Authors: Margarite St. John
The Art of Death (14 page)
Ghost?
Monday, June 10, 2013
Babette and Arnaud took a break from rearranging the art glass and installing burl art. They’d learned that burls were like tree cancers with deformed grain. The idea that a cancer could be turned into a thing of beauty was intriguing. Babette’s favorite was called “Craters of the Moon.” Formed from spalted maple, the asymmetrical bowl with ragged edges looked like the pock-marked surface of the moon with an orb -- a planet? eye? navel? or maybe a baby moon? -- peering blindly from the inverted center. “
Très mystérieux
,” she said.
Shrugging expressively, Arnaud asked in unctuous tones, “Are we falling in love with crafts and forsaking our first love, fine art?”
“Arnaud! Broaden your mind.”
“The only thing that’s broadening is my ass, working here all day, hardly a minute to myself.”
“You love it and you know it.”
He peeked around the corner into the office, then beckoned to Babette. “Haru’s ready for us.”
They pulled up chairs to Babette’s lucite conference table and watched the computer screen as Haru began selecting images from the night of Madeleine Harrod’s one-woman show,
Ode à la Mort
. Because of the value of the art in the gallery, three high-grade security cameras ran continuously during gallery hours, one on the glass doors welcoming visitors from the street, one on the interior door to the storage room where there was also a safe, and one on the back door for deliveries. Before and after gallery hours, the cameras recorded only when they detected motion.
Haru had already watched the films, on alert for a man looking like a ship captain according to the description Babette remembered from her dinner with Madeleine. He now directed Babette’s and Arnaud’s attention to the images of the only three men wearing navy blazers. One was very tall and very pale in the company of a woman who might be his wife; the blazer did not have brass buttons. The second man was rather rotund, had white hair, and the buttons on his navy blazer were brass, but he wore an eye patch, having lost one eye in a bizarre accident as a youth, and he was familiar to Babette and Arnaud as Ernest Potts, an occasional buyer of small landscape paintings. The third looked like a young art student wearing a decrepit navy blazer, probably purchased at Goodwill, over a Che Guevara t-shirt and camouflage Army pants.
“
Non,
” Babette murmured, shaking her head. “They won’t do.
Où est le fou
?” She gently poked Haru. “What about the stills?”
“No ship captain other than the three guys I already showed you,” Haru said. “But there’s something very odd on one. Let me show you.”
He laid out three color 8” x 10” photographs. All featured Madeleine, one in front of Nicole, Girl at the Dunes, one in front of The Un-Royal Empress, and the last in front of Amy Robsart’s Misfortune, the only one of the three that had been sold.
Babette and Arnaud leaned forward to look at them. The shots were candid, catching the artist in animated conversation with someone, her hands doing much of the talking. The top half of a painting was just visible behind each cluster of people.
Arnaud looked up, puzzled. “I already looked at these. What did I miss?”
Haru pointed at the Empress picture. “Who’s the artist talking to in this one?”
“Ernest,” Arnaud said.
“And what’s the expression on the artist’s face?”
“Interested, I would say. Excited, pleased,” Babette murmured.
Next, Haru pointed at Amy Robsart. “And who’s the artist talking to in this one?”
“I recognize that woman,” Arnaud said, checking his boss for confirmation. “She’s a free-lance reporter who’s given us some publicity in the
Indianapolis Monthly Magazine
.”
“And,” Haru asked, “what’s the expression on the artist’s face?”
Babette tilted her head. “About the same as with Ernest.”
Finally, Haru pulled the last of the three pictures nearer to the edge of the table. “Tell me, who is the artist talking to in this picture?”
“I can’t tell,” Arnaud said. “She’s looking over her shoulder, I can see her mouth open a little, but I can’t see who she’s talking to. She’s rubbing her wrist.”
“And what’s her expression?”
“A hint of a frown, a little tension around her mouth,” Babette said.
“You can’t see who she’s talking to, but there is something over her shoulder,” Haru said with a note of triumph.
“The painting of Nicole,” Arnaud said.
