by Nic Saint
“Oh, lucky you,” said Sylvia with a twinkle in her eye. She was a kindly old lady with cotton candy white hair, a cheerful pink face and a perpetual smile.
Emily smiled. “I’m not so sure. If all of John’s friends are like him, I’ll have to beat them off with a stick.”
“Yes, he is very affectionate, isn’t he?”
“That’s one word for it,” she said as she watched John turn up the flirtatious energy full-tilt, Justyna simpering under the onslaught.
“I used to know a young man just like him,” said Sylvia. “I used to be a shopkeeper’s assistant, you know, before my retirement. We had temps coming in all the time—many eager to learn the trade, but also many just so they could be near the other, female temps.” She nodded knowingly. “And of course girls just so they could catch the eye of the boys.”
“It drives my manager crazy,” said Emily.
“Oh, well, what can you do,” said Sylvia philosophically. “Love turns us all into fools.”
Just then, Judyta came waltzing up, her kaftan rustling. “Please take your positions,” she said, clapping her hands sharply. “We’re about to begin. You, too, John, dear, please.”
John seemed reluctant to part with his conquest, but he did as he was told, and moved towards the partition placed in a corner of the room where he could undress.
Sylvia brought out a small thermos of herbal tea and poured out a cup.
People had been chatting and moving about the room, most of the activity centered around the rickety plastic folding table that the janitor had set up near the door and that carried large push button thermoses filled with coffee and tea. Plates with cookies and even a chocolate cake accompanied them, all home-baked and provided by the attendants.
Usually by the time the class was over only dregs and crumbs remained. One of the reasons people loved Judyta’s art classes was that she provided a fun, relaxed atmosphere. No pressure to be perfect. Even people without an ounce of talent were most welcome.
John emerged from behind the partition, not wearing a stitch, and Sylvia hurried towards him, carrying the cup of tea. He took it gratefully, gulped it down, and handed back the cup. It was a ritual Sylvia had perfected: a cup of herbal tea to relax the ‘talent,’ so they could last the long session on the podium.
All eyes had turned to John as he mounted the stage, hopped onto the table and stretched himself out, buttocks to the audience, front to the high windows, and adjusted his position until he was perfectly comfortable.
He then shot a quick look over his shoulder. “Ready when you are, Mrs. Kenworthy.”
A collective sigh went through the room at the sight of all of this male perfection, and people were quick to take their position behind their easels.
“Best buns in the business,” one of the attendants whispered to her neighbor.
“I heard that,” said John with a grin. “And you’re right, of course, Mrs. Franklin.”
Mrs. Franklin, an elderly lady with four grandchildren, blushed appropriately.
“Shush, John,” said Judyta Kenworthy sternly, adjusting her kaftan. “Class, begin.”
John flexed his buttocks good-naturedly, drawing gasps from his captive audience, and then he relaxed into his pose, and only the scratching of pencil on paper was heard.
Emily joined Judyta in circling the class, giving encouragements here and little tips and tricks there, and generally allowing the students to settle into their own process of transferring the male form to the canvas in front of them. It took Emily only a glance to know that Tanton Skroch, for instance, was a lost cause. His frantic slashes had already resulted in three pencils being massacred, as well as a sheet of paper, and all he had to show for it was a stick figure that in no way, shape or form resembled John Sunderland.
The guy Emily had recognized as a regular customer of the Roast Bean was furiously stabbing at the paper with a passion that was probably better spent on a worthier cause. The end result was a Picassoesque monstrosity. Then Justyna was doing a much better job at it. Though she seemed entirely focused on John’s buttocks, drawing them in increasingly widening circles and completely neglecting the rest of the young man’s anatomy. Nor was she alone in this fixation. Other women, too, seemed fascinated by John’s backside.
The only person who was creating something approximating realism was of course Sylvia, but then she’d seen so many male backsides the novelty had probably worn off.
“Very nice, Sylvia,” whispered Emily, admiring the woman’s lifelike drawing style.
“Thank you,” said Sylvia, blushing happily. “I’m getting better at this, aren’t I?”
Sylvia’s modesty touched Emily. “I think you’re aces,” she said.
Sylvia gave her a confused look. “Aces is good, right?”
“Aces is excellent,” she said, giving Sylvia two thumbs up.
Just at that moment, John coughed, and they all looked up. When he didn’t stir, the work continued. People rose from their chairs for a refill of coffee or tea, or a slice of cake and a cookie, but apart from that, a companionable silence filled the room, accentuated by the soft classical music Judyta liked to play as background sound for her classes.
The two hours passed by quickly, and soon the time came to wrap things up.
Judyta clapped her hands again. “That’s it, people. Great job. I’m proud of you.”
All eyes went to the front of the class again, where John was now expected to descend from his throne, and put some more of that male goodness on display for his eager audience to see. Instead, John didn’t move a muscle.
“John, dear,” said Judyta, “you can come down now.”
