Blood Will Tell

Tom’s investigation into a reclusive artist leads him and Rachel on a dangerous trail of blood—and murder. 

Blood Will Tell, Part One

A blood red sun loomed over a dark sky the color of red wine. Black birds circled ominously above a distant, desolate horizon. 

I stared at the painting, then looked down to the card hanging beneath it.

            Murder of Crows, it read. Acrylic on canvas board. Axel Parris, 2021.

            A middle-aged woman walked up next to me. “What does it say to you?”

            I shrugged. “Someone had a lot of red paint.”

            She laughed, then extended a hand. “Marian Krantz. This is my gallery. You’re Tom Jurgen?”

            We shook hands. She had silvery hair pulled back in a thick bun, and blue eyes behind round glasses. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “Let’s talk in my office.”

            It was one of the dozens of art galleries in the River North neighborhood. The space was long and bright, with hardwood floors, track lighting, and floor-to-ceiling windows in the front looking out on West Superior Street. A sign in the window announced: “AXEL PARRIS Solo Exhibition, opening April 12, 7-9:30.” Today was April 12.

            Marian Krantz took me into a small office in the back. “Espresso?” 

            “Sure.” Never turn down anything a client offers you. Well, mostly. I sat down and she handed me a small cup of deep black liquid, steaming. “What can I do for you?”

            She leaned back in her chair. A window looked out at the wall of the building next door. “I’m doing this exhibition for Axel Parris. It’s opening tonight. I’m—I’ve never met him. It’s awkward. He’s shy, or something. We only correspond with email. But he’s a very talented painter. You can see that out front. No matter what color he bought that day.” She smiled again.

            Then her face darkened. “I’d like to know more about him. I only know him from what he posts online. He was dating another gallery owner down the street for a while, but I guess she doesn’t talk to him these days.” She shook her head. “I want you to research him for me.”

            I could do that. “Will he feel that it’s an invasion of privacy? Have you tried just talking to him?”

            She pursed her lips. After a moment she pointed a finger over my shoulder. “Take a look.”

            I turned. Behind me, a frame sat on the floor, facing the wall. I picked it up carefully to look at the painting on the other side.

            It was Marian Krantz in a black sweater, no glasses, wearing a red necklace in the shape of a scarab. The sky behind her was a shade of gray I’d never seen before. Clouds seemed to drift and change shape in three dimensions, even after I blinked to clear my eyes.

            “It’s very nice.” I set the painting down.

            “That necklace was a gift from my husband. Before he died. Seven years ago. Axel has never seen it. I haven’t worn it in years.” She leaned across her desk. “How did he know about it?”

            “You think he’s spying on you?”

            “I don’t know what to think. I’m a little bit scared. I don’t know anything about him, really. This seems like—magic. I don’t know.” She shook her head as if clearing out her thoughts. “I just want you to find out more about him.”

            I know about magic—more than I’d like. Maybe that’s why she called me. “Do you know where he lives?”

            She shook her head. “I only have a shipping address. It’s here in Chicago. He was renting a studio to paint, but he left it a month ago.” She picked up a pen to write down the addresses.

            We discussed fees, and she wrote me a check. At the door I asked, “Will he be at the opening tonight? Or any of his friends?”

            “I don’t think he has friends.” She gave a sad smile. “I don’t expect him to make an appearance. But you’re welcome to come. There’ll be wine, hors d'oeuvres.”

            “Can I bring a date? My girlfriend is a graphic designer. She knows more about art than me.”

She smiled. “Of course.”

 

“Want to go to an art show tonight?” I asked Rachel, walking into our office in the apartment we shared. “There’ll be food.”

            “Is this just your way out of cooking dinner tonight?” She turned in her chair. Rachel has red hair, hazelnut eyes, long legs, and at least some psychic powers, 

            I shrugged. “It’s a shot.”

            “Is it work?”

            I filled her in. She cocked her head. “Could be fun. You never take me anywhere.”

