The Art of Murder (Dead-End Job Mystery) (10 page)

“H
ave you been avoiding me?” Cissy asked.

“Me?” Helen said, her voice a guilty squeak. She’d been hoping to escape Bonnet House without running into Cissy. Now she was trapped. Cissy was smoking her e-cigarette by the Igloo, blocking Helen’s way to her car.

“I want to talk to you about Annabel,” Cissy said. “I know you agree with Jenny, but Hugo and I believe she killed herself.”

“You agree with him?” Helen said. She couldn’t hide her contempt. “After that scene in class today?”

“I know he behaved badly,” Cissy said, and blew out a puff of smoke. “But he’s an alpha male.”

“There’s no such thing,” Helen said. “Don’t excuse his behavior.”

“I’m not,” Cissy said. “But people aren’t black-and-white. Hugo can be extremely kind.”

“He can?” Helen’s disbelief was obvious.

“Let me tell you about it at lunch—and about Annabel, too,” Cissy said. “My treat.”

I’m a detective, Helen told herself. I can’t interview only the people I agree with. I have to find Annabel’s killer. Cissy gave me
good information about Annabel before. She could hold the key to this case.

“Lunch it is,” Helen said. “Where do you want to go?”

“If you like Mexican, we can go to Casa Frida. It’s not your usual taco joint, although Frida’s serves those, too.” Cissy was almost pleading now.

“Sure,” Helen said. “That’s the restaurant on Federal Highway, two blocks north of Commercial.”

“See you there,” Cissy said. She ran for her car, curls and crochet bobbing lazily in the heavy air.

The hot sun bleached the sky white. Once again, Helen was grateful for the Igloo’s air-conditioning. She heard the
ping
for a text message on her cell phone.

Miranda, the lawn service owner and Annabel’s former lover, had texted,
Lita can C U @ 2 PM 2day
, and included her fiancée’s phone number and FAT Village studio address. Helen confirmed the appointment with Lita, then headed for Casa Frida. After passing endless strip shopping malls, she sailed right past the restaurant and had to make a U-turn.

Inside, Casa Frida was a small, brightly painted restaurant honoring Mexican artists Frida Kahlo and her husband, Diego Rivera. Framed prints of their art, as well as Day of the Dead figurines and grinning skulls, gave the restaurant a cheerfully morbid charm. Cissy waved to her from one of the last empty tables. She was drinking a Mexican beer and eating chips and salsa. “This place fills up fast,” Cissy said, proud of her culinary discovery. “Have some pico de gallo and chips.”

Helen took a scoop of the salsa, fragrant with cilantro, and read the menu. She ordered Mayan roasted pork and iced tea and Cissy had the ceviche Caesar salad.

They dipped corn chips into the flavorful red sauce and talked between crunches. “You were going to tell me about Hugo’s good deeds,” Helen said.

“Yes,” Cissy said. “I’ve seen them. Hugo’s mother, Linda, is a widow with Parkinson’s disease.”

“That’s tough,” Helen said.

“It is. Linda can still get around without a walker, but she’s a little unsteady. She lives a few doors down from me, off Bayview.”

“Lots of big houses there,” Helen said. “Does she live alone?”

“Linda didn’t want to leave the home she’s had all her adult life, so Hugo lives with her since he split with Annabel.”

Rent-free, Helen thought.

“The house is huge, and it needs constant upkeep,” Cissy said. “Hugo handles everything: the yard service, pool service, and repair people. He has the house power washed for mold and freshly painted.”

So he earns his keep, Helen thought. Their lunch arrived and they admired the artfully arranged food. Helen’s roasted pork was orange-red from the achiote paste and bitter orange juice marinade. Cissy photographed her salad with her cell phone. They savored their meal in silence until Helen prompted, “So Hugo takes care of the house for his mother.”

“He does more than that. He keeps up on the latest advances in Parkinson’s treatment. He heard about a clinical trial sponsored by the Michael J. Fox Foundation.”

“He’s the actor with Parkinson’s, right?” Helen said.

