Art of Evil

by Bancroft, Blair

  It’s a short drive from the Bellman to the Ritz-Carlton, situated on the bay in the heart of town. Less than ten minutes, even at rush hour. How to describe the Ritz? Only a year after it opened, it had already been named one of the Top Twenty hotels in the world. It’s built on a narrow strip of land between Sarasota Bay and the famed Tamiami Trail (constructed between Tampa and Miami in the twenties at considerable loss of life, particularly as the road slogged its way through the Everglades). The architects of the Ritz-Carlton faced some of the same problems as the original builders of the Trail. Dig a hole along Florida’s Gulf Coast, and you get a pond, a canal, or a harbor, depending on how far inland you dig. Water lurks just beneath the surface, making basements and underground garages nearly impossible. At the Ritz, the practical, as well as the aesthetic, challenge of constructing an inoffensive parking garage while building on what was basically a small lot had been cleverly solved by putting the garage on the ground floor, then burying it beneath tons of earth, so the hotel appeared to be sitting on a hill. (Even though the West Coast of Florida is flat as the proverbial pancake.)

  You get used to driving into a cavernous grass-covered hillside, I supposed. I, however, was still at that stage where I never failed to shake my head as I greeted the attendant then pulled into Aunt Hy’s assigned “underground” parking space.

  What can I say to prepare you for Aunt Hy? She and her cook/housekeeper, Marian Edmundson, have been together so long that, in the fashion of many married couples, they have begun to look alike. Put Marian in a flowing gown of the Art Deco period and Aunt Hy into a severe gray cotton-poly uniform, and the switch could almost pass unnoticed. Marian might be younger by five or ten years, but Hyacinth Van Horne had the advantage of a series of face lifts. Neither of them would see seventy-five again.

  A year earlier, about the time Aunt Hyacinth gave up her imposing waterfront mansion and moved into the brand new Ritz-Carlton, she had, in a flash of inspiration, hired a local girl “to add a bit of life about the place,” as she put it. Jody Tyler lived up to expectations. She wore no uniform; her job description would have been tough to summarize. She was the bright smile and strong young legs needed in a household of two elderly women. Gofer, companion, watchdog. Raised in a state dominated by seniors, Jody had been brought up to serve the host of senior invaders from the North. That was, after all, Florida’s primary industry. Jody was, however, nobody’s subservient maid. She worked with amazing forbearance and a nearly constant cheerful grin. Any relation to a proper English, French, or latina maid was almost nonexistent.

  In fact, Jody Tyler was so young and lively, so perky and totally competent, so totally Pollyanna-meets-Barbie, that I sometimes wanted to strangle her. Today, she met me at the door, whisked away my still-dripping raincoat, and shooed me into the “drawing room,” promising “Glenlivet on the rocks, coming up!” (Okay, so sometimes it’s hard to remember why I balked when Mom insisted on sending me to Florida.)

  Aunt Hy’s drawing room is almost impossible to describe. Perhaps if you’ve visited Windsor Castle or the palaces of the Holy Roman Empire? Except none of those places have the luxury of a corner penthouse view of Sarasota Bay to the west and a sheltered man-made inlet full of luxury yachts on the north. If, however, you can pry your eyes away from the panoramic view, you will see that the condo’s stark off-white walls, carpet, sofa, and deep armchairs are a mere backdrop for furnishings of ebony, rosewood, burled walnut, and other one-of-a-kind creations, including exquisitely carved consoles and cabinets, delicately painted in the Oriental style or swimming in oceans of ormolu. The mantel over the pink marble fireplace boasts eighteenth century ceramic candlesticks by Meissen, a shepherd and shepherdess, complete with dog and sheep and surrounded by a backdrop of ceramic flowers. A small silk Savonnerie carpet shimmers on the wall, much too priceless to be trod upon by twenty-first century feet.

  The remainder of Aunt Hy’s eclectic collection of objets d’art are tastefully arrayed on a series of impeccably designed matching etagères. To name only a few of my favorites: a Tang horse, a blue and white bottle vase (late Ming), an exquisitely shaped Chrysanthemum dish from Japan, a Dresden clock whose ceramic figures blend well with the Meissen candlesticks across the room. And, more modern but no less beautiful—displayed side by side with Venetian glass—were twentieth century classics by Steuben and Waterford and Aunt Hy’s exquisite collection of fantastical designs by Chihuly.

