Murder at the Art Class

by Nic Saint

  “If we send him back now he’ll face the firing squad,” said her husband.

  “More like a ticker tape parade,” said Mrs. Skrzypczak bitterly. She turned to Emily. “So have you found out who killed my son, Miss Stone?”

  “Not yet,” Emily admitted.

  The woman clucked her tongue annoyedly.

  “The police have made an arrest,” said Taryn.

  “Yes, I saw that,” said Mr. Skrzypczak. “Justyna Tamowicz. Manta’s spy.”

  “At least the police are doing everything they can,” said Mrs. Skrzypczak, shooting Emily and Ansel a quick look of scorn. “I sincerely hope they hang the wretched woman.”

  “They don’t hang people in New York, mother,” said Taryn.

  “No? Well, they should.”

  “If only this had happened in one of the capital punishment states,” said Mr. Skrzypczak.

  His wife patted his chest. “There’s only one option,” she said.

  “What’s that, my cherished one?”

  “You have to win the next election. Oust that dreadful Manta. Then you can make the Americans deport this Justyna Tamowicz and we’ll have a nice public execution in the palace courtyard. We’ll do it on a holiday, so more people can come and watch.”

  “I like your idea,” said Mr. Skrzypczak. “We’ll make it a hanging, shall we?”

  “Firing squad. I’ve always liked a good old-fashioned firing squad.”

  And as they strolled from the room, they discussed the pros and cons of the various methods of public execution. Emily was left feeling astonished and not a little shocked. Taryn gave her an apologetic look. “Mother and Father are very set in their ways.”

  “I hope they won’t execute Tanton,” said Ansel now, removing the hand that had flown to his face to hitch up his drooping jaw. “They seem very fond of executions.”

  “They’re part of the older generation. They grew up with a more authoritarian way of dealing with things. Which is why it’s so sad that Jan was killed. He was to herald in a new regime—if my father would ever have been able to return to power, that is.”

  “Jan was supposed to follow in his father’s footsteps?” asked Ansel.

  Taryn nodded. “That was the whole idea.”

  “He didn’t seem very… eager to become a leader of the people,” said Emily, carefully choosing her words.

  Taryn laughed. “You’re right. He wasn’t. My brother was something of a hedonist. Not exactly leadership material. Father always hoped he’d change his ways. And who knows? In time he might have settled down and done exactly that. Now we’ll never know.”

  “What about you? Can’t you be the next Silvistanian president?” asked Ansel.

  “Oh, no,” said Taryn, shocked. “I wouldn’t want to be seen dead in that job. All that backstabbing and treachery. I’m not cut out for that kind of life. Father and mother are.”

  Yes, Emily had the impression that they were. What struck her most of all was the lack of emotion over the death of their son. To the Skrzypczaks it seemed as if Jan’s murder was more an inconvenience than anything else. Even Tanton had expressed more sorrow over Jan’s passing than his own parents. Then again, maybe that was a cultural thing. Maybe Silvistanians didn’t mourn in public, and the couple were simply keeping up appearances.

  Still, there was something very unsettling about Mr. and Mrs. Skrzypczak. There was a hardness there that she didn’t like. A certain callousness that rubbed her the wrong way.

  Taryn led them to the door. “You’ll have to excuse my parents. They’re not used to the idea of a private detective looking into a murder case. In Silvistan we don’t have private detectives. The police have a monopoly on fighting crime.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” said Emily. “It’s perfectly fine. Besides, we’re not private detectives. I’m just doing this as a personal favor to you. To get some closure about your brother’s death.”

  Taryn smiled and took Emily’s hands, then squeezed them gratefully. “Thank you. I loved my brother. And I hope you do find out who killed him.”

  “So you don’t believe Justyna Tamowicz is responsible?” asked Ansel.

  “No, I don’t,” said Taryn immediately. “I don’t believe it for one second. You see, I know Justyna. I met her.”

  “At the Roast Bean,” said Ansel.