“Right. He still acts, too, even with his disability. His foundation is supporting a clinical trial to treat early stage Parkinson’s patients with nicotine patches.”

“The patches people take to quit smoking,” Helen said.

“Right,” Cissy said. “There’s no proof yet, and Hugo’s mother couldn’t get into the study, but he gets her nicotine patches. I think a sympathetic doctor is helping him. Hugo told me the patches seem to help his mother a little. He takes her to see all sorts of doctors and pays for everything that’s not covered under Medicare.

“So Hugo can be dislikeable, but he’s good to his mother,” Cissy said.

Helen wasn’t sure that proved anything. She’d read about serial killers who loved their sweet old mothers. And he was getting a free home. Rather than say anything, Helen sampled her red pickled onions and beans and rice.

“Clay, Annabel’s husband, is another unsung hero,” Cissy said.

“He is?” Helen asked. That’s not what Robert Horton thought. She decided she couldn’t say anything if she had a mouthful of pork. She had to be careful if she wanted to learn more about Clay.

“Annabel’s depression and her illness made her difficult to live with,” Cissy said.

“How?” Helen said, reaching for a tortilla.

“Whiny, short-tempered. She’d stay in bed all day and expect Clay to wait on her. But he never complained. He encouraged her to get up and work on her art and gave her helpful suggestions to improve it.

“Clay and Annabel could have lived in his art studio—it’s certainly big enough.”

“You’ve been there?” Helen asked.

“For lessons,” Cissy said. “It has a fabulous view of the ocean. It inspired him. But Clay kept that big house in Country Club Estates because Annabel loved painting nature. She said she needed the flowers and birds in the yard for inspiration. That poor man wore himself out trying to pay for that huge house and his studio. And then she turned around and rented a FAT Village studio.”

“Was their marriage happy?” Helen asked.

“At first,” Cissy said. “But then they started growing apart. He spent so much time taking care of her and teaching class—you know he’s been teaching full-time at the community college to get health insurance for her?”

“That’s good of him,” Helen said.

“It is,” Cissy said. “Too good. He’s neglected his own career to build hers.”

“Do you think they would have stayed together if Annabel had lived?” Helen asked.

Cissy lowered her voice. “Yes. Clay was devoted to her. But Annabel knew he was unhappy, and that’s why she killed herself.”

“That’s a ri–” Helen started to say “ridiculous,” then quickly changed it to “romantic idea. Was Annabel that selfless?”

“I think she was,” Cissy said. “She’s the one who suggested he take out a big life insurance policy on her. She even researched which companies would let him get it with her preexisting condition. She knew he would never desert her, but if she died, he would be free.”

“But Annabel’s career was on the way up,” Helen said. “She was starting to command big fees, wasn’t she?”

“Not enough money to live on—especially with no health insurance. Once she suspected she had myasthenia gravis and her sight was going, she lost the will to live. That’s what her friends, like Jenny, can’t face: Annabel was a realist. She was on her way to a big-time art career and suddenly she was losing her eyesight. Fate was too cruel. She couldn’t live with that.”

“That would be cruel,” Helen said, “but nothing was confirmed yet. Annabel was a realist, but she was also a fighter. When her marriage to Hugo fell apart, she had the good sense to get out of it. How did she live when she left Hugo?”

“She moved in with her parents,” Cissy said. “That’s how she met Clay. Her parents wanted her to take something practical at the community college, medical billing or something like that, and she did. But it was so boring, she also took an art class. She was Clay’s student. She fell madly in love with him. He guided her art career, and when she got sick, he started teaching full-time and that’s when his own career started failing.”

Helen thought Clay’s career was already failing when he left New York.

“I understand the creative temperament,” Cissy said, shaking her corkscrew curls.

Does she think wearing wacky clothes makes her an artist? Helen wondered, and bit back a reply.

“One reason Annabel and I bonded is because we had so much in common,” Cissy said. “Like her, I had to divorce my first husband. I’m better fixed financially than she was, thanks to a good lawyer, but it still takes courage to walk out. It’s one thing to decide a marriage isn’t working and another to actually leave it.”

