Murder at the Art Class

by Nic Saint

  Emily joined Judyta in circling the class, giving encouragements here and little tips and tricks there, and generally allowing the students to settle into their own process of transferring the male form to the canvas in front of them. It took Emily only a glance to know that Tanton Skroch, for instance, was a lost cause. His frantic slashes had already resulted in three pencils being massacred, as well as a sheet of paper, and all he had to show for it was a stick figure that in no way, shape or form resembled John Sunderland.

  The guy Emily had recognized as a regular customer of the Roast Bean was furiously stabbing at the paper with a passion that was probably better spent on a worthier cause. The end result was a Picassoesque monstrosity. Then Justyna was doing a much better job at it. Though she seemed entirely focused on John’s buttocks, drawing them in increasingly widening circles and completely neglecting the rest of the young man’s anatomy. Nor was she alone in this fixation. Other women, too, seemed fascinated by John’s backside.

  The only person who was creating something approximating realism was of course Sylvia, but then she’d seen so many male backsides the novelty had probably worn off.

  “Very nice, Sylvia,” whispered Emily, admiring the woman’s lifelike drawing style.

  “Thank you,” said Sylvia, blushing happily. “I’m getting better at this, aren’t I?”

  Sylvia’s modesty touched Emily. “I think you’re aces,” she said.

  Sylvia gave her a confused look. “Aces is good, right?”

  “Aces is excellent,” she said, giving Sylvia two thumbs up.

  Just at that moment, John coughed, and they all looked up. When he didn’t stir, the work continued. People rose from their chairs for a refill of coffee or tea, or a slice of cake and a cookie, but apart from that, a companionable silence filled the room, accentuated by the soft classical music Judyta liked to play as background sound for her classes.

  The two hours passed by quickly, and soon the time came to wrap things up.

  Judyta clapped her hands again. “That’s it, people. Great job. I’m proud of you.”

  All eyes went to the front of the class again, where John was now expected to descend from his throne, and put some more of that male goodness on display for his eager audience to see. Instead, John didn’t move a muscle.

  “John, dear,” said Judyta, “you can come down now.”

  When John still didn’t make any attempt to disengage, giggles went up.

  “I think he’s fallen asleep,” said Mrs. Franklin.

  “Better wake him up, Em,” said Judyta.

  Emily walked up to the stage, a smile on her lips. It wasn’t the first time a model had dozed off in the middle of a session. Judyta always arranged for the thermostat to be turned up, so resident models didn’t get goosebumps or, worse, pneumonia, and the warmth, combined with the murmur of activity and Sylvia’s herbal concoction, had a soporific effect.

  “John?” she said as she approached the stage. “You can get up now. Class is over.” When he didn’t respond, she mounted the dais and bent over him. “John? Did you fall asleep?”

  And that’s when she saw it: something was sticking out of his eye.

  She frowned, at first not understanding what she was seeing.

  When she did, her blood suddenly ran cold.

  John wasn’t sleeping. He was dead.

  Chapter 3

  The police arrived in short order. They took down the class participants’ information and then herded them all into an adjacent classroom while they descended upon Judyta’s room which was now, outrageously enough, deemed a crime scene.

  “I can’t believe this,” Judyta said, pacing the room, her kaftan flapping about her heels. She was wearing sandals, Emily now saw. Not that it mattered. She’d gratefully accepted a cup of Sylvia’s tea and was taking healing sips. According to the old lady it would soothe her nerves. She was, after all, the one who’d discovered John’s body.

  The moment she had, the others had all moved forward in tandem, and the cries of dismay and horrified shock had quickly rent the air, until Judyta had had the presence of mind to call the emergency services. Tanton Skroch had been most shocked of all. His eyes had practically popped out of his skull when he saw what had happened to the object of his affection. He’d uttered a blood-curdling scream that seemed quite out of character, and had immediately grabbed his phone and started spewing a stream of words in a strange language into the device, raking a distraught hand through his hair and looking very upset.

