Authors: Margarite St. John
The Art of Death (19 page)
The Work of the Wicked
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
At the bottom of the stairs, Dave ran into a man he didn’t know. A big man, he had a farmer’s tan and a no-nonsense look about him.
“Jeremy. What are you doing here?” Nettie asked as she followed Dave down the stairs.
“I need a minute with Chester.”
“He’s not here,” she said.
“He’s never here,” Jeremy grumbled. Looking at Dave, he asked, “Are you his doctor?”
“No. No, I’m not. I wonder if you’d step outside with me.”
Once they were well away from the house, near Steve’s makeshift blueprint table, Dave held out his hand. “Dave Powers with the Fort Wayne Police Department.”
Jeremy shook his hand. “Jeremy Massart.” He nodded in the direction of his farm. “I’m a neighbor. Lease the land from Chester. Our families have been neighbors for a century. I want to talk to him about doing something about his daughter’s sleepwalking.”
“You mean Madeleine Harrod?”
“The same.”
“She sleepwalks?”
“Crazy, isn’t it? In the last couple of years, ever since she moved back from Indianapolis, it’s been like that. On average, about every two months, I’d say. My wife found her out on the road again a few nights ago. Two in the morning. I had to get up, keep her from walking into a blind intersection, corral her back to the house. She’s gonna get killed someday doing that. The road’s pitch-black at night. Chester needs to do something.” Jeremy grinned. “Put a bell on her or something, like on a bird-killing cat, so when she starts down the stairs at two in the morning he hears her and can keep her from getting out of the house.”
“What night was that?”
“Early Saturday morning, I think.” He looked off into space. “Yeah, Saturday. Because the next day was Sunday and we got a little present for keeping her safe. Madeleine’s nice like that.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Yeah. Muttered something about a ship captain.”
“What did she say about him?”
“Nothing I could understand.”
“When’s the last time you saw Chester?”
“A month ago or so. Not to talk to him, though. Madeleine takes him for a ride in the pickup every now and then. My wife saw him once sitting in his bedroom window.”
“How would you describe him?”
“What do you mean?”
“Thin, fat, in between? Tall, short, medium?”
“I don’t know for sure. Whenever I see him on the porch or in the pickup, he nods and waves.”
“In the pickup. Does that mean he still drives?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But when I see him, Madeleine’s driving. As for his size,” Jeremy continued, holding his hand chest high, “I’ve only seen him when he’s sitting down, but he’s probably still about this tall and he looks pretty lean to me. Old people don’t get taller, do they? He was never the kind of guy to gain weight. Worked way too hard.”
“Did you ever know Madeleine’s first husband?”
“Dan Belden? Sure. Not well, but he had that big farm equipment place in Woodburn. I bought a cornpicker from him, couple of other things. Nice guy. Very honest. Hated to see that place close up. If I remember right, it was a big scandal.” Jeremy snapped his fingers. “I’ll have to ask Ashley if she remembers, but I think there were rumors that Madeleine had been writing checks to herself out of the business. Got poor old Dan in a world of trouble. I think she was in school at the time, maybe somewhere out East. Then came the divorce and the closing of the business.”
“Interesting.”
“Ashley told me she read in the paper that he’s now said to be legally dead. Does that mean he’s really dead or not?”
“Just that he’s presumed to be dead after being missing so long. No body has ever been found. You have any idea, Jeremy, what happened to him?”
“Never really thought about it.” He gave Dave an inquiring look. “Is that why you’re here? Something to do with Belden?”
“Not exactly.”
Jeremy glanced at the house. “You think old man Chester might have . . . ?”
Dave shook his head.
“Well, if Chester did anything to Belden -- and he’s mean enough he could have -- he has a handy place to get rid of a body, doesn’t he?”
“What do you mean?” Dave asked.
“The family cemetery. That big tomb out back. Very convenient.” Jeremy shook his head. “What am I saying? Nobody -- not even Chester -- would do something like that. Forget I said anything. Strange things do happen, though.” To illustrate his point, Jeremy then told Dave how in the early Spring, when he was just preparing the fields for planting, he’d found a body at the edge of one of them. According to the Sheriff’s office, it turned out to be the remains of a missing meth dealer. Farmland was a great place to hide the work of the wicked.
Tuscan Alley
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Dr. Beltrami took a break from writing yet another admiring chapter about Georg Groddeck, the German father of psychosomatic medicine. Groddeck had been a rare bird, influencing Freud more than Freud influenced him. Groddeck’s treatment of patients included not just analysis -- why did you break your leg? why did you do this to yourself? there are no accidents, you know -- but diet, exercise, hygiene, and massage. Dr. Beltrami was very intrigued by the massage. Ninety years later, a psychiatrist’s use of massage for the wounded psyche was even less favorably viewed than in Groddeck’s time. He frowned at the difficulty of convincing his colleagues that Groddeck’s methods should be revived.
With regret, he felt he had been born a generation too late. Unless he found a way to touch a patient, he couldn’t connect. When he was young, only sex would do, but age had diluted his hormones. Now he found that though massage was less satisfying, it was also less work and not as likely to lead to the odd complaint.
Perhaps his book when it was published about Groddeck’s holistic approach to treating body, mind, and soul -- no doubt to international acclaim -- would trigger a revolution in the treatment of everything from broken legs to alcoholism.
Removing the wire-rimmed glasses he wore when reading and writing, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked around his office. It perfectly reflected his essence, he thought with satisfaction. The furniture was heavy and dark, no reproductions, only priceless antiques. A round library table was covered with a Turkish rug and ornamented with signed first editions of the books of Freud and Groddeck and other fathers of his profession. A low upholstered couch for patients was almost identical to the one in Freud’s Vienna office.
