Homicide in Bronze: A Kira Logan Mystery

By J.C. Andrew

Kira Logan, an artist from Arizona.is contracted by the Medfords, descendants of the founding doctors of a local hospital, to build bronze sculptures to honor the doctors. 

Before l

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Andrew
• Release date: Oct 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781955531351

Book preview

Contents

BOOKS BY J.C. ANDREW

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

BOOKS BY J.C. ANDREW

Painted Death

Kira Logan Is asked to design and oversee the painting of a mural in Raven Creek, Alaska. Problems arise the day she arrives and continue to intensify until three people have met their death. To her horror, Kira learns she is intended to be victim number four.

Homicide in Bronze

Kira Logan has gone to Colinas Verde, New Mexico, at the request of descendants of the two doctors who founded the local hospital. Their children, friends, and a woman with a long-standing grudge against the doctors, conspire against Kira to end the project…or her

Portrait of Deceit

This time Kira Logan stays home in Singletree, Arizona. The two owners of a Phoenix realty company have asked her to do portraits of themselves and their wives. One of the wives is trapped in an abusive relationship and wants out. First an attempted, then a successful murder, baffles the police and almost brings an end the completion of all Kira’s work.

Final Critique

What could be more relaxing than a week spent painting in the country? Kira Logan learns there are many alternatives when her class arrives with its boiling undercurrents of resentment and pure hatred. An attempted murder goes wrong, then a body is found at the base of a cliff. Kira finally helps the killer unexpectedly get the punishment deserved.

This book is gratefully dedicated to the many foundry workers who have skillfully labored to bring my sculptures to life.

Chapter 1

KIRA

The day began, as they so often did in Singletree, Arizona, with blue skies and temperatures in the seventies. The orange trees this far out of Phoenix were not planted in orchards, that time had passed long ago. Now, one-by-one, they were grown and tended by people who cherished the idea of drinking fresh juice for breakfast after they had gone out for an early morning run, taken a shower, and brought in the morning paper.

My name is Kira Logan. I’m a freelance artist who works in many media: bronze, clay, oil paint, pastel, and weaving, just to name a few. Today I was already busy in my studio when my energetic neighbors trotted by.

I treasure the feeling of exhilaration that comes over me when I enter my large studio. Seeing the early morning light brightening the walls and smelling the perfumed air flooding through the open windows always makes me eager to experience the waiting delights of the new day. They bring a promise of new beginnings and creative adventures. This morning, the scent of orange blossoms drifting on a gently moving breeze, gave no intimation of any troubles to come.

It was nearing noon when I decided I’d worked long enough to justify taking a break from stretching and priming canvases. The mail should have been delivered by now, I thought, as I opened the screen door of the studio. Dressed in my usual studio clothes of paint-smeared jeans and loose green T-shirt, and breathing deeply of the fresh air, I walked to the mailbox planted next to the dirt road in front of the house. Inside I found the usual stuff I often toss unread into the trash. There was an advertisement from a local auto dealer, an offer from a bank and a plea for a donation from a wildlife fund. That one I would consider responding to. There was also a letter with no return address, postmarked from New Mexico. I turned the envelope over to see if there was any information about the sender on the back. It was blank. Who, other than Bill Medford, in New Mexico, would have reason to write? And why would he? When he had something to say, he usually called. This was very strange.

He’d hired me to create sculptures of two early members of his family; doctors who had founded a hospital in his hometown of Colinas Verde, New Mexico. The last time he’d phoned, we’d discussed when I’d arrive in Colinas Verde to begin work on the sculptures. Did he now want to change the date of my arrival?

Curious about the contents of the letter, I turned my back to the sun, leaned on the mailbox and tore open the envelope.

Immediately upon reading the enclosed note, my heart began to pound and a chill to envelop me. I’d never anticipated, never imagined, something like this would be sent to me. Then common sense took over. This must be someone’s sick idea of a joke. If so, it was a bad idea. It wasn’t funny and I certainly wasn’t laughing.

