Tony Conaway

Murder and the Muse

 

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The phone awakens you out of a deep sleep.  It feels like you just got into bed.  But you’re used to phone calls late at night.

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It’s Brice.  He’s upset, but he has AIDS dementia. It might be something, it might be nothing.

 

“Did you hear?  Edmund – Edmund’s dead.”

 

You come fully awake.  “No!  He wasn’t that old.  Barely into his sixties.  How?“

 

“He fell off his balcony.  Or someone pushed him.”

 

You make the appropriate noises of shock and regret.  Then you ask, “What about his latest muse?  That boy, what’s his name?”

 

“Angelo.  Angelo…Tozzi, I think.  No one can find him.  I hear the police are looking for him.  The police will look for me, too.  Plenty of people saw me arguing with Edmund in Washington Square last week.”

 

“You fight with everyone these days, Brice.”

 

“Maybe. I don’t know.  It’s so hard to think.”  He pauses.  “I need to get out of my place.  Can I come over?”

 

You know better than to let Brice into your apartment.  When you left him, he took his fists to you.  Ever since, your jaw aches when it’s cold.

 

“No, Brice.”

 

“You know I still love you!”

 

“You knocked out one of my teeth.”

 

“How many times can I apologize for that?  I was out of my mind with jealousy.  You left me for Edmund!”

 

“This was all a long time ago, Brice.”

 

“You know, the police will want to talk to you, too.  When Edmund got tired of you, he left you in St. Tropez.  Left you penniless in a foreign country!  You have more reason to hate Edmund than I do!”

 

“I barely missed a meal.  You know I’m resourceful.  Look, call your lawyer.  Call your therapist, too.  Then take a pill and go to sleep.”

 

“I can’t sleep!  The police could come for me at any moment.”

 

“Then go out to the marina and sleep in the boat.  It’s still in your father’s name, isn’t it?  So the police won’t look for you there.”

 

“Yes, that’s a good idea.  Sleeping on the ship always relaxes me.”

 

“Good.”  You hang up.  

 

You look down past the foot of the bed.  There is a nude there, breathtakingly beautiful.

 

You think about what you’ll tell the police, if they call.  When they call.

 

#

 

Dawn breaks in just a few hours.  The police phone and ask you to come in for questioning.  If they really suspected you, they would have come and gotten you.

 

Now you sit in front of a desk in an interrogation room.  A Detective Ibanez sits across from you, shuffling papers between files.  There’s a file on you, although your crimes have been minor.

 

Well, at least the ones they know about.

 

You must be the only person in history to have a Top Ten List in your police file.  You recognize it; it’s been faxed around often.  It’s a compilation of jokes that late-night TV comedians have told about you.

 

Back when you were famous.

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Back when you were somebody.

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Even upside down, you can read several of the jokes:

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HUNDREDS OF BEAUTIFUL YOUNG MEN AND WOMEN ARE IN TOWN.  IT MUST BE FASHION WEEK HERE IN NEW YORK CITY.  EITHER THAT, OR IT’S A REUNION OF CASEY FETCHING’S OLD LOVERS!

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HAVE YOU HEARD THAT MADONNA AND CASEY FETCHING HAD A MARATHON SEX SESSION?  THERE’S EVEN A RUMOR THAT THEY TOOK A BET AS TO WHO WOULD GET EXHAUSTED FIRST.  MY MONEY’S ON THE GUY HOLDING THE VIDEO CAMERA!

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GERALDO RIVERA OPENED ANOTHER SEALED VAULT THAT ONCE BELONGED TO AL CAPONE.  THIS ONE WAS ALSO A DISAPPOINTMENT.  THE ONLY THING INSIDE WAS ANOTHER NUDE PAINTING OF CASEY FETCHING!

 

Detective Ibanez finally speaks.  “So, you know we’re looking into the death of an artist, Edmund Satterthwaite.  You lived with him.”

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“Yes.  A terrible thing to happen to Edmund.  We had our differences, but we were once lovers.  He even considered me his muse.”

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“You didn’t part on good terms?”

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“We argued, then we broke up.  The way most couples do.  I can’t even recall what the argument was about.  It was nearly fifteen years ago, you know.  We’ve been civil when we crossed paths since then.”

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“Fifteen years.  You must have been underage.  Fifteen, sixteen?”

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“Sixteen. Oh, but he wasn’t my first older lover.  Edmund stole me away from a man named Brice Celt.  Also an artist – at least, that’s what he calls himself.  Edmund Satterthwaite was once one of the most important painters in the city.  Brice is more…a rich poseur.”

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The detective riffs through his papers.  “Yes.  Brice DeWitt Celt.  He’s someone we’d like to talk to.  Can you tell us where we can find him?”

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You give him Brice’s address.  And the address of his marina.  “Brice always had a temper.  He beat me very badly when I left him for Edmund.  He has AIDS now, and I suspect he has the AIDS dementia.  When he’s healthy enough to go out, he wanders the streets of the Village, getting into fights.”

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“So, first you were with this Brice Celt.  Then you were with Edmund Satterthwaite.  What have you been doing since then?”