  He wasn’t looking much better now, seated on a chair, leaning forward, a distant look in his eyes, his mouth set, his right leg shaking. The man was obviously very rattled.

  Justyna, too, appeared unnerved. She still looked like Barbie in the flesh, but she was pale and drawn now, and chewing her lip as she gazed out of the window into the dark night. The class participants had settled down in clusters of threes and fours, and were talking in hushed tones about the tragic events that had put an abrupt end to the evening.

  “Who could have done this?” Judyta addressed the question at no one in particular.

  “And how?” added Sylvia. She turned to Emily. “Did you see anyone going up to that poor young man?”

  Emily shook her head. She’d been going over the evening in her mind, but at no point had she seen anyone approach the front of the class. She would have noticed if anyone had.

  “It’s a mystery,” said Judyta. “An absolute mystery.”

  “They must have shot that bolt through the window,” said Emily.

  “But the windows are intact,” said Sylvia. “Aren’t they?”

  Emily had to admit that they were. Judyta was right. It was baffling.

  “The police will figure it out,” she said. “They always do.”

  “Hah! I’m not so sure,” said Judyta, who didn’t seem to have a lot of confidence in the NYPD. “If we can’t figure this out, neither can they.”

  “I’m sure they can,” said Emily. “They have all that high-tech CSI stuff. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for what happened.”

  She felt horrible. And partially responsible. After all, she was Judyta’s assistant. And now one of their models was dead. Murdered. Right in front of their eyes.

  “This is all my fault,” she said therefore.

  “Now, now,” said Sylvia, placing a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Don’t say that.”

  “I should have noticed something was wrong.”

  “Of course not. How could you?” The old lady mused for a moment. “That young man must have had enemies. Why else would anyone go to all this trouble to murder him?”

  “I don’t think it has anything to do with him,” said Judyta. “Some… maniac wanted to draw blood and so he did. Whether it was John or someone else didn’t matter. Not in the least. I’ll tell you what I think. I think this was the work of a serial killer. Perfecting the perfect kill. Serial killers are always doing this sort of thing. Showing off their murderous skill set. Proving their superiority. I’ll bet the police know exactly who’s behind this and why. They probably even have a nickname for him. The Crossbow Killer or something.”

  “You read entirely too many James Patterson novels, my dear,” said Sylvia.

  “Excuse me,” Emily muttered, suddenly not feeling well, and quickly getting up. As she headed for the door, she heard Sylvia say, “Really, dear. Can’t you see the poor girl’s upset?”

  The officer parked at the door looked up when she opened it. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay put, miss,” he said.

  “I need to use the bathroom,” she said. “I don’t feel so good.”

  He must have noticed she was about to pass out, for he barked, “Jackson! Take her to the bathroom, will you?”

  Jackson, a jolly-faced youth, did as he was told, and escorted her to the bathroom, then took up position outside while she splashed some water on her face and then sank down on the toilet seat. She wasn’t usually the squeamish type, but this
murder business had really done a number on her. Her legs felt like jelly, and her stomach was tied up into knots.

  As she sat quietly, her head in her hands, trying to regain her composure, she heard distinct voices from the other side of the thin wall behind her.

  “Nasty business,” said a gruff male voice.

  “Baffling, too,” said another, equally gruff male voice.

  “What about the wall?”

  “Not a blemish. Windows, too. Not a scratch on them.”

  “That bolt must have come from somewhere, Shakespeare.”

  “I know, sir, but it can’t have passed through brick or glass, can it?”

  “No, I suppose you’re right. What about a device built into the wall?”

  “We went over that wall with a magnifying glass, sir.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What about the table?”

  “Perfectly ordinary table, sir. Besides, according to the trajectory that bolt must have come through the window. There’s no other way. Must have.”

  There was a momentary silence, then: “Baffling. Just like you say, Shakespeare.”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  A toilet was flushed, and the voices died away.

