by David Berens
“C’mon now.” Troy held up his hands. “I had nothin’ to do with it. Hell, I discovered it was a fake.”
She didn’t say anything.
“And I wasn’t anywhere near our house the night that Tayler… did it.”
Samantha sat quiet for a minute. Curt walked up and sat a cup in front of her. He didn’t speak or look at them, he just walked away.
“Thanks, Curt,” Samantha called to his back.
He held up two fingers and kept walking.
“Friendly guy, eh?”
Samantha shook off the question.
“Okay, so…” she started, “consider this. What if the killer stole the painting first… and then killed Tayler… ya know, to increase its value.”
Troy shook his head. “Ain’t no way anyone could know it would do that. I mean, it would be a guess at best.”
“Not for an art professor who knew exactly how good that painting really was,” she whispered.
“An art professor?” Troy blurted.
“Shhhh.” Samantha held a finger to her lips. Glancing around the shop, she continued. “Our art history teacher, Mortimer LeFleur… he knows something. I have a hunch he just might’ve… done something. Something awful.”
“That’s a mighty big hunch, little lady,” Troy said quietly. “I know Professor LeFleur from the museum, and I ain’t so sure. You got any proof?”
“No,” she said, “but just think about it… he would’ve known about the painting’s value, he even just lectured us the other day about a bunch of famous artists whose work was never worth anything until they died. And he would’ve been able to come and go at Jepson without anyone blinking twice.”
“Yeah, but…”
“And you say there were no signs of a struggle,” she interrupted him. “Tayler would’ve definitely let Professor LeFleur into his apartment and shared a glass of wine with him. There wouldn’t have been any forced entry or fight… Tayler would’ve let his killer in unaware.”
Troy opened his mouth, then closed it, carefully considering his words.
“Okay,” he started, “let’s just say maybe you’re right – and I’m not totally convinced – and LeFleur did this… you’ve got no way to prove it.”
“That’s where you come in,” Samantha said. She sat back in her seat. “I need you to find out what he did with the painting. He’s probably got it at his house.”
“And I should just knock on the fella’s door and waltz in? Hey, Morty, where you keepin’ that paintin’?” Troy said, his tone mocking.
Samantha leaned forward again. Her eyes widened with sadness again and her bottom lip quivered. “I don’t know,” she said, “I just figured maybe you’d be able to figure somethin’ out… for Tayler.”
Troy felt his neck prickling again. He sighed heavily. After a long silence, he sipped the last of his coffee. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do,” Troy said, then held his hands up, “but I ain’t promisin’ nothin’.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Bod—” She stopped short. “I mean, thank you, Troy. I knew you’d do it.”
“Gimme a couple days,” he said, standing up and tossing his cup into a nearby trash can, “and lemme see what I can scare up.”
“Sounds good.” Samantha stood too.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed.
“This means a lot to me, Troy,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ll call you in a day or two.”
Samantha gave him a thumbs-up as he walked out the door.
Here we go again, Troy thought as he turned left and started walking down the street.
The thief sat hunched down in the Van Gogh booth at the Coffee Fox, pretty sure neither of them had glanced this way. The luck of it all seemed too good to be true. Not only had the thief been able to eavesdrop on their conversation, but they seemed convinced of the professor’s guilt. Sometimes the best cover was a scapegoat.
Sipping a super-strong espresso, the thief smiled at the people passing by… nothing to see here. Just a patron enjoying a coffee. He glanced at the clock on the wall, took a final sip, and tossed the empty cup into a nearby trashcan.
Back out on the street, the thief began to think about all the money, and what could be done with it… once the drop was complete. Surely this art dealer wouldn’t get any ideas about pulling off some funny business with the drop, and wondered how quickly a gun could be bought these days. He made a mental note to check the local Wal-Mart for the latest rules and regulations. Might not be a bad idea to be packing when this thing goes down, he thought.
