O’ artful death

by Sarah Stewart Taylor

  “Now, you’re probably wondering why you’re here.”

  Sweeney said that she was, but that she assumed it had something to do with Ruth Kimball’s death.

  “That’s right. It’s come to my attention that you were in touch with her shortly before her death. I wondered if you could tell me what it was about.”

  In the car on the way downtown, Sweeney had decided she would tell him about her conversation with Ruth Kimball and that she had known about her death before coming to Vermont. It was a question of risk-assessment more than of honesty. Ruth Kimball, after all, had told her daughter about their exchange on the telephone. Chief Cooper probably knew that already. But Sweeney had decided not to tell him about the inquiries she’d made so far. She had very little to go on, after all, just a vague discomfort about Herrick Gilmartin’s necrophiliac portrait and a shadowy suspicion that one or more of the colonists knew more about Ruth Kimball’s death—and Sweeney’s questions—than they were letting on.

  When she was finished with her story, Cooper sat back and studied her for a moment before asking, “So she said nothing that would indicate to you that she had any idea about who might have killed her ancestor? If in fact her ancestor was killed?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. I was going to ask her about who she thought it was the next day, but then when I called . . .” She flushed. “I mean that I wondered if . . .”

  “You wondered if perhaps she hadn’t mentioned to someone that she knew who had killed Mary Denholm?”

  “No, I mean . . . I did wonder, I suppose. But it’s really the gravestone I’m interested in. And besides, she killed herself, right? There isn’t any question that it was anything else?”

  Before he could say anything, the door opened, and another policeman leaned in and said, “Hey, Chief. The A.G.’s in your office. He was in town for the Dadko hearing and he wants to ask about the search thing.”

  Chief Cooper nodded and got up. “Could you give me a minute, Miss St. George? I’ll be right back.”

  It was after she’d been sitting there for a few minutes, reading over and over a menacing poster on the wall that read, “Never, Never, Never Shake a Baby,” that she remembered the manila folder.

  There weren’t any windows in the little room, but still she looked around as though someone might be watching. Satisfied that there weren’t any one-way mirrors or cameras about, she leaned across the table and slowly turned the folder over so that she could see the label with its messy purple writing. After listening to make sure that no one was coming, she swiftly lifted the cover and found a stack of handwritten notes. They were practically illegible, but she flipped through anyway, looking for recognizable names or details. Once she saw “Sherry Kimball” and in another place the name “P. Wentworth.” The word “Alibis” popped out at her, scrawled in red marker on another sheet of paper. Cooper, or whoever it was, had written a list of names in a column headed by the word “Insufficient or Susp.” There was Patch, Britta, Willow, Anders, Gwinny, Carl Thompson and Sabina Dodge. In another column, this one headed by the word “Firm,” were the names Rosemary Burgess, Electra Granger, Gally and Trip Wentworth, Sherry and Charley Kimball. Sweeney thought back to the conversation about alibis at dinner the night before. What was it Sabina had said? Something about how if she’d actually been the murderer, she would have come up with an alibi for herself. Well, she hadn’t.

  Sweeney listened for a moment, then opened a manila envelope at the back of the folder. Inside was a stack of crime scene photos.

  She had seen them in movies, large format, black-and-white pictures shown fleetingly over the shoulders of silver screen detectives.

  But nothing had prepared her for these stark images of death. The gray-haired, slightly stocky woman was a dark stain against the snow. Dressed in what looked like a long skirt, boots, and a bulky parka, she lay on her back, legs folded beneath her body. She’d obviously fallen to her knees and then back, her arms outstretched as though she’d been making angels in the snow.

  Half clasped in her right hand was a dark object that Sweeney recognized as a handgun. In a close-up, farther down in the pile, the barrel pointed toward the woman’s bare head and forced Sweeney’s eye to her face, or the dark mess where her face had once been.