“What about the painting?” Haru asked patiently.
“Oh, maybe I see what you’re talking about,” Babette said. “There’s a
réflexion
in the painting. Is that what you’re pointing out?”
Haru nodded. “Did you see a reflection in any of the other still pictures -- or the forty others that were taken that night?”
Arnaud shot Haru a quizzical look. “Not in the Amy or Empress pictures. I’d have to look at the others again. Where are they?”
“Look at them later. I already looked at all of them. Very carefully. This snap is unique. Please notice, there’s no glass on that painting of the girl,” Haru pointed out. “I’d expect a reflection here and there if the canvases were covered with glass or high-gloss paint, but they aren’t. The artist looks like she’s looking at or even talking to the reflection.”
“So what are we seeing?” Babette asked.
“I don’t know, something weird, an anomaly of light maybe. Sometimes that’s what photographers call a ghost,” Haru said. “Have you ever watched one of those ghost-hunter TV shows where phantoms, specters, apparitions, whatever you want to call them, show up as a blob of light or a funny shape or a shadow on film? That’s what this looks like to me. I don’t believe in ghosts myself, but I thought you’d want to see this.”
Arnaud gave an exaggerated shiver.“‘
Très mystérieux
,’
to quote the management.”
Mrs. Ruiter
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Despite Walter Richardson’s question about whether Captain Ahab was real or not, someone answering his description actually existed.
Or so a woman living near Highland Park Cemetery said. After the interviews with Amber Wilkins and Madeleine Harrod, Detective Dave Powers knocked on a few doors himself. The first was just down the dirt lane from the gate with the No Trespass sign.
The woman who answered the door was angular and wrinkled and a little bent. She did not open the storm door until he showed her his badge. She peered at the badge a moment, then unlocked the door and stepped out to the veranda. “What can I help you with?”
“Are you Mrs. Ruiter?”
“The very same.” She had a chirpy voice, pleasant at first but one that would be hard to live with.
“I’m Detective Powers, Fort Wayne police, investigating the murder of Kimberly Swartz in the cemetery on Monday, May 20.”
“Oh, dear. The murderer hasn’t been caught yet?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Very frightening. I don’t mind living so close to dead people, all nice and peaceful in their graves, which is where I hope to be someday but not too soon,” she said, gazing in the direction of the cemetery. “But knowing some monster’s wandering around killing women before their time scares the life out of me. That’s why I didn’t open the door right away. No offense. I like the police. You ever watch
Castle
? My favorite show. My nephew works security at the Mall.”
“No offense taken. Can’t be too cautious these days. You didn’t happen to see anyone around 6 or 6:30 that morning, did you?”
The woman’s eyes opened wide and she slapped her hand to her mouth. “Don’t tell me.”
“Don’t tell me what?”
She looked to her left. “A man came around the gate about that time of the day. I remember it was that day because later I read in the paper about that poor girl who died near her grandmother’s grave. He was dressed so nice, not walking fast or acting strange, I didn’t think nothing of it. He saluted me like this,” she said, putting three fingers to her forehead.
“You’re an early riser, I take it.”
“Puffy -- she’s my Cockapoo -- is getting old, wakes me up every morning around six to do her business. Puffy was over there,” she said, pointing in the direction of the gate with the No Trespass sign, “and I was on this veranda but closer to the railing, keeping an eye on her. Puffy was fixing to do her business, running in circles to find the perfect spot, but, funny thing is, after ten minutes or so, she always goes back to the same place. Can you believe that? Dogs are so funny. See that yellow grass over there? That’s where she goes. Then the man appears.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“No. It was just getting daylight, you know, and that gate’s, what, twenty yards away would you say? And I’ve got cataracts, doctor says not bad enough to be removed yet, but bad enough I don’t see like I used to. Maybe Puffy saw something, but a course she can’t tell us, can she?”
“Did you see what he was wearing?”
She frowned. “Sort of like a uniform, dark jacket, short, you know, like a sport jacket, light-colored trousers.”
