Murder at the Art Class

by Nic Saint

  “We’ll need to find a glazier,” said Emily thoughtfully.

  “I’ll call the owner. He’ll know what to do.”

  And as Ansel stalked off towards his bedroom to salvage what he could from the night, Emily couldn’t help but wonder how the janitor could have known who took his pictures. It was a mystery that would have to wait until the morning, though. And as she followed her roommate’s example and mounted the blond wood stairs to her own room, she suddenly flashed back to the mystery that had baffled her earlier—and as she did, something finally clicked into place. She blinked when the realization hit her. And instead of lying down to try and get more sleep, she picked up the yellow pad she’d placed on her nightstand, and quickly scribbled down a few notes about the sudden brainwave she’d had.

  Could it be? Was it possible? At least she had a new framework to approach the case. And a lot of things still to be determined. Not the least of which was how? How had the killer managed to pull off such a daring murder?

  And as her head hit the pillow, she couldn’t help but experience a sense of intense relief. Somehow she had a feeling she’d finally hit on something important. A vital clue.

  Chapter 29

  “I don’t like this, Em.”

  “I don’t like it either, but it’s the only way.”

  “Another way is talking to Shakespeare and letting him handle things.”

  “So what if we’re wrong? And the police harass an innocent person? Who’s going to suffer the consequences? We are. Remember what happened with the janitor.”

  As they’d discovered, Shakespeare had interrogated Adelric Lidd and then let him walk. Someone—Shakespeare or someone else at the precinct—must have told the janitor who’d discovered his stash of illicit pictures and one broken window had been the result.

  Ansel stared at her. “I thought you were sure about this?”

  “I am sure—pretty much. But you can never be one hundred percent sure.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t like it,” he repeated.

  They were staking out a house in the neighborhood. It was located near Bushwick Avenue, where the brewers had built their big mansions in the late nineteenth century, back when Bushwick was known as the beer capital of New York. The side streets near Bushwick Avenue had been filled with rows of townhouses and family houses, many of them still standing. One of those houses was the Victorian blue clapboard house they were now watching from inside the cafe across the street. It had a low wrought-iron fence that lined a modest front courtyard. Knowing the owner couldn’t see them, Emily darted curious glances at the front door, next to which an American flag had been planted.

  The cafe they’d selected as their stakeout location was part antique shop, part bar, a vintage store with roman numerals on the menu and live music, tarot readings, film noir evenings and dinner theater at night. The place was packed with antique paintings, Victorian dolls, old mirrors, tea sets and church pews and had a very cozy feel. Emily didn’t care about all that. She only had eyes for the house across the street, studying it intently.

  “Are you sure she’s in?” asked Ansel.

  “I called her, remember? She said she was home and would meet me in…” She checked her watch. “Ten minutes. She should be getting ready to leave if she wants to get there in time.”

  “She’s not going to be happy when she discovers you stood her up.”

  “If she did what I think she did, I really don’t care if she’s unhappy.”

  That morning, the first thing Emily had done was confide in Ansel, who’d taken her latest theory in his stride, admitting there was some merit to it. Then they’d both set to work. Emily had called Aurora Moray, who’d confirmed Emily’s suspicion. And that’s when the first breakthrough had presented itself. Ansel had been dispatched to verify Emily’s hunch, while Emily looked up their quarry’s place of residence on Google Street View.

  And now they were here.

  “I still think you should have called Shakespeare,” Ansel grumbled.

  “Shush. There’s movement,” said Emily.

  They watched as the front door to the house under surveillance opened.

  “Time to skedaddle!” Ansel said, getting up.

  They hadn’t even finished their coffees but they had no time to waste. Dropping a few bills on the table, they quickly scooted out of the cafe/antique store and dashed across the street. Emily watched anxiously as a taxi took the owner of the house they were about to burgle away, then followed Ansel to the front door.

  “Are you sure you can get us inside?” she asked nervously.

