The Bloody Canvas

by KJ Kalis

  Her office was down the hallway to the right at the end of the line of name placards that dotted the hallway. A job as an art professor had to be a fairly good one, she realized. Professors would have a stable income, health insurance and probably even have time to work on their own art on the side.

  As Kat reached the end of the hallway, she noticed all the office doors were closed. Dr. Abibi Roux’s was no exception. Kat knocked and waited, staring at the engraved placard. “Professor of Art Technique and Mastery.” There was no response, no stirring from inside. She pulled out her notebook and checked to make sure she had the right name, then knocked again. Still no response.

  From the door across the hall, a young man came out, a rainbow of paint on his hands, one earbud in his ear. He slammed the door behind him, clearly unhappy, his face red. He stopped when he saw Kat, “You looking for Roux?” Kat nodded. “Next door at the installation.”

  “Thanks. You okay?”

  The kid shook his head. “Idiot,” he pointed back to the office. “Shouldn’t be allowed to teach.”

  Kat didn’t get a chance to reply. The young man marched down the hallway and out the door without looking back. She looked around and decided to go back out the way she came into the building. Outside, she realized there were two options for next door. A large plantation-style building and another, a smaller ultra-modern white stucco building that sat low to the ground. Kat headed toward the white building, hoping to find Dr. Roux there.

  As soon as Kat walked into the white building, named the Glass House, she knew she was in the right place. Working as a miniature museum, the bright entryway opened up to a large room where canvases hung on the walls and pillars displayed sculptures. A student sat at a reception desk next to the front door, staring at a textbook. “Is Dr. Roux here?” Kat asked. The student nodded without answering, pointing into the exhibition space. Kat wandered forward, looking at the art and for Dr. Roux at the same time.

  The space was as bright inside as it was outside. Skylights filled the room with the harsh afternoon light of a southern summer. Walls were placed strategically throughout the center of the space to move traffic through and provide wall space to hang art. The entire interior was so white that everything appeared to be glowing. Kat passed a few pieces of art that had been hung on the walls, small black plates affixed to the wall below each piece giving credit to the student. Kat passed a few more pieces, weaving her way through the space, slowing down to look at what was on display. From the back of the space, she could hear banging and voices. She walked a bit more quickly to see what was going on.

  As she rounded the corner at the back of the hall, there were five students taking down art and setting up new ones, like the changing of the guard. An instructor, dressed in batik clothing of yellow, reds and oranges from head to toe stood to the side, her arms folded over her chest, her black hair piled high. “Dr. Roux?” Kat said, approaching from the side, avoiding the area where the students were working.

  “Yes?” The woman turned to face Kat.

  “Hi, I’m Kat Beckman. Missy Langford suggested I come and find you.”

  “About Hailey Park, I’m assuming?”

  “That would be the case.” Kat pulled out a business card and passed it to her. “I’m a journalist from California. I came to learn more about Hailey and her story.”

  Dr. Roux narrowed her eyes and then waved Kat forward. “Walk with me,” she said, taking a few steps forward. “James, make sure this is done correctly. I’ll be back to check.” The words came out of her mouth deliberately, as if she were pronouncing each syllable individually. As they moved through the room, Dr. Roux looked at Kat, her black eyes unblinking, “What is your interest in Hailey?”

  “Well, Missy Langford shared some information about her with me, particularly about how talented she was.”

  “She was indeed. Hailey had a raw, yet refined talent that was a joy to work with. It’s awful what happened to her. We are all just sick about it.” Dr. Roux stopped in front of a landscape scene.

  “Missy also said that she thought you may have helped her when her grandmother died. Something about finding her a job so she could stay in school?”

  “Before I answer that question, can I ask you one?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why are you here, Kat Beckman? Why come the whole way from California to research this story?”

  Kat felt startled at her question. Other than telling her she was doing her job, what could she say? “Well, I think it’s fair to say that this story is different from so many other violent crimes. The location, the method and the accused all make it something that we think our readers can learn from.”

  “Learn from…” The words coming out of Dr. Roux’s mouth lingered.

  “Yes.” Kat started to feel a little defensive. “There are lots of journalists that just take the facts and send them out. They don’t look at the layers of the story. The motivations. Why things happen. That’s what I do.”

  “Layers…”

  “Like artwork,” Kat suddenly felt uncomfortable, as though she was preaching to an unwilling audience. “Art has layers. It’s not always what you see, but what you don’t that makes a piece interesting. The same is true in journalism.”

  “And where did you learn this philosophy?” Dr. Roux turned to face her, her long fingers clasped in front of her.

  “In the Middle East. I was embedded with the Army in Afghanistan. I was there to tell the stories of the people, not just the facts.”

  “A noble pursuit.” Dr. Roux unclasped her fingers and sighed, “All right. I will tell you what you wish to know. Come.”

  Kat followed Dr. Roux toward the back of the exhibition hall again. “We can talk over here while I watch these students.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “We are putting up new art for the show that starts tomorrow.”