“Like a military uniform or a police uniform, something like that?”
“Reminded me more of a ship captain. Years ago, me and my sister took a cruise through the Panama Canal. One night we got to sit at the captain’s table. Great food; still remember that. That captain -- that’s what the man at the gate sort of reminded me of.”
“Was the man carrying anything?”
Mrs. Ruiter shrugged.
“Did he toss anything into the field?”
“Not that I saw. I’d have yelled at him if he did.”
“Had you ever seen him before?”
She looked toward the gate as if he might have reappeared so she could take another look. “As I said, I didn’t see him up close. But nothing about him made me think, oh, I know who that is.”
“Do you remember exactly what time you saw the man? After six, you said. How long after six?”
“It takes Puffy and me a few minutes to get downstairs. I get some juice out of the fridge. Then we come out here and Puffy takes at least ten minutes, sometimes more, so it was after that. I watched the sun come up; I always do. I should of looked at my watch. I would a done that, you know, if I had any idea it would be important.”
“That’s all right. Remember anything else? Did he say anything, for example?”
“No. But come to think of it, he walked funny.”
“Funny how?”
“Like he was having a hard time keeping his balance.”
“Can you show me?”
“I’m not so sure of my footing any more. I’m going to be eighty next month, if you can believe that, but I’ll try.” She held her arms stiffly at her side, then took a few rocking steps before almost losing her balance. Detective Powers reached out a hand to steady her.
“Sort of like that,” she said.
“Did that make you think he was old?”
“Not really. Like he was walking on something not quite steady, maybe in a funhouse or something.”
“Could he have a wooden leg?”
She cackled. “Never thought of that. Never saw anybody walk with a wooden leg.” She tapped his arm. “But you don’t really think he murdered that poor girl, do you?”
“We’re just looking for people who might have been around when the girl was . . . when she died, people who might have seen something important they don’t even realize is important.”
“Like me?”
“Like you, ma’am. Here’s my card in case you think of anything else.”
“I’m a little ashamed I didn’t contact you myself. I just never thought.”
“That happens,” Dave said.
“If I do think a something else, can I come down to the police station?”
Dave smiled. “Sure, but you surprise me. Most people don’t want to come down.”
“I’ve always wanted to see the inside of that place. Not the wrong way, a course.” She lightly touched his arm. “Good luck on you, officer.”
Three Things
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Dr. Anthony Beltrami was not out west at a conference, as Madeleine had told Detective Powers he was. He was hiding out in Indianapolis at the home of Babette Fouré. Not that he would admit he was hiding out. He was merely delaying the time he would have to talk to the Fort Wayne police.
But he couldn’t delay the encounter much longer. Nor could he afford the damage to his reputation and income by neglect of his practice. If he ever had to explain his abrupt absence from Fort Wayne after receiving several messages from Detective Powers inviting him to talk to the police about Kimberly Swartz’s death -- well, he wouldn’t have an explanation that made sense. True, for cover he’d arranged some brief meetings in Indianapolis with several doctors and hospital administrators who might refer patients to him and with a high-profile colleague who might get him a spot on a panel at the next annual conference of the American Psychiatric Association, but that could have been accomplished in a matter of hours.
Besides, he was aware from Babette’s manner that even if she couldn’t quote Benjamin Franklin, she too believed that house guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days. He’d overstayed that limit by four days. He could tell by her silence.
She hadn’t been silent at dinner. Arnaud had joined them, stuffed with indignation at the chutzpah of a young woman begging to be hired as a gallery assistant. In an imitative voice, Arnaud recited her spiel. “‘I’m a Libra. Libra’s are the zodiac’s super creative designers. Think of Catherine Deneuve. Do you know about Isabella II of Bourbon? Look her up. My father imports Oriental rugs from all over the world. He knows the Sultan of Brunei. I grew up with art. We have a real Sisley in the dining room at home. I can bring in the big money, my father’s friends. And I studied art history and French at IU. Oh, please, I just need a place to get started. And you’re so chic,
Monsieur
. I just know I’d learn a ton from you. I’ll work for free.’”
