Murder in the Art Gallery

by Sandi Scott

  Georgie stopped in mid-chew and stared at Stan.

  “Remember when we used to work on these things together, talking late into the night trying to figure out what we missed or who we needed to talk to again?”

  “Yes, Stan. I remember.” Her eyes softened as she looked at the handsome detective across the desk.

  “I think the craziest one we handled was the DeVries case. Remember that one? You were sure that old lady DeVries inflicted those bruises on herself.”

  “Of course she did.” Georgie pursed her eyebrows together as she got mad all over again. “She did that to set up her alibi. Accused her own stepson of elder abuse to get her hands on her dead husband’s money. She raised that boy from the age of four. I still don’t think the sentence was tough enough.”

  “She got ten years in jail. She’ll be seventy-seven when she gets released, if she lives that long.”

  “And how much do you want to bet she’ll ask her stepson to take her in.” Georgie wiped her hands on a napkin she pulled from under a stack of files on Stan’s desk.

  “You pegged it, though, Georgie. You’ve got a gift. Why don’t you come to my place tonight? Help me go over a couple of cold cases over a cold case. I’ve got some Coors chilling in the fridge as we speak.”

  “You’re like that snake in the garden, Stan. So tempting.” Georgie shook her head no. “I’ve actually got quite a few things to do at home. But maybe some other time.”

  “Like when?” He leaned forward, cupping his chin in his palm and staring at Georgie with his beautiful blue eyes.

  “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

  “Have you heard from the kids?” He popped the last chunk of brownie in his mouth and washed it down with a sip of coffee.

  “I have. They’re all doing fine. Nothing to report. Haven’t they called you? I’ll tan their hides if I find out they haven’t been.” Georgie had made it abundantly clear to her children that she and Stan may have split up but they were still their parents.

  Even adult children have a hard time adjusting to such a drastic change. They didn’t understand his wanderlust and they didn’t understand why Georgie didn’t go back to him once he was home. They didn’t understand how after thirty-five years, two people could decide they didn’t want to be together.

  To the children, Georgie spoke about all the sacrifices Stan had made for all of them. He was a hero. Their father. The man who put food on the table, sent them all to private school, gave them everything they could need as children to grow up in to healthy, productive adults.

  She’d told them once, “If I hear any of you bad-mouthing your father, believe me when I tell you that none of you are too big for me to slap you silly. I won’t tolerate it.” And her children knew she meant business.

  It took a while for them to come around. Especially Catherine. She was the youngest and the only girl. Daddy’s little girl. She felt like the rug had been pulled out from under her because so often she had said she married a man who was just like her father. Loving and kind and hilariously funny. It set into motion a whole slew of insecurities that hadn’t been there before.

  But Georgie didn’t tolerate any negativity.

  “Life is too short to not love your father,” she had said. “No matter what he’s done. If you want answers, ask him. He’s never been afraid to talk to any of you. But don’t shut him out. The day may come when you need him.”

  It did, too. When Georgie was diagnosed with cancer. Before the fight against it began. Before the tests and doctor visits. The children had to not only pull together but they had to include their father.

  Georgie often thought that her remission was partially due to the fact her family had come back together. They were all in separate houses, in separate cities with totally separate lives. But when it counted they were there. That didn’t just give her strength. It gave them all strength.

  “No, mamabear. The kids have been calling. In fact, I spoke to Jonathan just last week and Catherine sent me a card with pictures of the baby. That little girl is getting so big. She looks just like Catherine did at that age.” Stan beamed.

  “Yes, I got some, too.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes while Georgie went about cleaning up the wrappers and napkins and Stan’s empty Styrofoam coffee cup, and dumping them all in the garbage can.

  “You don’t have to clean up after me, Georgie. I’m a mess and I think I’ll always be one.”

