Art of Evil

by Bancroft, Blair

  “You are a colleague, child, as well as my dear Hyacinth’s niece. I was indeed attempting to give you a hint, though I admit I had not expected you to spring to such startlingly accurate conclusions.”

  So even that had been deliberate. Information spoon-fed, like baby cereal, into an infant’s mouth. Pride dictated that I get up and stalk out, but I was stronger than that. I had come here for a reason. So I lifted my chin and stared at Martin in silent challenge.

  “Very well,” he said, after a deliberate sampling of tea, “you wish to know about Parker St. Clair.”

  “And Josh Thomas.”

  “You need not worry about Josh.”

  “That’s what you said about Parker St. Clair!”

  “You’re a hard woman, Rory, my dear. You’re quite right. I could not see how that poor girl’s death had anything to do with Parker. But Varney—”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No. I did not encounter him here at the museum, and I would remember if I’d ever met anyone who looked like Richard Bellman.”

  “So you have no idea if he has any connection to Parker St. Clair?”

  “None—although Josh tells me he’s working on it.”

  “Is it possible Varney was undercover, investigating St. Clair?”

  “Of course. But it’s also possible he was a retiree, driving a tram.”

  “Yes, I know,” I sighed. “That hideous concept of Murder as Art hangs over all this like some ghastly shroud.” Frustrated, I glared at Martin, who stared blandly back as if he were a sweet old man on the verge of senility. “So you won’t talk about Josh?” He shook his head. Door closed, locked and bolted. “Okay,” I groaned, “tell me about Parker St. Clair.”

  Martin took a long swallow of his tea. The tea cup clinked back onto its china saucer with the barest betrayal of shaking fingers. Martin Longstreet truly was an old man about to violate a code of silence as strict as the Mafia’s rule of omerta. It did not sit well with him.

  “At one time Parker St. Clair was one of us,” Martin said. “But he seemed to chafe at any kind of authority, and he never failed to announce to any and all that patriotism wasn’t enough to augment his government salary. ‘Cold hard cash,’ he’d say. ‘That’s what it takes to live like a king.’

  “So he left us.” Martin paused, then skipped rather a lot of years. “Soon after Parker started Clairity, he found himself with enough power to have his records ‘disappear’ from an interesting variety of databases. On the World Wide Web we can find his family background, his date and place of birth, his schooling, his military service, even a job with an Import/Export company, for which he supposedly worked until creating Clairity.” Martin shrugged. “But no where is there any mention of his being a merc. Nor of his climbing the dung heap to be head honcho in arms and drug dealing. Whatever it took to make enough money to start Clairity and become poster boy for Mr. American Entrepreneur.”

  My view of a Country Club Parker St. Clair did a swift dive south. On this one my intuition had failed me. Again. I didn’t like St. Clair, but I had had trouble finding him dangerous. He might have hired the hits, I’d supposed, while speculating worst-case, but doing it himself? That I had not considered possible, until now.

  “You think he did it,” I said.

  “I think he is capable of it,” Martin replied, carefully precise.

  “So is Josh.”

  “Possibly,” Martin agreed, “but I should say that assassinating pretty young women really isn’t in his line.”

  From Martin, a sterling bit of praise.

  “And Billie?”

  “My dear, you know Billie. I don’t. Truly, I have no idea.”

  “Did you pay Billie to make those effigies?” I demanded.

  “Rory, my child, whyever would I?” Martin’s gray eyes were perfectly innocent. I bet he’d looked just like that before he shot someone. Nor had he vouched for Josh.

  Not good.

  “One more thing. Look at me, Rory,” Martin demanded.

  Dutifully, I looked him straight in the eye, even as I wondered what was so important.

  “Parker St. Clair is dangerous,” Martin emphasized. “He’s bigger, tougher, and far more experienced than you are. He slits throats without an ounce of regret. Stay away from him, child. I’ll speak to your detective, attempt to steer him away from Hamlin. Parrish is a good man. He’ll listen. And handle it.”

  “But—”

  “Leave it!” Martin barked. “This isn’t your fight.”

  “You put me into the middle of this, I know you did!”