Pots de jardin
sprouted tall, feathery palms. Glass-fronted bookcases were stuffed with gilt-edged books and capped with bronze busts of the great thinkers of all time. Even if he wasn’t a pioneer, he could look like one.
The mahogany mantel clock indicated that he had twenty minutes before his next patient would appear. He decided to run upstairs to his apartment to find Groddeck’s 1923 edition of
The Book of the It
, the one without Lawrence Durrell’s introduction.
But it was nowhere to be seen. He was sure he’d left it near his favorite reading chair. Or perhaps on his bedside table. Or maybe on the table in the entry hall where he tossed keys and coins. How could he possibly misplace so important a book? He lived alone and except for Madeleine rarely had a visitor. His cleaning lady had been instructed to replace everything exactly where she found it, toss nothing away.
The search produced nothing. Just before he returned to his office two floors down, he peeked into the guest bedroom where Madeleine had set up her temporary studio. The rough wooden table in the middle of the room held art supplies but no book. He glanced at the painting slowly taking shape of Kimberly Swartz. He didn’t like thinking about the girl. It was like having a ghost in his apartment.
As he was about to back out of the doorway, a canvas in the corner caught his eye. It was propped backwards against a wall. That irritated him, for the oil paint might mark his pristine walls. He’d only given Madeleine a few simple rules about her occupation of the space so the room could be restored to its original condition without trouble or expense. But she couldn’t seem to observe even one of the more obvious rules. He pulled the canvas away; no marks on the wall. Then he turned the canvas around and was stunned to be staring at himself. His almost naked figure appeared to be emerging from what -- the stone walls of a Tuscan backstreet? The expression on his face -- how to describe it? Serious, as if he had just come from a difficult test and was still pondering a particularly confounding question.
How surprising! And flattering. He had never commented on Madeleine’s choice of subjects or ventured any suggestions even when solicited. Nor did he ask to be remembered in paint.
And then he felt his stomach fall to his shoes.
Madeleine only painted people who were already dead.
Two Legs or Four?
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Until Jeremy Massart told him about the Appledorn family mausoleum, Dave didn’t know it existed. It turned out to be interesting.
Even on a hot day the interior was cool and mossy. Sunlight slanted in through the wrought iron doors on either end, illuminating a giant spider web and a heap of dried leaves swept by the wind into the southeast corner. Except for the faint scent of embalming fluid, it wasn’t nearly as depressing, Dave thought, as the old man’s bedroom.
There were twelve slots for caskets, six on each side of the stone-floored gallery arranged in four tiers of three. Each tier of three was separated from the other by an eight-foot tall niche, divided in two by a shelf. Each niche held two bronze urns, one above the other and cemented into place.
Each of the six slots on the north wall was closed with a block of gray stone. A small bronze plaque showed the deceased’s name, dates of birth and death, family relationship, and an inscription, sometimes a Bible verse, sometimes a line of poetry or personal sentiment. All the deceased had borne the last name of Appledorn.
Only four of the slots on the south wall were similarly closed. Again, they shared the same family name. At the top of the last tier was Dorothy Appledorn. Below her were two open spaces, presumably one for Chester and one for Madeleine.
Dave then inspected the bronze urns installed in the niches. On the north wall, the top urn was identified by a metal sign inscribed simply “Tricky Dick. 1942.”
Dave asked Steve, “Who’s that? Some crazy old uncle who drank the gravy bowl at Thanksgiving?”
“Chester’s dad had his favorite mule cremated. That urn contains Tricky Dick’s ashes.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You can’t make this stuff up. The one below it is Madeleine’s Shetland pony, Maisie. She got the pony on her fourth birthday, I think, a surprise from Chester.”
Dave frowned. “That wouldn’t be the pony that Chester shot because it kicked his daughter, would it?”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“From someone who never liked Chester.”
“Don’t know the answer,” Steve said. “Do you?” he asked Dougie Trubrook, who was leaning against the wrought iron gate on the east end.
Dougie shook his head.
Dave moved across the gallery to the other niche. “The top urn reads “Joe. 1986.”
“Joe was Madeleine’s first dog, some kind of terrier as I recall. Chester told me old Joe chased one too many cars.”
Dave got down on his haunches. “No sign on this bottom urn.”
“Maybe there’s nothing in it,” Steve said.
Dougie spoke up. “No. There are ashes in there. I know that for sure. Otherwise it wouldn’t be cemented into place. The stopper’s been welded into place too.”
“I didn’t know you could weld bronze,” Dave said.
“Oh, it can be done,” Dougie said. “You heat up both surfaces, add a third metal, hold it in place, use a bronze welding rod and an oxyacetylene torch. Flame her up and let her cool down and she’s done, tight as a soldier’s ass in a firefight. My dad’s a welder.”
“So who -- or what -- is in there?”
“My dad was told it was another dog but I guess Chester didn’t get around to having a sign made. The Appledorns never liked cremation for the humans, but it was efficient for their favorite animals, so whatever’s in there, for sure it had four legs.”
“Do you remember when that was? When the dog died?”
Dougie pushed his cap up and scratched his head. “Dad might know.”
Dave cocked his head in thought. He wasn’t quite as confident as Dougie that whatever was in the unmarked urn once had four legs. Unfortunately, if the cremation had been done properly and no bone fragments were left, all the DNA had been destroyed. The cremains could not be identified.
Astonishingly, he might just have accomplished what Captain Moonpie ordered him to do. Find Captain Ahab and Dan Belden, Moonpie said, and you’ll solve two murders.
But even if he’d really found Belden’s ashes and Captain Ahab’s clothes, he knew he hadn’t solved anything.