            “I take you lots of places.” I turned to my computer.

            “Like that greasy spoon in the middle of nowhere after I came to get you out of jail?”

            “How about the disappearing house? You liked that.”

            “Until I got trapped in another dimension.”

            “And I rescued you.”

            “Oh, yeah. So, do I have to dress up?”

            “I have no idea what to wear to an art gallery exhibition. Maybe that number from the night we went bar hopping looking for that demon? See, I do take you places.”

            “Yeah, you’d like that.” I felt a wadded-up ball of paper hit my shoulder. I think she keeps them in a drawer to throw at me when I’m too far away to punch. “One of these nights we’re going out on a date that isn’t work. On a night it’s my turn to cook.”

            “Yes, my queen.” I turned to my keyboard and went to work. 

            

Axel Parris, 32 years old, had studied at the University of Michigan and then at the School of the Art Institute in Chicago, with a few years unaccounted for in between. His social media footprint was shallow: a web page of his own displaying a dozen or so paintings, along with contact information for Marian Krantz; a few mentions on Facebook and other sites discussing his work; his name on the site of a different gallery from a few years ago; and a handful of articles mentioning him posted by various online art magazines.

I couldn’t find any pictures of him. Camera shy? Paranoid? Well, he was an artist. Not all of them have reputations for emotional stability—just ask Vincent van Gogh.

            So Rachel and I went to the opening.

            We arrived at the gallery at 7:30. People strolled up and down and around corners, holding glasses of wine or bottles of beer or cups of espresso, chatting and looking over the paintings. The gallery was small and crowded. The people were younger than me and older too, Gen Z-ers and post-retirement age.

            Rachel wore a short black skirt and a sheer white blouse, a purse slung over her shoulder. I wore a jacket and one of my handful of neckties. Rachel attracted glances, but everyone ignored me, except for one or two puzzled “What’s a girl like her doing with a guy like him?” expressions.

“Lot of people,” she murmured to me. 

            “Some people like art.” I spotted Marian Krantz talking to a short, rotund man in a long gray coat and shiny dress shoes. She nodded, shook the man’s hand, and walked over to us.

            “I’m so glad you came.” She smiled. “I haven’t seen anyone here who knows Axel personally, but maybe someone will show up. Let me get you a glass of wine.”

            We ate some hors d'oeuvres and looked at paintings, because that seemed to be the thing to do. Rachel stared at one that looked like a screaming face, half its head torn off, with a nest of rats writhing inside an empty skull. Half and Half, read the card underneath. Oil on canvas. Axel Parris, 2021. Rachel cocked her head, peering at it. She shivered.

            “What?”

            “Emotion. It’s strong.” She glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then leaned forward to lightly slide a finger across the canvas. She jerked it back. “Wow.”

            “What?”

            Her nose wrinkled, as if she smelled something foul. “Disgust. Like it’s baked into the paint.” She looked around.

            None of the other art lovers seemed to have the same intense reaction to any of Axel’s paintings. “So, magic?” I asked.

            “I guess. It’s weird.” She took my hand and dragged me to the other side of the room. She stood in front of the Murder of Crows painting I’d seen this afternoon. She stared at it, her arms folded. 

“Anger.” She closed her eyes. “I can feel it inside. Fury. Rage.”

            What does it say to you? Marian Krantz had asked me. I guess Rachel could answer that better than me. “So what’s going on? Magic?”

            Rachel shrugged. “Or just—feelings so powerful they transfer from him to the painting. I’m a psychic, not an art critic.”

            Marian Krantz came up, holding two glasses of wine. “I’m sorry, I got waylaid by an artist. What do you think?”

            “Does anyone here know Axel personally?” I took the wine and handed one to Rachel.

            She looked around. “I don’t think so. Wait—there’s Pablo. I think they were in art school together.” 

            Pablo Laurence, in his late 20s, had a thin beard and a black turtleneck under a corduroy jacket. “Yeah, we were at SAIC. We just had one class together, but I saw him around. Strange guy.” He glanced at Rachel, checking her out. She smiled. I was used to it.