  A small sigh escaped. I had not realized I had a taste for the finer things until I had lived a few months with Aunt Hy. Until the sheer beauty got to me, and I waked up and started asking questions. Even then, I thought her treasures reproductions until, after taking over paying Aunt Hy’s bills, I saw her insurance premium.

  “Here y’are,” said Jody, handing me my drink, the ice cubes clinking nicely in their sea of scotch.

  Incurably middle-class, I thanked her. Then lowered my voice to a whisper. “What’s she up to today?”

  “Today was the beach again,” Jody hissed, settling onto the overstuffed arm of the chair in which I was stretched out, my feet planted on a matching satin-tasseled ottoman. “Got on her bathing suit, put that funny-looking thing on her head—”

  “Bathing cap,” I supplied.

  “Can you even buy something like that?” Jody demanded. “I mean, I never seen—saw—nothing like that in my whole life. It’s got flowers on it, you know. Plastic.”

  Suddenly, the day seemed brighter. For a moment I could even put the pulsing intensity of Josh Thomas behind me. “They used to make them like that, once upon a time,” I confided, straight-faced. “I imagine that cap’s about twice as old as you are.”

  “Really?” Jody’s sky blue eyes twinkled at me. Then she nodded. “Guess they must have, or how else would the old girl have got it, right?”

  “It’s actually rubber,” I told her. “I think it may pre-date plastics.”

  Chortling, Jody elbowed me (gently) in the shoulder to indicate she knew I was exaggerating. I was, but only a little. I suspected my aunt’s bathing cap dated from the fifties or early sixties when plastics were a young industry. (I’m sure you recall the famous scene in The Graduate, when a wet-behind-the-ears Dustin Hoffman is urged to get into “Plastics.”)

  “So what did you do?” I asked.

  Jody had no difficulty making the adjustment back to our primary topic. “Well . . . I went down in the elevator with her—you know, those funny bathing sandals she has must be as old as the cap.” I nodded, and urged her on. “So I walked her to the pool and found her a lounger, but she wouldn’t sit down, o’course. Said it wasn’t the right place. There was supposed to be sand and boats. It was sad.” Jody shook her head. “So I told her what you said. I reminded her she sold her house at the beach, that she was in a hotel now, so there’d be lots of people to look after her day and night. I ordered her a gin and tonic and got her to sit by the pool a while, then we came back upstairs.”

  “That was good, Jody. Thank you.” I closed my eyes a moment, mourning the fragility of our senses, as vulnerable to wear and tear as our bodies. “Do you recall how many times she’s done this?” I asked.

  “Third time since I’ve been here. ‘Course if she did it on my day off, Mrs. Edmundson’d never tell.”

  I sighed. Life was a bitch. Aunt Hy’s occasional lapses reminded me how small-minded it was to feel sorry for myself just because I had to carry a cane. “Aren’t you late for a date or something?” I asked.

  Jody grinned. “No problem. Jeff’s picking me up at seven.”

  Jody lived “out.” With a boyfriend who worked construction, permanently employed by one of the area’s largest development companies. I liked to think the two of them put off their perfect façades at night, gleefully bitching to each other about all those Tall Tales of How Much Better Everything Is Up North. Or perhaps they counted coup on the latest Lost Tourist’s attempt to turn left from the farthest right of three lanes.

  I savored the last of my Gl
enlivet single malt, made sure I placed the moisture-beaded glass precisely on the coaster so as not to damage the intricate hand-painted design on the end table. Then I levered myself up and went in search of my Aunt Hyacinth. Aunt Hy had a few other eccentricities that needed careful watching.

  Chapter 3

  According to the newspapers, and confirmed by the Bellman grapevine, Honors College senior Tim Mundell had taken his own life. Case closed.

  Leave it, Travis. Not your problem. Curiosity killed the cat. Oh, yeah, I knew all about that.