A couple of SCAD students walked by and recognized the thief and waved. A momentary flash of fear entered his mind, but it soon passed. The Coffee Fox was one of the thief’s usual haunts… no one would think twice about seeing him here. He waved back.
Nothing to see here. Just a few regulars going about their normal, everyday business.
14
Off And Running
Troy Bodean was not a connoisseur of art. In fact, his most prized possession of any art at all had been a velvet painting of Elvis Presley he’d bought in Key West to hang in his houseboat. But he’d long since parted with that and missed it sorely.
However, in his short time at the Jepson Center he’d learned a little about what fine art actually was, and what made some work desirable and other work just average – or worse… garbage.
After speaking with Samantha, he’d gone in for a shift to move the Ruben inspired sculptures around again at the designer’s request. Apparently, the museum wanted them placed in such a way as to distract visitors from the crime scene tape that still surrounded the empty space on the wall where Tayler’s painting had hung. The wall looked so bare now that the giclée print of Tayler’s painting had even been removed. Troy wondered absentmindedly where the print had gone, and decided to check the dumpster out back when he got off. The designer poked him on the shoulder.
“I’d like to try a new arrangement,” she said, sticking a sketch in front of his face.
Dangit, Troy thought, pushing his cowboy hat back on his head and wiping the sweat from his eyes. Again? And best of all, Bobo hadn’t made it in today… more intestinal distress apparently.
“I know, I know,” she said with a mocking pouty lip, “looks like we’ll actually have to do some work today, eh, sweetheart?”
“Not to worry, ma’am,” Troy smiled, “I’ll go grab the dolly from the back… again.”
“Oh, goody,” she said, and kissed the air. “You are a dear.”
Troy shook his head as he walked through the hall and back toward the loading dock. He punched the security code into the keypad to unlock the door and then stopped. Looking at the numeric combination lock, he remembered what Samantha had said about Professor LeFleur having full access to the museum.
“Would he have this code?” Troy muttered under his breath.
He pushed through the door and let it click behind him. Wondering how he could find out who had that code, he stepped down the ramp of the loading dock and walked to the dumpster. It screeched loudly as he pulled the side door open. There were two cardboard pizza boxes and a couple of bags off office trash, but other than that it was pretty much empty. It was a longshot, but the cops probably had the thing down at the crime lab, dustin’ and pickin’ and probin’ it for clues.
As he was closing the door, a group of people came huffing and puffing down the street. The guys were all shirtless with bandanas tied around their heads, and the girls were dressed in tight black tank tops and long black socks. All of them were covered in sweat. All of them looked fit as hell. Troy recognized one of them.
It was Becky Patton – a friend of Tayler’s from SCAD. She ran past him, but turned around and ran along backwards. Holding her hand up next to her ear she mouthed the words call me. She winked at him, licked her lips, then turned around to continue running.
“Well, I
’ll be a monkey’s—”
He was interrupted as one of the joggers crashed into him, tumbling them both to the ground.
“What in God’s name?” Troy said, turning to the guy sitting on the pavement next to him.
The crossfitter dude was flat on his back looking up at the sky. His muscles rippled as he breathed heavily; the dude was fit. He held up a hand as if to indicate he needed a second to catch his breath.
“You gotta watch where you’re goin’, friend,” Troy said, and stood up.
He reached a hand down and the guy took it. As he pulled him up, Troy realized it was Mortimer LeFleur, the art professor. He hadn’t recognized him without his teacher-type clothes on.
“Oh, my… goodness,” LeFleur said between heaving breaths. “I’m so sorry… I was so intent on… on beating my last lap time … I was… just looking down at my… heart monitor. I’m so sorry.”
“Not a problem, Mr. LeFleur,” Troy said, his hands up, “no harm, no foul.”
As Mortimer began to catch his breath, he smiled at Troy. His gaze drifted from Troy’s feet to his head and back again.
