The Art of Evil
by Blair Bancroft
Published by Kone Enterprises
at Smashwords
Copyright 2014 by Grace Ann Kone
For other books by Blair Bancroft,
please see http://www.blairbancroft.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.
Author’s Note:
1Although I have changed the names of certain people and places, the setting of The Art of Evil is an accurate depiction of The John and Mable Ringling Museum complex on Sarasota Bay in the last year before the bulldozers moved in for the great building boom that followed. I drove a tram at the Ringling for three years, was a member of the museum’s “speaker service,” and a long-time volunteer at the Ringling’s major fund-raising event, a Medieval Fair. (Now, alas, a thing of the past.) Needless to say, all events in this book are fiction. But the beauty of the sixty-six acres and the buildings on it remain. If you’re ever on the West Coast of Florida, don’t miss it!
The Art of Evil came out in hardcover a number of years ago, but even though most of the people on my appreciation list are no longer at the museum, I would once again like to thank them for the “insider” tours, the many questions answered, and just for “being there,” providing the solid background for this story. From staff to docents to tram drivers to security, they are: Shari Mitchell, Lin Vertefeuille, Ron McCarty, Fred Knight, Brad Helms, Ron Dawes, Des Keenan, and the Tuesday afternoon tram crew—Robert, Marty, and Bob.
Special Note: The Art of Evil was originally published under the pseudonym, Daryn Parke. It is being published as an e-book under my better-known writing name of Blair Bancroft.
Chapter 1
There’s something about a naked man seventeen feet tall. Even if he’s bronze and pushing one hundred. I eat lunch with him twice a week, thanks to the machinations of my Aunt Hyacinth. More accurately, my great-Aunt Hyacinth, the sister of my mother’s mother, and the only person in our whole extended family who’s never had to work a day in her life.
“Go visit Aunt Hy,” my mother told me. “Florida’s the perfect place to recuperate.” She paused, pondering her next words, an unusual move for my mother who is seldom at a loss on any occasion. “Your Aunt Hy has always been a bit–ah–different,” she confided.
As if I didn’t know.
“But, lately,” she continued, “well . . . I’d feel much better if you were down there keeping an eye on her.”
There was more, I knew it. After all, when had Aunt Hyacinth not been strange?
“You know, Aurora”—I winced at my mother’s use of the name she had inflicted on me in an excessive burst of romanticism some twenty-seven years ago—“your Aunt Hy is very wealthy and has no children—”
“Mom!” I cut her off, nearly strangling as I repressed a screech unsuitable to my proper New England upbringing. “Aunt Hyacinth lives in a condo at the Ritz. With a housekeeper and a maid. Believe me, she plans to spend it all.”
“Nonetheless,” my mother decreed, “you have several months of recovery ahead of you and Florida is the ideal place to be. Aunt Hy tells me she’ll be delighted to have you, so you might as well start packing. It’s the perfect solution to your problem.”
My problem. That’s as close as we’d ever come to talking about my problem. My “accident.” My probable career change. The great red blob in the middle of the white rug that everyone pussy-foots around and no one ever mentions. I guess I should have been grateful my parents recognized I wasn’t yet ready to face the monster in the closet. Correction. My particular monster refused to be relegated to a closet. It hovered beside me every minute of every day, hissing in my ear, Screwed the pooch, didn’t you, girl? Messed up big time. Pay for it the rest of your life, you will, Rory . . . Ro-ry . . . Ror-r-ry . . .
Mom may have tippy-toed around the crisis in my life, but on the subject of my visit to Aunt Hyacinth she was inexorable. Okay, so I’d go to the land of the has-beens, the cast-offs, the seniors who alleviated boredom with endless rounds of golf and shopping while they longed to be back in the boardrooms and teeming activities of the North.
Or so I thought, while sunk in depression in my parent’s Connecticut living room with its great bay windows overlooking Long Island Sound. Connecticut, the land of real people—the movers and shakers, from the rich-as-sin to university intellectuals, with a few dons and capos still clinging to the good old days. Florida, in contrast, was the end of the world. Exile. I’d be fallen off the edge of the map, lost in the place that used to be labeled, “There be dragons!”
Some dragons! White-haired seniors with quad canes or walkers, creeping along with oxygen bottles at their sides. And Rory Travis fitting right in. In fact, it was a good bet most of the seniors could outdistance my hobbling steps nine times out of ten.
Of course, I soon discovered my image of senior citizens was pretty far off the mark. Yes, Florida’s seniors did play golf. Yes, they were avid shoppers, happily spending their children’s inheritance. They also walked the beaches, swam, hiked, biked, enjoyed theater, concerts, sporting events, and put in a rather astonishing number of hours at volunteer jobs—from local hospitals to the sheriff’s department, from libraries to museums. Sometimes they even allowed failures like me to join them. Which is how I ended up eating lunch under the watchful eye of Michelangelo’s David, who was wearing nothing but his sling-shot nonchalantly slung over one shoulder. (Yes, I know the marble original is in Florence, but the Bellman Museum’s bronze reproduction is bigger and—um—well, even more startlingly anatomically correct.)
