The Fine Art of Murder

by Tony Bulmer

  Mira smiled, and nodded.

  Ramirez gave her a bruised look, “You will know just what I am talking about then.”

  Mira shot the detective an expression of sympathy that could have doubled for silent amusement. Then turned to see her uncle, buzzing around the room like a crazed hummingbird—peering at first one painting, then another. He paused in the centre of the room and spun around, uttering low, incredulous words.

  “Quite a collection he’s got here wouldn’t you agree professor?” said Ramirez.

  “I would agree that God’s truths can be found entirely through nature and reason, everything else is open to conjecture Detective.”

  “Say what?”

  Professor Franklin held up a finger, wagged it two beats then dropped quickly to his knees. He stroked the floor with his fingers. Then, muttering quietly under his breath, he moved quickly forwards into a prone position, pressing an ear to the floor, whilst closing one eye, as though he were examining the line of the floorboards.

  “As I thought he muttered.” He drummed his fingers on the floor momentarily, before springing to his feet, with the speed of an Olympic gymnast.

  Mira tipped her head on one side, observing her uncles antics, with quiet interest.

  Detective Ramirez shook his head and said to no one in particular, “I would ask what the hell he is doing, but I would probably hate myself even more for being told, so I ain’t going to ask.”

  “You have spoken to the maid?” asked Franklin, brushing invisible dust from the lapels of his immaculately pressed jacket.”

  “We got that covered Professor, no need to worry.”

  “But I do worry Detective Ramirez, I worry all the time, which is precisely why you need my help in this matter.”

  “Now wait a minute,” said Ramirez quickly. “I never said anything about needing your input on this one Professor. In fact, the only reason I asked you in here at all, was to glean a little personal background on this collector friend of yours. So, I don’t know what all those crazy acrobatics you just pulled were about, but if you think you are going to stick your nose into my murder investigation, you got another thing coming, you hear?”

  “Do not trifle with me Detective. If Javier Elzorra was murdered, you will need my assistance. In the short time I have spent assessing the situation, it is quite clear that this affair falls beyond the capabilities of The Los Angeles Police Department’s Robbery Homicide Division.”

  Ramirez scrunched his eyes, and rubbed his temple like he was starting to get a migraine. “We value your expertise Professor, of course we do, but we are talking murder here—Now, I certainly appreciate your kind offer, but your help, should we need it, will be strictly limited to your back ground knowledge of the victim and the kind of life he led. Should we need to broaden the scope of the investigation into artistic avenues—you are still our go to guy. But don’t think for a minute you are going to shoulder into my investigation, like little Mr. Marple, or I am liable to get all cranky—you understand?”

  “That is your prerogative of course Detective.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Well, since you put it that way, Let us walk through to the study where we can discuss this matter more fully.”

  “The study? Where the hell is the study?

  “Right this way detective,” said Franklin with the most amenable smile Mira had ever seen. She followed them then, trailing in their wake as they walked a long marble corridor, lined with paintings of austere looking saints, and sallow faced aristocrats staring down judgmentally with their long dead gazes.

  When at last they arrived in the study of Javier Elzorra, a strong funereal smell of incense and damp stone assailed their nostrils. The place stank like a fusty old church, thought Mira. She sat on the edge of Elzorra’s desk, while her uncle examined the paintings in the room—dramatic seascapes and pictures of antique horseflesh that had darkened with age and nicotine.

  “No pictures of his family, that’s kind of sad don’t you think?” wondered Mira.

  Her uncle said nothing. He was examining a painting of a sailing ship in heavy seas from the distance of two inches.

  Ramirez sat in the office chair behind the desk and gave it a spin. “How long have you known this guy Professor?”

  “I have known Mr. Elzorra for a considerable length of time detective. He has an international reputation as a collector, and it is by that reputation that I first became aware of his thirst for acquisition.”

  “Where did he get the money for all this—was he an art dealer?”

  “He certainly traded work, less frequently in recent years, but I understand his primary source of income came from world financial markets.”

  “Figures,” growled Ramirez, “We are in the wrong business you ask me. These financial guys rule the world these days. What ever happened to an honest day’s work for an honest days pay?”

  Franklin stepped away from the painting of the sailing ship, and continued to prowl the office. “A rhetorical question Detective, but an admirable one none the less. Success is of course, relative to the avenues we pursue, and money alone is not the measure of success or lack of it in any given field.”

  “I will tell my wife that next time she is screaming for a new widescreen television to sit her double-width ass in front of.”

  “Television…” Franklin mentioned the word as though it were a particularly unpleasant heresy, outside his field of experience. “I understand the reach of that accursed medium has extended beyond psychologically healthful limits,” he said with some regret.

  “So you and this guy Elzorra go way back, is that right professor?”

  “Two decades at least.”

  “So what was he like? You guys must have really had a lot in common. You ever go out to a ball game or something?”

  Professor Franklin gave Ramirez a tight, almost pitying look, “I do not socialize, Detective. Gratuitous fraternization is the enemy of personal advancement.”

  “No kidding,” said Ramirez evenly, like this was no surprise.

