The Art of Murder

by Claire Ripley

  “I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “Why would you return to the scene of the crime? What were you doing there?”

  “What exactly are you implying?”

  “I think you’re not telling me something. I want to know what it is.”

  “I gave my statement last night at the police station and have nothing else to add,” I insisted in a faltering voice.

  “Answer my question, Emma. I need to know. Your silence may further implicate you.”

  In a nanosecond, I bolted from my chair and ran for the back exit door as a hand grabbed my waist and pulled me back, slamming me into the wall. Startled and winded, I stared back at his glowering expression, darkened with irritation. He towered over me, one hand on my waist and the other pressed against the wall behind me. Anyone walking by toward the restrooms could easily mistake us for a couple embracing.

  He leaned closer, his body inches from mine, his breath hot in my ear. “Tell me what you were doing at that gallery, Ms. Elliott.”

  I froze. Adrenaline and fear coursed through my veins. Was he referring to last night or this morning? Given the current circumstances, it seemed like the wrong question to ask. I was acutely aware of him in my personal space, his fingers digging into my waist, my feet rooted to the floor. “We were talking about my work for an exhibition,” I replied, warmth seeping through my blouse. Why was I suddenly so hot?

  “What work?” he said as his fingers pressed harder into my side.

  “I’m an artist. I was meeting with Nina Alexis, the gallery owner.”

  Agent Jackson pulled back a few inches as his eyes searched mine. He was intimidating as he demanded answers I didn’t want to give. “You didn’t mention that when you gave your statement yesterday.”

  “I didn’t know it mattered,” I snapped back. I hadn’t done anything wrong and wouldn’t let him make me feel as if I had.

  “Bullshit. That’s negligence and I could bring you back to the station for this.”

  “Nina and I have a business relationship. I don’t work at the gallery, so why mention it?”

  His eyes narrowed slightly as he responded. “Because there was a robbery and murder yesterday outside of that gallery. Because you have a connection to its owner. Because you’re hiding something.”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve accusing me like this. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and have nothing to do with the robbery or the murder.” I slipped under his arm and pushed my way to the exit door, but not before he caught my wrist.

  “I’ll give you a ride home.”

  Agent Jackson’s words couldn’t have surprised me more. “What?! Absolutely not!” I pulled my arm, but he wouldn’t let go. His grip was both electrifying and infuriating.

  “You don’t have your car back yet and you need a ride.” He raised his brows, challenging me to respond.

  I was torn between trusting this gorgeous, intimidating man or taking my chances on my own and hoping to escape into anonymity. He moved closer to me then, lowering his head to my ear. His warm breath filtered through the din of the restaurant and tickled my ear as he said in a low voice, “They saw you and for all we know, have your keys. You’re a sitting duck and may not last the weekend on your own. Are you certain you weren’t followed? If I know this much about you today, what about anyone else out there looking for the woman that witnessed what happened?”

  Despite the warmth of the crowded restaurant and the heat of his breath, his words sent chills down my spine. In the darkened hallway we could hear laughter and footsteps approaching. He leaned in closer, shrouding me from view. The few moments it took for the passing women to step into the restroom gave me time to process what he’d said.

  He was right about one thing—I had been seen by the driver. The situation reminded me of any number of crime movies, but in this case, I was cast in the lead. Would they really come after me? And could I trust him? Already having Agent Jackson in close proximity was unsettling in a way I couldn’t pinpoint. Leaving with him was a gamble, but the fear of encountering those men in the alley seemed like a worse option. Yet I couldn’t forget that even while offering me a ride home, Agent Jackson had insinuated I had something to do with the crime.

  “What do you suggest I do then?” I hissed.

  “I’ll give you a ride home, and we can discuss it.”

  Swallowing hard, I nodded, pulling free from his grasp and wrapping my arms around myself as he stepped back. After tossing a few bills on the table and grabbing his jacket, he ordered in a terse tone, “let’s go.”

  I nodded silently as he led me through the back exit, one hand firmly gripping my arm. The January wind had grown colder since I’d arrived, reminding me of my poor choice in dress. He was taller than me, at least by five or six inches. We approached a dark Suburban, and within minutes, the familiarity of the pizzeria was left behind.

  Four

  Agent Jackson’s car sped along the street heading away from my apartment. The gravity of my situation was beginning to seep in. He flipped and turned a variety of dials and buttons on the dash, and my cheeks began tingling from the heat. All sense of direction was lost as I struggled to keep up with the winding roads and quick turns. He headed down a dark road, then another, each one unrecognizable. How did he know I’d be at the restaurant? Was he following me? Were the killers following me too? My mind raced frantically through today’s activities. I’d visited Nina at the gallery, then back to my apartment for a while before going to Alessia’s Pizza to meet Caty, who hadn’t shown.

  A terrible thought seized me. What if they had Caty? And that’s why she wasn’t answering her phone?

  All this was my fault.

  I’d been reckless. If someone had been following me, I was unaware. If anything had happened, no one would notice. I was alone in Charleston, with little more than acquaintances and professional contacts. I shivered, huddling into the seat and glanced at Agent Jackson as he focused on the road. Was he trying to help me as part of the investigation? It was a longshot. In my experience, government officials rarely had my best interest at heart, and things never worked in my favor when the police were involved.

