by David Berens
Samantha struggled to make sense of what she’d just found out. She’d had a meeting with Troy to tell him she thought Mortimer LeFleur was the killer, and RayRay had overheard them talking. But he hadn’t said anything about it. That seemed odd to her, but she couldn’t figure out why.
“RayRay,” she said carefully, “why didn’t you say anything about that conversation I had with Troy?”
“Oh, I started to,” he said, “but when I stood up to join you I thought I smelled Becky-san walk in. And… well, we all know how she feels about me.”
“Wait…” Samantha was floored, “you smelled Becky walk in?”
RayRay nodded. “Yes, another benefit of being sightless is that my sense of smell is more sensitive as well. I am basically SCAD’s version of a blind Spiderman.”
“Okay, Peter Parker,” Samantha said and couldn’t help smiling, “but Becky wasn’t there with me. I never saw her.”
“She could easily have been sitting a few tables away as well.”
Sami thought about this. It was possible, but it seemed really unlikely she would’ve missed both RayRay and Becky.
“So, when you say you smelled her…?”
“Magnesium carbonate,” RayRay said, “and something floral.”
“Huh?” Samantha asked, perplexed.
“She always smells like magnesium carbonate and deodorant… probably Secret,” he said.
“Okay, hold up.” Samantha held up an index finger, even though she knew RayRay couldn’t see it. “Two things: one, how’d you know what magnesium carbonate smells like? And two, why does Becky smell like it?”
“Simple,” he said and shrugged, “I use magnesium carbonate to introduce magnesium into my glazes. It is good for strength and with very little shrinkage, unlike your breasts, Samantha-san.”
“Stop,” she said as he grinned.
“And Becky most likely uses it as a chalk for her hands.”
“A chalk for her hands?”
“In her crossfitting.”
“Ohhhhh,” Samantha said, “I see.”
She let the wheels turn in her head.
“But if Becky walked in and saw me, she would’ve said something,” Samantha said, “wouldn’t she?”
RayRay nodded. “I suppose.”
“Well, why didn’t she?”
“Perhaps she was in a hurry,” RayRay suggested.
“Yeah,” Samantha mumbled, not entirely convinced, “I guess.”
Suddenly, RayRay’s hands were both on Samantha’s breasts. Full palm, full squeeze.
“Dammit, RayRay,” Samantha said, slapping his hands away.
“I had to,” he said with the look of a scolded puppy spreading across his face. “I need to know what they look like for my sculpture.”
“Uh uh,” she said, standing up. “We’re done here. What you need is a little bit of that magnesium shrinkage or whatever.”
“But Samantha-san,” he protested, “the piece is not complete.”
“You’re creative,” she said as she slipped into her jeans and pulled on her t-shirt, “fake the rest.”
She opened the door and left RayRay staring… er… well, whatever he was doing… at his unfinished sculpture. She had no doubt he’d pull it together and it would be beautiful. Right now, though, her mind was spinning and she felt as if she needed to lie down.
She jogged across campus and up the stairs to her dorm room. She flung the door open and walked in. Dropping her coat by the door, she closed it and locked it, then flopped down on the sofa and lay looking up at the ceiling.
“Troy,” she said to herself, “I wonder what Troy found out.”
19
Who’s Coming To Dinner?
Samantha dropped her cell phone on the coffee table. Troy’s voicemail had answered the call, so she didn’t know anything more from him. She sat up and looked around the room. Her head was swimming. Food, she thought, I need food. She stood slowly and went into the kitchen. Opening the cabinet, she found some saltines and the last scrapings of peanut butter. She poured a glass of milk and took a long, slow drink. On the counter she saw a notepad and pen. She grabbed both, wiping crumbs from her lips.
At the top of the page, she scribbled: Tayler. Under that, she started listing details in the order she remembered them happening.
Tayler paints Savannah Smiling
Tayler hangs self – not – but if not, killer had to be someone he knew – no struggle or evidence of fight… drinking?
Painting attracts national attention – lots o’ bids
Painting is stolen – coincidence? Stolen before Tayler was killed? After?
Meet with Troy
RayRay overhears.
Apparently, Becky’s there too?
RayRay smells her?
LeFleur weird about Tayler’s painting – knows Tayler well enough – could he be the one?
Troy talks to LeFleur
She looked at the random list of bizarre notes and then scribbled on the bottom: don’t know shit.
She walked back into the living room and ate the last peanut butter cracker. Slumping down on the couch, tossing the notepad aside, she fell asleep. It wasn’t a restful sleep. Images and memories of Tayler swirled around her dreams.
There was the time Tayler had photographed her down by the fountain in Forsyth Park… the first time they’d been alone together. And, of course, there were the hours she’d spent posing for him when he painted his masterpiece, Savannah Smiling. And bowling… omigosh, there was the bowling down at the Frames and Games. He’d been absolutely awful and insisted they put up the gutter blocks. Alain and Becky had poked at him relentlessly about that one. That was the first time she’d realized that Becky was jealous. She’d been so mad she’d thrown a ball halfway down the lane in the air before it slammed back to the well-oiled boards and crashed into the pins, sending them flying in every direction.