  “But you must have attended the same auctions, charity events—functions of that nature?”

  “Indeed. Mr. Elzorra has supported both artistic and humanitarian causes with great generosity.” Franklin stood in the centre of the room now, leaning hard against his cane, his brow creasing slightly as though deep in thought.

  Ramirez turned to Mira, “What about you miss. You ever meet this mysterious philanthropist?”

  “Not as yet Detective,” said Mira sweetly.

  “Well that is too bad, because it looks like you have missed your chance.”

  Mira looked at her uncle, expecting some kind of incisive retort, but he was staring ahead intently—his eyes bright and alert, as though mulling over the implications of some astonishing truth. She followed his gaze, to the wall directly behind Ramirez’s head, but there were no clues to his thoughtful silence. Then, just as suddenly as he had fallen silent Professor Franklin snapped back brightly, “You really must understand that Javier Elzorra was a very private person, some might almost say reclusive…”

  Ramirez nodded darkly, “I get it Professor. You are playing it tight on this one, but that’s OK. You think of any details that might help us find who shot this friend of yours, I want you to get in touch—you hear me?”

  Franklin strolled over to the window and parted the blinds. He peered out momentarily, then turned give Ramirez a hard look. “I want to see where they shot him.”

  “There is nothing to see. The whole mess got cleaned up hours ago.”

  “Then surely there can be no harm in us taking a look can there? Then we can leave you to your work, I am sure you still have much to do.”

  Ramirez sat stone-faced, like he was running the pros and cons. Finally he twisted his lips sideways and nodded slowly, “I can’t say it would hurt none,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Good,” said Franklin. “Then it is agreed,” and without further word he strode purpo
sefully out of the room.

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 16

  Detective Ramirez was right. There was nothing to see at the pool, just the dappled glint of the afternoon sun caressing the shadows of palm trees as they moved across the rippling water. Mira stood by the kitchen door, hands in her pockets, wishing she was just about anywhere else. Elzorra’s million-dollar city view might have been a realtor’s dream-come-true. But now that dream was sullied. No mater how beautiful the surroundings were, it would be impossible to wash away the image of a murdered man floating dead in the swimming pool. There wasn’t a cleaning crew in the world who could tackle that kind of mess. Despite the warmth of the afternoon Mira felt a cold shiver reach through her, like an answer phone message from the underworld.

  “This place gives me the creeps Uncle C, can we split out of here?

  “All in good time Mira. We must be thorough in our investigations.”

  Mira turned quickly, to see Detective Ramirez in the kitchen, engaged in a conversation with a uniformed cop.

  Mira said quietly “What investigations, are you kidding me? This friend of yours is no help to us now, how can he be?”

  “That is where you are quite wrong Mira. We are far closer to resolving this little mystery than you might imagine.”

  “Hold it right there. You think Elzorra knew something about the da Vinci don’t you?”

  Professor Franklin gave her a ready smile, “Excellent Mira, a most astute observation. You are going to make a quite marvelous assistant!”

  “You are forgetting one thing Uncle C—I don’t want to be your lousy assistant.”

  Franklin gave her a look, pursed his lips and said, “You say that almost as though you have some choice in the matter, my dear.”

  “You’ve got some kind of nerve. We start the morning out looking for a Nazi painting, and by lunchtime one of your oldest friends, who just might know something about it, winds up dead. You think there might be some kind of connection there?” Mira’s voice was heavy with irony, her arms folded, like she gave a damn if they found the lost Leonardo or not.

  “Everything is connected Mira, it is the natural way of things. The real question is how are they connected and why.”

  “Profound. You been chomping the Deepak Chopra fortune cookies again?”

  “Spinoza actually, but we digress.”

  “For the record, I know exactly who Spinoza is, and if you ask me, he didn’t know what he was talking about. But what I do want to know, is what the hell we do now, because your pal in Robbery Homicide is playing his game closer than a Vegas card shark.

  “A thoroughly charming analogy my dear Mira, and appropriate too, because as you will know, every player has their tells—whether they want to tell or not.”

  “You think the cops know about the painting?”

  “A preposterous idea. But our good friends in the Los Angeles Police Department are not entirely stupid, which is why we must move quickly—because once Detective Ramirez and his mustachioed companion begin making their enquires, they will inevitably make connections and that could be most inconvenient.”

  “You are something else Uncle C. One of your oldest friends gets murdered and all you can think of is some crazy old painting that could be a fake copy for all we know.”

  “Ah, congratulations, I see you are using your admirable powers of deduction unfortunately you missed a number things.

  “Like what for example?”

  “Firstly, I hardly knew Elzorra, very few people did.”

  “But you told Ramirez that…”

  “I told him exactly what I needed him to know.”

  “But he will find out—”

  “Whether he finds out or not, is of little importance my dear. We are engaged in a project of unparalleled importance and we must employ whatever skills we have, to ensure that our investigation reaches a successful conclusion.”