He’s checkin’ me out, Troy thought with a shiver.
“You ever tried doin’ it?” LeFleur asked with a grin.
“Ha, oh, now hold on just a minute,” Troy said, “I’m not that kind of guy.”
The professor’s eyebrows scrunched down in apparent confusion.
“You mean you don’t work out?”
“Ahhh.” Troy swallowed. “When you said doin’ it, I thought you meant…”
Troy paused. Diggin’ a hole here, Bodean, he thought. “Yeah, no,” he started again, “I don’t work out… unless you’re talkin’ ‘bout beer curls.”
He blurted out a laugh and Mortimer smiled. Troy thought he saw the man lick his lips, but it happened so fast, he couldn’t be sure.
“How about I buy you a glass of wine tonight instead of a beer?” Mortimer asked. “It’s the least I could do since I bowled you over.”
“Aw, heck, I dunno—” Troy stopped short.
He did need an excuse to interview the man… and maybe even poke around his house. He swallowed again. All for Tayler, he thought to himself.
“Actually,” – Troy paused and cleared his throat – “I don’t like goin’ out much ‘round here. What with all the students about and all.”
LeFleur raised an eyebrow.
“I see,” he said, definitely licking his lips this time, “so how about my place? Say around seven? I’ve got a chicken tetrazzini recipe that’s to die for… and would go perfectly with a Yalumba Eden Valley Viognier I picked up last year in California. Smells a bit like cat piss, but tastes fantastic.”
Troy could not believe what he was about to do. He inhaled deeply.
“Seven’s good,” he breathed. “Where do you live?”
“Down near the college,” Mortimer said with a smile, “on 37th. A little white house, with gray trim. Just a little thing.”
“I’ll be there,” Troy said.
“Um, yoo hoo,” a voice called from behind them. “Sweetie, darling, can we get these pieces moved sometime before the next eclipse?”
Troy turned to see the designer standing in the back door of the museum.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Troy called, “had a little trash to dump. Be right in.”
He turned back to say something to LeFleur, but the professor was already off and running. Troy rubbed his sore knees and walked back to the Jepson.
“Picked a great day to skip work, Bobo,” Troy muttered.
15
Here Kitty, Kitty
The house was more rundown than Troy had expected. Initially, he felt sure he had the wrong place, but then he heard the strains of the soundtrack from Moulin Rouge through the front screen door. As he stepped up on the tiny front porch, he could see inside. A grey and white cat sat looking up at him through the screen. It meowed at him and licked its paw. Troy could also see furniture that looked to be from the 1970s arrayed around a bright orange shag rug. The music appeared to be coming from a turntable that appeared to date around the same year. All the lamps and the light fixtures were round paper lanterns – Japanese style. The effect was mesmerizing. Cool, Troy thought as he rapped his knuckle on the door.
“Ah, so you’re here,” he heard Mortimer’s voice echo from around a corner.
He waited a second, and then the professor came into view. He wore an apron over a light lavender sweater, linen shorts, and leather flip-flops. The apron had scripty lettering on it that read: Baroque – when you don’t have any Monet.
Troy smiled tightly and nodded. This was sure to be awkward. LeFleur opened the screen door and the cat skittered away.
“Don’t take that personally,” he said, “Fluffy doesn’t care much for anyone but me.”
He ushered Troy in, grabbed his arms and pecked him on each cheek, European style. Troy tried desperately to keep his eyes from widening, but was sure he’d failed.
LeFleur laughed. “Come on in, Mr. Bodean,” he said waving Troy into the living room, “and have a seat. The tetrazzini is almost ready. I don’t have a formal dining room, so we’ll just eat in the parlor.”
“Thank you,” Troy said as he plopped down on one of the gaudy sofas.
“Wine?” LeFleur asked as he drifted around the corner into the kitchen.
“Sure,” Troy said, glancing around the room.
