Art of Evil

by Bancroft, Blair

  “Listen to me, Billie,” I demanded. “Did you have anything to do with that mannequin at the Casa?”

  “Rory!” he wailed, obviously severely wounded. “You can’t think I’d be part of anything so crude.”

  “Actually . . . no,” I agreed. “But the Roman charioteer was a high-class work of art and the Lygia effigy looked remarkably like your darling Lydia,” I said. “You even got her hair and eye color right.”

  Billie looked down at his steering wheel. A squirrel zipped by, setting off a fit of barking from the restaurant dog who, as usual, was sleeping in the middle of the tramway. “Have you ever seen twenty hundred dollar bills, Rory?” he asked softly. “There they were, all those Ben Franklins in an envelope slipped under my door. All I had to do was make two effigies, create two harmless incidents, no questions asked.” He looked up, anguished but defensive. “Two K, Rory, what was I to do?”

  “Four nights on the golf course?” I suggested, none too gently.

  “But, Rory girl, you gotta understand—the bodies were so much more fun!”

  Of course they were. I thought of a few of Martin’s astonishingly creative expletives.

  “Was it really necessary to impale her?” I demanded. “There were a lot of elderly people there last night. The blood was a bit over the top.”

  “But it’s only three days to Halloween,” Billie said, as if that were all the explanation needed. “Be a sport, Rory. Don’t let living with seniors make you forget you’re still young.”

  I sighed. “Billie, didn’t it occur to you there might be something sinister about all this? What did you do with the note?”

  “Burned it. It said I should.” Billie raised his eyes to the rose garden behind me, figuratively whistling Dixie. After a seething pause, he added, “When that City Cop comes sniffing around, you’re going to tell him, aren’t you?”

  “Billie, are you absolutely certain you don’t know who’s behind this? You really, truly, have no idea why you were asked to make those effigies?”

  Billie held up his hand. “On my honor as a Bucs fan,” he intoned. “Two effigies, delivered in obvious places for maximum effect. Two thousand bucks. Believe me, there was no return address.”

  “And I’m right about the mannequin? You had nothing to do with that?”

  “Not a clue. Strike that,” he revised with a bare hint of his customary grin. “I hear it was Zorro.”

  “Right.” I admitted my own skepticism—until I had seen the telltale hat, mask, and cape.

  “Rappelled off the tower? Way to go!” Billie exclaimed, then added plaintively, “But why?”

  “Why throw two papier maché effigies into the museum mix?” I countered. “None of it makes sense.”

  “So?” Billie challenged, giving me his best portrayal of Little Boy Lost in a Sea of Misunderstanding.

  “I’ll do what I can to evade the issue,” I said, “but Detective Parrish doesn’t give the impression of being the careless type. He may not let me wiggle out of it.”

  Billie slumped in his seat, nodded his understanding.

  “I hope all those golf balls add up to a good lawyer,” I said. “You may need one.”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, and slunk off in his golf cart across the grass towards the Casa driveway and the maintenance trailers beyond.

  And wasn’t that just like Billie and his southern gentleman manners—apologizing for the hot seat he had put me in.

  I limped back to my car, climbed behind the wheel, then sat, staring blindly at the pink stucco of the Circus Museum. Thinking.

  For as long as I can remember I’ve had my odd gift. The ability to add two and two and get five. Or maybe seven or even nineteen. Most people think it’s bunk until they’ve seen it work. Also, I’ll be the first to admit my gift works at odd moments, seldom when I want it to, and it frequently comes up short when it’s needed most. Inconvenient and annoying. But perhaps you begin to see there might be a reason, beyond charity, for Josh Thomas to offer me a job.

  Sometimes my moments of insight are so strong I double over in agony from a combination of nausea and the painful confusion of not being certain what I’m “seeing.” But far more frequently, my insights are quiet leaps which could almost pass for the mental agility of an expert analyst. Which I am. Was. But last night, as I’d heard Josh and Martin talk, I began to wonder just how far the old-boy connection ran. Had it survived Martin’s retirement? And where was Josh’s father now? Was he the one pulling the strings of whatever was happening at the Bellman? Possibly for a private, more sinister, organization of spooks? Or was my Aunt Hy’s friend, dear old Martin, the Boss? Master of Daddy Spook and Son of Spook?

