The Art of Murder (Dead-End Job Mystery) (9 page)

L
ittle New York was perfectly named, Helen thought. Someone set a slice of Manhattan on a South Florida beach. Too bad they missed the point.

Florida architecture is light and playful, sun drenched and colorful.

Little New York buildings were grim gray slabs, with no subtropical softness. They looked like they were wearing business suits to the beach. The only concessions to Florida were grudging balconies and huge windows overlooking the ocean.

Silver Glade Condominiums was on the curve of Blue Heron Crescent, the official name for Little New York. The condo looked like every other building, except for that peculiar putting green. But then, New Yorkers convinced themselves that worn patch of green known as Central Park was a real city park.

No wonder Clay Taylor Griffin moved here, Helen thought as she pulled into the condo’s circular drive. He probably felt like he was still in Manhattan.

A white-uniformed valet hurried over to park Helen’s car and a
uniformed doorman with more braid than a marching band opened the silver doors with a flourish.

The Silver Glade lobby was high ceilinged and metal cold, with steel chandeliers and a polished marble floor. The reception desk was a swirl of black marble manned by a security guard with a Brooklyn accent. He was Billy, according to his name tag, but this guard was no gray-haired retiree. Helen guessed his age as mid-forties, and his narrow eyes were shrewd.

“May I help you?” Billy asked.

“I’m here to see Mr. Clay Taylor Griffin,” she said.

“Is Mr. Griffin expecting you?”

Helen stalled. She didn’t think she could charm her way past steely-eyed Billy. How can I get upstairs without an appointment? she wondered. Better play dumb.

“Mr. Griffin is a famous artist,” she said. “I’m supposed to see him about his paintings. He said he wants to paint me.”

Is the guard smirking? Helen wondered. She wasn’t sure in the lobby’s dim light.

“Mr. Griffin’s wife just died, ma’am,” Billy said.

“Oh,” Helen said. “I’m so sorry. Is he home? I’d like to pay my condolences.”

“He’s making the arrangements for Mrs. Griffin’s funeral,” Billy said, his voice as cold as the wind off the East River.

“Of course,” Helen said. “I’ll come back later.”

She was glad to escape Billy’s disapproval. Outside, the valet held open the Igloo’s door. She climbed inside and switched on the radio, catching the afternoon news.

The announcer’s voice was solemn. “The Gold Ghost burglaries turned deadly last night,” he said, “when an elderly man was killed during a break-in. Alexander Woodiwiss, age ninety-two, was beaten to death in his condo on the nineteenth floor of the Exeter Arms Condominiums in Blue Heron Crescent.

“Mr. Woodiwiss, who lived alone, was discovered by his
cleaning woman at eight o’clock this morning when she showed up for work.

“A police spokesperson said the victim, dressed in pajamas and slippers, had been fatally attacked with a lamp in his living room sometime after midnight,” the announcer said. “Police believe the victim was awakened when the thief made a noise and went to investigate. More than twenty thousand dollars in gold coins are believed to be missing from Mr. Woodiwiss’s condo. No other units were robbed at the Exeter Arms last night.”

The Gold Ghost took the money and ran, Helen thought. But not before he beat to death a defenseless old man. Now Phil will really feel the heat. He has to catch this creep before someone else gets killed.

Helen hadn’t taken the burglaries seriously before this news. She didn’t have much sympathy for gold hoarders. But bashing an unsuspecting old man with a lamp was pointless and cruel. This burglar was a dangerous hothead.

She hurried home to tell Phil the news and found him in his apartment, dressing for work. Helen sat down on his bed and said, “You’ve heard about the murder at the Exeter Arms?”

“Just heard,” Phil said. “Silver Glade was already in an uproar over the break-ins. That poor old man’s murder has them terrified.”

“Did the Silver Glade manager call you?” Helen asked.

“Yep,” Phil said. “Victor said everybody knew Alex Woodiwiss. He played golf with some of the residents at Silver Glade, and a couple of the condo widows had their eye on him. Alex was six feet tall, a good dancer, and he could drive at night.”

“So he was a senior hunk,” Helen said.

“Definitely. Victor said golf made Alex surprisingly strong. Victor thinks Alex put up a fight. He was a decorated World War II veteran. Mrs. Cassidy, who went dancing with him Friday nights, was distraught. She stormed into Victor’s office as soon as she heard the news, leading a brigade of outraged residents. They wanted to know what Victor planned to do to protect them.

“The condo board is holding an association meeting at seven tonight to discuss the issue. I have to go into work now and talk to Victor. Maybe we can set some kind of trap for the Gold Ghost. The problem is, if we do come up with a plan, we can’t discuss it at the meeting. We’ll have to give vague assurances that won’t satisfy anyone.”

“Why? Are you worried about gossip?” Helen asked.