  He directed a cocky grin at her. “Trust me,” he said, and took out a small wallet then unzipped it to reveal a curious set of tools. They looked like pins of various length and width. After a quick glance at the lock, Ansel chose one and inserted it into the mechanism.

  “Hurry up,” Emily said, directing apprehensive glances at the street. “If anyone sees us breaking in, they’ll call the police for sure.”

  “We’re just a couple of friends paying a visit,” he said, as he jiggled the pointy instrument in the lock, then added a second, equally pointy gadget to join the first one.

  “Where did you learn to pick locks? Are you a professional thief?”

  “Let’s just say that I had an uncle who was in the business. Unlike over here, in my home country people tend to take a more liberal view of the concept of private property.”

  “I’ll say,” she murmured as she watched in alarm as an elderly man drew nearer. He was walking a Maltese dog, and staring at them with a look of intent curiosity. She waved at him and, after a moment’s hesitation, he returned the gesture, then moved off.

  “Dog walkers. They’re the scourge of the breaker and enterer,” she said.

  “And we’re in,” said Ansel, and pushed his way into the house.

  “Not a moment too soon,” she said under her breath.

  She carefully closed the door behind them until it fell into its lock, and looked around. The hallway was small but neat, with a checkered white-and-black stone floor, floral wallpaper and neat molding. A small cabinet held a key dish and a Dresden ballerina doll.

  “Nice,” said Ansel. “Now where do you think she keeps the stuff?”

  “No idea.” She didn’t even know if their target kept any stuff related to the murder in the house. The odds were that she did, but the only way to be sure was to search the place from top to bottom. “Maybe you can start upstairs. I’ll check down here.”

  “Check,” said Ansel, and moved towards the narrow polished wood staircase.

  As he put his foot on the Oriental rug runner, she added, “And be quick. The moment she realizes I’m a no-show she might figure out something’s up and come hurrying back.”

  Ansel nodded and took the stairs two at a time.

  Emily checked the small sitting room, which had been transformed into a home for more Dresden dolls—occupying every available surface and a large antique display cabinet placed next to the window—and then moved through to the dining room, the kitchen and the small storage space in short order. Nothing out of the ordinary. And nothing to indicate they were on the right track. She returned to the dining room and looked around thoughtfully. And then she saw it: a picture gallery—one of which displayed a smiling Lynn Moray, the girl who’d committed suicide after being so very callously dumped by Jan.

  Bingo.

  She stared at the picture of the blond teenager, and felt her heart constrict. Such a waste.

  She returned to the corridor, and stood there for a moment, getting her bearings. Then she saw the small door, set in the wood paneling beneath the stairs, and opened it.

  Double bingo.

  Flicking on the light, she quickly descended the stairs into the basement. Unlike what she’d expected there was no sign of neglect—no spider webs or broken fixtures. Like the rest of the house, the basement had been kept in perfect shape. She arrived at the bottom step and let her eyes wander across
the equipment stored there. The workbench drew her attention and, more than that, the object neatly covered by a dust sheet on top of it.

  She carefully removed the dust sheet and stared at the object underneath.

  “Ansel!” she bellowed. “You better get down here!”

  Chapter 30

  As she waited for Ansel to arrive, she studied the instrument. She was afraid to touch it as she had no idea how it functioned—that was something for the police to figure out. Ansel came bounding down the stairs, kicking up a dust storm in the process, the motes drifting in the still air, and halted when he saw what his partner in crime had uncovered.

  “Holy crap,” he said. Then he held up a portrait. “Found this upstairs. Hung over the bed.”

  Emily studied the portrait. It displayed the woman and her mentor, the Great Bellocq, in better days.

  “She looks so young,” Emily said musingly.

  “By all accounts she was a regular genius—still is,” Ansel added, his eyes once again drawn to the mysterious object on the workbench.

  “We need to call the police,” said Emily, taking out her phone. “Now we have proof.”