            “Strange how?” I asked.

            He shifted his feet. “I don’t want to say—I mean, he just didn’t talk much. Mostly about the instructors. He didn’t like most of them, but he stuck around for about, uh, two years, I think.”

            “Have you seen him lately?”

            Pablo shook his head. “Not since—wait, yeah, once. The Jasper Johns exhibition, at UIC. Maybe six months ago? He was with a girl, and they were arguing. I didn’t talk to him. Oh, wait—I did run into him in the bathroom. I asked him how he was doing. He just looked at me like some kind of warthog had just wandered up to the sink.” He rolled his eyes. “I guess he was kind of an asshole.”

            I was going to ask him another question when someone shouted behind me. The shout became a scream. Rachel grabbed my arm.

            A man was waving his arms, staggering back from the Murder of Crows painting. He was the short, chubby man in the long gray coat talking to Marian Krantz earlier. He stumbled, and one of his knees bent awkwardly, and he collapsed on the floor.

            A woman next to him was the one doing the screaming as she backed away, dropping her wine glass and tripping into a friend’s arms. The man on the floor was shuddering. His head rolled to one side. His eyes were wide, twitching wildly as he gasped for air. Spreading blood stained his shirt.

            A long knife was sticking from his chest.

Blood Will Tell, Part Two

One of the gallery visitors was a med student. She and Rachel did what they could for the guy until the paramedics showed up, but they were too late. The guy had stopped breathing moments after hitting the floor.

            “Oh my god.” Marian Krantz was pale, clutching her wine glass. 

            “Do you know him?”

            “He’s—Archie Hammond. He’s a critic. Oh my god.” She turned away and gulped some wine.

            Some uniformed cops had shown up with the paramedics and started asking questions. Fifteen minutes later a CPD detective showed up, his shield dangling over his chest. I know a lot of cops, and a lot of them know me, but I’d never met this one. He found me after talking to the patrol cops and Marian Krantz. “You’re Tom Jurgen.”

            I nodded. “Private detective and art lover.”

            “What are you doing here? Looking for ghosts?”

            The reason cops know me is because I have the awkward habit of stumbling into supernatural situations and insisting on talking about them, even though they’d rather I just shut up. “Working,” I said. I glanced at Marian Krantz.

            She looked back at me and finally nodded. “For me. It’s—nothing related to, to . . . Archie.”

            “I’m detective Metzger.” He looked over his shoulder at a splotch of blood on the floor being photographed by CSI techs. “I guess my main question is, how the hell does a guy get stabbed in the middle of an art gallery without someone seeing it?” He looked at Krantz, then at Rachel, then me.

            I shrugged. “Ghosts?”

            Metzger snorted. “Should have figured you’d say that. You knew the man, Ms. Krantz? Any enemies?”

            She forced herself to look away from the crime scene. “He was an art critic. The Tribune, then a magazine, now some online site. He could be—brutal. He said honest, but some artists have fragile egos. But I can’t believe someone would kill him over a bad review.”

            “You’d be surprised.” Metzger smirked. “What about personally? Married? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? A little groping? Or worse?”

            Krantz groaned. “He’s—was gay. Married, I think. More than once. I don’t—we were never close friends.”

            “Uh-huh.” He looked back at the patrol cops questioning people. “Any chance we could set up a couple of chairs at the back of this place? We’re going to be here a long time.”

            Krantz got an assistant to bring some folding chairs and a table from the back room, and Metzger set up in a corner. Everyone still in the gallery—a few had fled before the paramedics arrived—was brought back, solo or in pairs, to answer questions.

            Marian Krantz got her share of questions from the guests. When she had a break she refilled her wine glass and leaned against a wooden beam, eyes closed. 

            I walked over. “Sorry to bother you.” She was clearly upset, and a little drunk. “A few questions?”