  Emily emerged from the stall and moved over to the sink. She splashed some more water on her face and pulled some paper napkins from the dispenser. She dabbed them at her face and looked up. Looking back at her wasn’t the fresh-faced and shiny visage she knew. Instead, she was pale and puffy-eyed. Even her brown hair hung limp and lifeless. She shook her head. What a terrible business.

  She joined the others again, and saw that Tanton Skroch was gone. Probably called in for his police interview. Sylvia was still chatting with Judyta, and she joined them. Sylvia had brought out her wallet and was showing pictures of her goddaughters, all tucked into a foldable picture holder. There were at least a dozen.

  “And this is Ellie,” she was saying. “She has kids of her own now.”

  Emily made an effort to smile. “I didn’t know you had so many goddaughters.”

  “Oh, yes, I do,” said the old lady proudly. She pointed at another picture. “This is Mollie. My friend Natalie’s little girl. She was born on Christmas Eve.”

  “A Christmas baby,” said Emily.

  “What about that cat?” asked Judyta, tapping a picture of a cat which had apparently slipped into the collection.

  “That’s Gemini,” said Sylvia with visible affection. “She’s my precious baby.”

  She would have told them a lot more but at that moment the officer opened the door and bellowed, “Emily Stone. Miss Emily Stone!”

  Emily shot up. “That’s me.”

  “They’re ready for you now,” said the officer.

  She glanced back at the others, who all sat looking at her anxiously. Then Sylvia gave her a pat. “You’ll do just fine, dear.”

  “Tell them about my serial killer theory,” said Judyta. “Or better yet, don’t. I’ll tell them myself.” She nodded self-importantly. “Oh, I’ll tell them!”

  Emily walked out of the room and was directed into a spacious classroom, the door closed after her. Two police officers were impatiently waiting, seated behind the teacher’s desk, a lone chair reserved for her. Judging from their scowls they weren’t happy to see her.

  Chapter 4

  “Take a seat,” said the biggest of the duo.

  He was a broad-shouldered man with fair hair and a dark mustache, a square chin and a no-nonsense expression on his face. The second man, seated next to his colleague, was thin with a lined face. He, too, sported a mustache, and was eyeing her expectantly.

  She took the designated seat, now feeling very much like a pupil being called into the principal’s office and about to be chewed out for playing a prank on the teacher.

  “Emily Stone,” barked the tall one. “You found the body?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said deferentially, still having trouble keeping her stomach under control. She momentarily flashed back to John’s pale face and steeled herself.

  “I’m Detective Robin Shakespeare and this is Detective Percy Estevez. Please tell us in your own words what happened here tonight.”

  “You’re the assistant teacher?” Estevez prompted.

  “Um, yes, I am. Well, not the teacher, actually. It’s a volunteer’s position. I-I wanted to give back to the community so I-I volunteered to…” Her voice trailed off.

  “You and John Sunderland were colleagues?” asked Shakespeare. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Detective. At the Roast Bean. I work there as a barista. Well, as a temp, really. I’m replacing John’s sister Jill who worked there before me. She’s studying for her exams, though, so…” She chewed her lip and shuffled nervously in her seat.

  “So you knew John Sunderland very well. You were friends.”

  It sounded more like an accusation than a question, which wasn’t doing her stomach any favors. “I—I wouldn’t say we were friends. Colleagues, yes, but…”

  Shakespeare’s eyes never drifted away from her face. The effect was disconcerting. Add one of those bright lights to shine into her eyes and the scene for a police interrogation was complete. The detective leaned forward. “Did anyone, at any point during the evening, approach Mr. Sunderland?”

  “No, Detective. I thought about that and even though I wasn’t facing the front of the room at all times I would have noticed if anyone had walked up to John and spoken to him or…” She swallowed. “Did anything to hurt him.”

  Shakespeare’s eyes darkened. “They did more than hurt him, though, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, sir. They did.”