Samantha woke with a smile on her face and tears running down her cheeks. She’d loved Tayler… but not in a boyfriend, girlfriend way… more like a brother. And Becky couldn’t see that. Tayler had liked Becky well enough, but he didn’t have time for that. He had a blossoming career to—
Samantha’s thoughts suddenly took a new direction.
Becky… could she… no. She would never.
But it seemed to fit some of the pieces of the puzzle. She grabbed the notepad and scribbled some more at the bottom: Becky? Strong enough. Jealous? Could she sell the painting? Did she hear convo with Troy?
Samantha tapped the pen on the pad and tried to make sense of it all. Her phone rang and surprised her so much she tipped over the glass of milk. Looking at the screen, she saw it was Troy.
“Hey, hold on a sec,” she said, jogging into the kitchen.
She grabbed a paper towel and went back to her spilled milk. As she wiped the table down, she clicked the phone on speaker.
“I’m here,” she said. “Sorry, I spilled milk.”
“Nothin’ to cry over,” Troy said dryly.
“Ha,” she said and smiled, “very funny.”
“I do my best, darlin’” he said, and she could picture his cute smile.
Hmm, that was an odd thing to think… his cute smile. She brushed the thought away and tossed the paper towel back toward the kitchen. It bounced down into the sink.
“So, what’s up?” she asked. “Did you find out anything about LeFleur?” She snagged her pad and pen and prepared to make more notes.
“Well, let’s just say I went on a date with the good professor…”
Samantha felt her eyebrows rise.
“Okay… and?”
“Just to set the record straight, I ain’t gay,” Troy said, “alright?”
“Sure, whatever,” Samantha said. “I don’t care.” Oddly, she felt relieved and found that strange as well. “Anyway,” – she shook her head – “what’s up with LeFleur?”
“It’s him,” Troy said, “It’s gotta be. He had a print of Savannah Smiling in his ho
use.”
Sami leaned back on the sofa, stunned by the revelation. “Shit,” she said, “I knew it.”
“Well, don’t go callin’ the police just yet. It was only a print… and there ain’t no evidence. We can’t just say we think he did it.”
“But—” she started.
“Just gimme a coupla days,” he interrupted. “I’m gonna do a little pokin’ around. See if I can figure out if he sold it or not.”
“Can’t we call the police?” she asked.
“Well, we could,” Troy said, “and they’d go over there and question him and wouldn’t find anything. And then he’d get spooked and probably disappear to Mexico or somethin’ like that.”
Samantha was quiet.
“Don’t worry, darlin’,” he said, “I’ve got some connections that might know who’d be in the… market for somethin’ like Tayler’s paintin’. Let me get a hold of them and see if they know anything.”
“Okay.” She scribbled a new note on her pad: LeFleur.
She circled his name, her pen going around and around and around. She realized she was furious… and crying.
“I’m sorry,” Troy said, “but I promise I’ll get to the bottom of this. I gotta do a tour on the river this afternoon, then I’ll get on it. I should know somethin’ by tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she said, and sniffed.
“Just sit tight, darlin’,” Troy said, “I’ll give you a call as soon as I know something.”
She started to say goodbye when a knock came at her door.
“Hang on a sec, Troy,” she said, getting up to answer it.
Troy heard her get up and the distant sound of a more insistent knock at the door.
After a second she came back. “Hey, Troy, gotta run, somebody’s here. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Sounds good, darlin’,” he said and clicked the phone off.
He glanced up at the clock… time to go to work. He grabbed his hat and went down to the street to grab his bike. A smile found its way onto his face… he was going back to the river and he was looking forward to it. After that, he’d get to work on this Tayler thing. He knew a few guys from back in his Vegas days that might be able to point him in the right direction.
The wind was cool in his face as he rode toward the river.
20
Not This Again
Troy Clint Bodean stood on the end of the dock at the Sail Harbor Marina and Boatyard. He held a rod and reel in his right hand and a gallon jug of water in his left. His Costa Del Mar Pescador sunglasses shaded his eyes from the waning afternoon sun that was dancing in radiant sparkly waves across the water. The family that had signed up for an evening boat tour had cancelled, some kind of food poisoning from a local sushi joint. Troy thought eating a raw fish was a stupid proposition anyway and figured they’d brought it on themselves.
He sat the jug of water down and baited his hook with a couple of pieces of hot dog – he found Ballparks worked best, but any brand would do. Flinging the line out as far as he could, he wasn’t too intent on catching anything. He just needed a few minutes of the deep quiet only a little fishing could bring him.
His mind replayed his date with Mortimer LeFleur. There wasn’t a whole lot to go on there. If you broke it down like a police detective would – means, opportunity and motive – LeFleur had at least two of the three for the two different crimes at hand.
On the murder of Tayler: he had means… he was surely strong enough to have lifted him up to hang from the beam after too much wine.
And as opportunity goes, Troy had found out – with a little five-dollar tip to the bartender – that LeFleur was at the Rail Pub celebrating with Tayler on the night he died… no alibi as of yet for the time of death.