Babette had enjoyed that conversation. She and Arnaud quarreled amicably about the qualities they needed in a second assistant. They quarreled less amicably about modern art. Arnaud wanted to see a little more of it. Babette was having none of it. In her throaty voice, she passionately debunked modern art. “The dribbles and drabbles of little Hitlers who can’t paint a human face. Elephant dung and upside down saints drenched in urine. Canvases covered with scribbles and splotches and random words spelled with a backward ‘k.’ Kewpie dolls and found objects glued helter-skelter on newsprint as if the meaning were too deep to be put into words.
Non
,
Arnaud,” she said, tapping spoon to glass as if his attention or taste had wandered away. “I will not have it. The
zeit
doesn’t have any
geist
any more.
Très triste.
I won’t be part of it.”
Babette’s clever remark about the
zeitgeist
provoked some reflections from Anthony on the spirit of the time that he thought were equally clever and were received as such, even by Arnaud, who rarely found anything good to say about anyone other than himself and Babette. But now, Arnaud had left them, saying he was going to join some friends at Marlena’s, a bar for gender-fluid
hommes sur la ville
.
Now, at ten o’clock, pleasantly full from a superb dinner, he and Babette were seated on the third-story deck of her grand house overlooking the Canal. He searched for something to say that would draw her out, that would reassure him that he was still welcome. He didn’t want his stay to end quite yet.
“This is a great house, Babette. Perfect location. The view is superb.”
“I sit out here every evening the weather allows. It gives me a perspective I can’t get looking at art all day, or supervising careless craters and movers, or coddling crazy artists. Do you like the wine?”
“Excellent,” he said, lifting the bottle of white burgundy out of the ice bucket and studying the label as if it announced the secret of eternal life. “What liquor store stocks this?”
“La Cave du Cornette. The shop isn’t twenty feet wide, just a little sign above the door, but it carries only the best of the best from France. Émile is a
spécialiste
. Talk to him. Tell him what you like. Perhaps before you leave I could introduce you.”
“Speaking of leaving . . . ,” he murmured, testing the waters.
“
Oui, mon ami
? When are you leaving?”
He hoped she’d say something like “Not so soon.” But she didn’t. “Mind if I smoke a cigar, Babette?”
“
Non.
Feel free.” She shook a cigarette from a packet of Gauloises and lit it. “I’ll join you. . . . You were speaking of leaving.”
“Are you tired of me?”
“Ah,” she sighed, adjusting her gold chains and looking away from him. “
Un peu
.” She took her time lighting several candles in hurricane glasses.
“Just a little?” Anthony asked in a voice barely hinting at disappointment. “You’re priceless.” He studied the profile of her gamin face. It bore the signs of aging -- a little looseness around the chin, a few wrinkles around the mouth, cheeks not as full as they once were -- but was still striking. And despite a little puffiness around her waist, her figure was still alluring. Especially her eloquent shoulders and her magnificent bosom, softly cradled in what was no doubt a Chantelle bra. “I wonder, Babette. . . . Why did we never get together?”
She smiled strangely at him. “
Quelle catastrophe
!”
“How that rolled off the tongue! It wouldn’t have been a catastrophe, Babette, not a bit. Paraphrasing the Brits, we would have rubbed on well together.”
“I’m married, Anthony. Fouré, my sweet, bald little pharmacist, is still alive, still working in a sleepy village outside of Paris, dispensing purgatives and liver tonics. Neither of us ever thought it was important to formally end the marriage. Did you forget that?”
“That never kept you from other alliances. And in any case, I’m not speaking of marriage. I’m thinking of all the ways we’re alike, all the ways we enjoy each other’s company. The pleasures of the cocktail hour, then a gourmet dinner with witty friends and a game of euchre before bedtime. And those Sunday soirées of yours -- perfect end to the week. Collecting beautiful things, traveling in style. Strangely, we were born a few kilometers from each other, you in France, me in Italy, so that’s a little wink from the gods, don’t you think? In short, we’re sophisticated, nothing like
les
commerçants américains
.”