  “And back home in Silvistan.” She darted a quick look at the door, then dropped her voice. “Justyna and I are friends—have been friends for a long time. There’s no way she would murder Jan.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she was madly in love with him.”

  They were back in the room where they’d interviewed Tanton. And once again Taryn had carefully closed the door. It now occurred to Emily that Taryn probably knew about Tanton, and didn’t want her parents to find out for fear he might suffer the consequences even more than he already would.

  “Didn’t Jan know Justyna?” asked Emily. “If she was a friend of yours?”

  “My brother and I didn’t move in the same circles back in Silvistan. So no, he’d never met Justyna. But she’d adored him from afar, as did probably the entire female population of my country. He was their version of Prince William or Prince Harry if you like. So when she had the opportunity to travel to the States, and study in the same city, she happily took it.”

  “But she was working for the new Silvistanian president.”

  “I doubt it,” said Taryn. “In fact I’m almost certain she wasn’t. Justyna isn’t interested in politics. Never was. And she’s most definitely not interested in being a spy or whatever.”

  Emily shared a quick look with Ansel. “So… the police have it all wrong?”

  “Of course. It’s possible there was a spy following Jan around, but it wasn’t Justyna.”

  “Did you tell this to Detective Shakespeare?”

  Taryn shook her head, looking a little shamefaced. “I can’t. The thing is… Justyna is related to Manta. She’s her niece. If I tell the police she’s my friend, my parents will hear all about it, and they’ll be furious. Father considers Manta his personal nemesis, and has sworn to defeat her in the next election. I can’t be seen to be on good terms with a member of her family or it will destroy Father’s chances. The people of Silvistan are as divided over the future of our country as its politicians. Justyna and I… we’re not supposed to be friends.”

  It all sounded terribly complicated, and heart-wrenching.

  “She called me, you know—Justyna? Just before she was arrested. I think she knew this was coming. Her connection to her aunt—the whole political mess. I told her to stay strong. To trust the police. And I also contacted a lawyer on her behalf—to make sure she has the best legal advice she can get. So you see. I just know she couldn’t have done this. She adored Jan. And when she finally managed to catch his eye and he agreed to go out with her, she was over the moon. I’d never seen her happier. She was already talking marriage, and how this could be a way to unite not only our families but also our country.” She sagged a little. “And now everything is lost and my mother is talking about the best way to stage Justyna’s public execution.” She balled her fists and uttered a grunt of helplessness. “Sometimes I can’t stand being a Skrzypczak!” She directed an imploring look at Emily. “You have to find out who did this. Even if the police release Justyna, my family will still suspect her. And they won’t stop until she’s executed in the presidential palace square.”

  Chapter 18

  As Emily and Ansel were crossing the Ritz-Waldorf’s lobby, suddenly Emily’s phone belted out the opening tones of ABBA’s Mamma Mia. “Mom,” she spoke into the phone.

  “Well? Where are you? Dinner is getting cold.”

  Oh, heck. She’d totally forgotten about dinner! “I’m so sorry. I got held up. I’ll be there in…” She made a few quick calculations in her head and the results were so appalling she was rendered momentarily mum.

  Ansel took over the phone. “Hello, Mrs. Stone. T
his is Ansel.”

  “Oh, hello, Ansel, dear. Please tell my daughter to hurry up. Unless she wants her lamb chops completely spoiled. And I made you your favorite. Soft double chocolate pudding cookies. Better get them while they’re hot.”

  “We’ll be there in a jiffy,” he said curtly, then pressed disconnect. He leveled a look at Emily. “We’re taking an Uber.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. She made soft double chocolate pudding cookies. We’re taking an Uber.”

  And so they did. “I should have asked her to pay for our expenses,” Emily said the moment her tush hit the Audi’s soft leather seat and the driver eased the car into traffic.

  “I told you,” said Ansel.

  “I can still ask her, right?”

  “Kind of awkward.”

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  “Lesson learned. Next time ask for an expense account. Better yet, ask for a fee.”

  “But we’re not detectives!”

  “The moment we catch this killer we will be.”