With my last job in Alaska, I’d barely avoided death as I helped solve three murders. When I’d accepted this project I’d expected no opposition or problems other than those associated with producing the sculptures. I’d anticipated only a pleasant experience in an interesting location—certainly not danger from angry strangers. "We will stop you", the note said. How did they intend to do that, I wondered. As I walked back to the studio my mind began inventing too many answers to that question.

After moving several art books aside, I seated myself in an old wicker rocker next to a north-facing window. It offered a view past a saguaro and several ocotillos to the surrounding hills. I often rested here to watch the quail, rabbits, occasional coyotes, roadrunners, and the quick-moving lizards they feasted on. I tried to calm and organize my racing thoughts. Why was I being threatened? True, my hands were the ones that would create the sculptures, but I’d had nothing to do with the decision to have them made. It was Bill Medfords’ desire and money that were making possible the images the note warned against. I reread the note.

If you come to Colinas Verde to make the statues, We will stop you.

The brothers were evil men. YOU ARE WARNED.

There was no signature. What did the writer mean about the brothers being evil? Bill had hired me several months ago to build sculptures of Walton Medford, and his brother, Mason, doctors who’d devoted their lives to taking care of the people of Colinas Verde. At the time, Bill had said nothing about them being evil, any possible opposition to the project, or much less any danger. Who would send such an angry, threatening message? YOU ARE WARNED. I couldn’t imagine anyone objecting to the creation of bronze sculptures honoring the two doctors. Oh, God! What have I gotten into this time?

I wondered if I was the only one to receive such a letter, or had the writer threatened other people? I decided to call Bill and ask if he’d found something similar in his mail. In a way I hoped he had. It would mean I wasn’t alone in this situation. A more unsettling thought was that the effort involved in sending letters to other people in this undertaking would indicate the writer, or writers, were resolute about stopping the project.

Getting up from my chair, I walked across the studio to the large desk I’d inherited from my grandfather. The multitude of drawers and cubbyholes had enchanted me as a child. As an adult, I realized its drawbacks—it was easy to lose papers in the cubbyholes if I wasn’t careful. That didn’t matter. I’d loved my grandfather dearly and the desk was a reminder of the security I’d felt when he was near. I could certainly have used some of that security right now.

Searching among stacks of stray notes, magazine clippings, and small sketches for future work, I found my business phone book with Bill’s number. The search was a reminder to enter his information into my cell phone.

Fortunately, he was at home. After a few social pleasantries I introduced the reason for the call. Bill. I’ve just received a strange and upsetting note from someone in Colinas Verde. I’m calling to find if you know anything about it. I saw no clue as to who wrote it, or why. It’s a warning about the sculptures…

Bill broke in before I could finish the sentence. Kira, you aren’t the only person to get a letter. They’re showing up around here too. His voice was rough with anger. One was waiting for me at my office. Dr. Alan Fisher just called from the hospital. The board received one as well.

Puzzled, I asked, Who in Colinas Verde would write a note like that? I’d moved back to stand in front of the window, the phone pressed to my ear. What did Dr. Fisher say about the threats? Did he have any suggestions? I’d met the doctor on a previous research trip to Colinas and found him very enthusiastic about the project and easy to talk with.

Bill paused a moment as though unsure how to reply. Alan didn’t tell me much, other than that the letter led to a lot of discussion among the board members. Naturally, they are concerned.

I wasn’t surprised to hear that, but didn’t like the hesitation before Bill replied. I yearned to do this project. It would be a test of my skills as well as an opportunity to produce something monumental, both in size and value. Has it affected their willingness to continue with our project? I asked. This is not a good time for controversy to arise. The sculptures of the founding physicians were intended to stand on the hospital grounds. Now I wondered if the unsettling note would make the hospital board reconsider the project. I hoped not. I’d invested a lot of time designing them.