“It’s a big step,” Helen said. “It certainly was for me.”

That’s all she wanted to confide to this gossipy near stranger.

I’ll never tell her that Rob was unfaithful from the start: He’d had an affair with my maid of honor. I was so blinded by love I didn’t see my husband was a dog until I caught him years later with our next-door neighbor. And when the divorce judge gave Rob half of my future income I swore my ex would never see a nickel of mine and took off on a wild, aimless zigzag cruise around the country, until I wound up at the Coronado in South Florida. That’s where Margery became my surrogate mother and Phil saved me from becoming another bitter, sun-blasted divorcée.

“So you’re divorced, too,” Cissy said, and leaned forward, mouth slightly open, like a baby bird begging for nourishment.

“Fortunately, my second marriage is a success,” Helen said, “and I’m living happily ever after.” She smiled.

“You’re in love,” Cissy said.

“Definitely,” Helen said.

“I am, too,” Cissy said. “I met the man of my dreams on the beach here. One look, and I knew he was my soul mate. He’s so protective. It’s sweet. He even persuaded me to stop smoking and switch to vaping.”

“What’s he like?” Helen asked.

“He’s an artist,” Cissy sighed. “That’s why I’m taking this class, so I’ll be able to communicate with the man I love. And taking it at Bonnet House is so inspiring. I want to live like Evelyn Bartlett.

“Evelyn had a terrible marriage to Eli Lilly, just like my first marriage, but she comforted Frederic Bartlett while he was mourning his second wife’s death, and they had a long and happy marriage. They
were artists together. Frederic called Evelyn his greatest discovery and helped her find herself. Their house became the beautiful symbol of their love. Frederic’s first two wives were sickly, but he found true happiness with Evelyn. Frederic and my true love are both real artists. They’re so creative. They love Florida. They even share a name.”

Frederic? Helen wondered.

Then she remembered Frederic’s full name: Frederic Clay Bartlett.

Cissy is talking about Clay Taylor Griffin, Annabel’s husband.

Now Helen felt cold in the bright Mexican restaurant with the grinning skulls. Frederic’s second wife, beautiful, talented Helen Louise Birch, died of cancer.

Did Cissy kill Annabel so she could marry the man she loves?

T
he woman was six feet tall and covered with a lumpy rash from her bald head to her bare feet. As Helen approached the sculpture, she saw that it wasn’t a rash—those were women’s breasts. Orangey pink breasts with darker pink nipples, like cherry-topped pastries.

“Her name’s Barbie,” Lita said. Miranda’s fiancée was a striking woman in her early twenties with milk white skin, wide blue eyes, and ruler-straight raspberry hair. Helen thought she looked like a manga heroine.

Helen studied Barbie. The sculpture had a mannequin’s face, blank blue eyes, a nipple for her mouth, and breasts on her cheeks. Large shoulder-pad breasts were over her collarbone, small breasts like headphones were her ears, and she had a bunlike breast at the base of her neck. The breasts on her chest were the size of flour sacks.

“Barbie is part of my series Unreal Reality,” Lita said.

“Fascinating,” Helen said. The quirky artwork should have been repellant, but Helen thought it looked oddly playful. “And quite a statement.”

“It’s all men see when they look at women,” Lita said.

Some men, Helen thought, not my man. But she wanted to talk about Annabel, not debate men and their merits. “How did you make the breasts?”

“I didn’t,” Lita said. “Those are silicone gel implants from China. I get them in sizes from A to double Es, and different shapes, from round to teardrops. They’re surprisingly cheap, which is another statement.”

“But these implants have nipples,” Helen said.

“These aren’t actually implanted under the skin,” Lita said. “Women who’ve had mastectomies but don’t want reconstructive surgery wear them in their bras for a natural appearance. So do cross-dressers.”

More symbolism, Helen thought.

Behind Barbie, Helen saw three light-drenched oils: a Caribbean cottage, a secluded beach and a banana plantation.