“That’s one reason,” Phil said. “A condo is a small village. Everyone knows their neighbors’ business: who has visitors, who drinks too much, who fights with their spouse and who has money trouble.

“Besides, we suspect these burglaries are inside jobs.”

Phil shooed Thumbs off his navy uniform pants. Helen brushed the cat hair off the dark fabric while Phil buttoned his medium blue uniform shirt. She thought that color looked good on her silver-haired spouse. The tailoring accented his broad shoulders and slim hips. Phil had pulled his long hair back into a ponytail. She was glad Silver Glade didn’t make him cut it.

“Are you worried that Silver Glade will be hit next?” Helen asked.

“It’s bound to happen eventually,” Phil said. “The burglar is getting bolder. I want to force the issue and make it happen, before more people get hurt.”

Helen looked at her husband in his uniform: straight shoulders, slightly crooked nose, blue eyes. Phil looked confident. Overconfident, Helen thought, and felt a stab of fear. One well-placed blow, and that burglar could smash their life.

“I’m worried about you,” she said, wrapping her arms around him.

“You worry too much,” he said, kissing her.

Helen held him and said, “I stopped by Silver Glade today to see Clay. The guard, Billy, said Clay was planning Annabel’s funeral.”

“Billy’s an ex-cop,” Phil said. “I haven’t met him yet, but I learned some things about Clay while I was on rounds with Jimmy, the graveyard shift guard.”

“Tell me,” Helen said, pulling away.

“Jimmy says Clay has an eye for the ladies. He brings art students to his studio for extra instruction.”

“Maybe he does,” Helen said.

“Jimmy said the women never have any art supplies, sketch pads or portfolio cases.”

Like me, Helen thought. That’s how I showed up today.

“So that’s why Billy was smirking at me,” Helen said. “I didn’t imagine it. He thought I was one of Clay’s cookies.”

“And you were chasing Clay when his wife was barely cold,” Phil said. “You hussy.” He grinned at her.

“That rat, cheating on his sick wife.”

“The staff liked Annabel, but they can’t stand her husband. He talks about being a New York artist and brags about what a good observer he is. Clay doesn’t realize the elevators have cameras, so the guards can see him doing the wild thing with his so-called students on the way up to his floor.”

“Poor Annabel,” Helen said. “She was a good artist but had no talent for picking men.”

Like me, she thought, before I met you. “I miss you,” Helen said, kissing Phil’s ear. “I don’t see much of you now that you’re working the late shift. I was asleep when you left last night, and you were asleep when I got up this morning. We don’t get a chance to talk.”

“Or anything else,” Phil said, kissing her back. “If I didn’t have to leave right now . . .” He pulled away, and Helen rubbed her lipstick off his ear.

“Is it boring working the graveyard shift?” she asked.

“We had some excitement: Jimmy and I got a call that a visitor’s car was parked in a resident’s spot.”

“You don’t think that was the burglar?” Helen asked.

“No, it was a resident’s grandson. Grandma vouched for him and he moved his car to a legal spot. Oh, and I have an admirer.”

“Already? That was fast.”

“Jimmy says Nancy admires anyone in a uniform. She’s single and hangs around the reception desk. She brought me homemade lasagna for dinner.” He patted his flat stomach.

“Quite the welcome wagon,” Helen said.

“That’s the problem,” Phil said. “Jimmy warned me that Nancy can be a cougar.”

Helen’s eyes narrowed. “How old is this single woman?” she asked.

“Jimmy says she’s sixty-five,” Phil said.

“So nothing for me to worry about,” Helen said.

“Don’t be so sure,” Phil said. “Caitlyn Jenner was the hottest woman in America at age sixty-five.”

Helen threw a pillow at him, and Phil ducked.

“I’ll walk you out to your car,” she said.

Out by the pool, Markos was setting up his mojito bar on the umbrella table. “Hey, Helen and Phil,” the resident hunk said. “Have a mojito and some collard greens rolls with
umeboshi
paste.”

“What’s
umeboshi
paste?” Helen asked.

“Dried pickled green Japanese plums,” he said. “There’s nothing like it.”

“I bet,” Phil said. Helen gave Phil a light kick on the shin.

“Wish I could,” Phil said. “But I have to go to work.”

“I hope you’ll make tomorrow’s sunset salute,” Markos said. “The Rangpur limes will be ripe and I’m making Evelyn Bartlett’s famous cocktail.”

“I’ll make the Bonnet House appetizers,” Helen said quickly. She could pick up the museum cookbook when she went to her art class. She wanted Phil to enjoy the rare cocktails with food he could eat.

“Fix me a mojito, please, Markos,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

As Phil climbed into his dusty black Jeep, Helen said, “Be careful. The Gold Ghost is dangerous. He’s killed once.”

“I’m not worried about that coward,” Phil said. “The real danger is the old codgers at Silver Glade. Victor said they’re roaming the halls with weapons.