No, I don’t think so, Bill’s voice was not as confident as I’d hoped it would be. They’re still behind the project, but are worried about negative publicity, especially if the threats lead to any action on the part of the writer. I urged them to wait before making any decisions. This note may be a one-time event.

It seemed that Bill was trying to diminish a major threat down to a minor incident. I wasn’t convinced by his low-key reply. Sending notes to at least three people spoke of unusual determination on the part of the sender. What do you think ‘evil men’ means? I asked. Your relatives founded a public institution that has benefited the community. Why would anyone be against the creation and installation of statues honoring their work?

I have no idea, Bill seemed uncertain. As far as I know, those two men did only good for the people here. I’ll be meeting with the board tomorrow to look into this. If it seems prudent, we’ll contact the police, but I think it’s a little early for that. Of course, if another letter comes, or something happens, we will definitely call in outside help. Until then, please don’t let this upset you. After a little more discussion the call ended.

Well, that’s that. Nothing to do but stay calm, wait…and think. Bill’s advice, Please don’t let this upset you, wouldn’t be easy to follow. The uncertainty about the continuation of this commission would loom in my mind until I heard more reassuring news.

As I replaced the receiver, I vowed that one threatening letter was not going to frighten me off a job I knew I could do well. It was a challenging project and one I’d been looking forward to taking on. I like working large and the two figures I planned to build would each be about eight feet tall. This uncomfortable situation showed signs of developing into a test of my courage and determination. I didn’t intend to fail.

Chapter 2

KIRA

Two weeks after finding the warning letter in my mailbox, I drove into Colinas Verde, New Mexico. No more unsigned notes had been sent to me or to Bill Medford. We both hoped that the messages had been a one-time expression of outrage on the writer’s part and wished we had a clue to the source.

I passed the hospital, located part way up a hill near the town’s southern edge. It was a large white building of southwest design. Very impressive. My drive continued north through the small business section, where most of the buildings were adobe. Some were of the original, more primitive looking hand-built type, others of the later territorial style. Tee shirts were offered in many shops, but the majority of buildings seemed to house art galleries or stores selling the general tourist fare of rugs, jewelry, or ceramic knick-knacks.

The Medfords had a home north and just outside of town. It was a large adobe consisting of living and family room, home office for Bill, dining room, kitchen, bedrooms for the Medfords and their three children, and other assorted small areas. The first time I’d come to Colinas Verde, I’d stayed in their guesthouse, or casita, and would be doing so again. It was only a short walk from the main house and contained two bedrooms, a bath, dining area, and a kitchen large enough for me to prepare food for a small party—not that I expected to have time to do that. The central area had a fireplace for cool evenings, and was comfortably furnished with leather furniture, a T.V. and desk. In short, the guesthouse was a well-appointed small two-bedroom home.

This time, I planned to settle in for several weeks, perhaps several months, depending on how rapidly the work progressed. Once the initial work was completed, I would go back to Arizona until the foundry finished the molding, casting and assembly of the pieces. After that, I’d drive back for a third time, to check on the sculptures before the final chasing and patina work was done. At that time, I’d stay for their installation at the sides of the entrance drive to the hospital.

Before I had time to remove my suitcases and sculpting tools from the car and carry them into the casita, Bill and Celli had come into the driveway to greet me. Bill was a well built man, somewhere in his late forties or early fifties, still slim, with dark hair graying at the temples, and a liking for bright colored shirts and cowboy boots. His wife, Celli, a slender blond woman who shared her husband’s trend toward southwest style clothing, enhanced her outfits with turquoise necklaces, rings, earrings, and bracelets.

On my first visit the three of us had talked at length about their vision of the statues I would create and their future placement at the hospital the brothers had founded. We’d also spent hours searching through old family photos for images of the two doctors I’d be modeling. After that, I’d gone back to Arizona, prepared to design the sculptures they wanted. Although I’d sent the Medfords photos of my proposed work, they had not yet seen the small models, or maquettes I’d made.