“Are these yours, too?” she said.

“That’s my representational work,” Lita said. “I painted those on vacation.”

“I like them,” Helen said.

“I do, too, but I’ve outgrown that style,” Lita said. “I keep reaching for the next level. I’m also working with charcoal.”

She showed Helen four charcoal abstract nudes set up on easels. Each was a different view of a large, muscular woman, her powerful curves executed in tender detail.

“This is my fiancée, Miranda,” Lita said, as if she was introducing the woman herself.

Helen hoped she wasn’t blushing. Sometimes her midwestern upbringing asserted itself at inopportune times.

“I talked with Miranda at the lawn service office,” Helen said. “She really guards your working time.”

“She understands I have so little creative time,” Lita said. “I help her out, but I can’t wait until the business is doing well enough that she doesn’t need me.”

“It must be hard working in the Florida sun when you’re so fair-skinned,” Helen said.

“I have to wear a shitload of sunscreen, long sleeves, a hat that covers my neck, and heavy gloves. I’m suffocating. But I promised I’d do it until Miranda gets the business going. That’s one reason why we’re getting married at my parents’ house. It will save a lot of money.”

“Congratulations on your wedding,” Helen said.

“Thank you,” Lita said, and Helen saw her pale skin turn pink. Lita was a blushing bride. “I’m counting the days. Annabel was going to be a bridesmaid.”

She wiped away a tear.

“I’m sorry,” Helen said.

“She was better than any of us,” Lita said. “Dammit! It’s such a waste. She was on her way to the top!” Lita’s face was almost red, but this was the color of rage.

“Do you have any of Annabel’s work?” Helen asked.

“That bastard she married came the day after she died and took everything—all her paintings, even her supplies, down to the last tube of paint. I kept one painting hidden under a drop cloth. He would have taken it if he knew about it, but she gave it to me. It’s all I have left of her.”

“May I see it?” Helen asked.

“It’s on an easel, behind my charcoals,” Lita said.

Helen wondered how she could have missed the glowing oil. A pale pink female figure with large breasts and a look of ecstasy was sprawled across the canvas, her raspberry hair fanned out in a joyous swirl.

Helen stared at the painting again and realized that it was a very naked Lita.

“It’s amazing.” Helen said, and she meant it. The painting was colorful, sensual and sophisticated.

But as she studied its seething sexuality, Helen wondered just how kinky Annabel had been. Some men liked to have affairs with mothers and daughters or two sisters. Did Annabel have an affair with Miranda and then her fiancée? Were the two women notches on Annabel’s bedpost?

When Helen had asked Miranda if Annabel was gay, she’d said,
Annabel was whatever she wanted to be. I don’t put labels on people, Ms. Hawthorne. We had some fun and then it was over.

Helen brushed away that thought as if it were an annoying fly and said, “The painting is both abstract and figured—is that the right word?”

“I know what you’re trying to say,” Lita said. “Annabel was trying to break out of the representational straitjacket and find her own style. That’s why I hid this painting. I wanted something to remember her by.” Lita sounded wistful. “
He
would have never understood it. Did you see that crap he painted? The sea never stops changing, but he painted the same picture over and over.

“Clay!” Lita’s lips twisted into a sneer. “That’s the right name for him. His work looks like modeling clay done by an untalented ten-year-old.”

“You worked with Annabel. Did she talk about her marriage?” Helen asked.

“All the time,” Lita said. “What do you want to know?”

“I’ve heard that after her marriage to Hugo fell apart, her parents sent her to junior college to take a medical billing course.”

“They weren’t bad people,” Lita said, “but they didn’t understand Annabel was an artist. Her mom and dad didn’t think she could earn a living as an artist.”

“You can’t, can you?” Helen asked.

“Annabel was that rare exception. In another year or two, she would have been able to support herself. But I can see why her parents wanted her to be able to support herself. Men didn’t treat Annabel very well. Have you met Hugo?”

“A real piece of work,” Helen said.

