The Road Menders

Mad because she cut herself shaving for the 3rd time this week, Gwen let out a large grunt that lingered in the moist bathroom air. Wrapped in several towels from top to bottom, she walked into the kitchen to make a bowl of oatmeal with fresh blueberries. While waiting for the oatmeal to cook in the microwave, Gwen examined her left leg and determined navy dress slacks would look great and hide the hack job on her leg.

Her morning routine consisted of eating, dressing, listening to morning TV, applying make-up and then lastly, drying her completely out of control hair. All of these activities took place in her bedroom. Gwen’s bedroom was 10’x10’ which is large bedroom by New York City standards. Her grandmother’s wrought iron bed was against the exposed brick wall. Above the bed was a copy of van Gogh’s Café Terrace on the Place de Forum; her cousin Oliver painted it as a graduation present for her.

In the reflection of her mirror, she saw the painting. It had been disturbed. Slowly, she stopped drying her hair and turned around. Gwen stared at the painting. She quietly grabbed her phone and sat on the bed, eating her oatmeal just staring at the painting and wondering if she should place the call.
Today, the rest of the world got busy with the morning rush to work. Gwen just held her phone in her left hand and stared at the painting. She never thought any of the stories were true. Her grandfather had made it all up. Right? Why her? Why now?

Finally, she dialed Max, her brother. He answered in his usually morning voice of a grunt.

“How is your van Gogh?”
“What?”
“Your van Gogh? What does it look like?”
Max pulled the covers off of his head, “What time is it?”
“6:55 AM”
“You are such a pain in the ass,” and he hung up.

The Road Menders was painted in 1889 by Vincent van Gogh; it depicts workers repaving Cours de l’Est, a road in Saint-Remy. There were several versions of the painting. One was painted en plein air; the other in van Gogh’s room at the Saint Paul de Mausole Asylum. That is the official providence of both paintings.

A third painting existed out of sight and knowledge of the public eye. This secret painting resided in the Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen in the living room of a fourth floor walk up belonging to Max Dumont.

Gwen sat on her bed and waited. Fifteen minutes later her phone rang.
“Gwenny, is your painting upside down?”
“Yes, Yours?”
“Missing”

A Murderous Look

Trudy wasn’t afraid of death; it was her murder, which surprised her. She raced though the warehouse at a frantic pace.  His footsteps were strong and steady.  She had no place left to run.  Up against the back wall, Trudy did the only thing she could; she composed herself and waited. It only took 13 seconds for him to catch up to her.  She had counted.  Trudy wanted to remember every detail of this night just in case she survived.  The rotted floor boards next to her exposed a black nothingness below in the warehouse basement.   She stood frozen posed to fight.  

The large looming body appeared before her holding a 2x4; she finally understood his weapon choice.  It was a common object with no ownership, no traceability.  Brilliant really, if you think about it, but no sane person would think about such things.  

All of a sudden, the brute of a man before her knelt down on one knee and did a sign of the cross.  Trudy leaned and spat in his eye to wash the murderous look out.  It didn’t work.  Her murderer swung the piece of wood like a baseball bat.  The board connected with the right side of her body.  Her hip and pelvis shattered.  The crunching sound of her bones sickened Trudy.  Her only reaction was a loud gasping of air before she blacked out. 

Trudy’s body lay limp on the ground.  

The man stood up, stepped towards Trudy, and with the 2x4 pushed her into the black hole.  As she hit the dirt floor, a thud resonated up from the hole.  Technically, it wasn’t murder; she wasn’t dead, but she will die from lack of medical attention.   A sinister smile of complete satisfaction came across the man’s face.  

Negligible Homicide was much easier the third time around.