  “Proof of what?” suddenly asked a voice coming from upstairs.

  Emily and Ansel both looked up in horror. Feet descended into view, and then the woman they’d lured away was in their midst.

  “Proof of what?” she repeated, cocking her head.

  Sylvia Koss didn’t look shaken by the presence in her house of Emily and Ansel. In fact she appeared happy to see them, judging from the smile on her kindly face.

  “Proof that you killed Jan Skrzypczak,” Emily said.

  Sylvia’s smile grew wider still. “You’re a very smart girl, Em. So you’re Ansel, I assume?”

  “That’s correct,” said Ansel cautiously.

  Both of them had stepped back a few spaces and were now hovering near the back of the basement. Emily had no idea what the woman was capable of. At the very least she was capable of murder—but would she murder the people who’d discovered her secret?

  “Jan Skrzypczak was an evil young man,” said Sylvia, idly stroking a finger along the contraption that had taken Jan’s life. “The world is a much better place without him.”

  “You can’t go around murdering people, Sylvia,” said Emily.

  “If I hadn’t done it, who would? Aurora told me you’d been asking questions about me. Oh, yes. We still keep in touch. In fact we’ve become even closer since Lynn’s suicide.”

  Emily could have hit herself. Of course Aurora would tell Sylvia all about their meeting. “So you weren’t fooled by my little ruse?” she asked.

  Sylvia shook her head slowly. “No, I wasn’t. For a moment I debated ignoring you. But then I wondered if you’d have the guts to actually break into my house. And here you are. And you brought a little friend. The only problem now is what to do about you?”

  “You’re not going to…” Ansel swallowed. “… murder us, are you, Mrs. Koss?”

  Sylvia didn’t respond. Instead, she said, “I loved her, you know. Lynn. Oh, I love all of my darling angels—all of my goddaughters. When you don’t have children of your own you tend to dote on the children of others. They become your darlings. All of them. But especially Lynn. There was something special about her. She was… pure. Pure goodness. When she entered a room she lit up the atmosphere, bringing a smile to everyone’s face. Bringing joy to everyone she met. And then that man came into her life and destroyed her. Just like that. And what’s worse—he didn’t even care. I’m glad he’s dead. I’m just sorry I couldn’t make it more painful. Make him suffer like Lynn suffered. Like we all suffered.”

  Emily took a step forward. “Sylvia, Ansel called the police. They will be here soon.”

  Sylvia’s eyes glittered for a moment, then she picked up the device and made a menacing gesture in Emily and Ansel’s direction. They both screamed and stepped back.

  Something clicked underfoot and suddenly it was as if they were both whisked away. The next moment they were in a dark space, and Sylvia’s voice announced, “You didn’t call the police, did you? If you had they’d be here by now. Oh, well. I guess it’s just as well.”

  And then silence reigned.

  “Where are we?” asked Ansel.

  “I have no idea,” said Emily.

  Wherever they were, it was pitch black.

  “Probably one of Mrs. Koss’s contraptions,” said Ansel, patting the walls of their makeshift prison.

  “Better call the police now. Maybe they’ll figure out how to get us out of here.”

  “Shakespeare won’t be happy,” Ansel warned as he took out his phone. He held it up for a moment. Yup. They were inside the walls—probably a hidden chamber with a trapdoor.

  “Yes, my name is Ansel Petrov,” Ansel spoke into the phone. “We’re, um, in the house of a murderer, and she’s got us trapped in a secret chamber.” He listened for a moment, then added in a plaintive voice, “No, ma’am. I’m not high as a kite. In fact I never take drugs. They’re the plague of our time. Yes, I really do believe that. Thanks, ma’am.”

  After he gave the address, he hung up.

  “And?” asked Emily.

  “They’re sending a unit.”

  They were both silent for a beat, then Ansel said, “At least she didn’t kill us.”

  “I don’t think she’s a killer,” said Emily.

