Black Cat Weekly #21

THE GHOST OF EROS, by Eve Fisher-3

“But the housekeeper nursed you?” Inspector Martinez asked.

“Pfui. For a while. I nearly died, but would she stay until I was well? No. She said she had to go home. And she went. She came back. Then she went again. The lack of care. Worst of all, she failed to rescue my paintings. That is the real tragedy. I nearly died. My patron, he did die. But worst of all, my masterpieces! Burned to nothing. Gone forever... ”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“You would truly have been sorry if you had ever seen them. They were the finest paintings I had ever done. The finest in the world. It is insupportable.”

* * * *

At the funeral—attended by almost everyone in Los Reyes—Monckton Powys offered condolences and said, “My offer still stands.”

“I’ll sell it to bloody McDonald’s before I’ll sell it to you,” Vicky replied.

“Only trying to help. I thought you might need some money for legal fees,” he replied, and drifted off.

Vicky moved in with Dolores for the duration as she waited for the results of the criminal investigation, as well as the reports from the official insurance investigator, the fire investigator, as well as the forensic arson investigator whom Vicky had hired personally.

Meanwhile, there was the problem of the house. The entire front had to be rebuilt. That or tear it all down and start from scratch. Or sell everything—house and land—to someone else. Vicky’s mind rotated among alternatives like a bingo ball in a cage. It was an alternative to rotating among possible suspects in the murder of her husband, and the arson.

And finally, the reports:

“What do they say?” Dolores asked, as Vicky closed up the report.

“That someone set fire to the place, using an accelerant. Probably kerosene. All along the south wall, which we already knew.” Vicky held up her cup for more coffee. “But here’s the interesting thing. They all agree that the fire was ‘limited in scope,’ and ‘an unusual lack of debris.’”

“So it was not intended to burn the house down?”

“Maybe not. That, or the arsonist was bloody terrible at his job.” Vicky paused, biting her lip. “What can you remember about the south wall? How high the flames were? How much was burned?”

“I could think of nothing but Señor Benson.” Dolores turned in her chair and called out, “Mateo! Come here!”

Mateo came in and Vicky asked him the same question.

“There were flames. I remember the curtains, burning like torches.”

“Do you remember the paintings burning?” Mateo shook his head. Vicky looked at Dolores, who also shook her head. Vicky tapped the report. “An unusual lack of debris. Cloth, but no mention of canvas. Think, Mateo. Think back, look carefully. Were the paintings burning?”

After a long silence, Mateo shook his head. “The paintings were not there.”

* * * *

Inspector Martinez and an officer, as well as Vicky and Mateo, banged on Dante’s front door. Another officer was already stationed at his back door.

“I have a key if you need it,” Vicky said.

Inspector Martinez shook his head. “I hear footsteps.”

Dante opened the door and looked at them. His hair was wild and unkempt, and paint spattered his face, hands, clothes: all perfectly normal.

“I am painting. I will continue to paint while you do what you wish. I must continue to paint, do you hear?”

“Fine with me, mate,” Vicky said, brushing past him.

“We must find out if something is here,” Inspector Martinez said. Mateo and the officer went over to the far wall and began to look through the stacks of paintings.

“Be careful not to damage anything!” Dante said, and went back to work on a wall-sized painting of flames that seemed to flicker and smolder with every change of light through the skylight.

“You do not want to know what we are looking for?” Inspector Martinez asked.

Dante sighed. “The Body and The Ghost, of course. I rescued them from the fire. They are in my bedroom, under the bed. I sleep better knowing where they are.”

“Why didn’t you rescue Doug?” Vicky asked.

“Why would I? He was the one who set the fire.” Dante said as he continued to paint. “He called me to come have a late supper with him. He had Jorge deliver that terrible shrimp from the wharf. While we ate, he told me that he no longer wished to live. That he was going to give to himself a Viking funeral. That he would burn the house, and all that was in it, as a sacrifice to the gods.”

“But he did not sacrifice himself,” Inspector Martinez commented. “Someone struck him, on the back of his head.”

Dante turned his head and smiled. “Ah, he wanted to die, but he did not want to suffer. Men are like that.”

“Are you saying that Doug asked you to kill him?” Vicky asked.

“No. You must understand, he was drunk. You know what he was like: insufferable. Insupportable. He said the world did not need artists anymore. Artists who were—I will not say what he said. No real man would accept such insult.” He finished painting his name and stood up, his eyes fixed on Vicky, “It is good that you were not there. I do not know if you would have survived—” Vicky snorted. “Do not laugh. He killed one woman, did he not?”

“No one has ever proved that,” Inspector Martinez said.

Dante ignored that. “He pulled out a match. Struck it. Tossed it at me, so that I jumped away. I cried out. I patted it away and another came, and another, and then I saw the rush of flame out of the corner of my eye. Over against the wall. Where my paintings were! The flames roaring up, up towards my paintings! I will never forget.” He looked at the huge painting of fire. “I will never forget.” He turned to Inspector Martinez. “Do you not see? Surely he poured whatever it was to catch the fire before I came. He called me on purpose to make me see it. To see the destruction of my work. That is why I struck him with a full bottle. He tumbled out of the chair, onto the floor. But he was not dead. He could have crawled out. He could have called Dolores. Mateo. He was still breathing as I wrestled my paintings out and back to here. And then wrestled with those shrimps. All night long.” He looked at Vicky, who was shaking. “He truly did not want to live. But I did. And so do you. Do not sorrow for him for too long.”

“Y-y-you—” Vicky stammered. “You—”

Mateo came out of the back room. “The paintings are where he said they were. Your officers are taking them out for evidence.”

“I think you must come down to the station with me,” Inspector Martinez said.

Dante shrugged. “Allow me to clean my brushes before we go. They stiffen so quickly. Like the dead.” He smiled at his painting of fire. “At least this is alive.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Eve Fisher has been writing since elementary school, and her mystery stories have appeared regularly in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine as well as other mystery and science fiction publications and anthologies. Her historical articles have landed her on the BBC and in a textbook on economics. And her volunteer work at the local penitentiary with the Lifers Group and the Alternatives to Violence Project provides great satisfaction as well as tips on prison tattoos and etiquette. Part of the thriving sleuthsayers.org, she lives in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, with her husband and 5,000 books.