When John still didn’t make any attempt to disengage, giggles went up.
“I think he’s fallen asleep,” said Mrs. Franklin.
“Better wake him up, Em,” said Judyta.
Emily walked up to the stage, a smile on her lips. It wasn’t the first time a model had dozed off in the middle of a session. Judyta always arranged for the thermostat to be turned up, so resident models didn’t get goosebumps or, worse, pneumonia, and the warmth, combined with the murmur of activity and Sylvia’s herbal concoction, had a soporific effect.
“John?” she said as she approached the stage. “You can get up now. Class is over.” When he didn’t respond, she mounted the dais and bent over him. “John? Did you fall asleep?”
And that’s when she saw it: something was sticking out of his eye.
She frowned, at first not understanding what she was seeing.
When she did, her blood suddenly ran cold.
John wasn’t sleeping. He was dead.
Chapter Three
The police arrived in short order. They took down the class participants’ information and then herded them all into an adjacent classroom while they descended upon Judyta’s room which was now, outrageously enough, deemed a crime scene.
“I can’t believe this,” Judyta said, pacing the room, her kaftan flapping about her heels. She was wearing sandals, Emily now saw. Not that it mattered. She’d gratefully accepted a cup of Sylvia’s tea and was taking healing sips. According to the old lady it would soothe her nerves. She was, after all, the one who’d discovered John’s body.
The moment she had, the others had all moved forward in tandem, and the cries of dismay and horrified shock had quickly rent the air, until Judyta had had the presence of mind to call the emergency services. Tanton Skroch had been most shocked of all. His eyes had practically popped out of his skull when he saw what had happened to the object of his affection. He’d uttered a blood-curdling scream that seemed quite out of character, and had immediately grabbed his phone and started spewing a stream of words in a strange language into the device, raking a distraught hand through his hair and looking very upset.
He wasn’t looking much better now, seated on a chair, leaning forward, a distant look in his eyes, his mouth set, his right leg shaking. The man was obviously very rattled.
Jus
tyna, too, appeared unnerved. She still looked like Barbie in the flesh, but she was pale and drawn now, and chewing her lip as she gazed out of the window into the dark night. The class participants had settled down in clusters of threes and fours, and were talking in hushed tones about the tragic events that had put an abrupt end to the evening.
“Who could have done this?” Judyta addressed the question at no one in particular.
“And how?” added Sylvia. She turned to Emily. “Did you see anyone going up to that poor young man?”
Emily shook her head. She’d been going over the evening in her mind, but at no point had she seen anyone approach the front of the class. She would have noticed if anyone had.
“It’s a mystery,” said Judyta. “An absolute mystery.”
“They must have shot that bolt through the window,” said Emily.
“But the windows are intact,” said Sylvia. “Aren’t they?”
Emily had to admit that they were. Judyta was right. It was baffling.
“The police will figure it out,” she said. “They always do.”
“Hah! I’m not so sure,” said Judyta, who didn’t seem to have a lot of confidence in the NYPD. “If we can’t figure this out, neither can they.”
“I’m sure they can,” said Emily. “They have all that high-tech CSI stuff. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for what happened.”
She felt horrible. And partially responsible. After all, she was Judyta’s assistant. And now one of their models was dead. Murdered. Right in front of their eyes.
“This is all my fault,” she said therefore.
“Now, now,” said Sylvia, placing a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Don’t say that.”
“I should have noticed something was wrong.”
“Of course not. How could you?” The old lady mused for a moment. “That young man must have had enemies. Why else would anyone go to all this trouble to murder him?”
“I don’t think it has anything to do with him,” said Judyta. “Some… maniac wanted to draw blood and so he did. Whether it was John or someone else didn’t matter. Not in the least. I’ll tell you what I think. I think this was the work of a serial killer. Perfecting the perfect kill. Serial killers are always doing this sort of thing. Showing off their murderous skill set. Proving their superiority. I’ll bet the police know exactly who’s behind this and why. They probably even have a nickname for him. The Crossbow Killer or something.”
“You read entirely too many James Patterson novels, my dear,” said Sylvia.
“Excuse me,” Emily muttered, suddenly not feeling well, and quickly getting up. As she headed for the door, she heard Sylvia say, “Really, dear. Can’t you see the poor girl’s upset?”
The officer parked at the door looked up when she opened it. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay put, miss,” he said.
“I need to use the bathroom,” she said. “I don’t feel so good.”
He must have noticed she was about to pass out, for he barked, “Jackson! Take her to the bathroom, will you?”
Jackson, a jolly-faced youth, did as he was told, and escorted her to the bathroom, then took up position outside while she splashed some water on her face and then sank down on the toilet seat. She wasn’t usually the squeamish type, but this murder business had really done a number on her. Her legs felt like jelly, and her stomach was tied up into knots.
As she sat quietly, her head in her hands, trying to regain her composure, she heard distinct voices from the other side of the thin wall behind her.