  Until that night at the Casa, with Martin standing over me like a sentinel, directing the swirl of events around me, I had not thought of him as anything more than an elegant old gentleman, his days of derring-do long gone. But that might not be true. Once a manipulator, always a manipulator. Martin was a man who made things happen. Like getting Ken Parrish assigned to the problems at the Bellman. Age might have slowed Martin down, but his brain was as razor-sharp as ever.

  The trouble was, I couldn’t figure out the name of the game. Two effigies and a mannequin? Two effigies, a mannequin, a satyr come to life, and a hanged computer geek, whose body was discovered by Billie Ball Hamlin.

  Strange. Very strange.

  Chapter 8

  “The Gatehouse is designed in a similar style to The House,” I pointed out, caught up in my customary tourguide routine. “It’s an actual live-in residence, with rooms on each side of the gate. You notice the screen porch—”

  A voice bellowed from the rear of the tram—female and belligerent: “Stop talking and take us to the House. We’re going to miss our tour!”

  I told myself sternly that, while driving, I represented the Bellman. And since I had already explained to this particular visitor that when we were busy—as we were today—tours began every seven and a half minutes, I was forced to accept that reasoning with her was hopeless. So I clamped my teeth over my tongue and drove. I did not point out the Circus Museum, the restaurant, Opal’s rose garden, the banyan trees, the sausage tree, the swimming pool, or the quiet, well-hedged spot where Richard and Opal were buried. I did not point out Sarasota Bay or Pelican Key beyond.

  Okay, so I did a slow burn all afternoon. I kept telling myself that one nasty visitor was not enough to precipitate my resignation from the tram service. And, finally, I cooled off enough to remember all the wonderful people I’d met while sitting in the driver’s seat of Tram 3.

  Nonetheless, I was still simmering when I pulled up at the Art Museum in the relative quiet of the five o’clock lull. Detective Parrish unfolded from one of the wooden benches and wandered over to speak to me. After the usual chorus of “thanks-yous” from my passengers faded, he leaned in and said, “Can you meet me on the Casa terrace after your shift?”

  There was, of course, only one response. If I’d had plans—which I didn’t—I would have had to cancel them.

  Yet there was something comfortable about Detective Sergeant Ken Parrish. Although he was younger, taller, and better looking than Columbo, he had that same deceptive laid-back feel. He was the type, I speculated, who had married his high school or college sweetheart and already had two kids with another on the way. He was also the type criminals would scoff at, right up to the moment the handcuffs clamped tight.

  I found I was looking forward to my interview. To hell with the wife and two-point-five kids.

  At five forty-five, after coaxing Aunt Hy’s gold Caddy along the now-deserted drive from the tram barn down to the bay, I parked under a banyan canopy next to a silver gray 4Runner. The driver door opened, and Ken Parrish leapt nimbly down onto the cracked and hump-backed asphalt. He was carrying, I noted with some interest, a backpack in his left hand. Evidence? I rather hoped it wasn’t the mannequin head complete with sloppy fingernail polish slash across its throat. It was too lovely an afternoon for reality.<
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  We walked, side by side, past the closed outdoor café, past the locked gift shop, and up the ramp to the terrace. The sun was low enough to give promise of another of the Gulf Coast’s glorious sunsets. The warmth of the day clung to the air, lingered in the twenty-seven kinds of marble in the terrace beneath our feet. The small tables, scattered here and there, were circles of wicker that matched the neutral beige of the classic wicker armchairs. Josh Thomas, in a burst of thunder, had cracked the glacier I had erected around myself. But now, at this moment with Detective Sergeant Ken Parrish, I could actually feel the ice melting. Because he was familiar territory—a cop? Because his boy-next-door face and general attitude were about as non-threatening as a cop gets? Because we were in an absolutely gorgeous private setting, and he was male and I was female?

  It doesn’t get any more basic than that.