  The driver, a clean-shaven elderly black man glanced back. “Are you police?”

  “No, we’re not,” said Emily. “We’re just a couple of civilians doing our civic duty.”

  “And trying to make sure those soft double chocolate pudding cookies don’t get cold before we arrive.”

  “And the lamb chops,” Emily murmured.

  “I have a brother who’s a cop,” said the driver conversationally. “You should hear the stories he’s got to tell. Oowee. They’ll make your hair stand up.”

  “I’ll bet they would,” said Emily.

  “Can you step on it, please, sir?” said Ansel.

  The driver grinned. “You like your chocolate cookies, don’t you, son?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  The drive to Greenwich Village only took them fifteen minutes. Traffic had eased up and soon the house where Emily’s parents lived came into view. Located close to Washington Square and the NYU campus where Professor Stone chaired the history department, it was a three-story brownstone on a tree-lined street that had been painted pink by a previous owner, who had also put in an arched window on the top floor, which now housed Jeff Stone’s office. The moment they got out of the car, the wide front door of the house opened and Emma Stone appeared on the top step of the four-step stoop, her hand on her hip.

  Ansel and Emily put some pep in their step as they approached the house.

  “Well, it’s about time,” said Emily’s mom. “For a moment there I thought you’d forgotten about dinner. But Jeff said there was no way you would forget Wednesday night dinner, and I told him he was probably right.” She pressed a quick kiss on Ansel’s offered cheek and then escorted her daughter and her plus-one into the foyer.

  Like her daughter, Emma was lithe and auburn-haired with lovely features and clear blue eyes. The only thing Emily hadn’t inherited from her mother was the perfectly shaped thin nose. Emily had a button nose, just like her father, who now appeared in the doorway.

  “Darling!” he cried, and walked up to them with outstretched arms.

  She gave her dad a hug and felt happy they’d made it in time—more or less. Not just because her mom would never let her live it down if she hadn’t shown up, but because she enjoyed being home again. Even if this house wasn’t technically home to her, or her parents. Home was still the small town of Ambler, Pennsylvania, where she’d grown up. But when she’d been accepted at Brooklyn College, her dad had very serendipitously been invited to chair the history department at NYU and so the Stones had transplanted their lives from a borough with a population of 6500 to the big city a hundred miles north.

  Ansel stuck his nose in the air and sniffed significantly.

  “Very subtle, Ansel,” said Emily.

  “Oh, nonsense,” said Emily’s mom. “Come on through, Ansel. You know where the good stuff is.”

  “In the kitchen,” he said happily, and wasted no time moving through the living room to the open kitchen, which, with its black granite countertops, solid maple cabinetry, glass tile backsplash and island with breakfast bar, was Emily’s dad’s favorite part of the house. Well, everyone’s actually, as the Stones were big on food.

  “Bill couldn’t make it?” asked Emily.

  “No, he had to work,” said Mom. “And so did Daniel, unfortunately.”

  Bill was Emily’s brother, and a cop in Hell’s Kitchen, along with his boyfriend Daniel.

  “What took you so long?” asked Mom, a tinge of worry lacing her voice.

  “I…” She decided to tell the truth. Mom would find out sooner or later anyway. She had her ways. “Ansel and I were at the Ritz-Waldorf talking to Jan Skrzypczak’s sister. She’s asked us to look into her brother’s murder.”

  Mom didn’t disappoint her. She slung both hands to her face and produced a horrified wail. “Oh, no, you didn’t!”

  “Just… talking to some of the people who knew him, that’s all. We’re not getting involved any further. And we’re also not,” she quickly added, “getting involved with the police investigation.”

  “Oh, darling,” said her mother, shaking her head. “Murder is such a foul, foul business. Why would you want to stick your nose into a sordid affair like that? Isn’t it bad enough that your brother is up to his ears in the muck and misery of this world?”

  “Jan’s sister seems to think the police won’t be able to solve his murder.”