            She opened her eyes. “Fine. I’m sorry for getting you into this.”

            “No problem.” Rachel brought me a beer. And one for herself. “Thanks. Did Axel have any history with Archie Hammond?”

            She tilted her head back, thinking. “He—Axel was in a group show last year, and Archie was a little merciless. He called Axel’s work ‘immature’ and ‘derivative,’ and more of the usual stuff. When we started working together, Axel was still holding a grudge. He wanted me to bar Archie from the gallery for this show, but I told him I couldn’t do that.” 

            She leaned forward and looked up and down the length of the gallery. “You don’t think—he’s not even here. How could he stab Archie in the chest without anybody seeing it?”

            “An invisibility cloak?” I looked at Rachel. “Or a spell for moving super fast?”

            Rachel glared at me and raised her fist for a punch. 

“Hey, anything’s possible,” I said. “Remember Axel’s painting with the necklace?”

            Marian Krantz blinked. “I suppose. I did contact you because you have a reputation for, well, unusual happenings.”

            “That’s one way of putting it.” Rachel smirked and sipped her beer. 

            Metzger questioned us separately. When he was talking to Rachel I tried asking some questions of my own to the other gallery visitors, but one of the uniformed cops told me to quit. So I leaned against an empty spot on one wall and waited for Metzger to finish.

            “What did he ask you?” I asked as we headed to the car.

            “What I saw, why you’re here, what I’m doing with a loser like you.” She punched my shoulder.

            “All valid questions. What’d you tell him?”

            “I didn’t see anything before the guy fell over, we were there because you’re looking into Axel, and you’re good in bed. Tender and considerate, up to a point, and then you’re a ferocious beast. He made me stop before I could make up any juicy details.”

            “Thank god.” I opened the door for her. “So what do you think happened?”

            “Seriously?” She waited until I was in the car next to her, buckled up. “There was a lot of energy in those paintings. But that knife? No idea.” She leaned back in her seat and sighed. “Maybe I just don’t understand art.”

            I started the car. “Sorry the date went haywire.”

            “Hey, it’s not over yet.” Rachel patted my arm. “You don’t want to make me a liar to the police, do you?”

 

The murder was all over the media the next morning, but Axel’s name didn’t get much attention. I slept late, read the coverage with my cereal and coffee, and went to the office to start again looking for any trace of Axel on the internet.

            Rachel came in at 9:45, in shorts and a long T-shirt. “I’ll have to call that detective and confirm my statement now.” She kissed the top of my head.

            “Can’t you just post a tweet like everyone else?” I enjoyed watching her walk over to her desk and stretch her legs as she sat down, then forced my eyes back to my screen. 

            “Anything new on the case?”

            “I found a birth notice for him. Ann Arbor, Michigan, 1992. He was kicked out of high school at 17, then reinstated after a year. No police records that I can find. A few minor awards at local art shows. Both parents dead. Cancer, first dad, then mom.”

“That’s sad.”

“Yeah.” I turned away from my desk. “I think I’m going to have to go out into the real world.”

“Scary. Don’t get too close to any paintings.”

“Yeah.” I finished off my coffee and headed out.

My first stop was the studio Axel had rented until recently. It was near Printers Row, just south of downtown. The building manager was a middle-aged woman in overalls. She took me up to the third floor and unlocked the door.

The one-room studio apartment was bare. A parquet floor, brick walls, a microwave, stove, and refrigerator, and tall windows at one end letting in a flood of morning sunlight. Scraps of paper drifted across the floor. None of them looked like they held any clues.

“Did you talk to him much?” I asked the building manager, Berenice.

She picked up a stray Post-It note from the floor. “”Buy paint.’” She crumpled it and tossed it away. “He didn’t talk much. I remember he only looked it over for five minutes before saying he’d take it. He always paid on time—I don’t handle the money, but the company would let me know if someone was late.” 

She looked at the window. “He liked all the natural light. But he said he worked at night a lot. He needed the darkness.”

