The Art of Murder
Claire Ripley
Copyright © 2020 Claire Ripley
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: colegordon
Printed in the United States of America
To my husband, we are living our own happily ever after
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About The Author
One
“I need The Gun and a slice of everything ASAP! This day was the worst!”
I shuffled the papers on my desk in a neat stack and cradled the phone against my shoulder, shaking my head and breaking into a grin. My friend Caty Drake was prone to theatrics, and I was used to her speaking in superlatives.
We were both anxious to leave the office and begin our usual after work ritual, wine and slices at the pizzeria down the block from the law firm where we both worked. It was the one time I allowed myself to splurge, given that Alessia’s Pizza had a Friday night happy hour special. “The Gun” was our affectionate nickname for our favorite bottle of red, Smoking Gun. The Gun and some slices meant only one thing: the weekend had finally arrived.
Caty sighed dramatically through the phone. “I’ve been buried in research,” she complained, while I eyed the stack of depositions I’d completed throughout the day, my stiff neck reminded me that I’d never mastered proper typing posture, opting instead, on an improper slouch.
“My neck feels like it’s set in concrete,” I complained, gingerly rolling my head to the side and testing for soreness.
“Think you can sneak out early? Meet me at Alessia’s?”
“I’ll try. Linda’s leaving early and she gave me some paperwork to drop off for a client,” I replied. I twirled a loose strand of dark hair around my finger.
“Great! I’ll meet you there in an hour. Order for me.” Caty was preparing for the LSAT and enjoyed her job as a paralegal at Whitley Kennington. It was hard to dislike Caty Drake, once you got past her intimidating, gorgeous looks. She had an exuberant personality that attracted people to her, and she was whip-smart to boot.
We were complete opposites. Caty’s family tree had deep roots dating to the nineteenth century, and her Charleston family proudly owned the same set of homes and property for hundreds of years. After finishing her law degree she planned to return to Charleston to practice law and support the family business—a high end seafood restaurant. While I had none of these things; family, hometown, a business or college degree, I knew that my friend’s acquaintances in Charleston could work in my favor and attract her wealthy connections to my gallery showings. After being on my own for years, having a friendly face around was a relief.
The office had that Friday afternoon hush. The shrill ringing of telephones quieted and the steady din went silenced as doors were locked for the weekend. While the administrative assistants left at five on the dot, I still had forty-five minutes to go. But, I gambled that with Linda leaving early and my courier errand left to complete, I would be covered. I quietly and quickly completed my end of day routine, straightening the desk and tossing belongings into my purse.
Clutching my keys, I pulled the hair clip from my hair and finger-combed my hair. WK’s conservative dress code meant my long, wavy locks were pulled back in some form daily. My heels echoed in the parking garage as I made a beeline toward my road-weary Honda Accord. Although I could have walked the few blocks to the client’s office, I knew it would be more convenient and safer to have my car at night after pizza with Caty. I focused on driving the few blocks to the client’s offices, excited to drop off the paperwork and begin my weekend.
As I drove, my thoughts drifted back to the law office I just left. I tolerated my job but hated my boss. Linda was an older woman, overweight and seemingly in a perpetual bad mood. I supported a small team of attorneys and while it was incredibly boring, I had found the opening right after moving to Charleston, just as my savings were running out. I moved to the city to pursue my dream of earning my living as an artist. Working at the firm helped with cash flow while I got established in a Charleston gallery. Moving from small town Alabama to Charleston alone was terrifying, but there was nothing to keep me in that town and no one waiting for me to say goodbye. So I got out as soon as I could.
Art was my passion and I was determined to give it my best shot. Nina Alexis, prominent and well-known gallery owner and art collector, had seen my paintings at a student art show at the University of Alabama, and had been in touch with me since. She recruited me to move to Charleston and offered plenty of solicited —and unsolicited—advice building my career. As the owner of one of the city’s premier art galleries and was well-connected with the upper echelon of Charleston society. My first art showing was premiering in two weeks thanks to Nina Alexis and I couldn’t be more excited.
Nina played an instrumental role in building confidence in my work enough to pursue art as a career. She used her extensive local contacts to get my name out in the art community and the response was amazing, as gallery patrons were snapping up tickets to see my work, Charleston’s newest artist. At least that’s how Nina put it. I was still in disbelief that anyone would pay to see my work.
I located the client’s building with ease and left the paperwork with the receptionist. Readjusting my purse over my shoulder and slowing to a more leisurely pace, I set out on King Street. Absently, I tucked my hair behind my ear and surveyed other professionals like me making their way along the cobbled walkway. I enjoyed window shopping the high-end stores and while the luxury merchandise was well above my paygrade, the view still made for pleasant scenery.
