingled with Seurat’s refined French folk relaxing in the park, a famous painting that I recalled was actually titled
Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte
.

The lack of any obvious clues didn’t discourage me in the least.

Instead, I was determined to do some searching of my own. Just because the police had already gone through this room didn’t mean they’d necessarily caught every possible piece of evidence.

I started with the closet. But before pulling open the handle, I stuck my hand under the bottom of my shirt, using the fabric like a potholder to keep from leaving behind any fingerprints. Once the door was open, I scanned the row of shirts and jackets in front of me and the pairs of shoes tucked beneath them.

“If Falcone finds out that you’re going through the guy’s things, we’re both gonna be in trouble,” Forrester commented. But I guess he realized his words weren’t likely to have any effect on me since he immediately added, “What exactly are you looking for anyway?”

“I won’t know until I find it,” I replied.

I studied the top of the closet, disappointed that I didn’t spot anything out of the ordinary. I considered taking down the shoe boxes stacked on the shelf and looking inside, but decided that that was pushing things a bit too far.

Instead, I turned to the long, low dresser pushed up against the wall opposite the king-size bed. The first drawer I opened was filled with T-shirts. The next one contained sweaters. I was already getting discouraged when I tried one more drawer and found socks, boxer shorts, and undershirts stuffed inside haphazardly.

“We should probably get going,” Forrester said, pointedly checking his watch again.

“Two more minutes.”

I continued scrutinizing the contents of the murder victim’s underwear drawer, sensing that something was wrong but unable to zero in on what it was. A few seconds later, it struck me: Everything in it was either black, white, or brown—or some variation on that color scheme—except for a single pale blue item that peeked out from the bottom.

I’d almost missed it, since it was made of stretchy fabric that was just like the cotton knit of Nathaniel’s undershirt collection. Yet something about the tiny patch of color caught my attention.

Gingerly I pulled it out of the drawer, still shielding my fingertips with my shirt. Socks and boxers scattered to the side as I freed the mysterious item from the disheveled pile.

“What have you got there?” Forrester asked, stepping over. “Have you just discovered Nathaniel Stibbins’s softer side?”

“I’m not sure,” I replied, doing my best to lay the garment across the top of the dresser. “Whatever it is, it didn’t seem to fit in with everything else in the drawer.”

“Maybe it was a gift from someone who didn’t know his taste,” Forrester commented.

“Or his size.” Now that I was able to get a better look at the stretchy pale blue shirt, I could see just how narrow it was. I could also see
what
it was: a skimpy tank top with the familiar Worth School emblem embroidered over the left breast.

I shifted my gaze to the label, then glanced at Forrester. “His gender, either.”

“It does look kind of feminine,” he agreed.

“Check out the label,” I said, pointing. “See what it says? ‘Women’s Small.’”

I watched Forrester’s expression change from curious to stricken. “There’s no way this belonged to Nathaniel, is there?”

“Nope,” I replied. “More like one of his students.”

“Which meant he did some entertaining at home,” Forrester said quietly.

“Entertainment that involved removing articles of clothing,” I added. “At least on his guest’s part.”

For a few seconds, we just looked at each other. I didn’t know what was going through Forrester’s mind until he said, “We’d better tell Falcone.”

Great, I thought, my shock over what we’d just discovered instantly shifting to an entirely different concern. Not only is Falcone going to find out that I disobeyed the only rule he laid out by touching the contents of the murder victim’s apartment. What’s even worse is that once again, I’m turning out to be doing a better job than he and his posse are doing.

But even that paled beside the fact that we’d just
uncovered an entirely new dimension of the murder victim’s life.

I knew that, technically, Nathaniel might not have been doing anything wrong. After all, in New York the age of sexual consent is 17. But he was 38, nearly twenty years older than the seniors at Worth. Even more important, he was their teacher. That meant whatever relationships he might have had with the girls weren’t exactly fair and balanced.

It also meant that I’d stumbled upon a veritable minefield of reasons why someone might have been mighty upset with the man. The cause could have been a girl’s anger over the feeling that she was being used—or another girl’s jealousy over the latest object of Nathaniel’s affections. It could even have been the result of one of the parents’ fury upon learning about the art teacher’s fondness for younger women.

Which meant that this discovery didn’t do much to help me pin down either the murderer or the motive. In fact, all it
had
done was make the list of suspects even longer.

•   •   •

As soon as Forrester closed the door of Nathaniel’s house firmly behind him, he turned to me and said, “Okay, Popper. I held up my end of the deal. Now it’s your turn.”

I just stared at him, still so lost in thought about what I’d learned from being inside Nathaniel’s house that I didn’t have the foggiest notion what he was talking about.

“Oh, that’s right,” I finally said. “I owe you dinner at my house.”