The Art of Death (17 page)
Authors: Margarite St. John
Zombie
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Wrapped in a blanket, Ashley Massart and her month-old baby son rocked on the terrace of their new house, perched on a little rise with a good view of the surrounding countryside, mostly pasture and corn fields. The terrace itself faced west, overlooking a big pond stocked with fish, a putting green, and a manicured lawn leading down to State Line Road thirty yards away.
The night was peaceful. At 2:30 in the morning, the road was nothing but a dark, empty gash parting the cornfields on either side. The air was heavy with silence: no chickens cackling or cows mooing to be milked, no machines in the field, no cars or horse-drawn buggies on the road.
She breathed deeply, thankful for small blessings. The cicada orchestra had died away and the breeze was light and refreshing. The inky darkness was relieved only by a quarter moon and the occasional frolicking firefly. Perfect conditions for soothing her baby to sleep. For some reason, he much preferred his nightly feedings to be conducted outdoors, as if he expected life to be one eternal picnic.
Satisfied that her son was ready to be returned to his crib, Ashley eased herself out of the rocking chair. As she was about to turn toward the house, out of the corner of her eye she caught a shadowy movement somewhere on the road. She stood stock still, peering that direction, waiting for the ghostly shape to solidify into something mundane and reassuring. At this time of night, not a dust devil. So then what? The rippling shape, moving very slowly and a little erratically, glided north.
Ashley walked to the very edge of the terrace and peered harder. And then she saw what she didn’t want to see. The slim figure, the gliding motion, the long white gown ruffled by the breeze -- all were familiar. “Really!” she whispered. “Not again.”
She hated to wake her husband, Jeremy, who deserved his rest. He not only farmed the land he owned but the land he leased, including hundreds of adjoining acres belonging to Chester Appledorn. The Appledorn and Massart houses sat less than fifty yards apart, separated by a dense pine grove along the property boundary. Though never close, the two families through four generations had been on friendly terms for a century.
Ashley rolled her eyes, patted the baby, and entered the house.
Grumbling at the news, rubbing his eyes, which were sore from dust and sun, Jeremy got out of bed, slipped on jeans, pulled a t-shirt over his head, and jammed his feet into sneakers without tying the laces. He picked up a flashlight, walked out to the terrace, and scanned the road. Then he loped down the drive to catch up before the woman reached a dangerous intersection.
He knew what to do for the nocturnal wanderer, having done it a dozen times before.
The first time he ever rescued Madeleine Harrod, she’d awakened with a start, screamed, and abruptly punched him in the gut. A big man, he hadn’t been hurt but he was irritated. His aunt, an ER nurse, had advised him to keep his distance next time, speak softly, try to guide the wanderer home. But don’t worry, she said. Damaging a sleepwalker by awakening her abruptly was a myth. The damage usually happened to the rescuer. Just try to get her out of harm’s way without anybody having to go to the ER.
As Jeremy loped along, he hummed so Madeleine would get used to a friendly sound behind her. Once beside her, he kept a little distance in case she came to half consciousness and tried to hit him. He spoke softly in a soothing voice. “How’s it going, Madeleine? Nice night. It’s me again, Jeremy. Your neighbor. Now you have to turn around and go back home. It isn’t safe out here. A car could come along and hit you. Oops, don’t get too close to the ditch. You should wear shoes, you know, you’re going to ruin your feet. I’m going to put my hand on your arm now, so don’t get scared. Easy does it.”
She jerked her arm away but didn’t try to hit him.
“We’ve done this before. Do you hear me? Now, just stop for a minute and turn around.”
Madeleine stopped and looked at him with glazed eyes, mumbled something about a ship captain, then slowly turned and began gliding back the way she came.
“Let’s take it slow. Just keep walking, that’s a girl, but not so close to the ditch. You’ll feel better when you’re safe in bed.”
Twenty minutes later, back in his house, Jeremy found Ashley tiptoeing out of the nursery. “He’s fed and dry,” she whispered. “I think he’s good until morning. Everything go okay?”
Jeremy nodded. “Tomorrow I’m talking to old man Appledorn whether he wants to hear what I have to say or not. He’s gotta put in an alarm or better locks on the door or something so that doesn’t happen again. Someday, the zombie’s gonna kill herself.”
“Did she ever wake up?” Ashley whispered back.
“I don’t think so. She muttered a few words about a ship captain. You know what else is strange?”
“Like her sleepwalking isn’t strange enough? Whoever heard of an adult doing that?”
