The Art of Murder (Dead-End Job Mystery) (8 page)

N
ext morning, Yulia breezed into the Bonnet House art class, looking fresh off the beach in stylish blue shorts and a striped top that highlighted her blond hair.

“Good morning to you,” she said in her charming, slightly stilted English, and unpacked her art supplies.

“Today is your first class, Helen. Have you painted before?”

“Just the walls in my condo,” Helen said.

“What do you want to paint?” Yulia said. “Flowers, nature, people, architecture? What calls to you?”

“I need to think about that,” Helen said.

“Start with something that you like,” Yulia said, “then decide if you want to be realistic, or make an interesting design. Your assignment is to come up with a subject by the next class.”

She pulled four art magazines out of her carryall and said, “These might give you some ideas. You can paint from a photograph in a magazine, or take your own photo, or paint from life. I’ve given you much to think about. If you need something, just ask. I have to see my other students.”

The rest of the class was working on their canvases. Helen thought Hugo’s black horse was lumpy and graceless, rather like the artist. Hugo’s pink polo shirt made him seem even more porcine.

Jenny was frowning at her seaside cottage. Cissy was covered with strings of brightly colored beads, as if she’d hijacked a Mardi Gras float. She was still torturing her hibiscus. “I wish it didn’t look so flat,” she said.

That hibiscus looks like it’s been run over by a steamroller, Helen thought.

While Cissy and Yulia discussed the best way to highlight the hibiscus and give it more depth, Jenny whispered, “I have news. I’ll tell you after class.”

“I do, too,” Helen said.

They both jumped when Yulia asked, “Does anyone know when poor Annabel will be buried? Will she have a funeral or a memorial service?”

“I don’t think her body has been released yet,” Jenny said. “At least that’s what Detective Burt Pelham told me when he interviewed me.”

Hugo snorted. “Pelham! Some detective. He couldn’t find his ass with both hands. He’s an idiot.”

“I didn’t think Pelham was an idiot,” Jenny said. “The detective seemed thorough but clueless.”

Yulia said, “He talked to me yesterday. He was very polite when he asked me many questions. I am scared of police. In my country, you never want to talk to them. But he seemed respectful. He had a funny accent and I had trouble understanding him.”

Helen saw Jenny hide a smile. Yulia’s accent was endearing.

“I told him I thought Annabel’s death was an accident,” Yulia said.

“How do you accidentally drink nicotine?” Jenny asked.

“See, I told you he was an idiot,” Hugo said.

Cissy quit trying to add dimension to her lifeless hibiscus and said, “Annabel’s death was no accident. She’d been despondent about
her health. That’s what I told the police detective. She killed herself. She was tired of fighting a debilitating disease.”

“You’re smarter than you look,” Hugo said. Cissy flushed the same color as her hopeless hibiscus but glared at Hugo. He didn’t notice.

“I agree, Cissy,” Hugo said. “Annabel committed suicide. She was always trying to get attention. Well, this time she’s the star of the show. Too bad she can’t enjoy it.”

“Hugo!” All four women shouted that same shocked reproach.

“What a terrible thing to say about a talented artist,” Jenny said, her brown eyes lit with angry fire. “The detective said she was murdered.”

“Didn’t you call him thorough but clueless?” Hugo said. Helen thought his acid comments could have burned the paint off his canvas.

“Detective Pelham didn’t decide that Annabel had been murdered,” Jenny said. “He’s investigating her death. The medical examiner said she’d been murdered.”

“Oh, come on,” Hugo said. “Who would murder Annabel? I mean, who’d care enough to want to kill her?”

Now the silence was deafening. Helen heard the squeak of the overhead fan and the raucous squawk of a bird somewhere in the trees.

Jenny opened her mouth and closed it, then spit out the words, “You would, Hugo. You’d kill her. You hated your ex.”

Oh. My. God, Helen thought. I can’t believe Jenny said that. If Hugo is the killer, she’s made my job a dozen times harder.

Helen tried to signal Jenny to be quiet, but Jenny would not be silenced. She rushed on, “You killed Annabel because she ruined your career.”

Hugo’s laugh was harsh and ugly. “Me?” he said. “If I was going to kill that bitch, I would have done it years ago. I didn’t realize it then, but she did me a favor. I’m glad I didn’t get that job. The CEO they hired lasted as long as a sneeze. They fired him and he’s
still
out
of work. They fired the next one and then brought in a third and he’s been fired. I still have a job.”