  For all the time she had spent amongst the dead, she had never seen an undoctored photograph of a body before, much less a real corpse. Her whole being recoiled at the sight of stilled life, and something deep within her wanted to turn away from the picture of the glistening wound. In that instant she remembered everything she’d ever read about superstitions related to corpses, Kenyan tribesmen who refused to be anywhere in the vicinity of a dead body, Egyptian beliefs about preparing corpses. But still she stared, overcome by a combination of repulsion and fascination.

  When she heard Cooper at the door, she barely had time to put the photos back and close the folder. As he entered the room, she was busy rooting around in her purse for a stick of gum which, thankfully, she found, a bit mashed, at the very bottom. She slipped it from its wrapper and folded it into her mouth, trying to calm her jangled nerves.

  “Sorry,” he said, sitting down again. “Where were we? Oh, yes. You were asking me if there was a possibility that Ruth Kimball didn’t commit suicide. I’ll be frank with you, Miss St. George. It’s not as clear-cut as one might think. It’s a very simple matter to place a gun in a dead person’s hand following a murder, hold it to the head, let the arm fall naturally. The thing that frequently gives such an act away is the absence of fingerprints or the presence of strange ones, but in this case . . .”

  Sweeney saw where he was going. “She was outside. She was wearing gloves,” she finished.

  “Exactly. So we look at other aspects of the crime. The angle at which the bullet entered the body, the distance at which the gun was fired.” It struck her that he was enjoying explaining the intricacies of police work to her. “I’ll get to the point. At eight this morning I heard from the medical examiner. He’s calling this shooting a homicide. So now I’m investigating this as a murder and if there’s anything you know that you haven’t told me, this would be a good time to speak up.”

  Sweeney, shocked, just looked back at him.

  “I want you to understand the possible seriousness of the situation. If there is anything that comes to your attention, I would appreciate it if you came to me. We wouldn’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

  There was something threatening in his words and Sweeney found she didn’t have it in her to do anything but nod.

  “Okay. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” He got up and led her out into the lobby. “You know where we are. If you need us.”

  Again, his words were ominous rather than comforting.

  SABINA DODGE’S HOUSE, decidedly New England on the outside, had the feel of a Moroccan palace on the inside. When she answered the door, she took Sweeney’s hands in hers and kissed her once on each cheek, then led her into a little room off the front hallway and told her to sit down on a low red couch. The walls of the room were covered with tapestries and red and black rugs. Giant pillows were scattered around on the couch. A few large cushions were arranged around a low table, where a giant, obscenely pink amaryllis bloomed in a low dish. A fire was blazing in the fireplace and the warmth and closeness of the room made Sweeney feel sleepy. She was still reeling from her conversation with Cooper.

  “It’s so nice to see you,” Sabina Dodge said. “Electra’s going to be joining us in a moment, but why don’t I get you some tea. Milk and sugar?” She was wearing another voluminous caftan, this one the pink of poached salmon, and a black velvet turban from under which a few tufts of white hair had escaped. Her gray eyes twinkled at Sweeney from the big, fleshy, moon-shaped face. Her hands, when Sweeney looked down at them, sparkled with diamond and sapphire rings.

  “Just plain, thanks.” Sweeney tried to lean back on the couch and found that she sank into it. A bell sounded and Sabina went to get it, leaving
Sweeney alone in the room. There was a small table over against one wall and on it were a group of sterling silver picture frames with photographs in them. Sweeney went over to look at them.

  One showed a group of people standing in front of Upper Pastures. Since most of the women had on dropped-waist flapper-style dresses, she assumed it had been taken sometime in the ‘20s. She recognized Marcus Granger from other pictures she’d seen, but other than that, no one looked familiar.

  Another picture was of a girl—upon close examination Sweeney saw that it was a much younger Sabina—with her arm around a gray-haired woman. A German Shepherd sat at their feet. There were a couple of photographs of children and one had an inscription at the bottom that read. “To Aunt Gilda, with all my love—Bitty.”

  “Hi, Sweeney,” Rosemary said from behind her. Sweeney turned around quickly and found Rosemary standing next to her grandmother.