This evening, I was sharing a meal of welcome with Bill and Celli. Their daughter, Dee, the youngest of their three children was present. Dee took after her father in hair color and slimness of build, but appeared to lack her father’s calmness. Her movements were quick and rather awkward. Bill’s father, William, had also joined them. He looked to be well into his seventies if not more. He was tall like his son, but stooped. His hair was gray, almost white, and flyaway thin.

The conversation during dinner flowed easily, with Bill and William reminiscing about William’s father and uncle. William told me about the early years of their lives, some of the hardships the doctors had had to overcome and their difficult work before they were finally able to establish a hospital in a town as small as Colinas Verde. His pride in what they had accomplished was obvious. By the end of the meal he seemed to be tiring, but said he wanted to see the maquettes of my proposed work before he went home.

Although fatigued by my long drive, I brought out the two maquettes for everyone to see. They were small clay models of the figures I planned to build. Now they could experience the real, though small, three-dimensional objects. Although I was ready for the family to make few changes, I reminded them that if they wanted me to make any adjustments, they should be done in the next few days, before work started at the foundry. Once these figures were enlarged, small changes would be difficult, but still possible. When in bronze, it would be too late.

During my original visit to the town, I’d toured the hospital grounds to see the approximate area where the finished statues would be placed. I’d not visited the Killian Foundry where the work was to be created and cast, but I hoped the people there would be cooperative and prepared to move quickly on the project. I’d researched them on my computer and been reassured as to their ability to carry out the job. William looked at my models for a long time, then, his eyes becoming watery, he pronounced them good representations of the men he had known. He was smiling when he left to go to his home. After seeing him out, Bill returned to where the others were seated. He explained to me, I think Dad was touched seeing your models of his father and uncle. My Father is interested in history, especially that of his family. He’s still in the same house where he and Mom lived. In fact, they spent their entire married lives there. It was a great place for me to grow up. I spent many hours wandering the fields, hills, and streams around there. Now William lives alone, although a neighbor woman checks on him regularly to be sure he is okay, and Celli or I call him almost daily.

Even though they had all reviewed the old family photos on my first visit to Colinas Verde, Bill, Celli, and Kira again searched through them, alert for anything they might previously have overlooked—any personal details, unique gestures or expressions that would help make the sculptures come alive and speak to the viewer. Cameras were uncommon in New Mexico during the time the doctors had been in practice, so the family had only a limited number of photos to choose from. It had been necessary for me to take a pose from one picture, a face from another, and clothing from a third. They’d eventually collected details everyone could agree upon for the final compositions. This last search was just to be sure the family was satisfied before work began on the life-sized figures. This review reassured them as to my plans and resulted in no major adjustments in the figures. I was pleased when Bill exclaimed, It’s going to be exactly what we wanted—and even more. As Celli nodded her agreement, he added, We can’t wait for you to begin.

Later, Bill and I relaxed in two leather armchairs and watched Celli gather up the photos no longer needed as reference material. The sound of an outer door being roughly thrust open and then slammed shut surprised me. I looked around as Stan, the second of the Medford’s three children, walked belligerently into the room. I’d seen little of him the first time I’d been in town, as he worked during the day at High Desert Medical, the family business, and often went out in the evenings. I couldn’t judge by his walk if he’d been drinking, but considered it a real possibility when I saw his flushed face and rumpled blond hair.

He strode heavily to where Celli was organizing the pictures. Flicking aside one of the piles of photos, he sneered, So, these are my ‘great’ ancestors, are they? His voice was raised. What’s the big fuck’n deal? No one will want to see two old fogies forever standing at the entrance of the hospital to welcome all the sick people. Seeing them will only make patients feel worse. Horse and buggy medicine practiced inside. Just great. He gave a sharp, bitter laugh.

Bill reacted instantly, his relaxation at an end. Stan, that’s enough. What’s gotten into you? Rising to his feet he said, Control yourself.

Stan turned to confront his father. "Control myself, huh? This project of yours is a big waste of money. You’re so caught up in the family’s