Not much of one.
Helen could almost see those words floating over Jenny’s head. But she said nothing and concentrated on the shadows in her seaside cottage.

“Please,” Yulia said. “This is a painting class. Let us paint. Who has a question about their work?”

“Do you think I should tone down the yellow in my sand?” Jenny said.

Yulia rushed over and the two women discussed ways to give the sand depth and texture.

The class painted in silence after that until Yulia said, “We are out of time. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I won’t be here,” Hugo said. “My car will be in the shop. Some bastard keyed it.”

Helen stared hard at the yellow shutters on the Bonnet House windows, afraid to look at Jenny. They both knew who’d damaged Hugo’s car.

She heard Cissy tell Hugo, “I don’t understand how the medical examiner could get Annabel’s cause of death so wrong.”

“Let me tell you what I think,” Hugo said as the two walked out together, Cissy’s beads clacking, their dislike for each other forgotten.

Yulia looked tired but relieved that class was over. Jenny packed up her things and said, “Ready, Helen?”

“Am I ever.”

Helen followed Jenny through a curlicued iron gateway to the Bonnet House veranda and the same view that had enchanted Frederic and Evelyn: two regal white swans skimming across the pond.

“I needed to see this to calm myself,” Jenny said. “How dare Hugo and Cissy say Annabel killed herself? She had everything to live for.”

“Of course they’re wrong,” Helen said. “I’ll prove it when I find Annabel’s killer. What’s your news?”

Jenny took a deep breath. “I’m calm enough to talk now,” she said. “Annabel’s husband, Clay, is going to be rich. He took out a big life insurance policy on his wife.”

“How do you know this?” Helen asked.

“Annabel told me. It’s no secret. She thought he should have lots of life insurance on her after she had a bad bout with chronic fatigue syndrome a year ago.”

“How could she get life insurance?” Helen asked. “Didn’t she have a preexisting condition?”

“You can get life insurance if you have CFS,” Jenny said. “Annabel even researched the companies for Clay.”

“Does Clay have life insurance?” Helen asked.

“I don’t think so,” Jenny said. “So tell me your news.”

“Clay has a studio on an upper floor of the Silver Glade Condominiums in Little New York.”

Jenny whistled. “Nice. That’s a premier building, built in 1965.”

“That’s old for South Florida,” Helen said.

“We prefer historic,” Jenny said, and managed a smile. “I’ve sold a few units in there. Silver Glade has a putting green on the front lawn, twenty-four-hour security, valet parking, two restaurants and a health room with a—”

Jenny stopped. “Sorry,” she said. “I slid into real estate–ese. The penthouse is for sale and I’d give my right arm to split the commission on it. The owner is asking six million.”

“Would Clay’s condo go for that much?”

“No, but it costs a pretty penny and has a spectacular ocean view. All the upper-floor condos do. It’s a perfect studio for him, since he paints seascapes. Do you have time for an early lunch?”

“No, I have an appointment with your gallery-owning friend, Robert Horton. I’d better hurry if I’m going to find parking on Las Olas.”

“Good. Robert can tell you where Annabel and Clay fit into the South Florida art scene. Are you going to talk to Clay?”

“After I speak to Robert, I want to see the new widower at his studio.”

“The soon-to-be-rich widower,” Jenny said. “Exactly how brokenhearted do you think he is?”

“That’s what I’ll find out,” Helen said.

R
H Gallery Ltd. intimidated Helen. She was sure the owner, Robert Horton, could look at her and know her late mother had been an art collector: Dolores had had twenty-six Precious Moments figurines.

The gallery entrance was old-school elegant, with green and orange striped awnings, gilt lettering and double mahogany doors. Helen pressed the buzzer. A pale twentysomething brunette in a subdued pinstripe suit sized up Helen and said, “May I help you?”

After Helen introduced herself, Ms. Pinstripe said, “I’m Sara, Mr. Horton’s assistant. He’s expecting you. Please come in. You may look at our seascape exhibit, and I’ll inform Mr. Horton that you’re here.” She moved soundlessly through a door to the back and left Helen alone with thousands of dollars’ worth of paintings.