  “Any ideas what might have happened, Miss Stone?” asked Estevez, in a more kindly tone.

  She shook her head. “I’ve been thinking about it the whole time, Detective, and I have absolutely no idea. John was fine when he went up there. He was even joking with us. And then, suddenly…” Her eyes grew moist. “We were going out after the class, you know. He invited me and Clara to go out with him and his friends.”

  “I thought he wasn’t your friend?”

  “He wasn’t but… he invited me this afternoon, so…”

  “Who is this Clara?”

  “She’s another colleague. She and John and I work—worked together.”

  Estevez was consulting his notes. “What about Justyna Tamowicz? Was she also invited?”

  “I’m sure she was. I think she and John were girlfriend and boyfriend.”

  “Popular guy, John Sunderland, mh?” said Shakespeare, almost leering.

  “John was very popular,” Emily agreed.

  “Especially with the ladies. Were you jealous of Justyna Tamowicz?”

  She blinked. “Jealous?”

  “Sure.” Shakespeare leaned back. “Handsome guy like that? Rubbing shoulders at the Croaky Bean.”

  “Roast Bean.”

  “So you invite him to your art class. Catch a glimpse of the hot stud’s assets. Hoping to catch more than just a peek. And then suddenly here comes Justyna. Joins the class. Dashes your hopes of some bump-and-grind. Did seeing the two of them together set you off, Emily? Did it make you angry? So angry you decided to teach him a lesson?”

  “I—”

  “Just tell us how you did it, will you? Don’t keep us in suspense.”

  “But I—”

  “How did you manage to kill that kid is what I want to know.”

  Suddenly she’d had enough. She stood abruptly, the chair clattering to the floor. “I didn’t kill him!”

  Shakespeare sat grinning, happy he managed to get a rise out of her. “Of course you didn’t.”

  “What can you tell us about the other participants?” asked Estevez, consulting his notes again. “Emmerich Bernadzikowski for instance?”

  “Who?”

  “According to our information he’s a regular at the Crunchy Bean,” Shakespeare grunted. “Hooknose? Looks like Darth Vader’s son?”r />
  She picked up the chair and sat down again, feeling embarrassed about her outburst. “Yes, he’s a customer. Before tonight I’d never seen him at the school before.”

  “Tell us about him,” Estevez said.

  “There’s not much to tell. He’s been coming into the Roast Bean regularly these last couple of days.”

  “How come you noticed him?” asked Estevez. “I mean, I’m sure your coffee shop gets lots and lots of customers. Hard to keep track of them, right?”

  She knew exactly what he meant. Why had she noticed this Emmerich person? “He… behaved a little strangely,” she said slowly.

  “Strange, how?”

  “Well, most customers pop in and out. Pick up their coffee and are on their way. Some take a table and spend ten minutes, fifteen minutes, tops, to finish their order. Piece of pie. Muffin.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” said Shakespeare, still trying his best to win the Grouchy Cop of the Year award. “So what made this guy stand out?”

  “He never budged from his seat. Stayed there for hours and hours. All morning, in fact. Or all afternoon. And…” She thought hard, trying to pin down exactly what had made this person so memorable. “He kept looking at John. Now people were looking at John all the time. Women, mainly. He’s—or was—a very attractive man. But there was something…”

  “Something fishy?” Estevez prompted.

  “He looked at John as if he… despised him,” she said, the memory suddenly becoming more clear. “As if he… hated him.” The realization shocked her.

  Both detectives shared a look, then continued stony-faced. “Give me a rundown of the other participants in tonight’s class and tell me exactly what they were doing,” said Shakespeare.

  Chapter 5

  Emily arrived home that night exhausted, and was happy to be able to plunk down on the couch and sink into oblivion. Well, not exactly oblivion, as her roommate Ansel was watching TV, and there seemed to be only one topic dominating the news cycle: the murder of John Sunderland. Or, as his real name turned out to be, Jan Skrzypczak.