  “Yes, but you’re a good-looking mess.” She winked at him as she stood up and straightened her blouse. She was happy she had worn this outfit. Yellow was Stan’s favorite color and if he noticed like he did, it made her feel good. It was nice to know that he hadn’t completely given up on her.

  “So you’re not going to come by my place tonight? Well, I guess I’ll spend the evening alone.” Stan sighed. “Hey, what do you want to talk to Leto about?”

  “Oh, I want to fix him up with your niece. Any other suspects you might be paying a visit to?”

  “Well, aren’t you the little sneak? Pumping me for information like that, you should be ashamed. I’m sorry, did you just say you wanted to fix Leto up with Emily?”

  Georgie nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Leto’s a good-looking guy. He’s liked, he’s got a steady job and does it well. He’s learning from the best. I think they might have fun together.”

  “And if they don’t, it’ll make things weird in the office. Did you ever think of that?

  “You didn’t answer my question? Any other persons of interest?” Georgie batted her eyes like she hadn’t heard a word Stan had said.

  “No.”

  Every time Georgie paid a visit to Stan, she left the police station saying the same thing out loud.

  “Bail keeps getting higher and higher,” she announced to anyone within ear shot while rubbing her wrists as if she’d been in handcuffs. Rookie policemen or random civilians would look at her suspiciously as she skipped down the steps. Today was no different. “I never thought I’d see the sun again,” she snickered.

  Around the corner and up a block was a wonderful coffee shop that had the most delicious canelé, a soft pastry filled with custard and covered in a caramel glaze.

  Yanking the door open, Georgie set off a tinkling of bells, attracting the attention of the older woman behind the counter.

  “Bonjour,” the woman chirped in her authentic French accent.

  “Bonjour,” Georgie replied, hearing the word come out of her mouth in blocky bits sounding more like “bone-jewer” than the elegant “bohn-zhoor.” Still she smiled happily and put her purse down at the tiniest table for two in the far corner of the room.

  There was something about the café that was so authentically European that Georgie had told Aleta more than once that when she died, she’d like some of her ashes covertly sprinkled here. The walls were a rustic whitewash over gray wood. The tile on the floor was aged red and white marble squares. The tables and chairs were elegant, wiry designs that were surprisingly strong and durable for merely being wrought iron and glass. Above were mismatched chandeliers that looked like they had been pulled from a fairy tale.

  The long counter was a rich dark wood that had small, light nicks all over it from years of dishes and glasses and customers banging on it. The proprietor who always wore her hair in a perfectly sloppy bun on the top of her head and bright red lipstick smiled at Georgie.

  “Ce que vous voulez? What would you like?”

  “Can I get two of your canelé and one espresso?”

  “Oui.”

  “Merci.” Georgie giggled again knowing she’d pronounced it, “marcy” but feeling quite exotic nonetheless. She knew the exact amount for her mid-morning treat and left it on the counter. A copy of the Chicago Sun-Times was laying on the table next to hers so she quickly scooped it up, opened to the Arts section and began to read. Within minutes, her canelé and espresso were in front of her, filling her nostrils with sweet and bitter a
romas.

  As she ate, she was shocked to see a review of the Wyland Art Gallery’s exhibit of Xio’s work written by none other than Laney Chung. It was the equivalent to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. A bloodbath. No mercy. No compassion. Most of the criticism was not toward the artist who Laney said needed a few more lessons in presentation but rather an assault on Jamal Landry, referring to him as an art school flunky.

  “Yikes,” Georgie mused as she chewed her food. “Show a little class. The man is dead, for heaven’s sake.”

  “…Jamal Landry is continually trying to prove himself in the art world when he would find more success among the ranks of Barnum & Bailey or Cirque Berzerk.”

  “Don’t hold back.” Georgie took another forkful of her pastry while she finished the horrible review. Looking at the proprietor and the other customers sitting closer to the windows at the front of the room, Georgie quietly folded up the Arts section and slipped it in her purse.

  “I can’t blame him for those letters to the editor,” she mumbled as she sipped the hot espresso.