“Mr. Thornton in 717 had a Luger he’d liberated from the Nazis.

“Mrs. Cassidy wanted to patrol the lobby with her late husband’s shotgun until Billy convinced her to keep it upstairs. She said she was a crack shot, but Billy questioned her until she finally admitted she hadn’t been to a firing range in twenty years.”

“It’s not funny,” Helen said. “What if you’re shot by some gun-slinging senior?”

“Not a chance they’ll hit me,” Phil said. His last kiss was hot, but his words chilled her.

H
elen heard a key rattling in the lock and sat up in bed. She’d slept in Phil’s apartment last night, comforted by his familiar coffee-and-citrus smell on the sheets.

“Phil?” she said.

“It’s me,” he said.

Helen came running into the kitchen and threw her arms around her tired-looking husband. “You’re safe!”

Phil laughed and kissed her. “Of course I’m safe.”

“I was afraid you’d be shot by a pistol-packing senior,” Helen said.

“They were all in bed by nine o’clock,” he said. “Mr. Thornton came down at five o’clock this morning, but without his World War II Luger. He told me there were no gold coin burglaries during the night. His grandson is on the force. Maybe Alex Woodiwiss’s murder scared off the burglar.”

“How was the condo meeting?” Helen said.

“As we expected. The residents are scared and angry. They didn’t buy our reassurances that management has a plan in place.”

“Do you?” Helen said.

“Victor and I are working on one. You look like you didn’t sleep a wink.”

“I didn’t,” Helen said. “I was too worried.”

He kissed her again, harder and more insistent. “You need to go to bed,” he said. “Right now.”

“Don’t you want some food?” she said between kisses.

“Later,” he said. He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

“You swept me off my feet,” she said, and giggled.

“You talk too much,” he said, climbing into bed with her, and for a long time, they didn’t talk at all.

Afterward, Helen fell asleep in Phil’s arms, then woke up suddenly at eight thirty-four. The bed was empty and the apartment perfumed with coffee. Phil breezed into the bedroom wearing the blue robe that matched his eyes and handed her a mug of coffee.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said and smiled.

“Coffee! You saved my life,” Helen said. “I have to run to my art class.”

“Not for another hour,” Phil said. “You have time for a cheese omelet. I’ll make it while you shower.”

Helen sang while she showered. Phil was home safe, and all was right in her world. The omelet, oozing cheddar, was ready by the time Helen was dressed.

Thumbs the cat yowled when she came into the kitchen. “I already fed him,” Phil said. “He’s panhandling for a second breakfast.”

Helen finished her food and gathered her art supplies. Her blank white eight-by-ten canvas glared at her. I don’t have a subject yet, she thought. I’m about to fail my first assignment. All the way to Bonnet House, she wondered what she should paint.

My cat? Too ordinary, Helen decided. Phil? She thought her husband looked like a Regency dandy, but she didn’t have the skill to capture his elegant face. She parked the Igloo at Bonnet House and
studied the flowers and trees on the path to the yellow-painted gift shop, hoping for inspiration. Nothing.

She had time to buy the cookbook for the Rangpur lime cocktail party appetizers. At the gift shop register was a slender woman with high cheekbones, ivory skin and silver hair the same color as Phil’s. Up close, Helen guessed her age to be sixtysomething. Maybe I need to take that Silver Glade cougar more seriously, she thought. Maybe this woman is another example of that predator.

“Do you have a cookbook?” Helen asked.

“Absolutely,” the gift shop cougar said.
“Entirely Entertaining in the Bonnet House Style.”
She pulled a slim volume off a bookshelf.

“Does it have appetizers?” Helen asked.

“Appetizers, soup, main courses, desserts, even Mrs. Bartlett’s Rangpur lime cocktail. They grow the limes here, you know. We have some in that basket. You can donate a dollar for one.”

“Really?” Helen said. “Can you cut one open?”

“Of course.” The gift shop cougar disappeared into the small kitchen behind the register and returned with a lime sliced into quarters.

Helen studied the juicy orange-red fruit. She remembered last night’s mojito, frosty cold and crowned with mint.

She imagined Evelyn’s cocktail as it would be served tonight: rum, maple syrup, and this shimmering juice in a short glass. Liquid inspiration. Now she knew what she would paint.

“Perfect,” Helen asked. “I’ll take the book and six limes, including the cut one.”

The cougar bagged the limes. On the short walk to art class, Helen decided she was unfair. Not every attractive older woman was a man stealer.

Helen took her seat at the art class next to Jenny. Her friend was still working on her beach cottage. Hugo, who looked like a frankfurter in a red polo shirt, was still dabbing at his black horse. Cissy, a mass of loops and whirls in a beige cotton crocheted outfit, was still struggling to unflatten her flower.

