Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Box Set 2

by David Berens

  Mortimer LeFleur stood in front of the class, leaning on a stool, arms crossed, a 1920s style cigarette holder – containing an unlit Virginia Slims cigarette – in his left hand. His white silk shirt draped over his shoulders like a blouse, and a bright purple and blue scarf tied into an ascot wrapped his neck in color. His pants were solid black with peg legs and were so tight they looked as if they might’ve been spray painted on him. And naturally, this entire ensemble was topped with a dark raspberry-colored beret over a thick mop of curly black hair. A pencil thin moustache straight from a Boris and Natasha cartoon completed his vintage look.

  To Samantha’s incredible annoyance, Professor LeFleur would lick the front of his top teeth before every single sentence he spoke. The smacking sound grated on her every nerve. Most days she did everything in her power to shut out his endless droning, prattling on and on for hours about artists she had never heard of, nor cared anything about. But today was different.

  “And so, we have the dubious distinction of announcing poor Tayler Evan’s demise,” he said in a nasally voice. “I understand the young man took his own life with a belt strung from a beam. Tragic, though poetic, I suppose.”

  Some in the class were affected deeply, even to the point of tears. Some could care less. They didn’t know Tayler, so it merely emanated that odd feeling that you were expected to be sad or forlorn, but eh… it hadn’t happened to you or someone you love.

  Samantha fought back her own tears. She hadn’t fully recovered from the loss. She and Tayler hadn’t exactly been boyfriend and girlfriend, but it seemed they’d been on the cusp of a deeper relationship. A fact that seemed to miff Becky Patton to no end – though she never said it out loud.

  “And, I suppose you have all seen his painting?”

  There were some murmurs around the class and some students turned to look at Samantha. Being the subject of the now infamous painting brought her a great deal of unwanted attention. A local news reporter would not stop calling her to ask for an interview. She blocked his number. But she couldn’t block the stares and gawking she got walking down the street, in class, at work, wherever she went. Hermit life had been the order of the last few days.

  “Well,” LeFleur said, and stood up and swished back to his desk, “I suppose we can talk about the effect that death can have on an artist’s work, can we not?”

  Any art student worth anything knew that so many of the artists considered masters were not always appreciated while they were living. Some were poor, depressed, destitute souls while alive, constantly battling a muse that would not let them rest.

  LeFleur picked up a marker and wrote on the white board behind him: Posthumous Success. He underlined it and turned back to the class.

  “Well?”

  “Van Gogh?” someone in the back said meekly.

  “Of course,” he said as he scribbled the name on the board. “Anyone else. Come now, surely I’ve taught you more than this.”

  “Toulouse-Lautrec.”

  “Oooh,” LeFleur hummed, “one of my favorites. Next?”

  “Gauguin.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Monet.”

  “So misunderstood, can we agree on that?”

  “Vermeer.”

  “Ahh, yes.”

  Mortimer LeFleur tossed his marker on his desk and turned to face the class. He made a show of locking eyes with each student one by one.

  “So, who among you will be famous?” he asked. “I mean, after you die?”

  “I’m going to be famous while I’m alive!” a student chimed in from the back.

  A few tittering chuckles sprang up around the room.

  “Unlikely,” LeFleur said, then arched an eyebrow and smiled.

  “Well, that’s really the bitch of it all, ain’t it?” Samantha couldn’t believe what had just popped out of her mouth. “I mean, we won’t know, ‘cause we’ll be dead. And nobody else will care about nothin’ but the money they can make by selling our work.”

  LeFleur gave her an odd look. He stood and walked toward her desk. His usually cartoonish façade seemed to soften.

  “Oh, but that is so rarely true, my dear,” he said to Samantha. “More often than not, the work that survives and endures does so not because of the rape of the work for monetary value, but more because of the magic and wonder and mastery of the form imbued on the canvas or in the clay by a misunderstood genius.”

  Samantha felt the breath catch in her throat and a lump grew there. She blinked and fought the tears forming in her eyes.