The minute Aunt Hyacinth noticed I was ready to do more than lie on the chaise on her balcony and gaze out over Sarasota Bay, she sent me off to the Bellman, where I promptly became the youngest volunteer on the roster. This, I must tell you, was not exactly a major accomplishment as Aunt Hy is a six-figure contributor to the museum’s ever-struggling coffers, not to mention that it was August, a time when all those who could afford it had fled north for the summer. Tram drivers were in such short supply that on the day I reported for training, the Chief of Security was out on the run, driving a tram.
A tram at a museum? you ask. Sensible question. The Richard and Opal Bellman Museum of Art is actually three museums set on sixty-some acres of bayfront just north of downtown Sarasota, Florida. Even the grounds are a museum of sorts, being chock full of exotic trees and plants, including a spectacular rose garden, an ear tree (honestly!), a sausage tree (definitely not edible), and those strange and mysterious imports from India—banyan trees, which are scattered like giant alien life forms in nearly every direction you look. So, between the Florida heat, monsoon rains, and flocks of visitors from all over the world, a fleet of trams is necessary, constantly moving people from the Art Museum to the Circus Museum to the Casa Bellissima, the Bellman’s spectacular winter home, set in the midst of more than a thousand feet of bayfront.
I crumpled the brown paper bag that had held my E.T. bagel with vegie cream cheese and tucked it inside my mini-cooler. I finished my can of gingerale while savoring the pea
ce of the huge courtyard tucked between the long U-shaped sides of the Art Museum. Peace. That’s why I was here. (Occasionally, dear old Aunt Hy displayed remarkably good sense.) Everywhere I looked, my wretched soul was soothed by beauty and serenity. The glory of David, the brilliant fuchsia of the bougainvilleas tumbling from enormous terra-cotta jugs, the life-size classical statues guarding the museum’s roofline, the stately banyans putting down their octopus-like roots on the grounds outside, the acres of flowers and exotic greenery. The antique gilded wagons in the Circus Museum, the sparkling blue of Sarasota Bay, the magnificence of the Casa Bellissima—the Most Beautiful House—named in an obvious play on Richard Bellman’s name. In short, the Bellman was exactly the oasis I needed at this time in my life.
Once again, my eyes strayed to David, my hero, proudly poised on the raised walkway at the west end of the courtyard. All two hundred glorious naked inches of him, looking out over the courtyard and Art Museum with all the casual elegance of an emperor surveying his realm. And, okay, I admit it, I wondered about the then-twenty-six-year-old Michelangelo and the glorious young man who had posed for him. Had they enjoyed each other when the workday was done?
I also wondered if God still made men who looked like that. Not to my personal knowledge, that’s for sure. Not when I was working “up north,” and certainly not now, when I was a semi-invalid living in the land of senior citizens. Though to be perfectly honest about my wistful fantasies, if I met someone who actually looked like David—that noble face, those springing curls, a body to die for—I’d probably turn and run.
But, no, girls with gimpy legs didn’t run. Nor would running be necessary in the reincarnated presence of such a man. I could simply slip to the back of the crowd of women (and men) surrounding this phenomenon and fade into obscurity. Rory Travis—a woman of medium height, a figure that would never stand out in a crowd, bland coloring—skin too pale, shoulder-length hair, nondescript brown, eyes blue with flecks of green. And a limp that verged on the grotesque.
I sighed, grabbed my cane, and hauled myself to my feet. My view of David was abruptly cut off by the roof of the loggia that extended around three sides of the courtyard. There was a time . . . yes, there was a time when all my perfectly ordinary parts came together in an attractive package. It seemed a very long time ago.
I hobbled to the edge of the loggia and took another peek at David. Fool! A woman of nearly thirty did not lust after a boy of . . . what? Seventeen? Eighteen? Surely, the model for David could not have been more than that. Yet that magnificent hunk of bronze was safe, I could lust after him all I wanted. This boy, forever immortalized by Michelangelo, did not mind my sickly complexion, my limp, my heavy heart. I could look my fill and he would still stand there, arrogantly overlooking his kingdom, just as Richard Bellman had placed him some seventy-five years ago.
I picked up my cooler and made my way up the shallow steps to the elevator. I’d already checked in with Security on the lower level, so the only preparations remaining for my tram run were a trip to the Ladies’ Room and pouring quarters into the drink machine, which dutifully plopped down an ice-cold bottle of water. It was late September and September in Florida is exactly like June, July, and August. Blazing hot, with afternoon thunderstorms likely. The only difference from the previous months was that, by September, everyone is thoroughly sick of the unremitting heat alleviated only by total immersion in refrigerated cars and buildings.
My tram, however, was not air conditioned. And its rain protection consisted of plastic curtains that rolled down and zipped together. But the curtains did not fasten well to the windshield, and I usually ended up soaked. Yet, heaven help me, I actually liked my job—my volunteer job—driving round and round the grounds for three and a half hours twice a week. How else would I meet people from every part of the U.S., Canada, and sundry points in Europe? Meeting and greeting, that’s what I do now. And quite a change it is from my former occupation.