  Mira opened her mouth to protest, but Franklin raised his hand gently to silence her. “Time grows short my dear. Let us say our goodbyes to Detective Ramirez, for we must make progress with our enquiries.” And with that, Professor Franklin disappeared into the kitchen, his polished brogues dancing quickly across the stone pathway. Mira watched him go, marveling at just how quickly he could move. She smiled to her self. Her uncle was quite a character, not a bit like her father, quite the opposite in fact, like they almost weren’t related. But the clues were there for all to witness, the high cheekbones, the quick grey eyes and the lithe angular jaw-line. Her uncle was part of the family alright, and quite a family they were.

  As she followed her uncle into the house, Mira found he was already busy, examining every detail of the kitchen, from the appliances, to the work surfaces, and every pan and ornament, no matter how mundane. Professor Franklin inspected everything, as though he had just been left the house, in the will of an eccentric relative. Mira had seen this kind of routine before. Uncle Cornelius was one of those rare people who possessed a truly photographic memory. Given chance to view something, he could recall the most astonishing details at will, almost as if he was reexamining a detailed mental picture that he had stored away in his memory banks. Mira watched him with amusement as he myopically inspected one kitchen gadget after another.

  “Hey, what you doing?” Ramirez broke away from his conversation with the uniformed officer, and directed his full attention towards professor Franklin’s examination of the kitchen.”

  “You like to cook Detective?”

  “You kidding me, with my wife? I am a strictly barbecues only kind of guy. I mess around in the kitchen, it is more than my life is worth, know what I am saying?”

  “I certainly do Detective. I have a very able housekeeper who attends to such matters, but, as I am sure you will agree, a well designed gourmet kitchen is a thing of great beauty.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that Franklin. As long as it’s got a microwave, and a fridge for the beer I am happy.”

  The uniform cop laughed.

  Franklin said, “Really Detective. I had no idea you were such a gourmet.”

  Ramirez said, “Cute Franklin, real cute, but I got police work to do here, and much as I would like to trade chuckles with you, I got a big list of stuff to do. So, if you will excuse me, the door is that way.”

  “I must thank you Detective, for being so accommodating,” said Franklin, with a gracious bow of his head. He turned to leave, but accidently caught the kitchen telephone with his elbow as he turned for the door. Released from its cradle the telephone bounced on the counter and skated towards the floor. Franklin caught the phone, and replaced it on its cradle, right next to the stick-pin message board.

  Ramirez rolled his eyes.

  The uniform cop stared.

  Mira shrugged, smiled, and said her good byes. As she walked towards the door she felt hot eyes upon her. Men.

  “Hey, take care of your grandpa would you,” called Ramirez.

  The uniform cop laughed.

  Mira slowed her walk, then remembered her uncle’s instructions: Do not engage in conversation of any kind with the police officers, no matter what.

  She opened the front door and stepped through it—didn’t even look back.

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 17

  “So what was all that about?” asked Mira. “You ask me, that entire visit was a big fat waste of time, and don’t think I didn’t see you playing eccentric sleuthary card, because I did, and it got us precisely nowhere did it?”

  “On the contrary Mira, our visit to the Elzorra residence was most informative.”

  “Are you going to enlighten me, because I can see you are just dying to—”

  Professor Franklin’s eyes shone with excitement. “You really are the most frightful grouch Mira, and I must say, your near total refusal to play detective, is an attitude that you are going to have to change, if we are to have any kind of fun at all.”

  “I don’t find murder funny. Nor do I see any connection to our search for lost da Vinci.
We trailed around the whole house. The painting wasn’t there. And if Elzorra knew where it was, he took that information to the grave with him.”

  “I am startled that you should think that way Mira. The fact that the painting wasn’t there is merely proof that we are on the right trail.”

  “You are going to tell me why aren’t you?” said Mira.

  “Since you force my hand, I can tell you that the Elzorra residence was cleaned as recently as this morning.”

  “Firstly, there is no way you can possibly know that for sure. Secondly, even if that is true, how is that going to help us.”

  “Splendid. At last you are asking questions, and here are your answers—the floor was cleaned today. I can say that with absolute certainty, because I gave it the sight and touch test. Foot prints attributable to police issue boots were clearly defined in areas of travel. This would not have been so, if the floor had started the day dusty, or in any way soiled. The footprints were clearly defined purely because the floor had been cleaned. And in addition to this, you may have seen me running the finger test on dust collecting surfaces—it came up negative, and what is more, by the lack of settled matter I would put the cleaning as late as 9.30 this morning.”

  “You can tell that by running your finger around the counter tops?”

  Franklin gave Mira a look of amusement. “Hardly my dear. There was a cleaner’s timetable pinned to the kitchen bulletin board. I am surprised you didn’t see it. The fact that there was no dust, merely confirms the timings on the schedule as current.”

  “Smart work.”

  “Just doing my job Mira. It is often the most obvious and workaday details that prove most crucial, when investigating a case of this nature.”

  “I don’t understand. How can knowing whether or not the house was cleaned this morning have any bearing on the whereabouts of the missing painting?”

  “So you noticed the missing painting?”

  “What? How could I? You are really driving me crazy now Uncle C.”

  “Splendid! That means you are close to a breakthrough in understanding. What would you say for example, if I told you that the cleaner was in the house at the time Elzorra was murdered?”