Murder in the Art Gallery

by Sandi Scott

  “We’d love to see them,” Georgie interrupted her sister who wanted to make this visit as short as possible. “If it’s no bother.”

  Iris’s right eyebrow went up at the corner and Georgie knew she had just won her over. The first room was no bigger than a powder room. But the paintings that hung on the wall were all no bigger than a dinner plate. A sketch by Matisse, an oil by Herb Aach, and a watercolor by Georgie O’Keefe hung among other lesser known artists that had captured their subjects beautifully. Georgie could have stood there for hours. Wishing she had brought her own sketchbook to get the images jotted down quickly, she studied them intently so she could remember them when she went home.

  Iris described in great detail what she was doing when she acquired the pieces in the second room, which was much larger than the first. Trips to Italy, Spain, Prague, Japan, were just a few of her global destinations where she had bought several of the pieces. There was a Capadumonte of The Lord’s Last Supper, a self-portrait of Pablo Picasso, Pablo the VW Bug’s namesake, and an early sketch by Kuroda Seiki. Like in the smaller room, there was a collection of lesser known artists’ work hanging among some of history’s greats.

  “Now this last room is still a work in progress,” Iris insisted. “I’ve collected the works of many modern artists. They do speak to me. Pollack. Cristo. Warhol. I enjoy the way these artists push boundaries. They challenge the status quo.” She opened the door to a blast of paintings and sculptures that were as vibrant and explosive as some of Georgie’s outfits.

  “How did you come into possession of some of these?” Georgie asked innocently.

  “I have a reputation.” Iris put her hand to her throat as if she were holding back her awesomeness. “There isn’t a gallery in the Midwest where I am not known on a first-name basis. If they have a new artist that they think I’ll be interested in, they contact me. It’s funny. The Octagon Center for the Arts in Iowa will immediately call me every time they are considering a new artist for their gallery.” Her voice was heavy as if the words had weight and made her breathe them instead of speaking them. “But here in Chicago I’ve been blacklisted.”

  “What do you mean?” Georgie asked.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Wyland Art Gallery.” She looked back and forth between both women waiting for a nod of the head or a glint of recognition in the eye but the sisters played dumb. “Well, it’s the art gallery in Chicago. If you are seen there, don’t be surprised if your work someday ends up at Christie’s in New York.”

  Georgie nodded with wide eyes and waited for Iris to continue.

  “Well, as you can see, I’m a serious collector. I don’t do this just so I can show off at a cocktail party. I have an eye for what’s hot. Apparently, my reputation doesn’t impress the little worms that run Wyland Art Gallery. They’ve spread lies about me throughout the city that I don’t pay my bills. Can you believe that?”

  “That’s terrible,” Aleta added.

  “You can bet I’ve got my lawyers working on it as we speak. The doors to their gallery will be closed within the year and I’ll be the one holding the lease in my hands.”

  “It might be closed sooner than you think,” Georgie interrupted. “It was just on the news this morning that the owner, uhm, Jarard? Jarell?”

  “Jamal Landry?”

  “Yes.” Georgie snapped her fingers. “Jamal Landry was found murdered. Shot in the neck at the gallery after an art show last night.”

  Iris looked at Georgie and squinted.

  “Really? No, I hadn’t heard that. I was at that art show.” She took a step into the room and stood facing a giant Jackson Pollack painting of layer after layer of colorful paints making a design like a ball of rubber bands that led the eye from one end of the massive canvas to the other. “I really can’t say I’m surprised. With the way they treated me, I’m sure they’ve treated other people just as badly. Did they say if they had a suspect?”

  “No. It’s a real-life mystery,” Georgie stated.

  “Well, I don’t know if I hope they catch the guy or not.” Iris spun around. “Sometimes people get exactly what they deserve. It didn’t seem to bother them when they were killing my reputation. Especially after all I’ve done for that gallery. Well, the sun will still circle the sky and rise again tomorrow.” She flashed a smile but quickly pulled it back.

