An Artful Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

  Falucci silently noted the time discrepancy, and confirmed that Breinin had left for the League at seven, his usual time. He then thanked Mrs. Breinin and her daughter and left without encountering the artist. It was six p.m.

  He walked to the IND subway station at Fourteenth Street and Eighth Avenue, took the uptown E train five stops to Seventh Avenue, and walked four blocks north and half a block east to the League. That took him thirty minutes, including a five-minute wait for the train. He then went up to the fifth-floor studio, taking the stairs instead of the elevator. He chatted with the cop on duty, looked around the room, and killed time until half an hour had passed. Then he repeated the route in reverse. He was back at the door of 31 Bethune Street by seven thirty. The whole operation took ninety minutes.

  By his calculation, based on the times given by Patricia and Susan, Breinin could have left the apartment at four thirty, gone to the League, killed Benton and returned home by six, with neither of them aware that he’d been out.

  Twenty-Seven

  When TJ walked Ellen home on Thursday night, he’d made a date to meet at the Up ’n’ Down the next evening. At the time he didn’t have anything to offer but sympathy. But now that Friday was here, he had a plan. True to his word, he wouldn’t tell her where his information came from, but he was determined to go where Nita had pointed.

  Seated in one of the twin armchairs, with two open cans of Schaefer on the little table between them, he laid it out for Ellen, who occupied the other chair.

  “Let’s forget Bill for now. We can’t help him anyway. I’m gonna do what Mom suggested, find out who really did kill Benton. I heard that a woman threatened him at the Whitney, said she was going to, what was the word? Oh, yeah, exterminate him. Maybe she did. I need to find her.”

  Of course Ellen was curious. “How do you know that?”

  “I’m in a building full of cops all day, and they’re a fount of information,” he said cryptically. “Word is, she’s one of Andy Warhol’s gang. They hang out at a place they call the Factory. I’m going over there and check it out. Once I identify her, the police can take it from there.”

  Ellen was immediately enthusiastic. “Let’s go right now!” She jumped up and headed for her coat, then stopped and turned. “Wait a minute, where is the Factory?”

  “Hold on,” he said, raising his hand in a cautionary gesture. “I said I’m going, not we. They’re a bunch of degenerates and druggies. It’s no place for a nice girl like you.”

  She rounded on him, her eyes cold as blue ice. “Don’t you dare patronize me! I’m the one who started this, and I’ll see it through, with or without you. I can find the Factory on my own, thank you.” She marched to where her coat hung on a hook on the back of the apartment door. She grabbed her coat off the hook, put it on, shoved her keys and wallet into the pockets, took a woolen muffler off another hook and wrapped it around her neck.

  TJ stood immobilized and silent as she prepared to leave. Jesus, what an idiot I am, he thought ruefully. Once again he searched for the right thing to say and came up empty.

  Ellen opened the door. “Are you coming? If not, you can wait here for me. Michele won’t be home from The Bitter End ’til after one, so you’ll have the place to yourself. There’s more beer in the icebox. Help yourself.”

  Her little speech had given him time to think. She was standing very straight, her head held high with indignation, as he approached her. Thinking he was after his jacket, she closed the door. But that was not his objective.

  Since words failed him, he chose action. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the mouth, not lustfully, but fervently. Two words suddenly dawned on him. Still embracing her, he bent his lips to her ear and whispered, “You’re wonderful.”

  Ellen sighed and leaned back in his arms, relaxing now, but still alert. A Cheshire cat smile lit up her face. “And you’re exasperating!” She reached up, took his face in her hands, and returned his kiss in equal measure.

  Both a bit dazed, they stood for a few moments, just taking each other in. Then they laughed and hugged and laughed some more—at themselves, at each other, and at the situation.

  TJ’s next hug turned into an embrace. One hand cradled Ellen’s head as he kissed her again, more deeply this time. She responded, and he twisted slightly so that his free hand could find its way inside her coat, along her back and, with growing urgency, to her breast, sending spasms of desire through her body. As he drew her closer, she could feel his shallow breathing, his thumping heart, and his erection pressing against her groin.