“Once she was in bed -- .”
“You took her up to bed?”
“Had to. We got inside the house, she just stood there in the hall, completely blank, like she didn’t know what to do next. So I helped her upstairs and watched her get into bed. You should see the table by her bed. It looks like somebody raided a pharmacy.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Covered with enough pill bottles to knock out half the county. You’d think something on that table would stop the sleepwalking.”
“Was her dad up?”
“Didn’t see old Chester. As I passed his bedroom on my way to the stairs, I thought I’d check on him too, but his door was locked.”
“Probably because he’s got Alzheimer’s and might wander away. Anyway, that’s what I’ve heard.”
“You ask me, they’re locking the wrong door.”
* * * * *
The next afternoon Ashley received an unexpected visitor. It was a man in a pickup who introduced himself as Titus Wilton. He handed her a handwritten card, which read:
Ashley and Jeremy:
Titus is a great carpenter and an old friend of Daddy’s. He will build a Noah’s Ark activity center anywhere you want it. I know your baby can’t enjoy it now but he will someday. I always wanted one myself; at least now I’ll get to see it when I drive by. It’s the least I could do as thanks for saving me last night.
Affectionately, Madeleine
A Spy
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Debra Richardson, Walter’s wife, was enthusiastic about visiting an art gallery Saturday afternoon in Indianapolis. She might find the perfect anniversary gift for her son and daughter-in-law. Besides, it was a pleasant excursion the two of them never undertook unless they were in a foreign country looking for a souvenir that wouldn’t end up in the back of a closet.
They were greeted by a fashionably dressed man in his thirties, his long hair carefully coiffed to look un-coiffed. With a French accent, he introduced himself as Arnaud Valois, Babette’s assistant. Could he help them or did they just want to browse?
Debra said she welcomed his help. Walter, who had a separate mission, said he wondered if he could talk to Babette.
He liked the woman the minute they were introduced. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence and good humor; her smile suggested a secret joke. The simple black dress that was the uniform of the chic Parisian woman became her. Though her shoulders were square, her bosom was lovely, combining the poise of a five-star general with the allure of a seductress.
Formidable,
he thought, in both the French sense of great and the English sense of fearsome. The best undercover agent he’d ever met could have been her twin.
Babette was pleased to tell her visitor all about the
sui generis
paintings of the talented Madeleine Harrod. She glanced out of the corner of her eye to see if Walter understood the Latin phrase. Walter did. He agreed the painting of the Un-Royal Empress was unique. He then asked if the artist had a fascination with death in real life or whether her subjects were chosen for their historical significance.
“Ah, both,
Monsieur
. But not all the subjects are truly
historique
. Still, you have a real eye. Is it for the art you see or the soul you don’t see?”
Walter smiled appreciatively at her insight. “More soul than art. Somewhere I heard about her painting of a girl at the Dunes. Nicole, I think it was. Did it get sold?”
“
Non
, it’s still here. We moved it around the corner to make way for the art glass and the burl art and some new landscapes. Would you like to see it?”
“Please.”
After a few minutes listening to Babette describe the artist’s painterly technique, manipulation of the viewer’s perspective, and impressionistic rendering of the human face, Walter moved in very close to the Nicole canvas.
“What is it you see?” Babette asked.
“The girl’s eyes look frightened.”
“Mmm,” Babette murmured.
“There’s a shadow above the eye. A bruise, you think?”
“
Peut-être
.”
“You’re right.
Maybe
it’s a bruise. And what’s flowing out of the girl’s hand?”
“Anything you like. Perhaps her life.”
Walter gave her an admiring smile. “Imaginative.”
“But you’re not a buyer, are you?” Babette asked.
“Not at fifteen thousand. My wife, I’m sure, is going to buy something, preferably without three zeros at the end, but my purpose is different.”
“How did I know that?”
“I have something to ask you, but perhaps it would be best if we could be alone.”
“About what?”
“About Captain Ahab.”
“So you know about him.” It was not a question but an acknowledgement of something she sensed.
Before she led Walter to her office, Babette introduced herself to Debra, who was trying to choose between several small landscape paintings, then whispered to Arnaud that she and Mr. Richardson were not to be disturbed. Debra, who overheard, nodded understandingly.
“A detective -- I didn’t guess that,” Babette said, looking at his business card as she closed the door and pointed him to a chair. “But you’re a man of secrets. I saw that
immédiatement
.”