Helen saw the security cameras bristling in the corners of the gallery. The floor looked like it was covered with a thick gray cloud. The walls were a soft, comforting white that showed the canvases in ornate gold frames.

To Helen’s untrained eye, most of the art looked pleasant but
conventional, postcard-pretty paintings of silvery moonlit oceans and orange sunsets over the water. They reminded her of the art she’d seen in corporate law firms. Several had red dots on their frames, a sign the paintings had been sold.

She was studying one painting of a storm-tossed sea. The stiff gray-blue waves looked like cake frosting. There was no sense of the ocean’s movement or danger. It could have been a paint-by-numbers work. No wonder it hasn’t sold, Helen thought.

“Ms. Hawthorne?”

Helen turned and saw a tall man with sandy blond hair. His stylish suit was another work of art: double-breasted with a nipped-in waist and slim-leg pants. He had the broad shoulders to carry it off. The dark fabric wasn’t shiny, but it had the shape and sheen of expensive, well-cut cloth.

“I’m Robert Horton,” he said. His handshake was dry and firm, a friendly greeting, not a test of strength. “Jenny said you needed to talk to me.”

“Thanks for your time,” Helen said. “I’m investigating the death of Annabel Lee Griffin.”

“Such a tragedy,” Robert said, and sighed. “Annabel was talented, no doubt about it. Her death is a real loss to the art world. I know Jenny hired you to find her killer.”

Good, Helen thought. That makes my job much easier.

“I’m trying to get a perspective on the local art scene,” she said, “and how Annabel and her husband, Clay, fit into it. I understand he’s an artist, too. Jenny said he paints seascapes.”

“You’re looking at one now,” Robert said.

“Oh,” Helen said. She didn’t want to say anything critical about the clunky painting. She tried to think of how to praise it.

“It’s very precise,” she said.

“That’s one way to describe it,” Robert said. “Why don’t we go back to my office where we can talk?”

Robert’s office was a pale gray windowless room, dominated by a vibrant cobalt blue painting of humpback whales. Two black leather chairs were arranged in front of the painting, as if it were an exhibit at a seaquarium.

“Is that a Robert Wyland?” Helen asked.

“You know Wyland’s work?” Robert looked pleased.

“I know he did a huge marine-life mural on a building in Key Largo,” Helen said.

“The four-story building at Mile Marker ninety-nine point two,” Robert said. “Stunning. It’s part of Wyland’s one hundred Whaling Walls.” He smiled proudly. “This is my own whaling wall. I look at it every day and dream I’m at the ocean. Would you like some coffee?”

“That would be nice,” Helen said. “Black, please.”

Robert filled two white china cups from a carafe on the credenza and handed one to Helen. They each took a black leather chair by the huge Wyland.

“Now, what do you want to know about Clay?”

“Is he a good artist?” Helen asked.

“His work is precise, as you said, but it’s . . . well, lifeless,” Robert said. “There’s no passion in his art. With Wyland, you can feel his love of the sea and its creatures.”

“But you carry Clay’s work,” Helen said.

“For now,” Robert said. “If his painting doesn’t sell at this show, I won’t be representing him anymore.”

Helen must have looked startled. Robert said, “I’ve already discussed the issue with Clay, Ms. Hawthorne. He knows.”

“I heard that Clay had a New York career,” Helen said.

“He got off to a good start,” Robert said. “He was in New York for many years, represented by a Chelsea gallery. Then he got dropped. His work wasn’t exciting or innovative enough for New York. He moved here and became a big frog in this very small pond. He had some success in Fort Lauderdale for a while—anyone with New York connections will sound impressive in Fort Lauderdale, but Clay hasn’t
taken his art to a new level. He’s gotten comfortable and paints the same picture over and over.”

“What’s the next level?” Helen asked. “Should he try to get back to New York?”

“Clay is smart enough to know that door is closed unless he has a really lucky break. He should be trying for shows at Miami galleries. Miami is the gateway to South America and a major player in the art world. There are a lot of rich collectors who haunt those galleries. Are you familiar with Art Basel in Miami Beach?”

“A little,” Helen said. “It’s a big art show held there in early December.”

“It’s a big
international
art show that brings in major collectors from around the world.”

“The exhibits look like fun,” Helen said. “Phil and I saw the giant rubber duck.”