“Have you forgotten, Anthony, that I’m an American merchant now?” Babette asked wryly.
“Ah, but you’re a connoisseur of the beautiful, which sets you apart. And we’re romantics, always in pursuit of love. We’d have been good together.”
She puffed out her skepticism. “What’s really on your mind, Anthony?”
He was caught by surprise. How did she know something else was on his mind? He knew he should not breathe a word of what bedeviled him, but he too needed a confessor, just like the lost souls who shuffled in and out of his office. Babette was safe, for they’d never become lovers, that was clear. The candlelit darkness that shadowed her face, the stillness of the air, the soothing effects of the wine, the terrible need for comfort -- all seduced him into carelessness, a false sense of security.
Haltingly at first, then in a rush, Anthony told her about the demand from Kimberly Swartz for an apology, followed shortly thereafter by her murder, making him a suspect. He told her about the recent arrest of his drug contact and the fear that he would name his customers, which would mean another police investigation, even though he’d quit buying cocaine and would never buy another grain of it. He told her about his earlier brush with the law when a patient overdosed on cocaine. And he told her about his obsession with Madeleine, a difficult woman who nevertheless kept him enthralled by some magic his training didn’t help him understand.
When he paused, Babette asked, almost in a whisper, “Did you have sex with the girl who was murdered?”
“Yes, it was part of her therapy. But only for a couple of years a long time ago.”
“And Madeleine?”
“Her too. But that was different.”
“Did you really use cocaine?”
“Yes, but only occasionally, like aspirin for a headache. And I’ve stopped completely.”
“Did you give cocaine to your patients?”
“A few. Only the ones who needed it.”
“Did you kill the girl who was murdered?”
“No, of course not.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No. But Madeleine thinks it was Captain Ahab.”
When he started to remind her who that was, Babette cut him off. “I know. I know. . . . Does Madeleine make you happy?”
For the first time in the inquisition, he hesitated. “Sometimes.”
Babette rubbed her eyes as if rubbing away the disquieting thoughts produced by his answers. Should she tell him about the ghost in the photo of Madeleine standing in front of Nicole’s picture or not? The mysterious absence of a ship captain matching her description? Anthony might have an explanation. It might be important for him to know those things.
But he might also want to talk about them at length. She was tired of talking. She was tired of him and his sins. Dr. Anthony Beltrami was not her type at all. Not her type of lover, at least. Like Sergei, he smelled of cigars and wine and musk. Unlike Sergei, he also emanated a note of decay, the scent of stale lilies at a funeral. It killed passion.
She wanted to tell him to leave tonight, just pack up and go. But she wasn’t in the mood just now to be so cruel.
She glanced at her vintage tank watch from Cartier. It was time to get into her canopied bed with the Porthault sheets and duvet and the custom-made pillows stuffed with real goose down. She would continue browsing through an illustrated book about Suzanne Valadon, a fine but neglected Impressionist artist who was also the mother of Maurice Utrillo. When she got tired of reading the text, she’d let herself be soothed by the pictures alone. And then, when her eyes grew heavy and her concentration fled, she’d treat herself to a shot of Armagnac to ensure a sound sleep. She didn’t believe in diets or exercise or divorce, but she believed in eight hours’ uninterrupted sleep.
Babette rose out of her chair. “Anthony.”
She glanced at him to be sure he was listening. She was startled by his look. What horrible thing was he expecting to hear? “You are avoiding something.”
Anthony mumbled something that sounded like denial.
“Have you ever heard, Anthony, that there are three things that cannot be hidden?”
A police car screamed by. While waiting for silence, she blew out the candles. When Anthony did not respond, she turned to look at him. “
Le soleil, la lune, et la vérité
.”
“The sun, the moon, and the truth,” he repeated mechanically.
“
Oui
. Especially the truth.”
“But I have told you the truth!” Anthony exclaimed.
Under her breath, she said, “I think not,
mon ami
. I think not.”