“A girl was murdered in Fort Wayne a month ago. Almost no clues as to who the murderer is. But a woman living near the cemetery where the horrible deed occurred saw a man dressed like a ship captain walking away. No name, but let’s call him Captain Ahab. I can’t go into all the details, you understand, but there’s a rumor that he was following your artist. We’ve had no luck finding him. I understand, though, that Madeleine Harrod told you and perhaps one or two other people that such a man really was following her the night of her show here.”
“Ah, the elusive ship captain.”
Walter waited for Babette to continue. He was a patient man. Let a helpful witness take her time.
“Madeleine mentioned him at dinner. I never saw him. Neither did her companion.”
“Her companion was Dr. Beltrami?”
“
Oui.
Interesting man. Do you know him?”
“Not exactly, but I’ve . . . observed him.”
“We didn’t see the man, but she showed us the marks on her wrists. Red welts, like a bracelet.”
“What did you think caused them?”
Startled, Babette searched his eyes. “The way you ask that,
Monsieur,
now I begin to think.
Peut-être, psychologique
.”
“Yes. Perhaps they were induced by something psychological. Have you ever heard of stigmata?”
“
Bien sûr
. Of course. A mark or a wound . . . .”
“Mystically induced, usually in women, typically around the wrists and ankles.”
Babette nodded thoughtfully. “Mimicking Christ’s wounds. But in this case, I would say, something else. That woman is on the dark side. Talented but dark.” She rose out of her chair and walked to a bookcase and removed a decorative file box. “There is something you should see.” She put a stack of glossy photographs on her conference table, then selected six to lay out before the interesting detective. “What is different in one of these photographs?”
“I like a test,” Walter said. He examined the photographs carefully. Finally, he put his finger on the picture of Madeleine in front of Nicole, Girl at the Dunes. “The flash of light,” he said.
“But the ship captain is nowhere to be seen. Not in any of the pictures. Nor in the tape from the security cameras. Arnaud and I looked with the help of a
spécialiste
. I could arrange for you to look for yourself.”
Walter looked thoughtful. “How well do you know Madeleine Harrod?”
“Not well at all. Just casual meetings, a little talk here and there, mostly about her art, what people say about it, her share of the proceeds. She’s very intense about money.”
“Any eccentricities? Quirks? Bizarre habits?”
Babette closed her eyes and emitted her signature throaty laugh. “
Des dizaines
.”
“Dozens?” Walter asked.
“More than that. Too many to count,” Babette said. “Sometimes she says things that either are profound or make no sense, depending on whether you see her as a tortured
artiste
or a
fou furieux
.”
“Meaning?”
“A raving lunatic.”
“And what about Dr. Beltrami?”
“Him I know a little better, many more years. We were born in two different countries but only a few kilometers apart. We left Europe behind as adults, so we aren’t completely
américain
and never will be. I understand him, you see. Sometimes I even like him. He’s very intelligent,
très cultivé
, but arrogant.
Serpentin,
don’t you think?”
Walter nodded in surprise. “Sinuous, tortuous, snaky. Interesting.”
“Very strange, the two of them, Madeleine and her doctor. Not a true couple, I think. Do you know the term
folie à deux
?”
“Not only do I know the term, I’ve seen it in action. A madness shared by two people.”
“
Exactement
.”
“So,” Walter said, getting to his feet, “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He looked at the ceiling for his summation. “Whoever Captain Ahab is, wherever he is now, he was never here the night of Madeleine’s show. But she really thought he was and bore the marks of his visit.”
“
C’est vrai
. Strange, isn’t it?”
“So true. Life is strange. More than you know.” He smiled. “Many years ago in Paris, when I was just becoming a man, I knew a woman like you, Babette.”
“And?”
“She was a spy. A very good one. On the wrong side of things from my country’s point of view. She was Russian, not French, but she had your elegance, your penetrating mind. Life amused her, even the dangerous bits.”
“Did you love her?”
He hesitated. “Dangerously so.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a very short story, Babette. I was young but not stupid. So nothing happened. Well, nothing like what the story suggests.”
“
Pardonnez-moi, mais
I must know.
Where is she now?”
He looked resigned. “Died young, I’m afraid.”
She smiled with her eyes and, though not a demonstrative person, touched his hand for the briefest moment. “
Espionnage
,
très romantique
.”
“Only if you live,” Walter said. He shook off his reverie. “Now it’s time for me to spy on my wife and see how lavishly she’s planning to reward our son.”