I pulled my cell from my purse to see Caty’s text telling me she would be there in a half-hour. Smiling to myself, I tucked the phone back into my bag and continued toward Alessia’s. The late afternoon light was dimming as day turned to dusk, and the wind picked up slightly, but despite no coat, I didn’t mind the chill. The brisk air elevated my mood after a long day of life-sucking typing, as did the thought of a weekend ahead to paint. I thought about canvases on my easel in my cozy apartment and those on display at the gallery. If I could sell a few more pieces each month I’d be able to quit WK. I’d been saving as much as possible to give myself a safety net. While the steady paycheck was good, the job ate up most of my available painting time.
Out of nowhere, I was literally knocked out of my reverie by a man barreling towards me. I was too shocked to react, the imp
act of him colliding into me sending me on my hands and knees and the contents of my purse spilling onto the sidewalk.
“Hey!” I shouted at him as he fled in the opposite direction. I’d braced for the fall with my hands, but my knees scraped the sidewalk leaving my pantyhose ripped and bloodied. “Shit,” I muttered to myself. My hands burned as I tried to wipe myself off, but there wasn’t much to be done about the blood on my raw knees. “Asshole,” I groaned, examining the mess of my hands and knees.
Men’s shouts from the alleyway nearby grabbed my attention. Biting, cold fear gripped me, confusion rooting me in place to find the source of the shouts and my instincts screaming at me to move. The tiny gravel from the sidewalk burned my scraped palms. The scent of barbecue lingered in the air from a nearby restaurant.
Everything that followed is a blur. Men’s shouts and the slam of van doors from the alleyway prompted me to look in their direction. Shots ringing in the air with a deafening Pop! Pop! Pop!
I stared in shock as I watched the chaos play out before me. My heart pounded but I was frozen to the sidewalk where I had fallen moments earlier. I remained crouched, hovering over my purse and its contents as I watched three men scramble into the van. Holy shit, this was Nina’s building!
A fourth person emerged from the gallery with another at his heels. The first man stopped abruptly as he neared the van, spun around and aimed his gun at his pursuer. A gunshot rang out and the second man slumped to the ground. The shooter quickly shoved his gun in his waistband and jumped in the van.
The squeal of tires echoed loudly in the alley as the van sped down the street. Sirens blared in the distance and I stood up slowly, numb with shock. The dead man lay twenty feet away from me in a pool of dark blood.
Two
The dead man in a pool of crimson. In my mind’s eye, that pool of blood widened, marking the finality of what had just happened.
The police arrived almost immediately. I only stopped shaking when a victim support volunteer gave me a blanket. While still on the street outside of the gallery, I was examined in an ambulance as an officer asked me questions. After determining that I did not need to be admitted to the hospital, the EMT gave me scissors to discreetly snip-off my pantyhose, bandaged my knees and cleaned my hands before a uniformed officer appeared by my side to escort me to the police station to provide a witness statement.
The station was abuzz with activity with uniformed and plain-clothed officers marching back and forth while a diverse cross-section of suspects lined walls, staring blankly, oblivious to the chaos around them. The din was deafening. Phones ringing from every direction vied for attention with the relentless thunder of voices and cross-talk.
An officer left me to wait alone in an empty windowless room, bare except for a table and two chairs. It felt eerily like a scene from any war crime flick. I sank back into the hard seat and picked the light pink polish on my nails. I counted the ceiling tiles three times—there were 37—and examined every crack in the formica table. When would someone come talk to me? Why was I still at the police station? When could I leave? Who was murdered and did they catch anyone? I exhaled. Sitting in this room for so long was a mind fuck.
I was also worried about Nina, wondering if she was alright and if the gallery was okay…. Dozens of questions flooded my brain and made their way to my lips, but no one had any answers, other than to say that someone would take my statement soon. That was two hours ago.
The doors to the interrogation room burst open, startling me and I shrieked in surprise. The officer paused, then said, “My apologies, Ms. Elliott. I didn’t mean to scare you.” The man was older and balding, with a friendly, lined face. He had a massive belly that was contained by suspenders, holding up his pants and stretching his shirt taut over his girth. “I’m Officer Stevens. I’ll be taking your statement tonight.” He pulled his pant legs up slightly before sitting down across from me.
I nodded, nerves firing. The last few hours had been traumatizing and gruesome and being startled brought everything back to the surface. I sat on my hands in an effort to still myself.
Officer Stevens poised his pen over his legal pad and looked at me expectantly.
“Let’s begin with what you were doing when this happened.”
“I was on my way to meet a friend for pizza after work,” I supplied.
“Where were you going exactly? Where do you work?”
“Alessia’s Pizza. I work at Whitley Kennington.”
“That law firm downtown?”