  “Hell, show me the money,” another student yelled suddenly from the back of the room.

  LeFleur didn’t look away from Samantha; he simply raised his arm and pointed toward the door.

  “Out!” he said to the student who had spoken, “and don’t come back.”

  LeFleur finally turned away from her and addressed the rest of the class. He stalked around the room, his slipper-like shoes padding softly on the industrial tile floor.

  “If I’ve taught you anything,” he said to them, “I hope it’s that art and money have nothing to do with each other.”

  “Are you okay?” Alain leaned over and whispered to Samantha.

  She wiped a single tear from her cheek. “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “The nerve of that guy,” Becky chimed in.

  “A gentleman of the gutter,” RayRay added.

  LeFleur reached his desk and picked up a copy of the Savannah Morning News. He unfolded it and held it up in front of the class. The front page was a huge color photograph and in striking block letters the headline read: STEALING SAVANNAH. The photo was taken at the Jepson Center Museum of the exhibit where Tayler’s painting hung. It showed the empty spot on the wall and the director of the museum holding up what looked like the painting that used to be hanging in that empty spot.

  “It appears,” Professor LeFleur said in an ominous tone, “that the painting has been stolen and replaced with a print. Right under the noses of the museum’s crack security staff.”

  Samantha felt her mouth drop open. Glancing at her friends around her, she saw they were in shock too.

  “Oh, my God, no,” she heard herself say out loud.

  In the picture, behind the director, she could see three people. One she recognized as the museum’s designer and stager, a second she thought must be a janitor because of his faded blue jumpsuit and nametag patch. The third person was unmistakable. Cowboy hat, dark curly hair, stubbly beard.

  “Is that… Troy?” Alain whispered.

  “Yeah,” Becky answered, “he works there. I think he works at night, unloading, cleaning, that sort of thing.”

  “And so,” Mortimer LeFleur said, breaking up their conversation, “it seems we have a mystery on our hands, do we not?”

  The class was silent, dumbstruck by the news. First a suicide, now a theft.

  “Does anyone think this is not a coincidence?” Samantha asked in a hushed voice to her friends.

  “Not likely, Sami-san,” RayRay said.

  “But who?” Alain asked.

  “Had to be someone who knew the painting was good enough to become valuable after Tayler’s suicide,” Becky added.

  “Or maybe they stole the painting and then killed him to increase its value,” Samantha suggested.

  “But, he wasn’t killed,” RayRay argued. “Even the police investigated and said it’s clear it was a suicide.”

  “Yeah,” Alain said, “that’s what they said, but haven’t you ever watched C.S.I.? Someone could’ve made it look like a suicide. Right?”

  “Seems a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?” Becky asked, an obvious look of doubt on her face.

  “And now it seems,” LeFleur continued his narrative, “that Mr. Bill Gates, who had offered to purchase the painting, has put up a reward of half a million dollars for any information that leads to finding the original. Quite the development, eh?”

  Silence filled the room. Samantha thought she saw Mortimer LeFleur l
ick his lips… but it was more subtle… subconscious… as if he was savoring the moment. Something in her mind snapped.

  “He did it,” she said under her breath.

  “What?” Becky asked.

  “LeFleur,” Samantha turned toward her, “he did this. I don’t know how or why… but he did it.”

  “No way,” Alain protested. “He’s a wuss. He couldn’t pull that off.”

  “Check out his legs,” Samantha whispered, “his quads are huge. He obviously works out.”

  “Yeah, he does,” Becky chimed in. “I see him at the box all the time. He’s a crossfitter.”

  “And, he would have access to the museum at any hour… unfettered access,” RayRay added.

  “So, what now?” Alain asked. “Go to the police?”

  “No, we got nothin’ on him,” Samantha said. “We need help. We need someone who can check out the museum and Tayler’s apartment. We need to find a link between LeFleur and Tayler. Someone on the inside.”