  “Well, if you were at the show yesterday, the police might come to ask you questions. Maybe you could help,” Aleta added.

  “I came home right after the reception.”

  “I’m sure your butler will verify that,” Georgie prodded.

  “No. Mr. Krueger leaves every day at five. I live alone.” Iris squinted at Georgie again, then folded her arms over her chest. “I think you have spent enough time in my home. Forward any further paperwork to me through the mail.” She slipped past Aleta and Georgie and disappeared in the maze-like layout of the house. Within seconds, Mr. Krueger was standing in the hallway.

  “Miss Fitske would like you both to leave. Please do so.” He gestured toward a hallway that led back toward the front door. Aleta clutched her purse to her chest and shuffled quickly in the direction he indicated. Georgie was a little slower and strolled casually, looking around and taking note of dozens of miniature building statues made of pewter displayed around the house.

  Finally, both women stepped out the front door only to have it violently slammed on them.

  “Wow. That was a weird one.” Georgie slipped her arm through her sister’s and they descended the steps and the cobblestone driveway toward Pablo, which looked terribly out of place in these surroundings.

  “A weird one? You are lucky she didn’t call the cops on us for impersonating.”

  “Impersonating who? Financial representatives? Yeah, that’ll get us twenty to life. It was nothing,” Georgie assured her sister. “Besides, we’re out of there now. No harm. No foul.”

  “No harm?” Aleta rolled her eyes as she climbed into the car. “Let’s get this bucket moving. I think I hear sirens coming.”

  “You do not.” Georgie smirked. As she got in the car she rolled down the window and listened. “Are those sirens?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.” Aleta buckled her seatbelt. “Come on. Let’s not wait around to find out.”

  Taking her sister’s advice, Georgie threw Pablo in reverse. Once on the street, she shifted the gears like Mario Andretti, hit the gas and let up the clutch hitting fifty miles an hour by the time they got to the end of the block.

  “Do you know how to get out of here?” Aleta asked. “Subdivisions can be tricky.”

  “We’ll just keep moving. They can’t catch us if we keep moving.”

  The VW Bug tootled around and around until they finally ran into a light at a major intersection.

  “Ashland Avenue. Thank heavens,” Georgie sighed. “We’re in the clear. I know exactly where we are and if we stick to the local streets, there ain’t no way the fuzz will be able to find us.”

  “Do you really think the police are looking?” Aleta barked. “Oh, I knew this was a bad idea. And I did most of the talking. I mentioned the business. Oh, Lord, what have I done? Why do I listen to you? You always get me in trouble. I’ve never learned my lesson. Sixty-six years and I haven’t learned my lesson yet. I should have taken a rock and killed myself years ago.”

  “Would you calm down? The police aren’t after us.” Georgie patted her sister’s hand.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because a person with no alibi who threatened a murder victim doesn’t call the police.” Georgie smiled.

  Aleta waited for a second and let the words sink in.

  “Do you think she did it?”

  “I’m not ruling her out at all,” Georgie replied, clicking her tongue. “She doesn’t remember that she spoke to me last night. She had mean things to say about Jamal then. We left before she did so who knows how long she was there. And just because she left the loft doesn’t mean she left the b
uilding or the area. She could have been skulking around the alley or climbed up the fire escape like I did today.”

  “You did what?”

  “I didn’t want to risk running into Stan. I had to take precautions.”

  “The fire escape?” Aleta nearly gagged. “Do you know how dangerous that is?”

  “If it’s so dangerous, why is it there in case of a fire? It’s got to be fairly safe if they expect people to use it to climb down to safety.” Georgie shrugged. “Am I right?”

  “How did you even reach the ladder to pull it down? You’re only like three inches taller than a midget,” Aleta teased.

  “I don’t think you are supposed to use the word ‘midget.’ And thank you so much, but maybe you are only three inches taller than a midget but I’m four inches taller than what constitutes a midget.” She stuck her tongue out. “Actually, it was pretty odd. This very strange gentleman, maybe five years older than us with silver hair and a handlebar mustache used his walking cane to pull the ladder down for me. Then I saw him as I snuck out of the office down the front stairs.”