  She absolutely hated getting a paper that had sections missing but in this case, it was literally, a matter of life and death. Aleta didn’t read the paper, but Georgie was very interested to know what her sister’s opinion on this would be. Especially after she and Georgie had read through all those letters to the editor together.

  “You’re becoming quite the kleptomaniac, Georgie,” she scolded herself.

  Just as she sliced into her second canelé, the tiny bells at the door went wild with their announcement someone else was entering the café. Georgie thought she might just add those kinds of bells to her own front door.

  When she looked up, she was surprised to see a very striking man about her age step in the door.

  “Bonjour,” the woman behind the counter said.

  “Bonjour,” the man replied in perfect French and continued in a mesmerizing conversation that completely captivated Georgie, even though she had no earthly clue as to what they were saying.

  Georgie thought the man looked like he had stepped out of a dusty and mysterious library. His trousers were a gray plaid, his shirt was white, and he wore a brown vest that was missing a button at the bottom. His shoes were wing-tipped but scuffed from what seemed like many trips through the city.

  When she had finished taking inventory of his apparel, she looked to his face and found him to be studying her much the same way. With a broad smile and a blush, Georgie looked back down at her paper and cringed as her eyes fell on the sports page. There was nothing that could interest her less than how the Cubs were doing this year as baseball season came to an end.

  Focusing instead on her dessert, she took another slice and contemplated getting one more. As she folded the paper, the handsome gentleman strolled in Georgie’s direction, taking a seat at the table next to her.

  As he sipped his coffee, Georgie couldn’t help but marvel at the magnificent mane of gray hair this man had. It was thick and wavy, and although the clean-cut, military look that Stan had worn their whole time together was handsome, there was something creative and expressive about how this man looked.

  “May I use your sugar?”

  “Of course.” Georgie smiled and laughed at herself as she snapped out of the trance this man had put on her and handed him the small white bowl holding the little packs of sugar.

  “Thank you,” the man replied with a sly smirk on his face.

  “Of course.” Georgie grinned as she looked back at the paper and turned the page. There was absolutely nothing good happening in the city of Chicago according to this newspaper so she folded it up, pushed it to the side and took a sip of her espresso. That was when she noticed the two bowls of sugar packets at the gentleman’s table. When her eyes bounced to his suspiciously, she was once again caught in his blue stare.

  “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “It was all I could think of to talk to you and then I just drew a complete blank.”

  “Well, you get a C+ for effort. That was kind of lame,” Georgie teased. “How about this?” She extended her hand. “Georgie Kaye.”

  “Malcolm Obberfield. My friends call my Obby.” He took her hand in his.

  “Well, Obby, I have to say your English is better than mine and I’ve lived here my whole life.”

  “I appreciate that, but I’m actually from Minnesota.” He took a sip from his coffee. “I’ve been living abroad for the past couple of decades. The last six years I lived in France. Now, my job requires me to set some roots in Chicago, at least for the time being.”

  “May I ask what it is you do?”

  “I’m an art broker. I actually moved here in the hopes of acquiring some property for myself. I thought it was about time I start my own collection.”

  “Really?” Georgie leaned her elbow on the table and cradled her chin in her palm. “Do tell.”

  After two more canelé and one more espresso, Obby had taken Georgie on a virtual trip to Istanbul, the French Riviera, Tokyo, Sydney, London, and of course, Florence, Italy where one of Georgie’s favorite sculptures, Michelangelo’s David, resided. He told her his trips abroad were the greatest schooling he could have ever received. If it weren’t for those trips, he feared his life would have taken a different turn and art would have been something for other people--not him. It was his dream to immerse himself in an artistic community, perhaps invest in a gallery or museum or even a simple studio for art classes to continue his own studies and give other artists a chance.

  “I’ve got a lead on a place right now but it seems my chances of shaking hands with this fellow are slim and none, and slim left town.”

