Free AHMM, December 2009 by Dell Magazine Authors Page B

Best of luck on your quest for truth."
    * * * *
    Back in the Nash, my hands squeezed the steering wheel without mercy. “Maybe taking an axe to Worley isn't such a bad idea after all. Have you ever met a more condescending creep?"
    Mr. O'Nelligan calmly pondered the question before responding. “To be truthful, I have. Back in County Kerry, I knew a newspaper editor named Horgan who was absolutely insufferable. Horgan would speak to you as if he'd created the very earth itself and you were trespassing on it. Had an infuriating way of saying, ‘You can believe that if it pleases you,’ no matter what the subject might be. Unfortunately for himself, he printed an untruth about the local blacksmith for which he acquired a broken jaw. Cured him of his condescension, though."
    "Well, I hope Worley gets a similar remedy. I've no doubt he's the type who'd rob his own gallery. Just for jollies."
    "That would be a charge we'd have to meticulously prove."
    "Then—hi-yo silver—let's do just that."
    Twenty minutes later, we were standing outside Gilmar Noll's door on the third floor of a nondescript apartment building. Donna Zampino had given us the address, and as with Worley, we were arriving unannounced. In response to my knock, the door swung open and a tall, redhaired young woman, arms akimbo, demanded, “So who the hell are you?"
    She was decked out in a clingy black dress with yellow polka dots, the neckline of which should have caused her mother dismay. Warmed by her greeting, I gave up our names and occupation.
    She seemed interested. “Are you here about Bursting Skull? Did you find it?"
    "You're Mr. Noll's wife?” I ventured.
    "I'm his woman,” she said huskily. “Come on in."
    Her hips swaying like a metronome, she led us into a large jumbly room filled with several easels, a couple of paint-splattered tables, stacks of blank canvases and an overabundance of crookedly hung paintings. Noll's art struck me as half cocked and chaotic, with dizzying sprawls of color that made me a little queasy.
    Mr. O'Nelligan seemed even less enamored of this display. “Oh my,” he said softly and pursed his lips.
    Something moved in a corner. We saw now that there was a man, half hidden by a pile of canvases, sitting cross legged on the floor. Skinnier even than me, he looked lost in his oversized black turtleneck and trousers. A wispy little beard was smeared across his lower face. Everything about him seemed rumpled.
    "Gilmar Noll?” I asked.
    "I suppose.” His voice was airy and disinterested. “At least, that's who they say I am."
    "You're the artist who painted Bursting Skull? "
    "Right as rain.” He pushed himself to his feet. “But, what makes rain so right, anyway? Why is it more right than snow?"
    "Shut up, you idiot,” Miss Polka Dots said. “These men are detectives. See what they have to say."
    "Sure, Maxine. I'm all ears. No rain, just ears."
    "Quiet!"
    I studied the couple, thinking that Cupid hadn't done his best work when he matched these two up. I explained our task and asked Noll if he had any thoughts as to who might have stolen his painting.
    He yawned and shook his head. “No, but what does it matter? It didn't belong to me anymore. My finest effort and it didn't even belong to me."
    "Because you chose to sell it to Stuart Worley,” Mr. O'Nelligan noted.
    Noll grinned at him. “You talk nice. It sounds like a little song. Say something else."
    "It's called a brogue, you dope,” Maxine scolded. “Yeah, Gilmar sold Skull to that fancypants Worley—for stinking peanuts! Now all these artsy reviewers are calling Gil a genius, but Worley's got the rights to everything he paints."
    "Only the next twenty works,” Noll corrected. “After that, my shackles crumble."
    Maxine snorted. “Sure. Problem is, you can't pull yourself together enough to finish even one lousy painting."
    "I've got to differ with you on that, babe.” Noll gestured around the room. “I've produced dozens of lousy paintings.