  “Okay, did you ever think that maybe he was the killer?” Aleta blinked wildly.

  “No. I didn’t.” Georgie sat still for a moment. “I don’t think it was him. He had a handlebar mustache, wore a suit at ten in the morning, carried a walking cane with a silver handle. He looked like Mr. Peanut. That kind of guy would be noticed no matter where he went. Like me. That’s why you know I’ll never commit a crime. I stand out too much. Criminals want to blend in.”

  “As crazy as that sounds, it makes sense. So, what about Mrs. Penny Pincher there at 5002 Blue Jay Lane?” Aleta looked out the window. “She wants to stand out.”

  “No. She wants to blend in. She wants to blend in with the upper crust around here.” Georgie nodded her head. “She couldn’t care less what we thought of her as long as we knew she had more than us. But you heard how she talked about those people with the vintage cars. They weren’t good enough. No. She wanted to blend in with the people with old money and Jamal outed her.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning because he closed her account and warned other art galleries that she had no money, the image she had struggled to keep was now six feet under.” Georgie slid her index finger across her throat. “She was humiliated. And if she decided to sell some of her assets to make things right, she would be proving Jamal right. It’d be basically admitting she was broke. That she was poor. Just a commoner like you and me.”

  Aleta sucked in her cheeks making herself look like a pouting fish.

  “Do you think she’d kill someone for that?”

  “Are you kidding? I just read in the paper last week some guy killed his best friend because the dude ate the last pork chop. Yes, I do think that she would kill over this. But…”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t know if she has a gun.”

  “Wait.” Aleta put her hands up in front of her like she was stopping an oncoming train. “A lady like that who is surrounded by expensive things and whose tuxedo-wearing butler leaves at five every day definitely has a weapon. It’s probably gold-plated with a mother-of-pearl handle, but I’d bet my last dollar that she has one and it’s usually on the nightstand next to her bed.”

  “Good point,” Georgie agreed.

  They drove on in silence until Georgie pulled into her driveway. Both women climbed out of the car and headed toward their own homes.

  “Hey, sorry I made you come up with the story at Iris’s. I really couldn’t have thought of anything that was that convincing.” Georgie smiled. “You were spot on.”

  “Yeah, I did do a pretty good job, didn’t I?” Aleta climbed her front steps. “See you tomorrow for coffee?”

  “Of course.” Georgie waved goodbye. Both women walked into their homes and closed their front doors in unison.

  8

  After coffee with Aleta the next morning, Georgie decided to give her sister a break and do a little more sleuthing by herself. Well, it wasn’t as much sleuthing as it was pressing for favors. She walked into the 21st Precinct wearing a bright yellow blouse with gray trousers and purple shoes, her outfit resembling something a genie might wear.

  “Hey, Georgie.”

  “Georgie. Long time, no see.”

  “Hiya, Georgie.”

  The greetings from several of the uniformed cops made Georgie feel special. She had learned many of their names when she used to visit Stan at work. It was like he had radar and before she made it through the bullpen where the detectives did their paperwork, Stan was standing in the doorway of his office.

  “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” He grinned like he used to when they’d return home after a romantic date. Georgie couldn’t help it but whenever she saw Stan standing there in his plain clothes with his sidearm underneath his shoulder and his badge on his belt, she thought he looked as handsome as they get. Even Paul Newman would pale by comparison. “And looking as pretty as ever.”

  “Hey, Georgie.” Leto jumped up from his desk and came to Georgie’s side. “Don’t listen to this guy. He talks sweet to all the girls. You come with me and I’ll show you a good time.”

  Georgie laughed loudly since Leto was about thirty years younger than her.

  “Leto, do you have a girlfriend?” Georgie asked seriously.

  The look on Stan’s face was priceless as he stood with his mouth wide open and stared.

  “No, ma’am,” he replied and winked at Stan.

  “You and I need to talk. I think I know a woman you might like.”