  He hesitated. The next move, she knew, was hers.

  Slowly, so as not to make him think she was pushing him away, she stepped back, shrugged off her coat, unwound the muffler, and hung them up again. She took his hand, and led him into the bedroom she shared with Michele. The light was off, and she left it that way, sensing he was unsure of himself and guessing, correctly, that he had never gone all the way before. She had, with her high school sweetheart. They had consummated their relationship in late March, when he was home on spring break from college in Chicago, not long after she’d moved into the Up ’n’ Down.

  After a romantic reunion dinner, they’d returned to the apartment to find that Michele had discreetly gone to the movies. As their usual necking and petting escalated, they decided that making it was the perfect way to celebrate her independence. As it turned out, he’d come prepared with a condom. Before he went back to Chicago they’d run through a few more.

  In anticipation of his return in the summer, she had invested in a diaphragm. Then in June she got the letter telling her that he had a summer job on campus and wouldn’t be coming back. Reading between the lines, she assumed he was also working on a new girlfriend, probably a classmate who had more in common with him now than she did. So she dried her tears, put the cap in the drawer and, with typical pragmatism, decided to chalk it up to experience and be thankful for her erotic adventure—lessons she was about to put to good use.

  * * *

  She sat on her bed and urged TJ down beside her. She kissed him lightly, drew back, and looked into his eyes, steadying herself for her revelation.

  “I want you to know,” she said softly, “that I don’t sleep around. In fact I’ve only had one other lover, and we broke up months ago.” She paused, letting him absorb this information.

  He averted his eyes. What was he thinking? She couldn’t read him, couldn’t gauge his reaction, and began to second-guess herself. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him. Maybe he won’t want me now that he knows I’m not a virgin. But I had to be truthful, I couldn’t bear to deceive him, because I love him. Please, God, don’t let him reject me.

  Actually he was grateful that she was so forthright, and that she had taken the initiative. He didn’t resent her previous relationship. On the contrary, he was surprisingly relieved that he didn’t have to be the one to deflower her. He found the prospect intimidating, since he was uninitiated himself. But she had removed that stumbling block.

  In the face of his silence, Ellen pressed on. “I’m serious about you, TJ, really serious, or I wouldn’t go all the way with you. I think you feel the same, at least I hope you do. But if you don’t, please tell me. I’ll still go through with it, ’cause I’m not a tease, but then I won’t see you again.”

  He thought his brain would burst, it was so full of emotion. Suddenly the words were there, gushing out. “Serious? My God, Ellen, I’m in love with you! Head over heels. What a stupid cliché, but I don’t know how else to put it. I just can’t tell you, I can’t think straight.”

  Gently, she pushed him down onto the bed, her long hair cascading over him as she kissed him deeply, then whispered, “You don’t need to think, just feel.” His arousal was immediate and obvious. She pressed her hand against his crotch, and he groaned with pleasure.

  “I need to do something first, for protection,” she tol
d him. Another lingering kiss that left him aching for her, and she was gone. But not for long.

  When she returned, she was wearing the diaphragm, a bathrobe, and nothing else. He had kicked off his shoes, but had remained fully clothed, not knowing what the etiquette was. He was not completely inexperienced, but this was just what he had only dreamed about, and he was fearful of doing something wrong and spoiling it.

  Don’t rush, don’t push it, let it happen naturally, he told himself. And sure enough, when she was lying beside him, unbuttoning his shirt while he caressed her nubile body, his nervousness evaporated. Somehow his clothing vanished in the most miraculous way, his hands gravitated to her responsive places seemingly on their own, and his lips found just the right spots to kiss and lick and suck. And she seemed to know exactly what to do to him and for how long.