  “Who the heck is that?” Becky asked.

  Samantha pointed at the newspaper LeFleur was still holding up.

  “That guy,” she said, nodding toward the picture.

  “The janitor?” Alain asked.

  “No,” Samantha said. “Troy. I’m gonna go see Troy.”

  “Can I come too?” Becky fluttered her eyelashes.

  “No,” Samantha said, “I’m going alone.”

  Becky pouted, but said nothing. Samantha looked at the man in the photograph they knew as Troy. She wondered what he knew and if he could help. At this point, they had nothing else to go on, so it was worth a shot.

  The class bell rang and Mortimer LeFleur dismissed them. Samantha clicked her phone on and dialed the museum.

  Part II

  Hard Lines

  “You have to color outside the lines once in a while

  if you want to make your life a masterpiece.”

  -Albert Einstein

  13

  Late Lattes

  Troy walked into The Coffee Fox. Looking up at the menu board, he thought it might as well have been written in a different language; Spanish or French… maybe even Alabamanese. It was written in chalk that was way too neat to have been done by anyone but a teenage girl who drew cute little circles over the letter i and made the open parts of the other letters wide and round. Hell, they almost looked like cartoon characters. A pimply-faced kid behind the counter wearing a dirty white t-shirt with a v-neck collar, a flannel shirt tied around his waist, a leather cord around his throat with a fake shark’s tooth at the end, peg-leg skinny jeans, and a dark green knit beanie on his head, stood watching Troy through half-closed eyelids, as if existence in this universe was far too boring and even further beneath him.

  “You got… coffee?” Troy asked, squinting up at the menu.

  The kid snorted and pointed at to the board without looking up at it. “We got cappuccino, we got lattes, we got espressos,” he said with a sneered. “So, um, yeah, dude, I think we got coffee.”

  “Yeah.” Troy knew the kid assumed he didn’t know what those were… and he was almost right. “I see that.”

  He remembered his first latte, the one Karah had bought him so many lifetimes ago on Pawleys Island. Wonder what she’s up to now, he thought.

  “So, bro,” the kid huffed impatiently, “which one you want?”

  “Gimme that white chocolate latte thing.”

  “Dude,” the kid said, his head lolling around his neck, “that’s Starbucks. We don’t have that.”

  Dangit, Troy thought. “Whatcha got that’s close to that?”

  “Vanilla cappuccino it is,” the kid said, punching a button on his register. “That’ll be twelve-fifty.”

  “Good God-a-mighty,” Troy exclaimed a little louder than he planned, “what’s it got in it? Vanilla diamonds?”

  “Yes, sir.” The kid inhaled, as if explaining a simple concept to a child. “That’s absolutely correct. It has vanilla diamonds in it. You want it or not?”

  Troy took out his wallet and handed the kid a crumpled twenty. “Seems like a pretty stiff price for a dang cup o’ coffee.”

  “It’s the finest in Savannah, sir,” – the kid pulled out his phone and punched the numbers into his calculator to make the change – “and trust me, you’ll love it.”

  He handed Troy his change and walked away.

  “My coffee?” Troy called after him.

  The kid, who Troy didn’t think could look any more condescending, but somehow managed it, turned around and threw up his hands, palm to the sky.

  “I have to make it, sir,” he said, and shook his head and blew across his tongue. “Just have a seat and I’ll bring it out to you.”

  “You sure you can remember me?”

  The kid raised one eyebrow. “Yeah, Mr. cowboy hat. I think I got it.”

  Troy thought about jumping behind the counter and teaching the kid some manners, but then thought better of it. He was here to meet one of the students who’d known Tayler. She’d said she had something very important to talk to Troy about but that she didn’t want to do it over the phone. That old familiar tickling sensation began to prickle its way up the back of his neck. He wondered if he was about to get in deep… like he always did. That seemed to be his new lot in life.