“Any idea where he moved after this? A forwarding address?”

She shook her head. “I can check with the company. He owe you money?”

I’d been vague about who I was and why I was here. “No. My client just wants to get in touch with him.”

“I’ll send an email.” She pulled her phone out.

I checked the cabinets and the bathroom. A half-empty bottle of antidepressants was in the medicine cabinet. I made a note. 

Inside a closet I found a stack of folders. Kneeling on the dusty floor, I flipped through them. The top folder held sketches in pencil—a nude woman’s frowning face, a tree bent over in the rain, a snarling dog. The second folder had receipts, mostly from art suppliers, hardware stores, and CVS. 

The third folder had more sketches, but these were in ink and looked like practice versions of his pictures at Marian Krantz’s gallery. Murder of Crows had more birds and a smaller sun, lower in the sky; the skull in Half and Half was just an empty, black void; another sketch showed two wolves glaring at each other.

The final one was a sketch of Marian Krantz’s scarab.

I took pictures of everything with my phone and piled the folders back in order. When I emerged from the closet, Berenice had a cigarette in her lips, unlit. A hint that she was ready for me to be done.

“That’s all, thanks.” I handed her my card. “If you hear anything about the forwarding address, would you give me a call?”

“Sure.” She tucked the card away. “Let me know if anybody wants to rent this place.”

I took one last look around. “I will.”

Blood Will Tell, Part Three

Then I went to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. SAIC, 155 years old, prides itself on being “a leader in educating the world’s most influential artists, designers, and scholars,” according to its website. Georgia O’Keeffe studied there, along with Grant Wood of American Gothic fame and a whole bunch of other famous artists whose names I didn’t recognize. 

            I’d called and sent emails to as many staff members as I could, looking for anyone who remembered Axel Parris. The one response I’d gotten was from an instructor named Dan Vining, who agreed to meet with me between classes. 

            The school was next to the actual Art Institute, with its twin lions looking down on Michigan Avenue and its world-class art collection waiting inside. I hadn’t visited it in years. I made my way around the main building to the school entrance, told the woman at the front desk that I had an appointment, and walked through the halls in search of the right classroom.

            The students were mostly in their 20s, with some older—a few my age and beyond. They carried backpacks, sketchbooks, book bags, and assorted art supplies. I’d sort of expected berets and paint-stained smocks, but these would-be artists could have been any group of college students in any school: busy, nervous, eager, bored, hungry, or just looking to get laid.

            I found Dan Vining in his classroom, eating a sandwich at a small desk in the corner. Easels were set up around the room, with paper hanging over them waiting to be turned into art. He looked up. “Oh. Hi. Tom Jurgen?” He waved me over.

            Vining was in his 30s, with black hair, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. I pulled a chair over as he took a swig from his water bottle. “Sorry, if I don’t eat lunch now I don’t get a chance for the rest of the afternoon.” He smiled. “So what can I do for you? Axel Parris?”

            “My client is basically looking for more background on him. She’s done a show of his paintings, but she’d like a little more information than he’s given her. Do you remember Axel?

Vining nodded slowly. ”Yeah. He was good. You have to be reasonably talented to get in here at all, although that takes in a pretty wide range of whatever you call talent.” He chuckled briefly. “Anyway, I had him in drawing and in painting—advanced for painting. He’d improved, but I can’t really take credit. I mean, an instructor can only do so much aside from telling you what color paint to use.” He paused for a bite of his sandwich.

“He got better as an artist?”

Vining nodded. “I think he learned to loosen up. A lot of people start out wanting to create an exact replica of whatever picture we have in our head. Like a photograph of an idea, clear and perfect. For me, you have to let go and figure out what the idea wants to look like. You’re guiding it, but you can’t force it. It seemed like Axel figured out how to let the art speak to him, instead of him speaking to it. If that makes sense.” Vining shrugged. “I know, it all sounds like jibber jabber, but that’s the best way I can explain it.”

