by Nic Saint
“It’s the Skrzypczaks and the Kanczuzewskis,” said Emily. It was hard enough to keep track of the people involved in this case without her mother muddling things up even more.
“Who cares!” Mom cried. “These assassination mobs don’t care about one murder more or less,” she added, pressing her point. “If you get in their way they’ll whack you, too.”
“Whack me?” said Emily with a laugh.
“Isn’t that the correct term? Well excuse me if I’m not au courant with the mob scene! Jeff!”
“Mh?” said Dad, having just popped another spring potato into his mouth.
“Say something!”
Dad gulped down his potato, then said, “Say what, my precious?”
“Tell your daughter she shouldn’t get involved with murder!”
Dad turned to Emily. “Don’t murder people, Em. It’s not nice.”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Mom said.
“So have you identified any suspects yet?” asked Dad, whose interest had finally been piqued. “Figured out whodunit?”
“We have some very promising leads, and several very good suspects,” said Ansel.
“Well? Let’s hear it,” said Dad, pronging a piece of asparagus and studying it carefully.
“I don’t want to know,” said Mom. “All this talk of murder is affecting my digestion.”
Since the only one who’d talked of murder was Mom herself, Emily decided to ignore this outburst. “The first good suspect we have is Emmerich Bernadzikowski, who, in an effort to avenge his sister’s abused honor, could have taken matters into his own hands and killed the man who dated then dumped his sister.”
“Like I said before, I don’t like him as a suspect,” said Ansel. “He would have simply shoved a knife between Jan’s ribs or beat him up. Not set up such an ingenious murder.”
“Second on our list is Justyna Tamowicz, who allegedly worked as a spy for the current Silvistanian administration.”
“But Taryn says that’s not true, and that the only link between Justyna and President Kanczuzewski is a familial one. Also, Justyna’s reason to come to New York was to be near Jan, on whom she had a serious crush.”
“And the police still haven’t charged her,” Emily added.
“So that leaves us with Tanton Skroch, the lovesick bodyguard. He could have decided he couldn’t stand watching the object of his affection date girl after girl and killed the young man in an act of desperation.”
“Or he could have told Jan that he was in love with him, Jan could have reacted badly—maybe even made fun of Tanton’s feelings—which could have triggered him to commit a crime of passion.”
“Oh, just listen to yourselves!” Mom cried. “You sound like that funny little man with the rumpled raincoat!”
“Columbo?” asked Dad, perking up. “I like Columbo. ‘Just one more thing,’” he added with perfect accuracy. “Love it. Just love it.” When he realized Mom’s incandescent eye was raking him furiously, he decided to change the topic. “So. What about that weather we’ve been having, huh?”
Emily checked her watch. “I’m afraid I have to be going.”
“You haven’t even tried my chocolate cookies!” Mom exclaimed.
“The art class is doing a sort of commemorative evening for Jan. Anyone who was there yesterday when he died is invited. The school hired a grief counselor and everything.” She didn’t add that Judyta was doing the honors since the school had refused to hire an actual counselor because of budget restraints. Also, since this was just one of their adult classes and didn’t affect the actual school, they didn’t care as much about what happened.
“You stay here,” Emily told Ansel.
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Ansel, who clearly had no intention of going anywhere while there was still an entire batch of cookies to be sampled.
Emily got up and kissed her mom on the top of the head. “Thanks for dinner, Mom. It was delicious as usual.”
Only slightly mollified, Mom accompanied her to the door. “I still feel you’re making a big mistake with this murder affair, darling,” she said. “It’s one thing if you’re a cop like your brother—Bill is trained to deal with violence. But you’re a rank amateur when it comes to this sort of thing.”
“I’ll be fine, Mom. And I’ve got Ansel to protect me.”