All along the walls of the small living room were canvases and framed artwork. None were hung on the walls, yet, just on the floor leaning against the walls. In one corner were several loose canvases in rolls, bound with twine or string, some with a rubber band. Troy stood and walked casually over to check out those rolled works a little closer.
He picked up one of the tubes and peeked down into it. Too dark to tell what it was… he’d picked up the one with the rubber band around it. That seemed an odd choice for an art professor to use… a rubber band? He slid the band down and unrolled the top of the painting. It wasn’t an original, it was a print. A giclée print… of Savannah Smiling.
Holy dangit, thought Troy, this son of a gun is guilty… He must’ve had a couple of prints made and switched one of ‘em out at the museum.
Creaking footsteps approaching down the hall made Troy quickly wrap the print and slide the rubber band back over it. He acted like he was stretching, casually checking out some of the other leaned paintings.
Mortimer reappeared with two plates piled with steaming noodles in one hand, a wine bottle and two upside-down wine glasses clinking in the other. Troy continued stretching. Then he noticed LeFleur was extending the hand with the plates.
“Little help?” LeFleur asked.
“Oh, right.” Troy grabbed the two heaped plates and sat them on the table. “My bad.”
The professor smiled and shook his head. “I never hang them, the paintings. I go through so many that I’d just be putting them up and taking them down every day.”
“Ah, I gotcha,” Troy said.
“Long day at the museum?” LeFleur asked, sitting the empty glasses on the coffee table.
He pulled the cork from the wine and filled the two glasses almost to the top – a healthy pour.
“So, Mr. Bodean,” – he sat down, swished his wine, sniffed it, and took a sip – “we both know you’re not gay. And it’s not likely that you often visit professors from the college. Am I right?”
Troy coughed, nearly spitting out the sip of wine he’d just taken. “That’s right,” he said cautiously.
“Well, then,” LeFleur said, then picked up the nearest plate and swirled a fork into the noodles, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your company tonight?”
Troy took a deep breath. He decided to go with the cards on the table approach. But, he didn’t plan on showing everything he had.
“Well,” he started, “I guess I’m just looking for a professional opinion on this whole Tayler thing.”
LeFleur said nothing. Did Troy see a flash of
something cross his face? Maybe. Maybe not. He decided to press a bit.
“And, I suppose you could say I’m a little skeptical of how the thing went down, ya know?”
“Go on,” LeFleur said quietly, picking up his wine glass.
“You see,” Troy said, feeling very much like Detective Columbo, “I just can’t figure out why Tayler would take his own life… what with the new painting gettin’ so much attention and all. I mean, I figure that’s about the best thing that could happen to a student… right?”
“It is.” LeFleur took a sip and then sat his glass down. “Young Tayler was the most gifted student I have had in many years. Many, many years. He might’ve gone on to become famous and perhaps rich… but then again, that doesn’t happen often for artists. You see, many of them don’t achieve such things until after their demise. Even more so if it’s an untimely demise.”
Troy nodded. He figured he’d let LeFleur talk as long as he wanted. Maybe paint himself into a corner.
“Would such fame and fortune have come to Tayler?” LeFleur said in a faraway voice. “I suppose we’ll never know now that… well, now he’s gone.”
“Professor,” Troy decided to show another card, “do you suppose someone might’ve killed Tayler? Ya know, to make that painting more valuable?”
LeFleur leaned his head back and laughed. “Preposterous,” he said. “To predict something like that would be like winning the lottery. Impossible.”
Troy sniffed. “Not for someone who had knowledge of how such things work… right? I mean, if such a person studied art and history and knew how artists became so famous and such after they died… maybe the odds aren’t so high after all… am I right?”
“Mr. Bodean,” LeFleur said, his tone icy, “I see what you’re insinuating, and I assure you I had nothing do with young Tayler’s death. He was a talented young man, that was widely known. But apparently, he was also a troubled young man. It’s unfortunate that we didn’t discover this sooner.”