“Miami artist Alexander Mijares wrapped the giant rubber duck at the SLS Hotel, and then filled the swimming pool with painted replicas.”

“And that’s taken seriously?” Helen asked, then wished she hadn’t. She sounded like a rube.

“Absolutely,” Robert said. “Art Basel in Miami Beach has contemporary artwork from all over the world, and nearly a hundred thousand international visitors—artists, collectors and curators. It’s exciting. You’ve seen Clay’s work. It’s too . . .” He hesitated.

“Conventional?” Helen finished, though that described most of the work in Robert’s gallery. Still, the gallery owner must be doing well if he could afford a huge Wyland.

“Uninspired,” Robert said.

“Clay can’t make it to the international level,” Helen said. “He doesn’t take chances. He plays it safe.”

“Yes,” Robert said. “That’s it exactly.”

“Can Clay make a living in Fort Lauderdale as an artist?” Helen asked.

“No, but very few artists can,” Robert said. “Clay teaches at Fort Lauderdale Junior College.”

“That must be quite a comedown,” Helen said.

“Not really,” Robert said. “There’s no shame in it. Most artists need either a rich spouse or a day job. They teach workshops and college classes to survive.

“Clay was luckier than most. His junior college post doesn’t pay much, but he works forty hours a week, so he has health insurance, and he needed that for his wife. Annabel was his student, you know.”

“No, I didn’t,” Helen said.

“Everyone went to their wedding on the beach. Annabel was a beautiful bride. They had the reception at his studio in Blue Heron Crescent.”

“How could Clay afford an expensive condo studio,” Helen asked, “plus a big house in Coral Ridge Country Club Estates when he had a sickly wife?”

“I’m not sure he can,” Robert said. “Clay told me he’d sold his New York co-op for a nice chunk of change. He couldn’t believe how cheap Fort Lauderdale real estate was.”

“Cheap? You’re kidding,” Helen said.

“Compared to Manhattan, real estate is cheaper here. But Clay said that when he first moved here. I think the costs were getting to him. I know he’s been trying to get extra money teaching workshops and master classes.”

“Besides his full-time job at the junior college?” Helen asked.

“Exactly. He’s giving dreary lessons at country clubs and women’s clubs. He complained it left him little time for his own work. Frankly, it showed. He needs to get out from under his financial burdens.

“Clay took some of his work to the Huffington Gallery, where he has to pay to display his paintings,” Robert said.

“Is that like vanity publishing?” Helen asked.

“Not exactly,” Robert said. “Some artists pay galleries to show
their work and that’s a legitimate move. But the Huff—I call it the Huff and Puff—is for artists on the way down. It’s a desperate attempt to keep a career going. Once artists show in a place like the Huff, their careers rarely bounce back.”

“That’s very sad,” Helen said.

“What’s sad is the person with the real talent was his wife, Annabel. We carried her work and it sold. I had trouble keeping her oils in stock.”

“I’ve seen only one of her paintings,” Helen said, “and it wasn’t finished. I’ve heard they’re good.”

“I have one I’m holding for a client who’s in Italy right now,” Robert said. “Too bad I sold it before she died. Now I can’t raise the price. I’ll show you. That sounded awfully crass, didn’t it?”

He came back with a medium-sized canvas with a black crow perched in a flame tree. The colors glowed.

“Gorgeous,” Helen said.

“Her work was starting to get more abstract and playful. She was finding her own style,” Robert said. “Annabel used to paint at their home, but then she rented studio space in FAT Village.”

“So Annabel was on her way up,” Helen said.

“To the very top,” Robert said. “She was invited to join a prestigious group show in Miami and her work did well there. Her prices were starting to go up, and I can’t charge my clientele that much. I was going to ask her if she’d paint some smaller pieces for me. Some artists won’t compromise, but I’d hoped she would. If she’d kept going, she would have been at Art Basel in another year or two.”

“They take local artists?” Helen asked.

“A very few, but there was talk she might be one of them.”

“If Annabel was so good, why was she taking lessons at Bonnet House?”

“Her husband convinced her she needed to work on her technique. Clay told her that Picasso couldn’t succeed at Cubism until he
became an accomplished representational painter. ‘The bones have to be there,’ he said.”

“Did you agree with Clay?” Helen asked.

“I thought he was stifling a major talent,” Robert said. “But then, I wasn’t married to him.”