Free The Art of Murder (Dead-End Job Mystery) by Elaine Viets Page B

a toad at a table. Next to him, Annabel’s empty seat yawned before Helen. Shehesitated a moment, hoping she wouldn’t have to sit beside horrible Hugo.
    “Helen! Over here,” Jenny called. “Come sit by me.”
    Jenny had set up her paints and a small canvas on an easel. Tubes of oil paint and brushes were arranged in plastic racks and a photo of a romantically weathered seaside cottage was clipped to Jenny’s canvas.
    “I don’t have any supplies,” Helen said, sitting next to Jenny. “I feel like an idiot.”
    “We’ll buy some after class,” Jenny said.
    The art teacher, her fine-boned face crowned with blond braids, smiled a welcome. “Helen, you’re here.”
    “Without any supplies,” Helen said.
    “Here’s a list,” Yulia said, pulling a white paper from a folder. “Today you can start by drawing. Pick something in the courtyard and sketch it.” She tore a sheet off her sketch pad and gave Helen a black number two pencil.
    Yulia held her thumbs and forefingers in front of her face to form a frame. “See the courtyard as a series of pictures,” she said. “Look in the viewfinder.”
    Helen stared at the fountain through her “viewfinder” fingers and saw the fanciful octagon aviary, built by Frederic and painted peach, yellow and beige. The perspective would be too difficult, she decided.
    Next, she looked at a section of wall with a red wooden bench made by Frederic, flanked by two of his youthful German paintings. Too lifeless.
    She heard the fountain burbling in the center of the courtyard. Yes! Perfect.
    “I’ll draw the fountain,” Helen said.
    “Good,” Yulia said. “Now, how will you frame it?”
    Helen looked through her viewfinder again. “On the left are fivesmall palm trees,” she said. “On the right is a larger palm with two potted plants at the base.”
    The new number two pencil had a solid, first-day-of-school feel, Helen thought, but the blank cream paper had become a vast threatening expanse.
    As she started sketching, Helen realized she’d picked the hardest subject in the courtyard. Her palm trees didn’t sway in the summer breeze. They looked stiff and flat. Those trees have shadows, she thought. She tried to sketch them. Her palm fronds were still too straight, but at least she’d drawn the group.
    The palm on the right side had a curved trunk. Helen thought her cross-hatching was pretty good. The potted plants she sketched weren’t bad.
    But that fountain. How could she draw the water that splashed off the three tiers? The bowl-shaped tiers were topped with a spout that looked, well, phallic. Except when Helen drew it, the fountain spout looked positively pornographic.
    That’s why pencils have erasers, she thought, as she rubbed out the carnal waterspout and tried again.
    Yulia looked over her shoulder and said, “Contemplate the light, Helen. See where the sunlight is.”
    And get your mind out of the gutter, Helen thought. Or the bedroom. She studied the cluster of palms again and deepened the shadows on the trunks.
    I’m too midwestern to be an artist, Helen thought. I grew up in staid St. Louis. A true artist doesn’t block out sensuality. Frederic was from Chicago, but he painted those frisky Germans.
    She sketched a veil of water splashing down the fountain, then made the ornamental grasses at its base with light strokes so they seemed to sway in the wind.
    Yulia checked on Hugo, who was painting a black stallion. “Very bold, Hugo. But he needs shadows on his neck.”
    “I like it the way it is,” Hugo said.
    Yulia moved back to Helen. “Very good,” she said.
    “But don’t quit my day job, right?” Helen said.
    “No, you have a talent that is worth developing.” Yulia took a pencil and lightly traced a line down the center of the page. “Your fountain is crooked,” she said. “Leaning toward the right. But you’ve framed the sketch well.”
    I’m bored, Helen thought. She was relieved when Yulia said, “Time’s about up,” and