  “Are you sure you can’t stay, Rosemary?” Sabina asked, coming into the room with a tea tray.

  “No. Toby and I are going skiing today. I’m sorry.” She blushed a little.

  “Of course we understand, dear,” beamed Electra Granger. Next to Sabina, she was a tiny, elegant imp. They were, Sweeney decided, a study in opposites. Where Sabina was rotund and bright and showy, Electra Granger was a small, quiet presence, dressed in a camel-colored suit, dark pantyhose and a brown silk scarf. Her sightless eyes settled pleasantly on something over Sweeney’s shoulder as Rosemary said her good-byes and told her grandmother she’d be home later in the afternoon.

  “Tell us more about your work,” Sabina said, once they had settled down with tea and cucumber sandwiches. “It sounds so interesting. Gravestones, Patch said.”

  “Yes,” Electra murmured. “Gravestones. How fascinating.”

  Gravestones carried them through tea and sandwiches.

  “What about you, Sabina?” Sweeney asked when they were done. “How did you come to the colony?”

  “I came when I was eighteen, believe it or not, and I’ve never really left. That was in the ‘40s. Gilda asked me to stay and I came for the weekend and that was it. Gilda, of course, had been here for ages. She was twenty-five years older than me.”

  Sweeney looked confused until Sabina explained, “Gilda Donetti.”

  “Oh yes.” Gilda Donetti had been one of the few successful Byzantium women and Sweeney remembered there had been a show of her work at the MFA recently—walls of her pastel interiors and landscapes, the colors washing over paper and canvas like the sea.

  “I was in art school and Gilda kind of swept me up and brought me here. And I just fell completely in love with Byzantium and everything about it. It was glamorously primitive in those days. No one had indoor plumbing until you and Marcus came, Electra, but we would have these marvelous cocktail parties. Oh! It was such fun. I wish you could have been here. Herrick Gilmartin was still the life of the party, even though he was almost eighty.”

  A giant silver Persian cat had come into the room and was rubbing against Sweeney’s legs. It mewled and crossed the floor to its mistress.

  “What was Gilmartin like? It’s amazing to be staying in his house. I keep imagining him sitting where I’m sitting or eating where I’m eating, and wondering what kind of a person he was.”

  Sabina glanced over at Electra. “Well, he wasn’t a nice person, if that’s what you mean. I mean, he was terrific company, but he was such a devil. Patch won’t let anyone talk about it, but Gilmartin slept with nearly everyone. Liked to seduce all his models.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes.” Sabina leaned forward. “He lived in his studio for an entire summer. With a Parisian model someone brought from Chicago. The servants had to bring them food and water.” Sabina grinned. “Don’t look so shocked, dear. I don’t know what your generation thinks we were all doing anyway. Herrick was an old goat. Wasn’t he, Electra?”

  “He was. Herrick was terrible.” Electra smiled mysteriously.

  “Who were his models? Did you know any of them?”

  “Both he and Marcus used a lot of local girls. We all kind of helped out now and then, too. That, for example,” Sabina pointed to a nude on the wall over the fireplace, “is me in all my God-given glory. I was much younger then.”

  “What about Mary Denholm? I guess she modeled for him, too,” Sweeney asked innocently.

  “Before my time, of course, and Gilda’s, too. But she did model for Herrick. It’s funny actually, but Gilda always got the feeling there was something strange about Mary’s death.”

  Sweeney put her teacup down on the table with a clatter. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, she told me once she wondered if Herrick or one of the other men hadn’t done it in a jealous rage or something. He was terribly possessive of his conquests. It was an idea she’d gotten, from a servant, I think.” Sabina thought for a moment and then said, “Ruth Kimball was always going on about it, getting up at meetings and telling people one of the artists had killed her ancestor.”

  Sweeney’s heart was pounding, but she forced herself to stay calm. “I thought Mary drowned.”