Mom cast a doubtful look in the direction of the dining room, where Ansel was now stuffing his face with a third helping of potatoes. “Maybe you should talk to Bill about this. He probably knows the people in charge of this Jan Triptych business. He might be able to give you an idea of what’s going on with the investigation. And then if you tell the woman who hired you that the police are doing a wonderful job, she might let you off the hook.”
Emily decided not to tell her mother that she hadn’t exactly been hired. Instead she said, “That’s a great idea, Mom. I’ll give Bill a call.”
Since she was pretty sure that was the first thing Mom had done when she heard about her daughter’s involvement, her brother would probably get in touch himself soon. She wondered why he hadn’t already. Too busy with his own caseload, no doubt.
Mom gave her a peck on the cheek and then she was off—this time taking the M train back to Bushwick.
Chapter 20
When Emily entered the classroom the first thing that struck her was that the atmosphere was a lot more subdued than usual. Which was, of course, entirely understandable, given the circumstances. They weren’t in their usual room either, instead having been forced to relocate to the room where the sculpting class was normally housed, the regular classroom still under lock and key—Detective Shakespeare’s orders.
“I’m so glad you came,” said Judyta, hurrying up to her. She was dressed in one of her usual kaftans, this one black with green trim—perfectly suitable for the occasion. They were, after all, grieving—one of their own having been struck down in the prime of life. “This is a nightmare,” said the art teacher, clenching her hands. “A genuine nightmare. I keep telling myself I’ll wake up and discover I’ve been dreaming the whole thing, but no—each time I open a newspaper—or even check my phone—there it is: the whole terrible thing rehashed over and over again—pictures of that dear, sweet boy, smiling and happy and alive.” She shook her head mournfully. “Such a terrible, terrible waste. So young and full of spirit and now—so very, very dead.”
“Yes, it’s terrible,” muttered Emily, who wasn’t crazy about high drama.
“Is it true that Jan’s sister asked you to investigate her brother’s murder?” asked Judyta, fixing Emily with an inquisitive look.
“Who told you?”
Judyta waved an airy hand. “Oh, a little birdie—can’t remember who. But is it true?”
“Yes—in a way,” Emily admitted. And when Judyta clutched a hand to her chest, she was quick to add, “Not in an official capacity, of course. Just… as a friend of the family, so to speak. Ask people what they think might have happened.”
“But what will the police think? They don’t like that kind of thing.”
“I don’t think the police know.” Though if Judyta knew, probably Shakespeare did, too. “And besides, it’s not like I’m an actual detective.”
“You mean you’re not licensed?”
Emily smiled. “To tell you the truth I don’t know the first thing about detective work. Which is exactly what I told Taryn.”
“Jan’s sister.”
“Yes. But she insisted. Said a friend of Jan could find out so much more than the police ever could. I’m not sure I agree with her. Then again, anything I can do to help, you know.”
“Oh, I know. If I knew something I’d tell you in a heartbeat. But that’s just the thing: I don’t know anything. Didn’t see anything—didn’t notice anything. It’s all too weird!”
“Yes, it definitely is,” Emily agreed.
Sylvia had joined them and stood nodding in agreement. “Sometimes I feel like I’m in an episode of the Twilight Zone
,” she said. “You remember the Twilight Zone?”
Emily said she remembered.
“This feels just like that. A mysterious young man, murdered in front of our eyes in a most mysterious way. It’s almost too surreal to be true.”
“But it happened,” said Judyta.
“It happened,” Sylvia agreed. She was sporting a band-aid on her hand.
“Did you hurt yourself, Mrs. Koss?” asked Emily.
“Cut myself peeling an onion, if you can believe it,” said Sylvia a little vexedly. “On top of everything else that’s happened.” She watched as Judyta joined a group of three students seated near the window and added, “Judyta’s not doing a very good job as our resident grief counsellor, is she? If anyone needs an actual grief counsellor it’s her.”
“She does seem to be taking Jan’s death very hard,” Emily agreed.
“The death of a loved one tends to have that effect on people,” said Sylvia keenly. “When my parakeet Percy died I was devastated. Shattered.”
