The Case of The Perplexed Painting

The Funeral

We had to have a closed casket funeral. The wound on Uncle Merton's head was too gross for most people to bear.

Uncle Merton had died from receiving multiple blows to the head in the same spot. The police had even said whoever did this must have had incredible accuracy as all of the stikes to the skull had been in the exact same location on the head.

Some people complained about the casket being closed, but I assured them it was for the good of all present not to see what had happened to him.

Hundreds of people came to pay their respects. I could only hope my funeral would have as many people attend it as Uncle Merton's did.

As the last guests were coming in, I chose to sit down. As I did my best to relax in the comfortable chair with my hands folded over my face, I heard the groggy voice of a middle-aged man. He only said my name, but it was enough for me to take my hands off my eyes and use the two sore spectacles God had given me to look up at him.

He was a man in his fifties with curly silver hair that was two inches away from touching his shoulders. He was dressed in a suit that was twice the size of two of my paychecks from my summer job. It was a dark blue with a gold windowpane pattern to it and his brown alligator shoes concluded the outfit well.

The only thing more expensive than his clothes was his million-dollar smile that sat perfectly between his button nose and cleft chin.

He was more physically fit than most men his age. His chest and arms resembled those of a professional wrestler. His stomach poked out just a little, but I am sure there were some abs underneath the solid white dress shirt that covered his belly.

On one of his arm hung a thin thirty-something black woman, whose afro was as big as two basketballs put together.

Her dress was gold as well as her purse, and they both matched the lines on the old guy's suit. She held onto his arm as he stretched out his hand and spoke to me. "My name is John Genoa," he said before introducing the woman to me, "and this is Teresa Child." He went on to tell me his story. "I'm a private investigator. Your uncle hired me many times when he suspected one of his employees was stealing from him."

"Yes," I said, "I remember you now." I started to stand up so we could hear each other better. "He used to talk about you being in the office while he was away. I use to think you were just the janitor."

"A simple disguise," he said in a humble manner.

My attention turned towards the lady who was with him."Haven't I seen you somewhere before?"

"Probably in the papers," she said proudly. "I'm a reporter for The Daily Herald."

"That's right," I said snapping my fingers. "You're the one who was reporting on the priest scandal."

"Well, I'm reporting on a different scandal now," she informed me, "one that involves the death of your uncle."

I became defensive for no reason. "So, you came here for a story?!"

Genoa put his hand on my bicep. I didn't know if he was doing it to calm me down or if he was doing it to make sure mine was smaller than his.

"The only things we are here for," the man standing before me said, "are to offer our condolences as well as our services."

"Services?" I questioned.

He put a business card in my hand as if by magic and after saying, "Give me a call" he gave me a wink and said, "Your uncle was a dear friend of mine. I would love to find his killer if the police are unable to."

I held the business card in my hand for a few seconds. I wanted to ask him a couple of questions, but I felt it was inappropriate seeing as how he and the woman who was with him were standing directly in front of the casket. So I did nothing but put the business card in my pocket and continue to mourn.