  “I didn’t know how far it was going to go.” Martin—suddenly anguished, an old man—unable to stop a ball he might well have started rolling.

  I gathered my dignity. “I trust that one of these days someone is going to tell me the truth.” My sarcasm was edgy. Nasty. Not the way to talk to an elderly gentleman who looked as if he might not be able to get up from his chair. My Aunt Hy’s friend and escort. Her lover?

  Good God! Did they really?

  “I promise,” Martin mumbled.

  I took the tea things into the kitchen then after a long assessing look, I left him sitting there, head back, eyes closed. Quietly, I shut the door.

  On the drive home, my mind seethed with possibilities about Parker St. Clair, while my heart was heavy because Josh might be part of my worst-case scenario. I didn’t want him to be the incarnation of Darkness. I didn’t want him to be an assassin, gun runner, drug dealer, or anything else he might be when out from under Martin Longstreet’s nose.

  But with my luck . . .

  My “other plans” for dinner, that I had so glibly tossed at Josh, were a ham and cheese casserole and salad of baby greens, shared with Aunt Hy and Marian Edmundson. We then watched three taped hours of The Sopranos. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that Josh Thomas could have walked onto that screen and been right at home.

  Chapter 17

  I was asleep when my cell phone rang the next morning. Oh, no, not today! I snarled as I groped for the phone. No tram driving, no matter how desperate Burt was. I had plans to spend Sunday sketching out what we knew, making a list of questions I needed to ask, a list of likely suspects, a list of improbable suspects . . .

  My eyes were still shut, my hand flopping about. The phone went flying to the floor. Since the carpet was close to two inches thick, its stubborn ring continued. Expelling a word my mother never taught me, I pried my eyes open, peered over the edge of the bed, and grabbed the phone. “Travis,” I grumped.

  “Your pal Billie’s just out of the ER,” Ken Parrish said. “I thought you’d want to know.”

  “What?” I mumbled, quite stupidly.

  “A gator finally got him.”

  “What!” I was awake.

  “He went down one time too many, but he was lucky. Fifty stitches, but he’ll keep his arm . . . they think.” Ken paused, then apologized. “Sorry, I’ve been up so long I didn’t realize how early it was. Billie’s name rang a bell at headquarters, and I got a call right after it happened.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Sarasota Memorial. They just took him up to a room. He’ll be here a while.”

  I thanked Ken for calling, then staggered into the kitchen and made a large pot of coffee. After the night Billie had experienced, he didn’t need me rushing down there and waking him up. So, first, a little effort to make sure he didn’t move straight from hospital to jail.

  Not wanting to intrude on Marian’s kitchen, I decided to work on Aunt Hy’s dining table, a creation of mosaic flowers handcrafted in Italy—a new treasure added to her collection when she moved into the Ritz-Carlton. I’d seen the bill. Eleven thousand and change. Sans chairs. It should, at the very least, be an inspiration to my creative thinking.

  Dressed in the comfort of a navy corduroy caftan, I laid out a large pad of drawing paper, a brand new yellow legal pad, sharpened a dozen pencils to a fine point, set three ballpoints down beside them.
And then I stared at the mess I’d scattered over the intricate mosaic design and realized this case had just about as many pieces as the table top. And I had no access to the mind of the one person who carried the overall design in his head. Or how to maneuver the pieces to make it all fit.

  How could I apply scientific method to the Art of Evil?

  I was foolish even to try.

  There were those who’d said the same about my walking again.

  I picked up the large drawing pad and began to sketch the scene of each incident. I began with Tim Mundell, hanging from a banyan on the waterfront. Somehow I was certain he belonged in the picture. Next, the jaunty Roman Warrior, driving a Biga in the courtyard. The mannequin in white satin, in pieces on the tile floor at the Casa Bellissima, a crude slit painted on her throat with fingernail polish. The papier maché Lygia strapped on top of her bronze counterpart, riding a bull prominently placed at the Art Museum’s front entrance. (No wonder someone had seen Billie do it. Though surely the only significance the person was Rob Varney was that he was a man who kept his eyes open at all times.)