  “Well, she killed Jan Skrzypczak.”

  “Yes, but she considered that justice for what he did to her goddaughter.”

  More silence, then: “Did you see that contraption?”

  “Yes, I saw it, Ansel. I just hope she didn’t take it with her. That’s our evidence.”

  “You mean—without it the police won’t believe us?”

  “I think there’s a very good chance they won’t. In fact I think there’s a very good chance they’ll arrest us for breaking and entering.”

  In the distance, they could hear the whine of a police siren. It quickly drew nearer, and then cut off with a funny squawk when it arrived in front of the house. There was a lot of thumping and shouting over their heads, and then a door crashed open and footsteps sounded overhead.

  “Down here!” Ansel bellowed. “In the basement!”

  A door was flung open, and heavy footfalls pounded on the stairs.

  “We’re in here!” Emily said.

  “Where?” asked a familiar voice.

  “In here!” said Ansel. “Houdini’s hold!”

  Hands tapped all over. “There’s a lever over there, sir,” a soft voice announced.

  “Well, pull it, Estevez. What are you waiting for, man?”

  “I am pulling it, sir.”

  “Pull harder.”

  A click and a whirr, and Emily and Ansel found themselves whisked around again. When the merry-go-round finally came to a halt, Emily was looking at the surly-looking Detective Shakespeare, while Ansel was flung into the arms of Detective Estevez.

  “Steady now, son,” said Estevez as he returned Ansel to perpendicularity.

  Shakespeare had planted both hands on his hips and his jaw was working furiously. “Well?” he said finally. “What have you got to say for yourselves?”

  “We found the killer, Detective,” said Emily, cringing a little under the onslaught.

  Shakespeare’s brow furrowed even more. “Killer? What killer?”

  “Sylvia Koss, sir,” said Emily. “She killed Jan Skrzypczak.”

  “What are you talking about?” the detective demanded.

  She darted a quick look at the workbench. To her relief, the contraption was still there. Sylvia must have put it back. “Over there,” she said, directing the detective’s attention to the item. “This is how she did it.”

  They all gathered around the strange object. It was a crossbow, mounted inside a wooden box the same color as the table on which Jan had been lying that day.

  In spite of himself, Shakespeare appeared duly impressed.

&nbs
p; “How does it work?” he asked, scratching his scalp.

  “I have no idea,” said Emily. “That’s for the experts to figure out. All I know is that Sylvia installed it underneath the table, probably activated it with some type of remote control, and then removed it before you could discover what she’d done.”

  “Impossible,” said Shakespeare. “We checked that table. There was no way—”

  “She hid it well. You wouldn’t have been able to spot it on the first inspection.”

  “We sent a team in there. They examined the table. There was nothing of this kind mounted underneath it.”

  “When did your team arrive?”

  Shakespeare thought about this. “The next morning. But I checked the table personally on the night of the murder.”

  “She designed it so her contraption would withstand a first scrutiny. Then when the police were finished she removed the object and presumably changed out the tables.”

  “Removed the object? You mean she entered the school—”

  “After you were gone, yes. She must have had a key. And if you check you will find that there’s a second table in that classroom. My guess is that she switched the tables just to be on the safe side. And in that second table you will find screw marks from where she removed this box and the wooden plank that concealed it.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” muttered Estevez. He’d picked up the device and was studying it closely. “It’s a crossbow all right, sir,” he said reverently. “Only this one has been fitted onto an extendable hinge operating on a gas piston. It’s operated remotely, allowing the crossbow to swing into place just before the bolt is shot, then just as quickly retracted again into its hiding place. That’s why the trajectory placed the bow as having been fired from the window.” He nodded appreciatively. “Very ingenious, sir. Very ingenious indeed.”

  Shakespeare gave him a withering look, which Estevez studiously ignored.

  “But how?” asked Shakespeare. “How did she do all that, this… Mrs. Koss?”