  “I’ll be here.” He rocked back and forth on his heels folding his arms over his chest.

  “You.” She pointed at Stan. “Got a minute?”

  “I don’t know.” He sucked at his teeth. “I don’t like playing second fiddle.”

  “Oh, please. I brought brownies.” Georgie shook her head as she pulled a Cole’s Bakery box from her purse.

  “You are too good to me.” Stan smiled and stood aside as Georgie stepped into his office. After he closed the door, he leaned down and kissed her gently on the cheek. “You do look pretty today and you smell good, too.”

  “Compared to what you’re used to around here I don’t think that’s too hard to accomplish.” She handed him a huge chocolate brownie with fudge chips melted across the top. “Your favorite.”

  “So. What’s the bribe for?” Stan looked at Georgie from beneath his long, black eyelashes.

  She chuckled.

  “Can’t I do something nice for my ex-husband without being suspected of an ulterior motive?”

  He tilted his head to the right as if to say really? Do I look like I fell off the turnip truck?

  “Okay, you got me.” She felt her cheeks go pink, making Stan smile broadly. “I was just wondering what you found out about that murder yesterday. You know, Aleta and I were at the gallery the night before and we saw that guy, Jamal Landry. It’s a little spooky to think we might have been in the room with the very person who’d killed him.”

  “Well, you might have been. From what we can tell, Jamal was killed about two hours after the event ended and the gallery was closed up.” He took a bite of brownie and sighed with satisfaction. “These are so good.”

  Georgie nodded in agreement.

  “We talked to that guy, Nate, his partner. A real ladies man, that one.” Stan rolled his eyes.“ He said he left Jamal at the gallery because, as usual, Jamal was finishing up the books, making sure the numbers were straight and getting the checks ready for Nate to mail off right away the next day. Nate said he’d hung around but finally after about half an hour, he left with some woman. He gave us her name and address, and she vouched for him that he’d spent the night with her.”

  “Just some random girl? Did you suggest to him he might want to explore the enlightening world of panning for gold?” Georgie teased.

  “Very funny.” Stan smirked, watching his ex-wife giggle.

  “I know. I cra
ck myself up.” Georgie shook her head. “Now, I don’t know if Nate mentioned it, but there was a big scene at the event last night. Some drunk guy came in and…”

  “Yeah, Ronan. Have you seen that guy’s artwork?”

  “Uhm…” Georgie didn’t want to let the cat out of the bag that she had indeed seen his most recent work at his studio just yesterday but she didn’t want to totally lie, either. “I’ve seen some of it, not at any galleries but at a couple of street festivals. Not really my cup of tea.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to buy that crap.”

  “You mean you wouldn’t want an image of the Venus De Milo with a smiley emoji over her face? That doesn’t call out to you?”

  “No. It doesn’t.” Stan took another bite.

  “I’d put my money on him. He seemed pretty torn up and you know how alcohol can make a man do stupid things,” Georgie nodded. She wasn’t totally convinced Ronan had it in him to kill anyone, but she did want to see what Stan had to say.

  “Not a bad guess, for an amateur. Ronan went to Monday’s pub just two blocks over after he got kicked out of the gallery, but the bartender said he left abruptly at around the time the gallery would have been closing. We talked to him, but he says he was black out drunk and doesn’t remember anything.”

  “So, are you guys going to book him?” Georgie knew Stan loved to correct her and even now, after all they’d been through, she liked to see him happy sometimes.

  “Oh, Georgie. Have you already forgotten about the burden of proof? The guy’s definitely a suspect with a motive, but so far we’ve got nothing more than that. We’re getting security camera footage from the bar to see what it can tell us.”

  “So, you’re probably going to wrap up the case soon?”

  “Not quite. We’ve got a lead on a woman named Iris Fitske. Nate said she had been sending threatening letters to the gallery.”

  “Do you know why?” Georgie played naïve and licked the chocolate from her lips.

  “You know, Georgie, we were a pretty good team when we were married.”