I waved at Mike, who was behind the Security Desk, pushed open the outside door, quickly closing it behind me to shut out the blast of heat. Slowly, I made my way around the west corner of the museum, crossed behind the courtyard—not failing to examine David’s anterior portions as I limped by. But the heat was horrendous, and even David’s nether cheeks could not tempt me to linger. I passed the “tram barn,” the skimpily roofed area where the trams recharged each night, and made my way to the driveway on the north side of the museum, where I knew George, who drove Tram 3—my tram—on the morning run, would see me and come to pick me up. The distance, about the length of a football field, was not one any of us cared to walk under the blazing Florida sun.
A golf cart bounced toward me over the broken pavement, skidded to a halt beside me. “Rory, what’s up, girl? Been moonin’ over that statue again?”
Mooning. An apt description of my appreciative peek at David’s cheeks.
“Billie.” I returned the driver’s grin, although I couldn’t help but notice his high-watt personality seemed dimmed this morning, his customary teasing more habit than genuine high spirits. When I first met him, I would swear he said his name was Billie Ball Hamlin, but since that seemed unlikely, perhaps I had misinterpreted his Florida drawl. So I’d settled for first-name only, which was all anyone seemed to use at the Bellman. Billie’s about my age and has that Florida-born look—lean and fit, permanent tan, sun-streaked blond hair, blue eyes with crinkles at the corners, and an easy-going attitude that never seems to mind rendering “service” to the rich and powerful. Or even to the senior volunteers, who were mostly has-beens. Like me.
If you’re thinking I feel sorry for myself, you’re right. I do. If you think I’m suffering from depression, you’re right about that too. Tough to be Miss Merry Sunshine after losing your man and a promising career in less than thirty seconds. So go easy on the judgment. Spare the kicks ’til I’m out of rehab.
Billie was a fixture at the Bellman, part of the sixty-acre landscape. I’d always assumed he was one of the many groundskeepers, but I wasn’t sure. The grounds are huge, and a startling variety of people are scooting about in golf carts at any given time. Nubile young ladies, barely out of the art departments of prestigious universities and thrilled to be on staff at the Bellman. Security guards, mostly stalwart men of middle years, wearing the Bellman’s burgundy polo shirts with laminated IDs hanging from a ribbon round their necks (the same uniform worn by tram drivers). The guards tended to return my greetings with solemn nods. The groundskeepers inevitably smiled, waved, and granted the trams precedence. The nubile maidens (I speak classically only, of course) and the security guards did not.
Billie, I was nearly certain, ranked among Those Who Get Paid. Other than that, his role at the Bellman remained a mystery. Some months ago, I had abruptly ceased to be one of Those Who Asked Questions. Undoubtedly, Billie and I had drifted into occasional conversation due to our shared (and rare) age group. You could, I guess, call us work buddies.
“Want a ride?” Billie offered. “Save George a trip?”
“Sure.” I climbed into the passenger seat, although I wasn’t sure if George, who was closer to eighty than seventy, would appreciate the gesture. I’d probably have to run him back to his car.
Billie sat, staring at the steering wheel, his foot resting, unmoving, above the pedal. “Bad morning,” he said at last. “I was in early—been up all night—uh, never mind, forget I said that.” He grabbed the steering wheel, pushed back against the uncompromising white vinyl seat. “Anyway . . . I was first out on the grounds, doing a quick check to make sure everything was shipshape before the thundering herds arrived. And down near the Casa—you know that big old banyan nearest the water? Well, this kid from the Honors College . . . he’d taken a bed sheet and . . . and–um–he was just dangling there, turning in the seabreeze, right alongside those damned twisted trunks and hanging roots . . .”
“Oh, Billie, I’m sorry.” I laid my hand on his bare arm, hoping to give comfort, even as my heart ache
d for the student who had been so desperate and confused that he’d taken his own life.
The college next door to the Bellman grounds is the Honors College of the State of Florida, often described as providing an Ivy League education for half the price. But even an unusual amount of brain power couldn’t protect a person from depression. No one knew that better than I. But now, with the low, wrenching creak of cracking open a long-shut lid on an antique chest, something long dormant stirred inside me. “How do you know he was a student?” I asked. Curiosity, thy name is Rory.
“Student I.D. Name was Tim Mundell. And he left a note, carefully typed and placed under a broken branch big enough to keep it from blowing away. Very precise. Just like the computer geek he was.”
“You knew him?”
“No, but I hung around long enough to hear what happened when the police came. Some cop went over to the campus, and it seemed like half the student body came back with him. It’s a small college, y’know. They all know each other.”
“Did anybody suggest how he managed it? I mean, was there a ladder or a stool—”
“Rory,” Billie interrupted, “you ever take a good look at a banyan? They got trunks going every which way. Any kid could climb up high enough to drop a noose off a limb.”
He was right. Banyans were definitely the oddest trees I’d ever seen. Even I, in my present debilitated state, could probably climb a banyan, with a bedsheet already knotted around my neck. Tie the other end to a branch and simply jump . . . “Any motive, or was it simply depression?”
“Note was kinda vague . . . sounded like life had overwhelmed him. Seemed a bit odd, though, y’know. Exam week, I could see it, but when the semester is just starting . . .?”
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