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You reach out and tap the TOP TEN list.  “I was with a great many men and women.  Some of them painted me, some photographed me, and some put me in movies.  I suppose I was famous, in a way.  Then I met the love of my life, who came down with AIDS.  And I nursed him for the past three years.  He died just two months ago.”

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The detective doesn’t give a perfunctory, “I’m sorry.”  Instead, he looks at his notes for a moment.  “Can you tell me where you were at nine pm last night?”

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“Would that be when poor Edmund fell?  Well. I’m in a support group for people who have lost loved ones to AIDS.  It meets at eight, so we would have just been breaking up at nine.  I can write down the names and contact information of a few of the members who were present.”

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The detective pushes a pad of lined yellow paper across the table.  He doesn’t offer a writing implement, but you have your Cross pen with you.  Once, when you had money, it would have been a more expensive pen. 

 

Detective Ibanez has a few more questions, then says you can go.  As you leave, you notice that he’s copying down the information you wrote.  He won’t touch the pad you wrote upon.

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Even in 1990, some people are afraid that you can catch AIDS through casual contact. 

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#

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The nude at the foot of the bed is breathtakingly beautiful.  Then he rises and goes into the bathroom.  The nude painting of you, which hung on the wall at the foot of your bed for years, is gone.  The sun-faded wallpaper is blank, save for an empty hook and a darker rectangle the size of the absent canvas.

You get out of bed and put on a robe.  The notice is on your bureau.  You look at it again:

 

THIS BUILDING WILL BE CONVERTED INTO CONDOMINIUMS AT THE FIRST OF THE NEW YEAR.  ALL TENANTS WILL BE GIVEN THE OPPORTUNITY TO PURCHASE THEIR APARTMENTS.  THOSE WHO ELECT NOT TO DO SO MUST VACATE WHEN THEIR CURRENT LEASE EXPIRES.

 

Now you have the money to buy your apartment, your home for the past five years.  That nude that Edmund painted of you was the only item of value that you hung on to during the terrible years that you nursed your lover.  One by one, you sold your valuables, your jewelry, to survive.  To support both of you while you were your lover’s full-time caregiver.

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For the thousandth time, you wonder: if the situation had been reversed, would your lover have given up everything to care for you? 

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But there’s no way to answer that.  Among your gifts, you seem to be immune to AIDS.  At least the current strain of AIDS.

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The nude emerges from the bathroom.  He’s a gorgeous young man, as beautiful as you were at his age.  Everyone wants him.  The way they once wanted you.

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Angelo Tozzi looks much better then he did the night Edmund died.  When he came to you, panicking, covered in Edmund’s blood.

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He sits on the bed.  “So I’m thinking of calling Serge in Gstaad.  He’ll send me airfare to come out there.”

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You sigh.  You knew Angelo wouldn’t stay with you.  Would you have, at his age, when wealthy lovers beckoned?

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“If I were you, I’d stay in New York until they indict Brice.  Make sure everything has gone according to plan.  But it’s your decision.”

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“I guess so.  Do you think that will take long?”

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“Brice hasn’t got long to live.  The D.A.’s office will rush it, so they can say they’ve found Edmund’s killer.”

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“Won’t this Brice guy go to jail?”

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“He’ll spend his last days in a hospital bed, the same as if Edmund was still with us.  Brice’s lawyers will see to that.  His trust fund is worth more than ever now.  His family is making a fortune turning apartments into condos all over the city.”

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You put the notice into your bureau drawer. “Then you can go to Gstaad, or wherever you want.  I was once in your position, a decade ago.  I can give you advice on how to become independent.”

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Edmund’s last muse puts his arm about your waist and draws you down to the bed.  He slips your robe off.  Between kisses, he says, “You’ve always given me good advice.  I meant to ask you: that fancy new shirt, the one you –“

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“The one I smeared with Edmund’s blood?”

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“Yes.  Why did you have a new shirt in Brice’s size sitting around your place?”

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“It was a birthday gift for my man.  But he died before I could give it to him.  Just a coincidence that it happened to be Brice’s size, too.”

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“And what happened to it?”

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You smile. “There are some questions better left unanswered.”  You’re not about to tell him that you carried that bloody shirt in the middle of the night to Brice’s boat, where you hid it in a clothes hamper.  A harrowing errand, but you’re familiar with boats.  Several of your lovers have had yachts much fancier than Brice’s boat.

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Angelo looks at you with all the seriousness he can muster.  “Well, I thought my life was over when Edmund fell.  I didn’t really mean to push him.  I ran down to help him, right away.  I tried to stop the bleeding.  That’s how I got his blood all over me, y’know.”

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“I know,” you lie.  “It’s a good thing you came to me.  A good thing that Brice was available to take the blame.”

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As his lips move down your body, you look at the space where Edmund’s painting used to be.  Too quietly for Angelo to hear, you whisper, “And it’s a good thing that the price for an artist’s work goes up after his death.”

 

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Born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, Tony Conaway was first published back in 1990. He has written hundreds of articles for magazines as varied as airline flight magazines, literary magazines, and men's magazines. He is a member of several writing organizations, including the Philadelphia Comedy Writers Guild - though which he wrote and sold jokes to Jay Leno for "The Tonight Show."

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