  “That is too bad.” She looked at her watch and sighed. “Well, Obby, it has been an absolute pleasure speaking with you.” She pushed her seat back and pulled her purse tightly over her shoulder. “But I’ve got to meet my sister and if I don’t get going, she’s going to worry about me.”

  “You have a sister?” Obby’s eyebrows lifted. “Is she as cute as you are?”

  “We’re twins. But sadly, she’s not as cute as me. A lot of it has to do with her hump and crossed eyes.”

  Obby nearly spit out his coffee when he started to laugh.

  “Other than that, you can’t tell the two of you apart, right?” he joked.

  Now it was Georgie’s turn to laugh. She put out her hand and Obby took it in both of his.

  “You know, after all these years I’ve really never seen much of Chicago other than O’Hare Airport during a layover. I sure could use someone who has the inside track to some of the better pastry cafes and local art galleries.”

  “I’m sorry, Obby. My schedule just doesn’t allow for it. But, the best place to start for someone new to the city would undoubtedly be the Art Institute of Chicago on Michigan Avenue. You will see a little bit of everything there. And I’d definitely recommend stopping in to the school museum to see the students’ work. Some of it, eh.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But every once in a while, you come across someone who sees things differently.” Her eyes twinkled as she spoke. “It’s worth the time.”

  “I will definitely do that, Georgie.” Obby stood up from his seat like a real gentleman. “May I trouble you for the paper?”

  “Of course.” She handed him the paper she had picked up from the empty table just a short while ago. “Goodbye, Obby.”

  “Goodbye, Georgie.”

  Georgie waved to the woman behind the counter.

  “Au revoir, Madame.”

  “Or rev ware,” Georgie replied happily. The only thing left behind was the tinkling of the bells over the door and the newspaper she passed along to Obby.

  9

  “You told him I have a hump and crossed eyes?” Aleta stood holding a steaming teapot in one hand with her other hand on her hip. “Can I just ask what’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m pretty sure he knew I was kidding.” Georgie held up her dainty pink teacup on its saucer to her sister like she was offering a sacri
fice.

  “You know, you can’t be too careful out there. You didn’t tell him where you lived or gave him your phone number, did you? He could be some kind of crazy.”

  “No. Of course I didn’t. What kind of a hussy do you think I am? I gave him your address and phone number.” Georgie laughed loudly. But when she saw her sister’s pursed lips, she pulled a blanket of control around herself and sat straight as an arrow at her sister’s kitchen table. “Aleta, I didn’t give him anyone’s address or phone number. The days of passing out my digits are over. Besides, what would I tell Stan? That’s a conversation I don’t think I’d know how to handle. Explaining the birds and the bees to the kids was a more pleasant experience.”

  Aleta chuckled as she put the pot back on the stove.

  “I really should stop reading the paper,” Aleta confessed. “My imagination goes crazy when I read about a kidnapping or a murder or something. It’s just ridiculous.”

  “Speaking of papers. Look at this.” Georgie pulled out the arts section from her purse and passed it to Aleta. Check out the big article on that page.”

  Aleta took the paper and quickly skimmed it with a keen eye used to skimming paragraphs looking for the meat of the sentences then moving on.

  “Nice review,” she said sarcastically. “One last jab before they lower him in the ground I guess.”

  “Did you see who wrote that?” Georgie asked while leaning past her sister and grabbing a plate of gingersnaps that had been cooling from the oven for the past five minutes. “Laney Chung.”

  “So what?”

  “So what? Don’t you remember the letters to the editor?”

  Aleta put her hand to her lips, her eyes wide.

  “That’s this person?” She pointed to the newspaper. “I didn’t realize. Well, this is very interesting. The fact she’d go out on a limb like this when the murder was obviously foul play. Either she has nothing to hide or she has everything to hide and thinks hiding it in plain view is somehow a good idea.”

  “What?” Georgie asked with a mouth full of cookie.