  Mom threw up her hands dramatically. “Of course the police will solve his murder! That’s what they do. That’s what we pay them for. That’s their entire purpose. Whereas you…” She gave her daughter a dubious look, seemingly indicating she had no idea what Emily’s true purpose really was. “Well, you’re a painter, aren’t you?” she finally managed, making it sound as if it was only one step up from being a prostitute or a street hustler.

  “I’m an artist, Mom. A painter is someone who paints houses for a living.”

  “And look at how much they make. When your father and I moved into this house we paid the painters a fortune to make it look more or less presentable. A fortune!”

  Since she’d heard this particular lament more times than she cared to, Emily decided to join her father by the window, where he stood looking out at the backyard, a nice patch of city garden, where Mom had given her green thumb free reign, turning it into a riot of color. She’d also installed a bench, a gurgling fountain, and a grill nook for her husband.

  Dad turned when she approached. “So? How are things in the Poached Bean?”

  “Roast Bean. Things are a little weird right now. What with this murder and all.”

  Her dad stared down at her, a little glassy-eyed. “Murder? What murder?”

  “Didn’t Mom tell you? One of my colleagues was murdered yesterday.”

  “Oh, my dear. Drive-by shooting?”

  “He wasn’t murdered at the coffee shop, Dad. He was murdered while posing for my life drawing class.”

  “Oh, heavens. Some religious zealot killed him over the nudity thing?”

  “Not… exactly.”

  Her dad shook his head in concern. “Violence, violence, violence. It is true that only a thin veneer of civility separates man from beast, isn’t it?”

  “He may have been killed over a political dispute between his father and their country’s new president.”

  “Politics. Almost as bad as social media,” he said vaguely. “Was he a good friend?”

  “Not a friend, really. A colleague.”

  “And yet he liked to pose in the nude for you.”

  “Not for me, Dad. For the class I’m assisting at.”

  “Right,” he said. Then he seemed to remember something. “Is this what your mother was so upset about? She went on and on about some murder business earlier.”

  “Dinner is served!” suddenly her mother yelled.

  Dad smiled and said, “We better heed the call, or she’ll murder us!”

  Chapter 19

  �
�Why didn’t you stop her, Ansel?” said Mom, placing a lamb chop on his plate.

  “I didn’t know it was my job to stop Emily from doing what she wants to do,” said Ansel delicately, before attacking his lamb chop with a lot less tact.

  “I wouldn’t let you, either,” added Emily, helping herself to a nice little pile of spring potatoes. Her mother’s secret was real butter and fresh chives and they were to die for. Well, not literally, of course.

  “Oh, I do wish you would say something, Jeff,” said Mom, addressing her husband, who was tucking away his food with customary relish.

  “Mh?” Dad said, looking up distractedly.

  “About the murder! Your daughter has managed to get herself mixed up in some extremely unsavory business and you’re just going to sit there and pretend everything is hunky-dory? It’s murder, Jeff. Murder, she’s dealing with! Horrible, terrible murder.”

  If her mother was going to say the word ‘murder’ one more time Emily was going to scream. Instead, she said, “I’m not all that involved, Mom. All I promised Taryn was that I would talk to Jan’s colleagues—maybe find out a few things about her brother.”

  “Who’s Taryn?” asked Dad, having decided he’d better show an active interest in the topic under discussion or else Mom might decide he wasn’t getting any dessert this evening.

  “Pay attention, Jeff,” Mom said. “Taryn is the dead boy’s sister. She’s the one who got our daughter mixed up in this dreadful business.” She turned to Emily with a tortured look on her face. “Please tell me you’ll be careful, darling. You are dealing with an assassination mob, you know.”

  “I think the correct term is assassination squad, Mrs. Stone,” Ansel supplied helpfully.

  “Oh, I’ve read all about it,” said Mom. “The Skriprocks and the Kandinskys and how they’ve been feuding for decades and now they’ve resorted to these gruesome tactics. It’s the Capulets and the Montagues all over again, isn’t it? All I can say is they shouldn’t have brought their little war to this country. If they want to kill each other, that’s their business, but they should do it over there.”