“Loved one? You mean…”
Sylvia nodded slowly.
“Jan and Judyta?”
Another slight nod.
“You mean they were…” She lowered her voice as Sylvia moved closer. “An item?”
“They weren’t, though if it had been up to Judyta they certainly would have been.”
Now this was news. “Judyta had a thing for Jan?”
“Oh, yes. She was crazy about that boy. I once caught them at it.”
“At it?”
Sylvia made a hand gesture that made her meaning clear.
“Oh, my God,” said Emily with a little giggle. She just couldn’t imagine the colorful, highly strung woman and Jan, who was easily two decades younger than her, together.
“Only the one time, though,” said Sylvia. “The next week I caught them again, only this time they were in the middle of one of those lovers’ quarrels you always hear about. She was screaming at the top of her lungs how he’d cheated on her with some young bimbo, and he was laughing in her face, telling her he wasn’t interested in dating museum pieces.”
“Ouch.”
“She didn’t take it well. Picked up something the pottery class had made and threw it at his head.”
“Did she hit him?”
“Young thug was too limber for her. Smashed to pieces against the wall.”
She regarded Judyta thoughtfully. “Who would have thought?” she said.
“Jan wasn’t the first, either,” said Sylvia.
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say it’s not a coincidence that Judyta runs the life drawing class,” said Sylvia, and pursed her lips as she watched the impact her words had on Emily. “She likes young men—likes them a lot. Nothing wrong with that, of course. Unless if that young man suddenly happens to drop dead in the middle of her class.”
“He didn’t drop dead, exactly. He was murdered.”
“And how do you think that happened?”
“Are you saying—”
“Yup.”
“—Judyta—”
“Yep.”
“—had something to do with Jan’s death?”
Sylvia spread her arms. “Just ask yourself: who else could have done it? It’s her class.”
“There’s no way,” said Emily, shaking her head. “Not Judyta.”
“It’s her class. Her domain,” Sylvia stressed.
“Yeah, but how did she manage? That bolt came out of the blue—literally.”
“I have no idea, sweetie, but if I were a betting woman my money would be on Judyta Kenworthy.” She ticked the items off on her fingers. “She controlled the space. She controlled the timing of the class. She had a grudge against her former lover. I told the police all about it but of course they wouldn’t listen. Instead they arrested that poor woman.”
“You don’t think Justyna was involved?”
“Of course she wasn’t. That girl was head over heels in love with Jan. Anyone could see that. Why would she kill him? And don’t give me that crap about a political assassination plot. If they wanted to take out the father, why target the son?”
“To send a message?”
“I’m not buying it,” said the elderly woman, patting her perfectly coiffed fluffy white hair. “Seems far-fetched. No, my money is on Judyta. Plain old-fashioned lover’s revenge. Now that’s real. I see it on the Lifetime Channel all the time. Political assassination? That’s just some Hollywood nonsense. No way that stuff would go down here in Brooklyn.”
And with these words, Sylvia moved limberly over to the table where the refreshments had been put out, and helped herself to a cream scone.
Chapter 21
Emily noticed that Judyta had left the room. People were still huddling around, talking in hushed tones about the terrible events of the previous night, and Emily decided now might be a good time to look for Judyta and have a quiet word with the teacher. She found it very hard to believe she would be involved but Sylvia was a smart old woman, and smart old women sometimes noticed things others didn’t.
At any rate, she was due for a bathroom break so she walked out into the hallway and for a moment stood staring at the room across the hall. She noticed the police hadn’t drawn the curtain that Judyta had hung up in front of the door to prevent nosy parkers from taking a peek at the nude models, and Emily couldn’t resist the urge to take a peek herself. The room was dark, though, and when she tried the handle, the door didn’t budge.