  The copper bell hanging on the door tinkled and a young black girl walked in. She was beautiful in the way that a summer day is beautiful – bright, cheerful, chipper, and beaming. But her eyes had a downcast look… a sadness in them that seemed deep and mysterious. Troy recognized her immediately.

  She was the girl in the painting. He hadn’t recognized her when he bumped into the group of Tayler’s friends at the funeral… but he definitely saw it now. That smile, that face, that unmistakable quality that made Tayler’s painting a work of art that would be discussed for the rest of his… well… beyond his untimely demise. Troy held up a hand and waved.

  “Over here, Samantha,” he called.

  She smiled and walked toward him. “Hey, Mr. Bodean,” she said and held out her hand. “Thanks for coming.”

  Troy took her hand. Soft, delicate, warm. “Troy,” he said and smiled, “call me Troy please. My daddy was Mr. Bodean and he’s been gone for some time now.”

  “Okay, Troy,” she said and glanced at the counter, “I’m gonna grab something to drink. Be right back.”

  “Hope you don’t want coffee,” he said with a smirk.

  Her face tilted in obvious confusion.

  “Sorry.” He waved her on. “Just kiddin’. I’m sure they’ll have whatever you want.”

  She laughed. “I always get the vanilla cappuccino. Mmmm.”

  Troy raised his eyebrows. “Me too. Love them vanilla diamonds.”

  She scrunched her nose. “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” he said with a shake of his head, “g’on and order. I’ll be right here when you get back.”

  She inhaled and smiled. “Okay, cool.” Weird, she thought.

  In record time, she was back and was carrying a tall paper cup with a cardboard holder. Steam drifted out through the hole in the top.

  “Well, dadgum,” Troy said, “how’d you get yours so fast?”

  Samantha laughed. “This one’s yours, silly. Curt asked me to bring it to you so he wouldn’t have to get up.”

  Troy glanced over at the kid leaning on the stainless-steel cappuccino maker behind the counter. The kid yawned and punched a button on the machine.

  “Not surprised,” Troy said.

  He took the cup and opened the lid. Blowing on the light brown liquid, he eased a sip into his mouth. It burned his tongue, but was sweet and silky. “Dang,” he said, “that’s pretty dang good.”

  “I know, right?”

  “Not twelve-fifty good,” Troy said and took another sip – “but pretty dang good.”

  Samantha laughed again. She had an easy way about her, but Troy could still sense the hurt behind her smile.

  “So,” he said
and sat his cup down, “tell me what’s up? What is it you wanted to tell me?”

  Samantha glanced around the coffee shop. She inhaled and looked into Troy’s eyes. “I know who killed Tayler,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Well, yeah,” Troy said, “so do I.”

  “You do?” she seemed shocked.

  “Yeah,” Troy huffed, “Tayler did. He committed suicide.”

  Samantha shook her head. “Yeah, that’s what the killer wanted everyone to think, but I know better.”

  “The police seem pretty sure,” Troy replied. “I mean, there wasn’t any evidence of any foul play or a struggle. It looked like he just got up there and… well… did it to himself.”

  “And if you were planning to murder someone and make it look like a suicide,” she asked, “isn’t that exactly what you’d want it to look like?”

  “Well, yeah,” Troy agreed, “but if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck… it’s a duck.”

  “Not if that duck could be worth millions of dollars if it was dead.”

  Troy sipped his coffee.

  “I mean, you know the painting was stolen, right?” she asked.

  “Mmhmm.” Troy nodded.

  “And you know that it’s now probably going to be sold on the black market, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “And do you think that the painting was still there when Tayler committed suicide?”

  “Well, heck, I don’t hardly know that,” Troy said, and looked around to see if anyone was listening.

  “But you could find out, couldn’t you?” she asked. “Don’t they have security cameras and all that?”

  “Police checked that,” Troy said, “but didn’t see nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Damn,” she said under her breath.

  “Course, it did get moved twice,” Troy said, “but both times it was me who moved it.”

  Samantha’s eyes narrowed slightly.