  “So you’ve got me alone. What did you want to discuss?” I asked him, swallowing my fear. The more I could find out, the better.

  He shook his head. “We’ll talk when we get there.”

  “Where?”

  He ignored me and concentrated on the drive.

  “Tell me where or I’m getting out of the car,” I warned.

  “Look, Ms. Elliott, I’m on your side. I’m not going to hurt you,” he responded. “I’m hungry; thought we’d stop first for a quick bite. I noticed you didn’t eat yet,” he said with a strained smile.

  “We couldn’t eat at Alessia’s?”

  “Like I said, you’re likely being watched.”

  “So you force me to leave the safety of a crowded restaurant with a strange man and get in a car and drive down a dark road to have a chat?” I crossed my arms and faced him.

  “You agreed, Ms. Elliott. I’m a federal agent you have met previously, not a strange man. I did offer to go to the station. I want to discuss what you saw and determine what they might know about you.”

  “Everything I know was in my statement.”

  “That was Stevens’ show and he’d have fucked it up if I hadn’t popped in.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry. He and I can’t seem to agree on much. I read your statement and want to ask you a few more questions for my own investigation.”

  What? More red flags. “You know what? Can you just take me home? I changed my mind.” It was a weak excuse and I could only hope he bought it. I wanted out. Instinct had taught me to heed it rather than question it. I gripped the sides of the seat tightly. My whole body tensed as I prepared to bolt.

  “Wait.” He grabbed my wrist. “I’m trying to help you. I will take you to the station if it makes you feel better. I want to talk about your involvement w
ith the Nina Alexis Gallery.” He maintained a professional demeanor even as he clasped my arm. I pulled away, the heat of his touch more confusing than painful.

  Intimidation ceded to the intoxicating scent of his leather-noted cologne—it was distinctly male and made it impossible for me to think clearly.

  Agent Jackson maneuvered the Suburban into a gravel parking lot in front of an unassuming building that bore a sign, Mamie’s, the only clue that this was a public place. Aside from a few cars in the lot, it was isolated, and the pungent salty air told me I was near Charleston’s marshlands on the outskirts of the city. The lowcountry sprawled out from the road; I knew this not from sight but from the salty, pungent scent that I had learned to attribute distinctly to Charleston. Despite the darkness blanketing the evening, I knew the marsh and grasses were close by. We were on the outskirts of the city. Nature surrounded us, reminding me that I was far from home.

  I regarded the dilapidated building warily and then looked at Agent Jackson for our next move. He remained silent and so did I as we made our way into Mamie’s. He placed a hand on my arm, gently but firmly guiding me to a table in the back near an exit. I balked at his touch and pulled away from him with a frown. I was irritated and didn’t like relative strangers touching me, particularly men. He held a chair for me before taking a seat facing me and the entrance. I looked for menus, but he shook his head. “No menus here. It’s whatever they’re cooking for the night.”

  I nodded nervously. What to do with my hands? I folded them in my lap, circling my thumbs. I was too anxious to think about eating.

  An older woman came by the table, a bored expression on her face. “What can I get you?”

  “A water and a beer.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table and looked into my eyes.

  Shifting, I finally said, “What? What is it?” I asked him, exasperated. The way he was studying me was unnerving.

  With what might pass as a smile, he replied. “Nothin’. Stop fidgeting. I just want to talk to you.”

  “You’ve mentioned that. This isn’t creepy at all,” I said, as I rolled my eyes.

  “Do I scare you?”

  I didn’t want to answer that one so I just looked away.

  He softened. “Let’s try this another way. I really am trying to help you. I don’t mean to frighten you.”

  I looked down at my hands and nodded.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Alabama.”

  “How’d you end up in Charleston?”

  “I left halfway through college. Needed a change. But then you knew all this from a file floating around, right?”

  He ignored that last remark. “How long have you lived Charleston?”

  “A couple of months.”

  “What brought you here?”

  Given my habit of feeling people out and not letting anyone know anything about me until I was ready, I hesitated. How did he know I was new to Charleston and not a native resident? He worked for the federal government and I’d just given a witness statement twenty-four hours ago so he’d probably looked into my background. “I’m an artist. Nina Alexis recruited me to come here. She’s like a mentor to me."

  The waitress returned with our drinks and I paused, waiting until she was gone to continue. Agent Jackson handed me the beer and then took the water for himself. At my raised eyebrow, he explained, “Figured the beer would calm you down.” He tipped his chin at me. “Let’s talk about what happened last night. Tell me again what you saw.”

  I took a deep breath and pulled my thoughts together. “I was on my way to meet my friend at the pizzeria. Where we just were,” I added, thinking of the dim crowded, comfortable restaurant we just left.

  “Where were you coming from?”

  “During the week, I work at Whitley, the law firm.” The waitress returned, placed basket of biscuits on the table and left without a word. Once we were alone again, I continued. “I was walking towards the gallery and a man knocked me down—”

  “You’re sure it was a man?”