Pensively, she walked along the corridor, Sylvia’s words still ringing in her ear. Judyta and Jan. Incredible. Taryn’s brother clearly hadn’t had a type. What he did have was a voracious carnal appetite. Any woman would do, or so it seemed. And poor Tanton had been there through it all—watching the endless procession with a sinking heart. A broken heart.
Thinking about Jan, and the way the young man had burned the candle at both ends throughout his short life, she was inclined to agree with Sylvia that this political assassination plot sounded increasingly implausible. On the other hand, the way he’d been murdered still baffled her—like it baffled everyone—and smacked of a larger conspiracy.
She’d been checking classrooms left and right, but so far no sign of Judyta. Where could she have gone? Possibly she’d had the same idea as Emily and had gone to the bathroom.
By the time Emily noticed she was in a part of the school she was unfamiliar with, she’d already turned a few corners and had gotten quite lost. She’d been walking, lost in thought, and had missed her destination entirely. Instead, she’d arrived at a dead end, a large darkened classroom to her right, and a staircase to the second floor to her left.
The lights were out in this part of the building, and scant light illuminated her surroundings. Suddenly she felt a chill running down her back. There was no one out there, but she still was oddly unsettled. And she was just about to retrace her steps when she saw that the door to the classroom was ajar. And then she heard it.
A woman softly crying.
She carefully pushed open the door and peered into the gloom. There, in the darkened space, sat Judyta Kenworthy, sniffling softly, a tissue pressed to her nose. When Emily’s appearance cast a slight shadow across the floor, backlit by the indirect light from the main hallway beyond this smaller offshoot, the teacher looked up with a gasp.
“It’s only me,” said Emily soothingly.
“Oh, Em,” said Judyta, and burst into tears once more.
Emily moved towards her and sat down, placing a hand on the woman’s jerking shoulders. She didn’t know what else to say so she just sat there, while Judyta cried.
“I loved him, you know,” she finally said. “Oh, it was madness, of course. An old woman like me with a young man like Jan. But I guess it’s one of those things. I just fell for him. And he knew it.”
Emily glanced around. She wondered if this was the classroom Sylvia had caught them in. It could very well be. At night, when the rest of the school was deserted,
any of these classes would do for that purpose. Then she remembered Sylvia saying something about pottery. The pottery class was downstairs in the basement. Even more private.
“He broke up with you?” she inquired gently.
Judyta’s head bobbed up and down. “He’d had me once, and that was enough for him. Later I discovered that was his usual MO. He had this rule about not being with the same woman twice. Said he wanted to break some kind of Guinness Book record.”
“He told you that?” said Emily, shocked.
“I only heard about it yesterday, when I talked to Justyna—she’d just been dumped, too, you know. Just before the class, actually.”
Emily was silent. Jan was sounding more and more like a grade-A douchebag. And if he’d dumped Justyna, it was entirely possible that she was the one who’d murdered him.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, rubbing Judyta’s back. “I had no idea.”
“No one had. I was very careful not to tell a single soul.”
“But why did you let him model for us? Why didn’t you tell him to take a hike?”
Judyta lifted her face. “You don’t understand, Em. I loved him. Even though it killed me to see him, I couldn’t stay away. He was like an addiction.”
You weren’t the only one, Emily thought as Judyta blew her nose. It would appear that several people had been in that class yesterday, staring at the young man posing on that stage with a mixture of affection and pure, unadulterated hatred: Judyta, Tanton, and Justyna. Any one of them could have killed him. But who? And, more importantly, how?
As she led Judyta out of the classroom, the woman having regained her composure, Emily’s eyes suddenly fell on a rubber dummy that was lying behind the door. Something compelled her to crouch down next to it and pick it up. And then she saw it: the dummy’s eyes had been gouged out with such force only two ragged holes remained.
Just then, the light was switched on in the room, and the booming voice of the janitor rang out, “What the hell are you doing in here?” When he caught sight of Judyta, however, he quickly piped down. “Oh, Mrs. Kenworthy. Hadn’t seen you there.”