Sketches in Black and White -- Another Excerpt from The Fine Art of Murder

        After spending years in prison, Max is desperate to play the knight in shining armor. But does he carry his fantasy a bit too far?  That's the starting point for C.L. Shore's short story Sketches in Black and White, included in The Fine Art of Murder, a collection of 18 short stories of murder and mystery all with a connection to fine art.   

        The Fine Art of Murder is available at Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com and Walmart.com, the book makes a perfect gift or stocking stuffer for any reader on your Christmas list. 

      Here is an excerpt from C.L. Shore's Sketches in Black on White

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“Anyhow,” I began. “I think I recognize the model in one of your sculptures.” I gestured toward  the living room. “The woman. I think her name was Lorraine.”

 “You have an impressive memory, Max. Yes, her name was Lorraine. Lorraine Yoder. Came from the Berne area, Mennonite stock, but I think her family had left the fold. She was the stereotypical pure and innocent farm girl . . . until she came to my class, that is. Earned part of  her tuition by modeling for me privately.” He sat back and started laughing. A small, high pitched, weaselly laugh. Not meant for my benefit. “Lorraine really earned her tuition.” He sat  back wearing a satisfied look and brought the teacup to his lips. “Those were the days. Great job  with satisfying benefits, if you know what I mean.”

I wanted to leap from my chair and grab him by the throat. I knew what he meant— sexual harassment. Abuse of authority. With a strong display of willpower I didn’t know I possessed, I remained in my chair and concentrated on maintaining a neutral expression. A blank canvas.

“The times have changed,” I said, after I trusted myself to speak.

“Oh, yeah.” The old man sighed. His more serious expression returned. “She was a lovely girl, a lovely girl.”

My original plan was to suggest we could do some sketching together. Now, I couldn’t stand being in the same room with the man. My cup was empty. I stood.

“Well, I hope you enjoyed the coffee. Maybe I’ll come back with more, the next cold, windy morning we have.”

“Thank you, Max. You’re thoughtful. The coffee was good, as was the conversation.”

Well, that’s your opinion. I picked up the thermos and let myself out of the apartment. When I climbed the stairs to my own place, I paced my small living room for at least a half hour. The nerve of the guy, the nerve. . .  He was a dirty old man, pure and simple. I couldn’t let go of my need for some kind of retaliation. He couldn’t get away with something like that. It wasn’t right. He’d made it clear he didn’t have any regret. He needed to pay. Pay up.