  “Yes, because I looked back.” I swallowed and continued. “Then there were noises in the alleyway that caught my attention. Men running, Geoff was shot, then they got in the van and drove away.”

  “Did any of them see you?”

  “Possibly the driver. I’m not quite sure.”

  Agent Jackson studied me intently. The waitress returned, setting large plates of shrimp and grits in front of us. I had little appetite, but he nodded at my plate, guessing my thoughts. “Food is good here. You should try to eat.”

  Tentatively I tried the shrimp. It was delicious, but my stomach turned. I reached for my beer, suddenly grateful for it and covertly studied Agent Jackson. He was still wearing his leather jacket, despite the heat from the kitchen and brick fireplace nearby, and I guessed it was to hide the handgun holstered on his side, something I glimpsed in the car. He was classically handsome, with a strong jaw and prominent, straight nose. His eyes were a mix of hazel and light brown, giving him an ethereal presence that was unsettling. His domineering presence demanded control, something I’d picked up on at the police station.

  “You’re accent gives you away. You don’t sound like a South Carolinian.”

  “You already know I’m from Alabama,” I told him sarcastically.

  “You miss it?”

  I shrugged and tried another mouthful of shrimp. I hated talking about my childhood and anything to do with where I grew up. That part of my life was over, and through sheer hard work and perseverance I made it out of Leeds fully intact and, for the most part, unscathed.

  “You know, I have my suspicions about you, Alabama.”

  I jerked my head up from my plate. “Excuse me?” The polarizing combination of his statement and the casual nickname left me reeling.

  “I think you’re hiding something. What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “I’m not hiding anything! What the hell are you getting at?” I threw my knife and fork down, glaring back at him.

  “Your painting was among the stolen canvases. You happen to be a witness.” He shrugged and raised his eyebrows.

  “You know more about this than I do. I just told you everything I know. Are you suggesting I’d steal my own painting? Why?”

  Draining his water, he left some cash on the table and sighed. “Let’s go.”

  In the car, I stared silently at the road as I thought about the last twenty-four hours. The wine and beer had dulled my thinking but hadn’t done anything for the knots in my gut or my nerves. I couldn’t stop thinking about Geoff being murdered in front of me and remained confused and about Agent Jackson. Was he helping or investigating me?

  One thing was clear. I had to find a way out of this mess.

  ✽✽✽

  As soon as the Suburban parked in front of my apartment, I leaped out. The ride had been silent, as anger and insult coursed through my brain and body. The best thing I could do would be to put some space between the two of us and hope these criminals were quickly caught and arrested.

  "I'll walk you up." Agent Jackson was at my side, waiting for me to lead the way. The streetlight illuminated his face, tinged with a faint hint of amusement.

  If it was possible, I was even more annoyed. "Hoping to check my apartment for stolen artwork?"

  "Just making sure you're not being followed, and the bad guys are not lying in wait for your return," he quipped.

  I sighed and climbed the stairs of the brick building. If I was being honest I didn't want him inside my place. I was a little self-conscious of its size and location. But it worked for me and did its job. It was a roof over my head and provided decent light for painting. But I was grateful for his presence as I unlocked the new lock my landlord had installed and he entered and I followed, turning on a small lamp near the door.

  He moved around the studio in quick and efficient movements searching my tiny studio apartment, inspecting the bathroom and then, stopped in front of the canvases restin
g against the wall. Some were works in progress I had going, others were cast-offs.

  "Take a good look. No stolen works of art here," I snapped.

  "These are..." Agent Jackson paused as I stood next to him. "Wow." He rocked back and forth on his heels, hands in his pockets as he studied one of my recent nudes. The portrait, like all my work, was abstract and exploded with color. The woman in the painting was brushing her hair in front of a mirror, face obscured and her relaxed naked back toward the viewer. My intention was to expose the aftermath of an intimate moment.

  I flushed with pride at the compliment. Other than Nina, I rarely revealed unfinished works to anyone, but for some inexplicable reason, I cared what Agent Jackson thought. I grinned self-consciously, my irritation sat in the corner of my mind, forgotten. I caught the split second his gaze traveled across my body before locking on my face. In response a strange and undeniable sensation warmed my belly.

  "How long have you been showing your work with Nina?" Agent Jackson was looking closely at me.

  "Since I moved here."

  He strolled around the small space, casually glancing around. "When is your next show?"

  "I'm working a joint show with the gallery and Junior League of Charleston. It's a collaboration between famous and local artists."

  I could see his back as Agent Jackson stopped at the kitchen counter, turned around and then crossed the few steps back to me, using both his height and close proximity to his advantage. "And last night Nina Alexis Gallery is broken into, your paintings are stolen, and someone is murdered." His gaze searched mine as he waited for an answer.

  Don't step back. Don't back down, I reminded myself. I raised my chin and unflinchingly replied, "You can continue to ask me here in my home or arrest and interrogate me at the station, but I had nothing to do with that robbery."

  "Don't worry your pretty little head, Alabama, I'll keep pokin' around." We were inches apart, but neither one of us was backing down.