Yulia looked especially somber in black shorts and a baggy gray top, and when she greeted the class, Helen knew why.

“I have an announcement,” Yulia said. “Annabel’s memorial reception will be tomorrow morning at ten o’clock at her husband Clay’s studio in the Silver Glade Condo. Do you all know where that’s at?”

“Everybody knows where Little New York is, especially after the burglaries,” Jenny said. The others nodded.

“Out of respect for Annabel, we will not have class tomorrow. I will be too sad to work.”

“Me, too,” Cissy agreed.

“Will Annabel be buried in Fort Lauderdale?” Jenny said.

“She’s being cremated,” Yulia said. “Her ashes will be sent home to her aunt in Connecticut. She has no other family.”

“Except for Clay,” Jenny said.

Who doesn’t want his wife’s ashes, Helen thought.

“Clay told me that Annabel’s aunt Ruth is eighty-five and too old to fly alone,” Yulia said. “She wants to bury Annabel’s ashes next to her parents. Aunt Ruth also plans to be buried there, and she wants to keep the family together. From what Clay said, it won’t be long before the old woman is reunited with her family. I just hope that detective finds Annabel’s killer soon and gives her poor aunt Ruth some closure.”

“Fat chance with that detective,” Hugo said. “He couldn’t catch a cold.”

“Someone will get her killer,” Jenny said. “Even if the police can’t.”

“Really?” Hugo said, glaring at her. “Now, who’s gonna do that, huh?”

“I—” Jenny said.

Helen gently elbowed Jenny to remind her to keep quiet.

“I just know,” Jenny said.

“Yeah, you really know,” Hugo said. “You think I killed her. But your precious detective doesn’t. He interviewed me and moved
on. He’s still looking, and he’s so stupid, he’ll never find the killer. No one will.”

“We have to find Annabel’s killer,” Jenny said. “It will comfort her poor aunt.”

“Her aunt needs to accept that Annabel took her own life,” Cissy said. “She was so unwell and so depressed.”

Helen thought Jenny made a small growl, but she didn’t say anything as Cissy babbled on, “I hope death brought her peace.”

“It’s certainly brought me peace,” Hugo said.

Once again, Hugo had shocked the class into uneasy silence. Yulia broke it when she stopped by Helen’s table. “So have you decided on a subject to paint?” she asked.

“A still life with Rangpur limes,” Helen said. “In honor of Evelyn’s favorite cocktail.” She produced the bag of limes. “I have a title, too. ‘Still Life with Rangpur Pyramid.’”

“Sounds mysterious,” Cissy said.

Yulia held Helen’s small canvas so it was first vertical, then horizontal. “And which way will you use your canvas?” the art teacher said.

“Uh, I hadn’t thought about that,” Helen said.

“You’re working with shapes in two dimensions, not three,” Yulia said. “How will you use your shapes? You have the limes, but what else will be in your picture?”

“I want to use a fat-bellied glass pitcher from home,” Helen said. “I like the shape. I’ll fill the pitcher with that cocktail, then have the short glasses and maybe a bucket of ice along with the pyramid of limes.”

Helen could see the drink ingredients shimmering on her canvas. She could almost taste them.

“Good,” Yulia said. “Remember that painting is about light against dark. Think about where you will have your light and how you will balance your shapes. You don’t have to draw anything today. Thinking is important.”

The teacher moved on to Jenny. “Your sand has excellent texture,” Yulia said, then glided over to Hugo and his tormented horse. The creature was turning into a misshapen blob.

“A few highlights would improve your work,” Yulia said. “May I?”

With a few deft strokes, she was transforming Hugo’s hunchbacked horse into a high-stepping animal, until he shouted, “Get your freaking hands off my work.”

His face was as red as his shirt and he was literally spitting mad. “It’s my horse and I’ll paint it the way I want, without interference from some foreigner who barely speaks English.”

“I’m sorry, Hugo,” Yulia said, her pale face pink with embarrassment. “I asked permission.”

“And did you hear me give it? I’m outta here.” He threw his paint tubes into his carryall and dumped his turpentine brush cleaner into the plants along the loggia. “Don’t expect me back!”

Helen hoped Yulia would say, “Good,” but she looked stricken. “Hugo,” she said. “I’m sorry. Please come back.”

But he stomped off, holding the wet painting against him. Helen hoped the oil paint would ruin his shirt.

No one in the class stopped him. Helen thought she could feel the class’s relief when he passed through the curlicued wrought-iron gates.

“It’s my fault,” Yulia said. “I should have never touched his work. That was unforgivable.”

“Bull!” Jenny said. “You touch up our work all the time. That’s why we’re in this class. Hugo’s a jerk and I’m glad he’s gone.”

He’s more than a jerk, Helen thought. That man has a hair-trigger temper. No wonder Jenny thinks he killed Annabel.