But motive? Money? Troy didn’t know how much LeFleur made as a professor at SCAD, but he did know the professor made side money as an art collector. He would buy a mid-level piece and then sell it a few years later for a few thousand dollars of profit. The guy drove a Toyota Camry and lived in a mediocre house… but it seemed like he lived okay.
And for the stolen painting: his means and opportunity were easy enough to explain. As a professor from the college, he had pretty much all the access he’d need to the museum at any hour. He had security clearance, and would be a normal fixture coming and going. But again, motive stumped Troy. This one was tougher, as no one really knew the painting would suddenly become a potential six-figure piece. Okay, maybe as an art professor, LeFleur had some idea, but he could never have predicted how viral the story had gone.
The whole case against the professor was pretty thin… except for the fact he had a copy of the print in his living room. But then again, there were other prints, too. Most likely, LeFleur had prints of all of his students’ paintings he considered to be good works of art.
Troy felt a light tug on his line and he jerked the pole to set the hook. A satisfying and heavy weight took hold of the line and he started to reel. This was a big one! He wasn’t sure what he had yet, but he was guessing it was maybe a twenty or twenty-five pounder. He fought it for a few minutes, letting the fish run, then pulling him back, letting him run, pulling him back. The idea was to eventually wear him out and when he was tired, bring him on in.
Out the corner of his eye, Troy caught a glint of sunset reflecting off something drifting down the river. He looked over at the thing floating toward him and a sharp memory hit him in the face. It was a metal Jon boat with the words RENT ME printed on the side. In his stupor, he let his grip on the pole relax and the fish jerked hard. The whole rig went flying into the water. Déjà vu struck Troy so hard it almost knocked him over.
“Oh, hell no,” he said, “not this again.”
He picked up his jug of water, turned around, and ran down the dock as fast as he could without looking back. His boss saw him running toward him and barely jumped out of the way before being bowled over.
“What the…?” his boss yelled.
“Pole fell in the water,” Troy said as he ran past him. “Take it out of my paycheck cause I ain’t goin’ in after it.”
He heard his boss yell something about how Troy couldn’t afford that pole – or something like that – as he jumped on his bike and took off, pedaling hard to escape the destiny that seemed to be following him everywhere he went.
A half hour later, covered in a sheen of sweat and trying hard to catch his breath, Troy pulled his bike up to the loading dock behind the Jepson Center. It had closed a few minutes ago and everyone else was already gone for the night, but Troy had an exhibit to pack up and load onto a waiting truck. He plopped down on the back stoop and slowed his breathing.
Gulping water from the jug, he drank it down until it was almost gone. He punched the security code into the back door and walked into an almost pitch-black storage room. Inside, someone – maybe Bobo – had stacked boxes, packing peanuts, bubble wrap, and tape guns, ready for Troy to stuff the pieces from the finished Calypso exhibit into them and load them for shipping. Just inside the garage door over the loading bay, there were four bags of trash ready for the dumpster. Troy idly wondered why someone wouldn’t take the ten extra steps to dump them before they left… but eh, it wasn’t hard work, so he didn’t complain.
He kicked around a few of the supplies, mentally preparing himself for the job ahead. It would likely take two or three hours to get it done, but that was all right. Troy liked the solitude of it all. He got a lot of thinkin’ done on nights like this. Suddenly, the silence was broken by the wailing of an alarm going off. Bright white lights flashed in his eyes.
21
Plain Sight
“Dangit,” – Troy started running – “forgot the dang alarm.”
Upon entering the museum, he’d remembered to key in the door code, but he’d forgotten to disarm the motion sensors. Once inside, you had two minutes to make your way down to the security room and key in the disarm code there for the various sensors around the museum. He jerked open the door marked Secu
rity Employees Only and ran to the keyboard. Above it, black and white screens showed various pictures from around the museum. He punched in the code and waited until the alarm fell silent. A few seconds later, the phone rang. This was standard protocol when the alarm was set off, and this wasn’t the first time Troy had done it.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, “it’s Troy Bodean. The passcode is impressionism.”
The alarm monitor service representative – who may or may not have been answering the phone inside the country – thanked Troy for the code and hung up. If he hadn’t given the proper passcode, the police would’ve been alerted and would’ve arrived in minutes.
Troy slumped down in the leather office chair in front of the bank of closed circuit screens. The light green tinge of the night vision cameras glowed in his face. Different views of every corner of the museum were displayed here. They were all motionless and silent.
The picture on the bottom left showed the wall where Tayler’s painting had hung. It looked odd that a camera was pointed at nothing… but there had been a fake hanging there just a week ago.
How long had the fake been there? Troy leaned forward. He pulled up a recording file on the computer that sat on the desk below the monitors. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but there on the desktop was a file called BACKUP. He double-clicked it an opened a folder with seven files inside. They were labeled in sequential date order: CAMFILE SAT 08-19. The fact there were only seven files – one for each day of the week – meant the museum was offloading those recordings – or maybe deleting them. This was why the police hadn’t found a recording of the timeframe during which they thought the thief might’ve come. What they did know, was that it had to be over a week ago…