  A week after I met Josh Thomas , I drove toward the Bellman, uttering dire curses against my physical therapist with whom I had spent ninety minutes that morning. He was a ghoul, a sadist, an unlicensed imposter. He was, in fact, a crew-cropped Adonis, built like a fullback, with the mental attitude of a drill sergeant, incongruously combined with the patronizing cheerfulness of a huckster. My scowl lasted until the first tram passenger stepped aboard . . . and then the magic of the Bellman took over. I smiled. I greeted. My tram full, I drove off into the soothing serenity of the grounds.

  I had done my spiel at the gatehouse (a live-in dollhouse—the gatekeeper must have been single or very happily married!), dropped two passengers at the Circus Museum, pointed out the restaurant and Opal’s Rose Garden. As I continued on toward the Casa Bellissima, I explained about the banyan trees, how the general story—however apocryphal it might be—was that Thomas Edison had given the first banyan starts to Richard Bellman. Before that, it was said, Edison and Henry Ford had imported the originals from India in a search for a substitute for rubber. In any event, if you’ve never seen a banyan, they are amazing trees. As they grow, they drop down rope-like shoots from their branches. These “ropes” root into the soil and form new trunks. With each passing year, the trees look more and more like giant asymmetrical spiders, with gnarled trunks spreading out in a vast circle from the original. Since most of the banyans at the Bellman were now around seventy-five years old, the trees were impressive.

  “As we make the turn up ahead,” I intoned, “you will have a particularly fine view of the House. And, on your right, you’ll see a surprise, a statue inside a banyan tree.” Directing my passengers’ gaze, I glanced toward my second favorite statue—a full-sized bronze of a man (naked, of course) lying prone, neatly tucked into a narrow opening between the banyan trunks.

  My foot came off the pedal. Tram 3 came to an abrupt halt. I gaped. It was gone. The huge bronze, blued with age, was gone. As far as I could tell from my tram seat, the solid mat of brown fibers covering the ground where it had lain had not even been disturbed. I murmured an apology to my passengers and moved on, the words of my familiar spiel rolling off my tongue without conscious thought. I pointed out the arch the banyan had formed over the road . . . the sausage tree with its inedible “fruit”. . . the blue diamond tiles that marked the Bellman’s swimming pool. “It was thought to be a hazard, so they filled it in and made a garden.” As usual, whispered sighs of regret echoed from the rear.

  “Is that Tampa Bay?” someone asked.

  “No, ma’am, that’s Sarasota Bay. Tampa Bay is some miles north of here.”

  “Beautiful!” breathed another female voice.

  “After your tour, you can sit out on the terrace, if you’d like,” I said. “There’s even a café where you can get a drink or a snack.” I pulled to a stop in front of what we all referred to as “the House”—the Casa Bellissima, Richard and Opal Bellman’s unique contribution to America’s castles. I pointed out the greeter standing at the top of the ramp. “The man in the red vest will tell you if you’re to go in now or wait in the chairs under the canopy.”

  With a chorus of thank-yous, my passengers debarked. (Visitors to the Bellman are very polite.) No new passengers piled in. Evidently, all visitors were still viewing the House or waiting for the next tour. I pulled away empty, my mind free to seethe with the shock of the missing statue.

  I had taken the elevator up to the museum library one day and spent an hour or so trying to find a name for that statue. As far as I could determine, since the records did not include a photo, it was called The Sleeping Satyr. Well, wouldn’t you know? I’d thought. Trust me to ignore the Apollo Belvedere out front in favor of a satyr. The problem, you see, wasn’t merely that the statue had gone missing. My problem was, that banyan tree was right next to the one where I had sheltered while readying my tram for the rain last Tuesday afternoon. Not more than twenty or thirty feet from where Josh Thomas had appeared out of nowhere, sliding in next to me in a burst of fire and brimstone. (Okay, so I’m exaggerating . . . but not by much.)

  And now The Sleeping Satyr had gone missing.

  Na-a-w. No way. Obviously, my head needed therapy worse than my leg.

  It was more than an hour before I finally spotted Billie charging across the lawn in his golf cart. Even though I had passengers, I flagged him down. “The statue in the banyan down by the house—what happened to it?”