  Kat tilted her head and looked at what had already been hung on the wall. They were large pieces of canvases, at least three feet by three feet each. Landscapes, portraits and religious scenes were included. “These look like old masters, Dr. Roux.”

  “Please, you may call me Abibi. They aren’t old masters, per se. They are ‘after’ old masters.”

  Kat furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

  “The task for the students exhibiting in this show was to take the work of an old master and reproduce it exactly, from the colors to the composition to the brushstrokes.”

  “I have to say I’d never know the difference between their work and the originals.”

  Abibi smiled. “That’s the point. These are graduating seniors. They do this work for this show in particular because it helps them to get jobs. Not all artists need to do their own work, you see. Some of them need to be available to understand the work that was already done. We will have representatives from galleries, churches, museums and private collections come through this coming weekend to assess the talent of the students. Many of them may get job offers based on their final project.”

  “That’s fascinating. Speaking of jobs, that brings me back to my original question. Missy Langford said that Hailey’s family wasn’t necessarily supportive of her art career.”

  “That is correct.” Abibi took two steps forward, her flat sandals moving noiselessly on the white marble floor. “James, tell me what is wrong with that?”

  James, a tall young man with dark hair that hung over the edge of his glasses, swung his head toward Dr. Roux and then back to the painting. There was a pause. “Sorry, it’s not straight.”

  “Use the level, please. That’s why we have it. Your eye will lie to you.” Abibi looked back at Kat. “I feel as though I say the same thing over and over again to these students. One day I’m hoping they will retain the wisdom.”

  “I’m sure they will,” Kat said, watching James fidget with the level.

  “You were asking about Hailey’s family?”

  “Yes.”

  “To answer your
question, no, they weren’t particularly supportive of her talent. It was a shame, really. She had an incredible eye and could identify nuance in a way that just couldn’t be taught. So, when she lost her grandmother, yes, I helped out.”

  “In what way?”

  “Hailey came to me as her academic advisor. She told me that her grandmother had recently died, and she didn’t have the money to continue at SCAD. She was devastated. She felt the loss of her grandmother and her dream very deeply. I offered her a way out.”

  Kat turned to look at Abibi directly, “And that was?”

  “I gave her a job of sorts.”

  “Could you tell me a little about the job she had?”

  “Do you remember a few minutes ago when I told you that many of our students go on to work in restoration?” Kat nodded. “I simply connected Hailey with someone I knew that would require such services.” Abibi sighed. “I’m sorry, but I must cut this short. James is moving at such a slow speed that it will be next week before we get this show hung.”

  “Of course,” Kat said. “By the way,” Kat called after her, “Who was Hailey working for?” Abibi turned back, smiled over her shoulder and kept moving, her dress skimming around her ankles. Kat watched for a moment as Abibi pulled students off to the side and spoke to them quietly, almost in a whisper. She didn’t answer Kat’s question.

  Kat left the exhibition hall wondering. She didn’t have a background in art. The information that Abibi Roux gave her sent her in a direction but wasn’t really concrete. Who Hailey was working for might be the thread that pulled the entire story apart.

  7

  Abibi Roux looked over her shoulder, waiting for the reporter to leave. “James,” she beckoned him closer with long fingers and orange nail polish. “I need to make an urgent phone call. I shall return in thirty minutes. I expect perfection when I come back.” James nodded, his eyes wide.

  Abibi walked out of the building through the back entrance, her sandals making a quiet crunching sound on the dry grass. She used her key fob to enter the back of the Mannheim building, unlocking the door to her office. Inside, she held the knob so there would be no noise as she shut it. She didn’t need any students to hound her.

  The interior of Dr. Roux’s office looked like a miniature art studio. In the corner were two bookshelves butted up against each other, the shelves filled with volumes of art reference books. The books were held in place by things she had collected in her travels, a replica of a prehistoric pot she purchased in Morocco, a small statue of Buddha she found in a flea market in India, and a brass compass she brought back from London. In front of the bookcases were two well-worn leather chairs and a small, round coffee table. She preferred to have comfortable seating for her students rather than the desk in between them. The college had furnished her with a wide wooden desk. On it was three neat stacks of papers, one pile things she had to grade, a stack of art history magazines and a pile of miscellaneous papers that Abibi had yet to file or throw away. In the other corner of her office was an easel, standing almost completely vertical. On the ledge of it was a pad of heavyweight white drawing paper, two pencils, a stick of vine charcoal and a kneaded eraser. She kept the pad handy in case she needed to demonstrate a concept to a student coming in for help.

  Abibi stepped behind her desk and stood in front of the window, one hand holding her cell phone up to her ear, the other crossed in front of her chest. She waited as the call connected.

  “Yes?” a low male voice answered the phone.

  “I had a visitor today.” Abibi stepped away from the window and started to pace the small space of her office, exactly four steps across.