  Assuming he would climax as soon as he entered her, she wanted to match him if possible. That was the ideal, but it usually took some practice. He had already given her one orgasm with his tongue and was working on a manual follow-up as he knelt between her legs. She signaled her readiness by wrapping them around his waist. He slid inside her, and remarkably they came together on the first try.

  * * *

  Delighting in the afterglow, they lay in each other’s arms, resting quietly between whispered endearments. But it wasn’t long before they remembered the cause of the emotional outpouring that had brought them to bed.

  Wanting to protect Ellen, but knowing she wouldn’t allow herself to be left out of his plans, TJ decided to change tactics.

  “I’m having second thoughts about the Factory,” he said, as she nestled her head against his shoulder. “If we just walk in and start asking questions, they’ll get suspicious right away and we’ll never get anywhere.”

  Ellen sighed. “You’re right. But what’s the alternative? We’ve got to find out who she is.”

  Suddenly she raised herself on one elbow and looked at him eagerly. “Listen, I have an idea. Michele sometimes goes to a club called Max’s Kansas City, and she says Warhol’s gang is in there practically every night. It’s just a couple of blocks from here. Michele’s friendly with the bartender, kind of sweet on him, actually. I bet she could get us in, and we wouldn’t stick out like nosey parkers. Let’s go ask her.”

  “Honey, you’re not only wonderful and beautiful, you’re brilliant!” TJ reached up and pulled her close. Immediately they were hot again, and their new plan was put on hold for the next half hour.

  After an awkward shower in the apartment’s ancient bathtub, struggling to keep their footing, and failing to keep straight faces as they soaped each other and jockeyed for position to rinse off under the faltering spray, they dressed and headed to The Bitter End.

  It was about nine, and the place was jumping. Paul Butterfield Blues Band were on stage, belting out their highly amplified rock versions of Chicago-style classics like “Shake Your Moneymaker” and “Got My Mojo Working,” as well as their own compositions.

  Butterfield was one of the few white lead singers who could carry it off, and the crowd was eating it up.

  The bouncer recognized Ellen and waved her and TJ in. They spotted Michele, tray in hand, shuttling between the kitchen and the pews. The only empty seats were at the musicians’ table, so they worked their way to the back, where Paul Colby occupied the manager’s booth, and waited politely until the band finished its number and took a break.

  “Hey, Ellen, baby, whatcha doin’ here on a Friday night?” asked Colby. “You want to go to work? Tie on an apron and give Michele a hand. Five an hour plus tips, how about it?”

  “Tempting, Paul, but I’ve got a date.” She introduced TJ to Colby, who replied with a quick handshake and a perfunctory “Glad to meet ya,” and got an equally terse “Likewise” in reply.

  “We’re only here for a few minutes,” said Ellen. “I have to talk to Michele, just a quick word. When’s her break?”

  Colby checked his watch. “Soon as the second set starts, maybe ten minutes. You want to wait here?” He gestured toward the opposite side of the booth, and they slid in.

  “I gotta talk to the band, ask ’em to turn down the volume a bit. This place is too small for that much amp,” he said, and rose. “If I bump into Michele I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  She had already spotted them and detoured in their direction on her way back to the kitchen with a load of empty plates and glasses.

  “Well, well, what’s this? A bona fide date, or are you two just slumming?” She set the tray on the table and plopped down in the booth. “Ooh, that feels good. I’ve been on my feet for three hours. The other waitress called in sick, so I haven’t had a minute off.”

  “Won’t Paul be mad if he sees you goofing off?” asked TJ.

  “What’s he gonna do, fire me? I’m the only one on tonight, so he’d have to take my place!” She laughed out loud at the thought. “Anyway, nobody’s going to starve in five minutes, and the busboy can fill in. So what brings you to this dump instead of some more romantic club?”

  “Believe it or not,” said Ellen, “we’re here to see you, and it’s a club we want to ask you about. Max’s Kansas City. You’ve been there, right?”

  “Sure,” she replied, “but if it’s an intimate bistro you’re looking for, Max’s is definitely not it. It’s usually a madhouse.”

