5-MINUTE
MYSTERY
BY MARGARET LUCKE

when I opened my front door in response to someone's knock, I was surprised to see San Francisco Homicide Inspector Nick Gardino standing on the stoop. We were friends, but not the sort of friends who shared typical Sunday morning activities -- going to church, working the crossword puzzle together over coffee or snuggling under the covers.

"Hi, Jess," he said. "How'd you like to go for a ride downtown?"

"Now? I'm working in my studio ..." I still held the paintbrush in my right hand. I glanced down at my jeans, my paint-splattered shirt.

He read my mind. "You're dressed fine. Come on. I need to consult with you in your professional capacity."

I smiled. "Since when do cops ask private investigators for advice?"

"Not that profession. Your other one."

A black-and-white van was double-parked in the street, an officer at the wheel. Nick opened the back door for me, then got in beside me. I was curious, I had to admit, about why he wanted the counsel of Jess Randolph, struggling artist.

I'd assumed our destination was the Hall of Justice, but we zoomed on past. "Where are we going?" I asked.

"You'll see," Nick answered -- the same answer he'd given to all my other questions. Then we turned left from Bryant onto Fifth, and I realized where we were headed.

"The Bergman Gallery," I said, and the driver confirmed it by pulling to the curb. "I was here last night. We were hanging the new show. I've got five paintings in it."

"Yeah, I know," Nick said as we got out. "That's why you're here today. Let's go."

He hurried me past the yellow crime-scene tape that was stretched across the storefront. "Wait a minute, Nick," I said. "What's this all about?"

"Art Bergman's been murdered."

We entered the gallery, walking between two uniformed cops posted just inside the door. My eyes went straight to my paintings -- semiabstract seascapes; turquoise, tan and yellow, bright against the pale gray wall. To my relief they looked fine, untouched, just the way I'd left them.

Several people were milling around. I recognized everybody. Sculptor Ira Plotkin and watercolorist Sara Leventhal, the other artists in the show, huddled together as if it were them against the world. Art Bergman's college-age son, Marty, an artist wannabe, wandered about with a stunned look, his face pale under the black beret he always affected. Anna Delgado, Art's assistant, had tear-stained eyes behind her thick glasses. Frank Musgrave, Art's business partner and attorney, stood apart, looking stiff in a power suit and tie. "Have a seat, everyone," Nick instructed. A semicircle of folding chairs had been set up in the middle of the room. I took the one at the far left end, next to the lawyer. I got out my sketchbook, and he removed a legal pad from his briefcase. Our elbows collided as we each began jotting notes.

"OK," Nick said, addressing the group. "You all know why we're here. Art Bergman was killed last night, right here."

He gestured toward the rosewood desk in the far corner, and I shuddered. It was impossible to miss the outline of Bergman's body that had been chalked onto the gray carpet, or the dark bloodstain that spread out from the figure's head.

To banish the image of death from my mind, I made myself picture Art Bergman alive. A vain man, annoyed by the encroachment of middle age. He lifted weights, tortured his skin at tanning salons. He parted his dyed-dark hair low over his left ear and combed the thin strands carefully over the balding top. He'd broken his right arm recently trying to keep up with a group of younger men in a motorcycle race. The temporary disability was why we'd all come in last evening to help him hang the show.

Frankly, I hadn't liked the man. He seemed petty and pushy. But I was grateful for the chance he'd given me to exhibit here. The Bergman Gallery was the hottest spot on the local art scene; people flocked to its shows. I'd heard rumors that the gallery was in financial trouble, but you'd never know it from the way Art threw dollars around. He spent heavily on advertising, and the reception he'd planned for the opening of our show was lavish in the extreme.

Now, of course, it would be canceled.

"How did he die?" whispered Sara Leventhal. Normally a delicate, pretty woman, she looked smaller now, and more haggard.

Nick said, "The killer came up behind him as he stood in front of the desk, looking at some papers. Bashed him with a piece of sculpture."

Ira Plotkin gave a low moan. "Not Isis!"

I noticed then that "Isis Dancing," one of his carved stone obelisks, was missing from its pedestal.