  “Of course she did, but Gilda had this idea in her head. I wish I could remember exactly what it was she said. It wasn’t anything definite, just a sort of feeling. I think the housekeeper or someone said there was something not right about the girl’s death. Didn’t change the way she felt about Herrick, though. In fact, I think the little bit of mystery about that death made him seem more interesting to her. They were fast friends, smoked pipes together. He called her his Sapphic Sister. In those days no one bothered about two women. Called us a ‘Boston marriage.’ Have you ever heard that term?”

  Sweeney shook her head.

  “People don’t use it anymore,” Sabina said. “What do you remember about Herrick, Electra?”

  “Well, he was quite elderly by the time we arrived here, of course, but there was something about him that people were always drawn to. He twinkled, if you know what I mean. Always up to something. Patch reminds me of him. Patch was a very naughty little boy. Always getting into scrapes. And he had a real temper. Used to fly off the handle at people if they didn’t do what he wanted. It’s funny, he and Willow were both like that as children. Willow once punched a little boy in the face. Broke his nose.”

  “I’d forgotten that Willow grew up coming here, too.”

  “Oh yes, she and Patch were fast friends. Although, as I say, they both had tempers and they used to have terrible fights. They went together for a while when they were teenagers, and everyone thought they would get married eventually, although in those days nobody seemed to get married. It was all sleeping together and living together back then.

  “But then they went to college and Patch met Britta and, of course, Willow lived in Italy for all those years,” Electra Granger went on. “So that was that. We all thought Britta was so sweet. Such a nice girl. I’ll never forget how pretty she was the first time she came to Byzantium, with that blond hair, wearing a blue sundress. She was so fragile, I thought I would break her hand when I shook it. We all liked her. So that was okay.”

  But Sweeney got the feeling that it had not been okay, and she began to understand what it must have been like for Britta, coming into this strange, close-knit community, the barely tolerated outsider.

  “Now,” Sabina announced. “May I show you my house?” Electra said that she would stay on the couch and listen to the radio and Sabina rose and offered Sweeney her hand. “I love to show people my house.”

  Besides the room they’d been in, the downstairs included a living room, dining room, library and giant kitchen, where copper pots dangled from a rack and another amaryllis was blooming on the kitchen table. “I force them,” Sabina explained to Sweeney. “If you put them in the freezer, you can have them all year ‘round.”

  “That was the morning room you were in,” she went on, leading the way into a room lined with bookshelves, “and this is the library.”

  The walls of
the room were painted a pale salmon that matched Sabina’s outfit. A giant blue and gold oriental rug covered the floor and paintings crowded on the walls, making a colorful collage. Sweeney looked through the books in the cases.

  “You like Dorothy Sayers, too,” she said, perusing the titles. “Austen, Josephine Tey, Marsh, Chandler, Shakespeare. I think we have the same taste in books.”

  “You’re welcome to borrow anything you want,” Sabina said. “Now here’s something you might be interested in.” She pointed to an oil portrait hanging over the fireplace mantel. It was a simple portrait of a plain, fair girl in a high-necked lace blouse, her pale skin melting into the milky background. “That’s a Gilmartin of Ruth Kimball’s grandmother Ethel. It was Gilda’s, and we’ve always had it hanging here. But a couple of years ago, Ruth Kimball claimed she’d found a letter from Gilmartin indicating that he’d wanted her grandmother to have it. She kept threatening she was going to get a lawyer and fight me for it. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but she was a very combative woman. This is the place it should be. It’s always been here.”

  Sweeney took in Sabina’s words and decided that if she’d discovered a letter indicating a portrait was meant to go to her grandmother, she might want to fight for it, too. She looked around at the other art in the room.

  A more contemporary oil of two teenage girls playing with a small child caught her eye. It was a lovely composition—the child faced a shelf to the left edge of the canvas, one side of her face buried in one of the older girl’s blouse. Nearly identical, the girls looked out from the canvas with controlled, Mona Lisa smiles. They were wearing dark clothes that set off the blue of the child’s eyes.

  The signature, Sweeney saw when she leaned down to look, was Gilda Donetti and the date was 1969. It wasn’t anything special, really, just a pretty little painting.