  Next came Lydia in the lion cage, far across the grounds at the Circus Museum. Lydia, who had massive knife wounds, as if the killer were attempting to duplicate her death by bull or by lion in the Roman Coliseum. Lydia, who had been Billie’s model for the Lygia of papier maché. Lydia who had seen Parker St. Clair and Patricia Arkwright in the aerie. But, if that mattered, why was Mel Corbin walking around as if he hadn’t a care in the world?

  Was Mel Corbin next? Or was he the murderer? Frankly, I didn’t think he was smart enough to have orchestrated what was happening at the Bellman.

  My sketch of Rob Varney in the barber chair was awkward, but it would have to do. Rob Varney. A bull of a man, who resembled Richard Bellman. Dead in Richard Bellman’s barber chair at the Casa Bellissima, his throat slit by a strop razor, left tauntingly at the scene of the crime.

  I started a fresh page, drawing a map of the Bellman grounds, with each of its major buildings: the Art Museum, the Circus Museum, the Casa Bellissima. Then I used an X to mark each incident. When I was finished, it was obvious the incidents had ranged over the full extent of the museum grounds. The waterfront, the inner courtyard of the Art Museum, the front entrance, the Circus, and one nasty incident and one murder at the House. The mannequin still bothered me. It wasn’t artistic enough to fit. Almost as if it were part of someone else’s scheme. Martin’s, or Josh’s, perhaps?

  And yet I couldn’t dismiss it. Professionally and personally, it stuck there, a sandspur clinging, prickling, refusing to let go. That mannequin had hurt. More than anyone could ever know. Those fractured fragments had gotten to me. Shown how vulnerable I was. How very far from recovery. It had taken every ounce of courage I had to continue on that evening, smiling, making polite conversation. Not even the Lygia effigy or my conversation later that night with Josh Thomas had seemed quite real. I had been holding myself together by a thread.

  I shoved the map aside. Thoughtfully, I traced the outline of one of the table’s mosaic flowers with my finger. That October night wasn’t so long ago . . . but I’d changed. Physically, I was still struggling along, but inside . . . inside, shock had turned to anger and determination. As much as I hated to admit it, my analytical mind—frozen by tragedy—had been jump-started by that damned mannequin.

  I pulled the map back in front of me. The waterfront, the Roman charioteer, and Lygia and the Bull were about as far apart as two incidents could be on the Bellman grounds. And Lydia’s body was far across the Bellman grounds from all three. At the Casa, however, the close proximity of the mannequin and the barber chair formed an anomaly. But if I eliminated the mannequin, the incidents were so perfectly spaced that they screamed premeditation. And not a fingerprint anywhere. Meticulous planning. Creative execution.

  Evil as an artform.

  I took up the yellow pad and listed the prime suspects. After a fierce battle with my inner self, I put Billie right after Parker St. Clair. Then Josh, because there was little doubt he was capable of murder, though I really couldn’t see him murdering anyone for Art. Nor could I picture him carving up Lydia. I refused to believe it. But women can be incredible fools about men. His name stayed on the list.

  Martin? I hesitated. Martin, I suspected, was ruthless enough, but he would have had to hire a hitman. He was past the age of do-it-yourself. Or was I being patronizing? Once a spook, always a spook.

  Which brought me back to Josh Thomas. And motive. I was convinced neither Martin nor Josh were madmen. If they wanted someone dead, there had to be a very good reason. A motive to murder Rob Varney was not hard to imagine. But Lydia Hewitt? No way.

  As for the Improbable Suspects, there were Mel Corbin and Patricia Arkwright. Frankly, they seemed about as likely as the descendants of the survivors of Sarasota’s real estate bust—in which Richard Bellman had figured so prominently—or of the circus community, which had brought Bellman fame and fortune, only to find itself excluded from life at the Casa Bellissima.

  My interviews with Sarasota County old-timers were about as productive as my interviews with circus people. The parents of Aunt Hy’s husband, Edgar Van Horne, had bought their property on Pelican Key from Richard Bellman himself. Aunt Hy was well acquainted with almost all the old families. They all said the same thing. Bellman’s real estate ventures had been hurt by the Florida building bust after a hurricane in 1926. So had every other real estate venture on both coasts, Gulf and Atlantic.