“No, that makes a lot of sense.” I nodded. “What was Axel like?”

Vining paused, thinking carefully before choosing words. “He didn’t talk a lot. He didn’t like critiques, but he never got angry. I mean, nobody really likes feedback unless it’s ‘That’s the greatest thing I’ve ever seen,’ right?” He smiled. “But he actually incorporated it into his paintings later, so he was listening. But under the surface . . .”

He paused. “You got the sense—I did, anyway—that he was holding everyone in contempt. The other students, instructors, me.” He laughed nervously. “I mean, I’ve been doing this for 10 years, I know I’m not perfect, so I didn’t let it bother me. Actually, when he left, he gave me one of his pieces. I was surprised.”

“What did the piece look like?”

Vining took out his phone. “Here it is. I kept it in my office at home for a while. I had to move it out into the garage later.”

The image on the phone showed a clown with red hair snarling at the viewer. He had yellowed teeth and hollow white cheeks, and empty black eyes surrounded by black circles. 

I felt like the clown could see me. Too deeply. 

“He called it Laugh, Clown, Laugh.” Vining put the phone away. “I had to put it away. It got too distracting.”

I could imagine. “Would you mind sending that to me? I’d like my girlfriend to see it.” Maybe Rachel could pick up something from the image.

He punched a few keys to email it. “Anything else? I’m sorry, I’ve got to get ready for my next class . . .” He started packing up the remains of his lunch.

I nodded, and hesitated over my next question. “I’m not sure how to put this—my knowledge about art pretty much starts with the Mona Lisa and ends with dogs playing poker.” Vining smiled. “Is Axel . . . good?”

He hesitated. “Axel is—he’s very effective at using art to convey emotion. I mean, you can tell that from the picture, just on my phone. It’s kind of undisciplined, but he’s letting the emotion through, and using technique to focus it. It makes you uncomfortable, but I think that’s the point. So yeah,” he nodded. “He’s good. In that sense.”

“He’s in an exhibition at the Marian Krantz gallery,” I said.

“Yeah, I meant to hit that opening last night.” He shook his head. “Guess it didn’t end up the way they planned.”

“Do you have any idea where he is now? Where he lives, who his friends are?”

Vining looked puzzled. “Doesn’t Marian Krantz know? I have no idea, really. He didn’t have any friends that I ever noticed.”

“What does he look like? I can’t find any pictures of him.”

Vining thought for a moment. “I think there’s a yearbook picture of him. Not really a yearbook, but a graduation picture with a sample of everyone’s work. If I find it, I’ll send it to you.”

“Thank you. And thanks for your time.” I stood up, we shook hands, and I left him to get ready for his upcoming class.

 

My next stop was Gallery 340, down the street from Marian Krantz. Axel’s ex-girlfriend, Gabrielle Keyes, was one of three owners there, a small nonprofit gallery dedicated to marginalized artists—BIPOC, LGBTQ+, and so on. 

            Inside the door I looked at a sculpture of a tree, or possibly a man and a woman embracing. Or maybe two men. Or two women. I couldn’t be sure. The tag on the pedestal read Study #3, which didn’t help at all. 

            “Hi there!” A young man waved from behind a desk. “Ask me anything. Or just look around. I’m Eliot.”

            “Hi, Eliot.” I took out a business card. “Actually, I’m looking for Gabrielle Keyes. Is she here?”

            “Gaby?” He squinted at the card. “Uh, yeah, she’s in back, just let me . . .” He picked up a phone. “Gaby? There’s a guy here, Tom, uh, Jurgen. A private detective, I guess. He wants to talk to you?” He put the phone down. “She’s coming.”

            Gabrielle Keyes was in her 30s, short, in jeans and a sweatshirt from SAIC, where I’d just visited. Curly black hair, a sharp nose, and a puzzled frown. “I’m Gaby Keyes. What’s going on?”

            “I’d just like to talk to you a few minutes. About Axel Parris.”