  Brakes. Emergency. Now. I turned and gazed out over the sun-kissed water, beginning to take on reflections of gold. Cool, sophisticated, indifferent, I inspected the panorama of Sarasota Bay, Pelican Key, and the incipient sunset while the City Cop rummaged in his backpack.

  “Jaeger?” he inquired.

  My ears came close to flapping. I turned to discover two small glasses sitting on the table, each brimming with what did indeed appear to be Jaegermeister. There was also a bag of high quality potato chips. Obviously, Ken Parrish had depths as yet unexplored. What were the odds, I speculated, of coming across two intriguing, fathomless men within days of each other? It was rather like being caught between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea. Though there was little doubt about which was the Devil.

  “Off the clock and off the record,” Detective Parrish drawled, with only a hint of wry humor, “I thought you might be more willing to talk to me.”

  I helped myself to a crunchy sour cream and onion chip, then picked up my Jaeger and held the dark liquid up to the sun’s reddening light. “Your instruments of torture are formidable,” I admitted. I took a sip, savored . . . and sighed.

  Yes, he was pleased that I approved his offerings. His poker face slipped a little. I was beginning to suspect Detective Parrish’s interest wasn’t all professional. Fleetingly, I wondered what had happened to the wife and two and a half kiddies. I dropped my eyes to his left hand. No ring. Not that that meant much.

  “There’s a security guard, named Billie Hamlin,” he said. “You know him?”

  “I see him around occasionally.”

  “I’m told he’s an art student, a sculptor.”

  “So he’s told me. I’m not familiar with his work.” Which was not quite the same thing as saying I’d never seen it.

  “Supposedly, he’s good enough to have done the guy in the chariot and the girl on the bull.”

  “I’m sure there are a lot of students around here who might have done it. There’s nothing unusual about a Halloween prank.”

  “Throwing a mannequin into a crowd of partygoers is just a prank?” The brown bristles on Ken Parrish’s head seemed to rise in tandem with his eyebrows.

  “The mannequin is another matter entirely,” I pronounced, rather severely.

  He leaned back in his wicker armchair, the corners of his mouth downturned. “No kidding?” he drawled.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, quickly stuffing my big mouth with a couple of chips.

  “I realize we hick cops don’t rate highly with the Feebs, but it’s amazing what we can do when we try real hard. It has actually occurred to me that a mannequin painted by what looks like a four-year-old and a nude woman who almost qualifies as a work of art might not be the work of the same person. Particularly when they appear on the same night and—”

  Just to be difficult (and because I was more than a wee bit embarrassed), I burbled, “All three were motiveless.”

  “As far as we can tell,” he amended, “Nonetheless, the mannequin has to be a copycat.” Slowly, I nodded. “You’re a fed,” Ken Parrish reminded me sternly. “I need to know what you know about Billie Hamlin.”

  “I’m a truly feeble Feeb,” I grumbled.

  “You’re Aurora Travis, and I like you.”

  Oh, damn! I struggled to remember there still might be a wife and kiddies . . . and failed.

  I finished my Jaeger. In silence, as the sky turned to pink and gold, lavender and rose, and the underside of a thin row of cirrus clouds began to glow like a spaceship in a SciFi film, beaming its rays toward the defenseless earth, Ken Parrish picked up his backpack from the marble floor and poured refills for both of us.

  “He was paid,” I said. “Two thousand dollars. Two effigies, placed to create a sensation. He burned the envelope and the note that went with it. Please don’t arrest him,” I burst out as Ken’s mouth opened on the inevitable scold for withholding information. “He’s been wanting to show the museum how good he was. The temptation was just too much for him.”

  “He burned the note?”

  “He thought it was a prank.”

  “For two thousand dollars?”

  “To some people that’s pocket change,” I pointed out.

  Ken Parrish dropped his head into his hands, swearing softly. “I can’t let him walk,” he groaned.

  “You said, ‘Off the record.’”

  “So I did.” He appeared ready to hurl his backpack (or maybe me) into the bay, perhaps even take a chomp out of the wicker tabletop.

  “Okay, so why?” he demanded at last.