  Yes, Bellman wasn’t the greatest record keeper. Yes, he borrowed from Peter to pay Paul. There were some very lean years, particularly after Black Friday of 1929. Yes, Richard Bellman died owing money to nearly everyone. But even amidst the deepest days of the Great Depression, Bellman had other investments that had paid off, including the Circus and oil wells in the southwest. Although it took a good deal of maneuvering after his death, the debts had been paid. Descendants of claimants admitted to hearing the tales of disgruntled ancestors, but no one, as far as they knew, still had an axe to grind. In fact, many were generous contributors to the museum.

  So where the hell was I?

  No farther along than when the phone rang this morning. But seeing it all on paper—the incident scenes so carefully spaced out (if I didn’t count the mannequin), the effigies and victims so carefully arranged—emphasized Rob Varney’s remark. Without a doubt, there was Art to these murders. They were the work of a cold-blooded madman or of an even more ruthless killer, bent on making us seek a madman and not himself.

  I cleaned off Aunt Hy’s marble mosaic table, dressed, and headed for the hospital. Beyond reinforcing my belief that a ruthless and skillful puppetmaster was pulling the strings, I had not made much progress.

  I’d put three friends on my prime suspect list.

  Way to go, Travis.

  Billie was asleep, but when I laid my hand on his unbandaged arm, his eyes flew open. For a moment stark fear glazed his eyes.

  “Hey,” I said, “I know I don’t look so great, but no one’s mistaken me for a gator before.”

  He relaxed against the pillows and grinned, suddenly looking remarkably like the Billie Ball Hamlin I had first met. “Seven footer,” he chortled. “Seven footer, and I wrestled him onto the bank. Not a soul around, y’know, so I had to do it myself. Punched him in the eye a couple of times and he let go. Managed to get back to my Jeep and dial 911.”

  Damn, but he actually looked pleased with himself.

  “Y’know, Parrish isn’t such a bad guy,” Billie said. “He was here all night, down in the ER.”

  I couldn’t say what I was thinking. Billie, you’re a sculptor. You darn near lost your arm. No more golf balls! So I settled for platitudes: take it easy, be glad he was already on paid leave. Not to worry. We’d get this mess straightened out, get him off the hook before his bandages were off.

  “Billie,” I added, “there is one question I’ve been wanting to ask.” He looked at me, expectantly, from guilel
ess blue eyes. No way, absolutely no way was Billie running around out there killing people. “When you were given the two thousand dollars, were there any instructions about what kind of incidents to create? In other words, were you told to make a Roman charioteer? Lygia on the Bull?”

  Billie shook his head. “My idea,” he said. “I always thought the chariot needed a driver, and who could resist a naked lady on a bull? You know how I liked to tease Lydia about it.”

  “The Roman connection was all your idea?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you didn’t do the mannequin?”

  “Me? A mess like that? Rory, girl, that hurts worse’n’ my arm.”

  “Sorry,” I gulped. “I shouldn’t be disturbing you.” I kissed him on the cheek, tucked the stuffed panda I had bought in the Gift Shop under his good arm, and left. Rapidly.

  Dear God, how I hated hospitals!

  I did not hear from Josh. I presumed he was still sulking. He did not take rejection well. I met Ken at Mike’s Place at five-thirty. “How about comparing notes over drinks?” he’d said, but naturally our “notes” extended to dinner and Jaeger on ice. And lots and lots of talk, speculation. And, once again, frustration.

  Yet I remembered why I liked this solid detective with the sun-streaked hair and sharp gray eyes. We might not always agree. We might even fight like two strays over a bone, but he was a good man. Definitely not on my lists of suspects.

  Somewhere, along about ten o’clock, I looked at Detective Sergeant Ken Parrish and said, “I have a feeling we’re still waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

  “Oh, hell,” he groaned. “I wish I didn’t think you might be right.”

  “I don’t know,” I muttered. “When things simply won’t make sense, sometimes all we can do is wait.”

  “Wait for another body?” Ken snapped.

  “Sorry, but I don’t think the Art Show is over.”

  “You just want another body, so you can say, ‘Look, look, Billie didn’t do it!’”