            She darted a glance at Eliot, who lifted an eyebrow. Her eyes came back to me. “Is there any trouble?”

            “No.” As far as I knew for sure right then. “Just a routine sort of background check. For Marian Krantz.”

“Oh.” Still puzzled, she led me to the back of the gallery and around a corner. A small glass-topped desk held a laptop and a landline phone. An office door was open a few feet away, with a man and a woman talking quietly inside.

Gaby sat down behind the laptop. “What’s going on?”

I sat. “Marian Krantz is—a little worried. She doesn’t really know much about Axel, aside from his paintings. She has some concerns, and asked me to find out about his background.”

“Is this about last night? At her gallery?” She shuddered.

“No.” Maybe. “She hired me before that happened. She said you know Axel.”

Gaby looked at the floor. “Yeah. We dated for a while.”

“What’s he like?”

She looked up at me sharply. “What do you mean? Is he dangerous? Is he crazy?”

“Is he?”

She turned away. “He’s—intense. He can be laughing and happy one moment, and then switch to weeping if something made him sad, like a stray memory of his mother or a homeless cat on the street. Sometimes he can explode out of nothing and nowhere, and the next minute be just fine.” She rubbed her nose and looked back at me. “Mostly he just poured everything into his art.”

“You didn’t show him here at this gallery?”

She shook her head. “He understood. That’s not why—he understood our mission. Underrepresented artists. He wasn’t—like that. And he was okay with that.” She peered at me, suspicious. “We didn’t date too long. Just a couple of months. We split up about six months ago.”

“Did something happen?”

Gaby stared at me defiantly. “It’s none of your business.”

I nodded. “Fair enough. How did he get with Marian Krantz?”

Her shoulders relaxed a little. “I suggested her. I thought they’d be a good fit. She shows that kind of stuff—abstract but not too far out there. Younger artists with a vision. Even a disturbing vision, sometimes. I guess she went for what Axel was doing.”

“She’s never met him in person.”

She nodded. “He’s a pretty private person. I met him at a party, and he was hardly there. Just long enough to have a drink, get into an argument, flirt with me, and leave. He texted me later that night.” A brief smile faded quickly from her face. 

“What about Archie Hammond?”

Her eyes widened. “Last night? I don’t see how—yeah, he was mad at Archie for that one review. He threw—” She stopped and shook her head. “What does that have to do with Archie getting stabbed?”

“I don’t really know.” There wasn’t any reason to connect him to the murder. Axel was just a slightly odd artist, as far as I knew. But something nagged at me. “He has a distinctive —style? Is that what you’d say? Lots of strong colors, dark and moody. Is that right? I don’t know much about art.”

Gaby laughed. “He used to say he put his blood into his paintings. He studied—” She pointed to her SAIC sweatshirt—”here, but he listened mostly to himself. His own feelings, emotions.”

“Which could be intense.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Here, let me show you something—” A phone in her back pocket buzzed as she stood up. She looked, smiled, and answered as she led me through the open door. “Hi, babe. Yeah, she called, we’re going to meet at—hang on a minute.”

She sat the phone down on a desk and turned to a large metal filing cabinet. The two people turned and looked at me. I stood in the doorway. It was a small office for three people at once. I didn’t want to crowd anyone.

Gaby reached behind the cabinet and pulled out a framed painting, leaning it against the desk. “This is Axel. He gave it to me right after—after. He called it Friend.”

In front of an emerald curtain blowing in a breeze I could almost feel on my face, two indistinct figures held hands. One figure kept its hand behind its back, while the other lifted an arm high, fingers wide. 

Gaby smiled at it. “You can see how we used the figures to show—ahh!”

She screamed. 

Gaby stumbled back. She dropped to the floor, still shrieking, as her two partners stared in shock. Blood stained her sweatshirt.

A knife jutted from her chest.

Blood Will Tell, Part Four

Detective Metzger folded his arms on the desk between us. A mirror to my left was dark and murky, and I knew other cops were watching us. I sipped from the coffee Metzger had brought me. It tasted like three-day-old mud.