“Yes.” For another thirty minutes I answered his questions, with as much clarity and detail as I could muster. Describing the people, vehicle and murder weapon. The direction of the van as it sped off. Did I recognize the make and model? (I didn’t.) License plate? (Definitely not.)
A knock sounded at the door and it eased open. I looked over Officer Stevens’ shoulder at the new visitor. Despite my exhausted and frazzled state, it was difficult to avoid staring at him. He nodded briefly in acknowledgment, and leaned against a wall, slipping his hands in his pockets. He was dressed in a white button-down shirt, khakis and leather loafers. The holster he wore over his shirt encased the firearm on his hip. His sandy brown hair was cropped close, but matched the five o’clock shadow defining his strong jawline. His chiseled face and his slight frown made him a tough read. His silence and enigmatic demeanor made him intimidating and made me feel uncomfortable, like he was studying me.
Officer Stevens paused. “Ms. Elliott, this is Agent Jackson.” He quickly schooled the flash of irritation crossing his face. “Do you have anything, sir?”
“Just listening in on this one,” Agent Jackson replied. His gaze flicked over to mine, piercing amber-golden eyes assessing and unreadable. Even as he scanned and assessed me, his gaze remained mysterious, indecipherable. I refocused my attention to Officer Stevens, but I felt my face burn as Agent Jackson continued to study me. Every nerve was frayed and every reaction and emotion was magnified but I stilled my curiosity and willed myself not to look back in his direction.
Officer Stevens flipped through his notes and said, “Let’s take it from the top one more time then.”
I twisted my hands in my lap, ignoring the aching in my knees and attempted to organize my thoughts. I began recounting the sequence of events. “Someone knocked me down on the sidewalk and as I bent down to pick-up my things, I saw men running out of the building. Then there were gunshots.”
“How many men?”
“Four, I think. By the van.”
“Five, if you count the one that ran into you, right?” Agent Jackson jumped in, frowning.
I glanced at Agent Jackson. “I think that was an accident. He was running in the opposite direction.” I thought of my forgotten purse on the sidewalk and my skinned knees.
“He knocked you down as he was running away. I’d guess he had something to do with it. Go on.”
I glanced at both men, and continued. “Two of them were chasing another man, and that’s when they shot him. Then they got in the van and left.” I studied Agent Jackson surreptitiously while responding to Officer Stevens’ questions. I told myself it was for a better look. He was gorgeous. Intimidating, yes, but also gorgeous.
“Did you see the shooter’s face?” Officer Stevens cut in, eager to get questioning back on his side of the table.
“N-no, it happened so fast.”
“What about the weapon?”
“It was just a gun, bigger than most handguns, I think.” Despite the heat rising in my face and body, I shivered. In mental replay the events seemed to fast-forward like a repeating movie clip. My peripheral vision went hazy as I focused on key details: the downed man, the red blood and crimson sunset, the swirl of activity around the van and the loud crack of the gun before everything went still and silent.
“I think we’re done here for tonight. Ms. Elliott, you doing okay? I know tonight was quite a fright for a young woman like yourself.” Officer Stevens tapped his pen on the pad befo
re closing the file and standing up. “We’ll be in touch. Anything we can do for you?”
“Um, there is one thing. When my purse was knocked over, I couldn’t find my keys. I can’t get my car.”
“We can get someone to take you home and into your place. Let’s go.” With a furtive look in the direction of Agent Jackson, I followed Officer Stevens out the door.
✽✽✽
It was only once another officer had let me in my studio apartment and confirmed I had a spare set of keys inside that I finally sighed. Sleep called to me like a comforting friend, a flickering light at the end of the tunnel. After tonight’s events and coming home alone to an empty apartment, I felt more alone than ever.
I turned on the lamp by the front door and looked around. Everything was as it had been that morning when I left for work. My unmade bed was in the far corner of the studio. Unfinished canvases leaned up against the opposite wall. An abandoned coffee mug sat on the kitchen counter. I locked and relocked the door before stripping off my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. After a hot shower and re-bandaging my knees, I pulled a t-shirt over my head and slid into bed.
The policeman who had taken me home reminded me I was considered a witness and to stay vigilant about my surroundings. No one would answer my questions about what had happened. I didn’t know who those men were, or who’d been killed, and while it wasn’t the first time I’d seen someone die, the precarious balance between life and death seemed more fragile than ever. A few tears made their way from the corners of my eyes as I squeezed them shut and cocooned into the down comforter. Hysteria hovered but I resisted. It was too late for all that. I didn’t know what it was like to have a mother, but now seemed like a time when a mother was necessary. Just to call someone and lay out my troubles and be reassured that everything would be okay. That I would be okay. On my own and constantly in survival mode, I struggled to keep loneliness and a need for comfort at bay.
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