  “Went to Tallahassee,” he responded cheerfully. “Going to get all clean and beautiful. Like David.” He winked.

  Relief flooded through me. Not that I’d really believed . . . I murmured my thanks and put my foot to the pedal.

  To understand that remark about Tallahassee, you have to know that Richard Bellman left his sixty-plus acres, his art treasures, his private castle, and other outbuildings to the State of Florida. After many years of barely keeping its head above water (sometimes, literally), the museum had recently become associated with one of Florida’s large state universities, thus acquiring an unprecedented inflow of cash for long-neglected maintenance. So The Sleeping Satyr had gone off to the capital city to be restored to its original shining bronze. Or—oh horrors!—had it gone into storage after someone complained of a supine male nude within three feet of the tramway?

  Surely not.

  Would David be next?

  My shoulders slumped as my alarm ratcheted down. Common sense said David was too famous and, displayed on the courtyard’s rear wall, not so close up and personal as my poor Sleeping Satyr.

  Nonetheless . . . I could still feel his essence. Or was that essence of Josh Thomas?

  Ridiculous! Josh Thomas was a visitor like all the other visitors. Man not fantasy. Our lives had touched for a moment or two, a five-minute ride . . . then parted, never to meet again.

  But the miserable man stuck with me. Unrelentingly. Even rain-soaked, Josh Thomas had burned with an inner fire. With suave charm wrapped round glowing coals of danger. And possibly deceit. Everything I was—everything I had been—told me I was right. Josh Thomas was an enigma. An intriguing one. For six months my heart had been dead, shattered one horrible night as thoroughly as the rest of me. But since the advent of Josh Thomas, both mind and heart were shifting out of neutral, creaking erratically . . . toward what?

  Damn the man! I suspected his soul was as dark as his hair.

  He haunted me.

  That night, as I left the museum, I almost forgot to drop my tram key at the Security Desk.

  I should probably explain how museums work. At least, how the Bellman works. As I tell our visitors when they ask: most of the “staff” they see at the museum are volunteers—the people at the information desk, the greeters, docents, and tram drivers. Visitors have only minimal interaction with ticket sellers, groundskeepers, and security guards, and none at all with the Director, the Deputy Director, the Chief Financial Officer, Conservation, Marketing, Education, and Archives, who are all tucked up in their offices doing what paid Staff does. The volunteers are the ones out on the front lines, meeting and greeting, the true Goodwill Ambassadors of the Richard and Opal Bellman Museum of Art. Most are stationary, seeing only their own tiny portion of the three museums. The tram drivers, however, in their constant circle from Art to Circus to Casa, are the true scouts—the eyes and ears of the museum grounds. And we interact with our visitors on a less formal basis than the other volunteers and have to be ready with answers to an astonish
ing variety of questions. And, yes, we tend to think we’re the hotshots of the volunteers. Even though we had to admit the docents had much more formal training.

  That afternoon, for the first time, I met one. She was tall, elegant, perfectly coiffeured, and impeccably dressed, and I have to admit she put my black slacks and Bellman burgundy polo shirt with laminated pendant ID ribbon to shame. She came bustling out of the Casa’s solarium, ushering a young couple with two children, one a baby fast asleep in one of those imposing strollers about the size of an old-fashioned baby carriage. I knew before she opened her mouth that I was in trouble. Docents did not usually escort visitors on anything but tours. I suspected this particular couple were her friends or relatives. There were several people already waiting on the tram benches. I braced myself.

  “Here’s the tram now,” I heard the docent say from the top of the ramp. “It will take you to the parking lot.”

  Parking lot. I was in even more trouble than I had thought. The trams did not go to the parking lot across the street from the museum.

  Visitors waiting to enter the Casa politely flattened themselves against the railing as the couple pushed their way down the ramp. No one was supposed to go down this ramp, I was thinking. The Exit was on the other side of the house. I shrugged. None of my business.

  But who rode the tram was.

  “You’ll have to fold up the stroller and put it on the back,” I said. “And hold the baby in your lap.”

  “But she’s sleeping,” the young mother protested.