            “Two murders in two days, both in art galleries, both stabbings, and both with you right there.” He zeroed in on my face. “Help me understand that.”

            “You know I didn’t kill either one of them.” I glanced at the mirrored window. “I wasn’t anywhere near them, either time. You’ve got witnesses. There’s no reason for me to be here. Can I go now?”

            He ignored the question. “So what’s going on? What’s the connection? Ghosts again?”

            I sighed. “The connection is an artist named Axel Parris. Both victims were looking at his paintings when they died.”

            “So he killed them? How?”

            I shrugged. “Magic?”

            Metzger snorted. “I thought you’d say that.”

            “Then why are we here? I’m not under arrest, am I? I’m cooperating. I can leave any time, right?”

            “Where is this Axel Parris?”

            I shook my head. “Nobody knows. I’m trying to find out. I can’t do it here.” I glanced at the mirror again. “Not with an audience watching me. I’m shy.”

            He snorted again. “Get out of here.”

            I stood up and waved at the mirror. “Thanks for the coffee.” I tossed it in a garbage can on the way out. 

            Getting questioned by cops is nerve-wracking, even when you know you’re innocent. Maybe especially when you know you’re innocent. I’d tried to stay cool and cocky, living up to the stereotype of the hard-nosed private eye, but my stomach was a quivering mass of pudding until I left the building and hailed a cab.

Rachel swung around in her chair when I walked into the office. “There you are. Looks like they didn’t pistol whip you.

“Just bad coffee.” I sat down at my computer. 

“You okay?”

I sighed. “Yeah. Gaby Keyes isn’t okay.”

            She was silent for a moment. Then: “So it’s Axel?” 

            “Somehow.” I had no evidence, no idea how he’d done it, but it had to be him. “Hammond was standing in front of his painting, a painting of anger, and Axel was mad at him for his review. Gaby broke up with him, and she was showing me a painting that was mostly green, called Friends, when she got killed. With her current boyfriend on her phone at the time”

            “The green-eyed monster, huh?” She cocked her head, thinking. “How did he do it?”

“Gaby Keyes said something about him putting his blood into his paintings. Maybe he meant it literally.”

            “So what do we do now?” Rachel walked back to her desk.

            I shook my head. “I’ve got to find him. Somehow.” I turned to the computer. 

Dan Vining had emailed a photo of Axel. I sent him a thank you, and then called Marian Krantz.

            “Can you send Axel a text or email asking to meet?” I asked, looking at his face. Several years old, the picture looked basically like a high school yearbook photo. Axel had short, thin hair, a sharp nose, and a scowl on his face.

            “He’s never agreed to meet in person before.” She sounded nervous. “What’s going on? The police were here. Is it true about Gaby?”

            “Uh, yes. I was there. It was just like what happened to Archie Hammond.”

            “Oh, god. Should I close the gallery? Should we—” She paused. “I’m getting out of here.”

            “Probably a good idea. When you’re safe, send Axel a message. Maybe tell him you’ve got a check for him.”

            “I’ll try that. As soon as I’m—I’ll call you later.” She hung up.

            I sat back and crossed my arms to think. Sipped some lukewarm coffee left over from the morning. Still better than the mud Metzger had given me. I swiveled to gaze at Rachel for a while, until she started glaring at me. I checked my email again. Then I had an idea.

            I called Marian Krantz again. “You have a shipping address for Axel, right?”

            “Yeah.” She was in her car. She pulled over to look up the address, and I scribbled it down.

            “What’s up?” Rachel asked as I stood up.

            “I just thought I’d check the place he gets stuff sent to. I’ve got a picture I can show them now.”

            “Hang on.” She saved her work and stood up. “I could stand to get out of here for a while. And if you get a hot lead, I’m not waiting around while you go do something stupid.”

            “Who, me?” But I’d learned not to argue with Rachel about stuff like this. We got our jackets and headed out