“Nasty business,” said a gruff male voice.
“Baffling, too,” said another, equally gruff male voice.
“What about the wall?”
“Not a blemish. Windows, too. Not a scratch on them.”
“That bolt must have come from somewhere, Shakespeare.”
“I know, sir, but it can’t have passed through brick or glass, can it?”
“No, I suppose you’re right. What about a device built into the wall?”
“We went over that wall with a magnifying glass, sir.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“What about the table?”
“Perfectly ordinary table, sir. Besides, according to the trajectory that bolt must have come through the window. There’s no other way. Must have.”
There was a momentary silence, then: “Baffling. Just like you say, Shakespeare.”
“Exactly, sir.”
A toilet was flushed, and the voices died away.
Emily emerged from the stall and moved over to the sink. She splashed some more water on her face and pulled some paper napkins from the dispenser. She dabbed them at her face and looked up. Looking back at her wasn’t the fresh-faced and shiny visage she knew. Instead, she was pale and puffy-eyed. Even her brown hair hung limp and lifeless. She shook her head. What a terrible business.
She joined the others again, and saw that Tanton Skroch was gone. Probably called in for his police interview. Sylvia was still chatting with Judyta, and she joined them. Sylvia had brought out her wallet and was showing pictures of her goddaughters, all tucked into a foldable picture holder. There were at least a dozen.
“And this is Ellie,” she was saying. “She has kids of her own now.”
Emily made an effort to smile. “I didn’t know you had so many goddaughters.”
“Oh, yes, I do,” said the old lady proudly. She pointed at another picture. “This is Mollie. My friend Natalie’s little girl. She was born on Christmas Eve.”
“A Christmas baby,” said Emily.
“What about that cat?” asked Judyta, tapping a picture of a cat which had apparently slipped into the collection.
“That’s Gemini,” said Sylvia with visible affection. “She’s my precious baby.”
She would have told them a lot more but at that moment the officer opened the door and bellowed, “Emily Stone. Miss Emily Stone!”
Emily shot up. “That’s me.”
“They’re ready for you now,” said the officer.
She glanced back at the others, who all sat looking at her anxiously. Then Sylvia gave her a pat. “You’ll do just fine, dear.”
“Tell them about my serial killer theory,” said Judyta. “Or better yet, don’t. I’ll tell them myself.” She nodded self-importantly. “Oh, I’ll tell them!”
Emily walked out of the room and was directed into a spacious classroom, the door closed after her. Two police officers were impatiently waiting, seated behind the teacher’s desk, a lone chair reserved for her. Judging from their scowls they weren’t happy to see her.
Start Reading Murder at the Art Class Now
About Nic
Nic Saint is the pen name for writing couple Nick and Nicole Saint. They’ve penned 80+ novels in the romance, cat sleuth, middle grade, suspense, comedy and cozy mystery genres. Nicole has a background in accounting and Nick in political science and before being struck by the writing bug the Saints worked odd jobs around the world (including massage therapist in Mexico, gardener in Italy, restaurant manager in India, and Berlitz teacher in Belgium).
When they’re not writing they enjoy Christmas-themed Hallmark movies (whether it’s Christmas or not), all manner of pastry, comic books, a daily dose of yoga (to limber up those limbs), and spoiling their big red tomcat Tommy.
www.nicsaint.com
Also by Nic Saint
The Mysteries of Max
Purrfect Murder
Purrfectly Deadly
Purrfect Revenge
Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)
Purrfect Heat
Purrfect Crime
Purrfect Rivalry
Box Set 2 (Books 4-6)
Purrfect Peril
Purrfect Secret
Purrfect Alibi
Nora Steel
Murder Retreat
The Kellys
Murder Motel
Emily Stone
Murder at the Art Class
&n
bsp; Washington & Jefferson
First Shot
Alice Whitehouse
Spooky Times
Spooky Trills
Spooky End
Spooky Spells
Ghosts of London
Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place
Public Ghost Number One
Ghost Save the Queen
Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)
A Tale of Two Harrys
Ghost of Girlband Past
Ghostlier Things
Charleneland
Deadly Ride
Final Ride
Neighborhood Witch Committee
Witchy Start
Witchy Worries
Witchy Wishes
Saffron Diffley
Crime and Retribution
Vice and Verdict
The B-Team
Once Upon a Spy
Tate-à-Tate
Enemy of the Tates
Ghosts vs. Spies
The Ghost Who Came in from the Cold
Witchy Fingers
Witchy Trouble
Witchy Hexations
Witchy Possessions
Witchy Riches
Box Set 1 (Books 1-4)
The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse
One Spoonful of Trouble
Two Scoops of Murder
Three Shots of Disaster
Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)
A Twist of Wraith
A Touch of Ghost
A Clash of Spooks
Box Set 2 (Books 4-6)
The Stuffing of Nightmares
A Breath of Dead Air
An Act of Hodd
Box Set 3 (Books 7-9)