  “Who was it?”

  “A reporter from California.”

  “Name?”

  Abibi pulled the business card out of a pocket in the skirt that she wore, “Kat Beckman.”

  “Thank you. I’ll take care of it.”

  The call disconnected before Abibi said any more. There wasn’t much more to tell even if he had asked. Abibi went back to the window for a moment and watched a young couple walk across the quad behind her office. They were holding hands, one of them toting a large tube that looked like it could carry blueprints. The sun caught the planes of their faces. They were smiling at each other. Abibi turned away and sighed. She reached into the drawer of her desk and pulled out a tube of lipstick, running it over her lips. Smoothing the fabric of her skirt over her legs, she put the lipstick back in the drawer and sighed. It was time to go back to work.

  8

  The next morning dawned early and hotter than the day before. After a quick run, Kat was back in her hotel room. She had more questions than answers. She dialed Van. “Did I wake you?”

  “No, I was up. Waiting for your call.”

  “How did you know I was going to call?”

  “That’s the job of a husband.”

  Kat smiled. She still liked it when he said the word “husband.” They had only been married for a few years and it was a completely different experience than when she had been married to Jack’s dad. Steve had been moody and difficult. Van was exactly the opposite.

  Van’s voice interrupted her thoughts, “How’s the investigation going?”

  “It’s okay.” Kat relayed to him the information she had found so far, the background on Hailey’s family, the visit with the roommate, and the trip to the exhibition hall where she’d met Dr. Roux.

  “Any news on the suspect?”

  “Nothing yet. I did meet the detective on the case. His name is Carson Martino. I figured I’d head back to the police department this morning and see if I can trade him some information.”

  “That sounds like a good idea. Think he’ll bite on what you have to offer?”

  “I have no idea. All I can do is see.”

  “We’ve had luck with that strategy in the past.”

  Kat knew what Van was saying. On other investigations, Kat and Van tried to work with law enforcement, giving them all the information they had in order to get access to the full story. Something in Kat’s gut told her that Carson Martino might be the exception, not the rule. “I’m gonna give it a try. No promises.”

  “That’s all I can ask.”

  “I’m heading over there now. Kiss Jack for me?”

  “Will do. Check in later, okay?”

  “Sure.” Kat ended the call and finished getting ready.

  The drive to the police station took just a few minutes. Kat pulled into the same spot her rental car had occupied the day before. The same long woman was sitting at the desk. “Is Detective Martino in today?”

  “I am, but I’m on my way out the door.” Carson emerged from just past the first set of cubicles carrying a cup of coffee before the woman at the front desk could call him.

  Carson breezed past Kat without saying anything. Kat followed him out the door. “What can I do for you?” he asked, opening the door to a blue unmarked car.

  “I wanted to check in on the Hailey Park death. Any news on that?”

  “You can talk to our PIO if you want an update.”

  From hanging around enough police departments, Kat knew PIO stood for Public Information Officer. “I’ll do that, but I wanted to pass on some information I found.”

  Carson put his cup on the roof of his vehicle, “That is?”

  Kat could tell by the tone of his voice that he was impatient to leave. “I stopped by Kat’s apartment yesterday and talked to her roommate, Missy Langford.”

  “Yeah, I talked to her on the phone.”

  “Have you gone over there?” Kat knew she was taking a risk. If Carson hadn’t, he’d either be irritated at the idea she was calling him out for not doing his job or he’d be curious. She hoped it was the latter.

  He opened his mouth and then pursed his lips before he said, “I haven’t had a chance. The Park murder isn’t my only open case.”

  Kat held up her hands. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. “Of course. I found something interes
ting.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I’m not sure if the parents told you, but they weren’t supportive of Hailey’s desire to be an artist. From what her roommate said, her grandmother was paying her tuition until she died.”

  “So?” Carson’s eyebrows knitted together.

  “The apartment Hailey lived in is probably worth several hundreds of thousands of dollars. Not exactly what you’d expect for a college student.”

  Carson shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Meaning?”

  “The place is decorated like it came out of a magazine. The roommate said that Hailey let her live there for free.”

  “So, what you are saying is that there might be another motive? Is that it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, maybe Hailey got an inheritance from the grandmother when she died. Who knows?” Carson checked his phone. “Listen, I appreciate the information, but I’ve gotta go.”

  Kat slipped around the side of the car as he got in. “Did you have a chance to interview the suspect? The kid?”

  “No, some fancy lawyer showed up and bailed him out.” Carson slammed the car door but rolled down the window. “I appreciate you coming to tell me about the apartment, but I don’t think there’s much of a story here. You might want to head on back to California.”

  The car window rolled up and Kat was left standing in the parking lot, her arms hanging limply down her sides. Another flood of frustration filled her, images of a grieving Sam and Nora Park running through her mind. They deserved to know what happened. Kat could feel there was a bigger story to be told. The question was, could she find the answers that she needed in order to bring it out into the open?