“Exactly,” Lita said. “Annabel loved her parents. She took the practical courses they wanted, but she was bored. So she took a life drawing class, too. About that time, Annabel’s father died of a heart attack. She was devastated. One day he was fine and then he was gone. Next, her mother developed cancer. That was another blow. They were close.

“Annabel spent all her savings going back and forth to Connecticut to be with her mother. Her aunt Ruth lent her money, too.

“Annabel was alone and vulnerable, and she fell in love with her art teacher, Clay. He’s an attractive man.” Lita paused, and Helen could almost hear the unspoken part of that sentence:
if you like men
.

“Clay did his ‘I had a studio in Chelsea’ routine and dropped big New York names. Annabel was impressed. When her mother died, Clay was there. Her mother’s illness had eaten most of her parents’ savings. After Annabel sold their house, there was only a few thousand left.

“Clay proposed during this time. He promised if she’d marry him, he’d help Annabel become an artist. She loved him—or at least she convinced herself she did—but Annabel was still under the spell of those New York names. She also loved the idea of advancing her own art career.

“Either way, the marriage worked for a while. Clay was a good teacher and he guided her career steadily upward. Clay was happy to have an adoring wife, but after a while, Annabel’s adoration turned into respect.”

“Did she still love her husband?”

“I don’t know,” Lita said. “I’m not sure she knew. Annabel was struggling to find her identity as an artist—and maybe as a woman.”

Helen longed to ask if Annabel had had an affair with Lita.

“Who do you think killed Annabel?”

Lita didn’t hesitate. “Clay,” she said. “Annabel knew about his students—the ones he took up to his studio for special classes. He killed her because he was jealous. She was going to leave him and
he didn’t want to lose his meal ticket. If she died, he’d collect that life insurance. A million dollars. You know about that?”

“Yes,” Helen said. “But I didn’t know it was that much.”

“Annabel died of nicotine poisoning,” Lita said. “That’s another reason why I think Clay killed her. Do you know he gave up cigarettes for her? The smoke bothered her, but he still needed his nicotine fix, so he switched to e-cigarettes. Those little bottles of e-liquid are full of nicotine, and he smoked the strongest level: twenty-four milligrams of nicotine in something the size of a bottle of nail polish.

“All Clay had to do was dump that liquid in her iced tea, and it would kill her. She drank her tea so sweet it made my teeth ache.”

“Your fiancée thinks Hugo killed Annabel because she’d ruined his career,” Helen said.

“Miranda never liked Hugo,” Lita said, “and that flap over his CEO job was years ago. Hugo sorta stalked Annabel—he went to her art show and bid up her painting, and she was upset when he took her art class, but Hugo enjoyed annoying her. He lived with his mom and so far as I know he didn’t date much after Annabel divorced him.”

“Do you think Annabel might have killed herself?” Helen asked.

Lita laughed—a surprisingly raucous guffaw. “Suicide? Annabel? Of course not! She was a born fighter.”

“But her doctor thought she might have had myasthenia gravis,” Helen said.

“Annabel was staggered when she first found out,” Lita said. “But then she did her research and realized it wasn’t a death sentence anymore.”

“Wasn’t it affecting her eyesight?”

“Yes, but her sight was getting better,” Lita said. “Her art was her reason for living. She wasn’t afraid of myasthenia gravis—not once she got used to the idea. She would have kicked its ass.”

Helen thanked Lita for her time and started to go, when she saw Annabel’s painting, glowing like a ghost in the studio.

“Did Clay ever see that painting?” she asked.

“No,” Lita said. “She didn’t want him to see it. He wouldn’t have understood a nude study. He was jealous. He was a typical patriarchal male.”

But men aren’t the only ones who can be jealous, Helen thought.

She thought of Miranda, with the rainbow equal sign on her biceps, telling Helen,
Do you believe in love at first sight? . . . That’s how it was when I met Lita.
Pow!
Like she’d slammed me in the head.

What would Miranda do if the love of her life had had an affair with another woman?