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

incurable muscle weakness. It’s horrible.Annabel was facing weak arms and legs, double vision, drooping eyelids. She could have trouble talking, swallowing and breathing. That’s what killed Aristotle Onassis, the richest man in the world.”
    “Myasthenia gravis isn’t a death sentence anymore,” Helen said. “I saw an article that said many people have it and live normal lives with occasional flare-ups.”
    “But Annabel was afraid her eyes were affected,” Cissy said. “Both her eyelids drooped, and she had double vision. She couldn’t be an artist if she couldn’t see. I think she put nicotine in her iced tea and drank it.”
    “Did she make her own tea?” Helen asked.
    “Yes, with so much honey I couldn’t drink the stuff. But all that sugar would hide the bitter taste of nicotine.
    “She didn’t drink her tea in class that day,” Cissy said. “She took the lid off her thermos and kept it next to her, but never touched it. She put the lid back on when we left class. Then, when I put away our art supplies in my car, she gulped down all her tea at once. Like she finally got the courage to do it.”
    Helen replayed the scene in her mind: She remembered Cissy trying to get Margery to smoke e-cigarettes. Jenny and Yulia wanted Helen to sign up for the art class. They’d all waved good-bye to Yulia. And Annabel drank down nearly a full thermos of tea.
    “I can see where that’s possible,” Helen said.
    “I told the detective I didn’t think Annabel was murdered,” Cissy said. “She killed herself.”
    A horn blast from the drawbridge interrupted their conversation. The halves of the bridge began to rise, blue metal meeting blue sky. A black-hulled sailboat was the first through the opening.
    “I wish I had the talent to paint that scene,” Cissy said. “The sun sparkling on the water, the sleek black boat with the white sails, gears as big as trucks under the bridge.”
    “Way beyond my skill level,” Helen said. “Could Annabel have painted it?”
    “Oh, yes. She was definitely talented,” Cissy said. “She not only painted a scene, she made you feel it. But she’d changed so much in the last few months. She was depressed, bad-tempered and impatient with me and her husband. Clay noticed that her technique was deteriorating and advised her to take Yulia’s art class.”
    “Did you agree with him?” Helen asked.
    “It was good advice,” Cissy said. “Clay knows what he’s doing. He had a New York career before he came here. I could see that Annabel’s art was becoming more abstract, almost like graffiti. That’s the trend now. Clay felt she needed more grounding and recommended Yulia.”
    “Clay didn’t feel Annabel should experiment to find her own style?” Helen asked.
    “Of course,” Cissy said. “But even Picasso had classical training. You have to know what the rules are before you break them. And Annabel wasn’t afraid to break the rules.”
    “What do you mean?” Helen asked. The ethereal Annabel didn’t look like a rule breaker, but Helen didn’t know her.
    Cissy lowered her voice and looked around, making sure no one was near their table. “Annabel was quite wild in her youth. You know she had a lesbian lover.” Cissy waited for her bombshell to explode.
    “I’m not sure a lesbian affair qualifies her as wild,” Helen said.
    “Well, aren’t we broad-minded,” Cissy said, her voice sharp. “I thought you were from the Midwest, where people have standards.”
    “I am,” Helen said. “But what some call standards are an excuse for harsh judgments.”
    Helen was relieved when the server brought their meals. Both women admired the artfully arranged food, then ate in respectful silence.
    When Helen’s salad was nearly finished, she returned to the conversation. “I’ve met all kinds of people living here in South Florida. I’m more live and let live.”
    Cissy stabbed the remains of her veggie burger so forcefully,Helen wondered if she was annoyed. I