  “It’s not for a date,” said TJ. “Isn’t it where the Warhol crowd hangs out? We’re looking for somebody who may have something to do with the Benton murder, and we think she’s one of Warhol’s cronies.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Michele, astonished. “What the hell are you two cooking up? You don’t want to get mixed up with that bunch, they’re all either crazy or stoned, or both. Why not let the cops handle it?”

  “We want to clear Bill Millstein,” TJ explained. “Right now he’s the prime suspect. If we can identify and locate this woman we will put the police on to her, but we have to find her first.”

  Michele shook her curls and got up from the booth. “You’re the crazy ones. Okay, I’ll fill you in on Max’s, but not now, it’ll take too long. I won’t be home until late, and I’ll be wrecked, so let’s do it tomorrow.”

  TJ told her he got off from work at Brother’s Candy & Grocery on East Fourteenth Street at four p.m. and could get to the Up ’n’ Down by a quarter past.

  “Don’t rush,” she said, “Ellen and I will be waiting for you. I don’t have to leave for work ’til half past five. We’ll have plenty of time, and maybe I can talk you out of it.”

  Ellen looked at TJ, and back at Michele. “Don’t count on it,” she said.

  Twenty-Eight

  Saturday, November 4

  “Famous Artist Murdered,” thundered the headline in the New York Daily News, and the New York Post’s menacing banner read “Artist’s Killer at Large.” As usual, The New York Times was more reserved, leading with “Thomas Hart Benton’s Killer Sought,” subhead “Artist’s Death a Homicide, Say Police.”

  The postmortem report had been released. The autopsy, personally conducted by Dr. Helpern, determined that Benton had been struck on the back of the head and rendered unconscious before being stabbed in the heart. He noted that the blade had punctured the right ventricle, resulting in pericardial tamponade. The sac around the heart filled with blood, preventing it from pumping and causing cardiac arrest. Death, he concluded, occurred within moments of the blow.

  Beyond the fatal internal hemorrhage caused by the knife, Benton’s heart showed minimal scarring from the myocardial infarction he had suffered in 1966. His lungs were dark and mottled from six decades of smoking, which had probably contributed to the heart attack. Remarkably, there was no evidence of lung cancer, and though his liver was steatotic, the condition had not progressed to cirrhosis.

  “Constitution of an ox,” was Helpern’s unofficial diagnosis. As he said to his aide d
uring cleanup, “If Benton hadn’t been murdered at age seventy-eight, he could have expected to live well into his eighties.”

  * * *

  No sooner had the morning papers hit the stands than Stewart Klonis’s phone began to ring. As predicted, his private number had been discovered by enterprising reporters with friends at New York Telephone, so both his line and the League’s main number were flooded. His secretary, Rosina Florio, was fielding calls from students, instructors, and models wanting to know whether classes were canceled. She was also getting inquiries from out-of-town newsmen in places like Chicago, Indianapolis, and Benton’s home state of Missouri. Those calls were routed to Klonis.

  All the reporters asked variations of the same question: was the killer someone who attended or worked at the League? Klonis gave them all the same answers: “I am not aware of any charges against anyone connected to the League. The investigation is under way, and all inquiries should be directed to the Eighteenth Precinct. Yes, the school is open and functioning as normally as possible under the circumstances. I have every confidence that the police will apprehend the killer. Please contact them for further information.”

  The Midtown North switchboard was also busy. Inspector Kaminsky had prepared a statement that was equally vague, since none of his leads had yielded results, at least not yet. He simply said, truthfully but without elaboration, that several avenues of inquiry were being pursued.

  A thorough search of Studio Nine had turned up no further evidence, so the police had unsealed the room. Since there were no mural sketches in Chris Gray’s locker, the idea that Benton had gone up there to look at his efforts and panned them—tenuous at best—was out the window. As far as anyone they interviewed knew, Gray had never had an argument with Benton, so they crossed him off the suspects list.