"The killer landed the blow right on the part of Bergman's hair." Nick pointed to the corresponding spot on his own head. "Crushed the skull. Bergman fell, landed square on the cast on his arm." Ira leaned his muscular body forward. "You can't think one of us killed him. Look, if you find my fingerprints on that sculpture, it doesn't mean a thing. I made the piece, naturally my fingerprints are going to be all over it."

"Stone's too rough-textured to take prints," Nick said. "And it's the smallest sculpture. That big one, probably took two men to lift it up on that stand. But anyone here is capable of hefting the one the killer used. Even you, Ms. Leventhal."

Musgrave folded his arms across his chest. "So why were we dragged here, inspector? This assembly is unorthodox, to say the least."

"When we went to Bergman's home to notify the family, Marty told us you all were here earlier in the evening, hanging the new show. I thought it might be efficient to interview all of you at once. You left in a group about 10:15, he said. That correct?"

We all looked at each other and nodded.

"Dad was fine then," Marty said in a choked voice. "Said he wanted to stay a while longer, catch up on paperwork. He locked up. I watched him."

"Then he must have unlocked it again," Nick said. "There's no sign of forced entry."

"We didn't actually leave in a group," I pointed out. "We left at the same time, but we each went off on our own, in different directions."

"Were there people in the street? Any of you notice someone lurking nearby? No?" Nick looked us in the eyes, each of us in turn. "A 911 call came in from this phone about 10:20. When no one said anything, the dispatcher sent a patrol car to investigate. The officers found the body."

Professional capacity, yeah sure, I thought. I'm here as Jess Randolph, murder suspect. I said, "What you think is, we didn't all leave. One of us came back inside and killed Bergman."

Ira jumped up. "Just because I had a fight with him last night, don't try to pin a murder on me. We all argued with him, every one of us."

"All except Mr. Musgrave," Anna Delgado said, pushing at her glasses, which were sliding down her nose.

"And Jess," added Sara.

"Interesting," Nick said. "Tell me about these arguments."

One by one, he led us through confessions of our quarrels with Art Bergman. It had been a contentious evening, no doubt about that. Ira's argument had been the loudest, a real screaming match. A customer had seen "Isis Dancing" as it was being uncrated earlier in the day and had offered on the spot to buy it. When Ira arrived last night, Art gave him the good news, mentioning a price. Later Ira discovered the bill of sale on Art's desk; the amount cited was much higher. Ira accused Art of trying to cheat him. Art claimed he merely had remembered wrong, and of course Ira would get everything due him.

Later Bergman followed Sara into the gallery's storeroom when she went to fetch some supplies. In a few minutes she came out, angry and tearful. She accused him of trying to force his attentions on her. She nearly ripped her watercolor flowers off the wall and stormed out, but Ira had reminded her what valuable exposure the show would be. Sara stayed, but she stuck close to my side for the rest of the night, not letting Art anywhere near her.

Then, as he was helping me hang "Sunset at Land's End," Marty announced that he planned to drop out of college and move to Paris to paint. His father had been vocal in his objections, then more than vocal, slapping the boy hard in front of all of us.

At that point, we had all decided to leave.

Marty slumped in his seat. "I'll never get to Paris now. I'll be stuck here running the gallery. After all, I inherit Dad's share."

"What about me?" Anna demanded. "All the slave labor I've put in to make this place a success ..."

"Hardly a success," Musgrave snorted. "We're losing money hand over fist."

"Well, the insurance better be enough to pay for any damage to Isis," said Ira.

"What insurance?" Marty asked, wide-eyed.

"Key manager insurance. I saw the policy on Art's desk when I was looking for my bill of sale."

Sara said, "If there's money I'm suing for sexual harassment."

"My back salary -- that's what should get paid," Anna insisted.

"Wait." I held up my hand. "Let's not make things worse by fighting. Mr. Musgrave, would you pass out some paper from your pad? OK, everyone, write down your gripes. Get them out of your system. Then we can get on with helping the police solve this murder." Bumping elbows with Mr. Musgrave, I began to write down my own grudges.

Which of these people, I wondered, had killed Art Bergman?

I realized there was only one logical candidate. On my own sheet of paper I wrote the murderer's name and handed it to Inspector Gardino.