  “Haven’t a clue. Neither does Billie. Unless . . .” I stopped. Why bring up almost senseless speculation?

  “Well?” Ken demanded.

  I told him my theories about old feuds, old debts, a possible desire to cause trouble for the museum just as it had been granted much-needed millions from the state. “Of course, it’s more than fifty years since the estate was finally settled.” I sighed. “That’s a long time for animosities to last.”

  “You have an ‘in’ with some of the old-timers?” Ken asked.

  “My aunt does.”

  “Then I wouldn’t mind if you’d check it out. See if there are any rumblings among the families who thought they didn’t get a fair share of the Bellman settlement.” Detective Parrish’s gray eyes were limpid, as if he weren’t challenging me to get off my duff and do his job for him. A big pay-off for a couple of glasses of Jaeger and a bag of chips.

  Finally, I nodded.

  “So what’s your theory on the mannequin?” he inquired, but I caught the twinkle in his eyes. He was pushing it, and letting me know he was well aware of it.

  “A second kook,” I snapped. “Art-challenged. Perhaps from the Honors College, which is crawling with nerds with strange senses of humor. Or so I’m told.”

  “More Halloween?”

  I shrugged. “What else? All three incidents are senseless.”

  “Yet someone paid two thousand dollars for two of them.”

  Right. Of course they had. “Can you talk to Billie without having to arrest him?” I pleaded.

  “I’ll try. If worst comes to worst, you might use some of those old-timers your aunt knows to get the museum to go easy on him.”

  Gratefully, I nodded. “Detective . . . Ken? . . .” He regarded me steadily, with a respect I very much appreciated when I had only the barest thread of confidence left in myself. “There was one other thing—probably totally crazy, a sign of supreme egotism—but it occurred to me the mannequin might have been personal. Aimed at me. I didn’t actually see it come down, but I was in the room. The coincidence seems almost too much . . .”

  “Tell me.” No exclamation, no surprise, no sharp questions. Just a simple request for information from a fellow officer. Could I do it? Break the silence? Without staggering to the Mediterranean-style railing and heaving my Jaeger and chips into the bay?

  Make it simple. No long explanations needed. Another cop would understand.

  “I went off a fire escape in Philly. From three flights up. My partner and I had tracked a child molester to the apartment. The freak wouldn’t give u
p. And Rory Travis, with an ego big as a barn, got to the window first. The guy was Mr. Ordinary, you know. It never occurred to me I couldn’t handle him. And Eric, my partner, was right behind. My gun was out, I gave the perp a warning. He kept right on going. I know I should have shot him, but I’d never killed anybody . . . I jumped him instead. Really stupid, I know, but I thought I was such a hotshot . . .

  “Maybe the guy worked out, maybe he was high on something, but it was like tackling an octopus. There was no way Eric could get off a shot, so he piled on. I’ve tried to remember, but it’s just one big blur, with the three of us bouncing from one side of the fire escape to the other. And then Eric and the perp went over the edge. Eric was hanging by one hand. I grabbed for him, thought I had a good grip. But the perp, who still had one leg hooked around a post, climbed back in. Instead of taking off, he heaved us both over. I’d be dead except for Eric, who took the brunt of the fall. The bastard got away.”

  “Your partner?”

  “He didn’t make it.”

  “You two were tight?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh, hell, Travis, I’m sorry. Ken Parrish ran his hands through his buzz cut. He frowned. “But why would anyone want to be so fucking cruel as to remind you of it?”

  “I told you, I’m probably letting ego rule my world. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with me personally. It just seemed that way because that fall looms in my mind night and day.”

  Ken sat there a moment, glaring at the brilliant beauty of the sunset as if it were a personal affront. “Do you want to bow out of the museum mess altogether?”

  “No,” I whispered. “I can handle dead mannequins better than dead people.”

  But, of course, that didn’t last.

  I was half-way home when I remembered my tram key. At the next break in the median, I did a U-ey and slunk back to the Bellman. Fortunately, the guard at the Security Desk had his back to me, doing something at his computer. I slid the key onto the counter and sneaked back out the door before he could look up. Perhaps he’d think he’d overlooked it earlier.