The Art of Murder

by Claire Ripley

  I checked the photographs of my paintings in my portfolio, reorganized my purse, and then, rechecked the portfolio, before washing my face and smoothing my hair. Connor appeared at the bathroom as I was reapplying my make-up. He'd changed into a new tshirt, this one black and setting off his blond features in contrast. He leaned against the door and crossed his arms.

  "Hey."

  "Yeah?" It felt oddly intimate having him, a near stranger, in the small bathroom while I dusted powder over my face.

  "Let's get out of here. Grab breakfast or lunch, see the city. Get your mind off things."

  "What? Really?" I cocked my head. Now he was playing nice? I didn't miss the way his crossed arms did fabulous things to his biceps.

  "Yes, really. We need to eat, and if you're good, I'll buy you lunch." He winked and touched the doorjamb with two light knocks before walking away.

  Did he really just fucking wink at me? I stared after him, nonplussed.

  Seventeen

  "Let's duck in here for a minute." Connor touched my elbow, nodding at the boutique.

  We were walking along a park in the city. Sunshine glowed from behind the clouds and despite the bone-chilling wind, it was a gorgeous January day. The sky was a bright, crisp blue, belying the temperature. I didn't know where we were going, but it felt good to walk and burn off nervous energy before my appointment later that evening.

  I frowned at the shop. "It looks like it's just for women's clothes," I pointed out.

  "You weren't going to wear that, were you?" Connor made a point of looking me up and down and waggling his eyebrows.

  "Since when do you care how I'm dressed?" I gestured at my jeans and coat.

  "I don't. Free advice, Alabama. You need to upgrade that outfit before your interview." He used air quotes around the word interview and gave me a mocking look.

  "I'm not buying anything in there," I told him, crossing my arms. The last thing I wanted to do was try on beautiful clothes I couldn't afford.

  "No, you're not. I am." He opened the door, ignoring my surprised face. "My treat," he prodded, and pushed me into the store.

  The shop was a gorgeous boutique. It contained a trendy palette of pale pinks and creams, with ornate gold mirrors on the walls. It even smelled delicious, a combination of perfume and fresh gardenia.

  "How can I help?" said a young woman in skinny jeans and low-cut blouse. Her sky-high heels added inches to her height, giving her the advantage of looking down at me, and eye to eye with Connor.

  "Looking for a new dress," Connor told her.

  "What's the occasion?" She quickly looked me over and back to Connor. I didn't miss the subtle step she made towards him.

  "Interview," I cut in.

  "Date," he said at the same time.

  "Not a problem," the girl mused. "Date it is." She left us, pulling hangers from racks.

  "Are you serious right now?" I hissed as soon as she left. "I'm dressing for an interview, not a seduction!"

  "You're in the art world, Emma," he chided lightly, leaning in. "Not a corporate interview. Let me help."

  "I can't—I can't afford the clothes in here."

  "This is on me. Go in the dressing room."

  "I can't let you buy anything," I told him in a tight whisper. I hated having to say it to him, but I had to be up front about it.

  "This is me helping." Connor's eyes were clear and a brilliant shade of whiskey. He planted his hands on my shoulders and turned me around to the dressing room. "Just go in the fitting room and get undressed. I'll send the salesgirl in."

  The dressing room was a small stall divided by a decorative piece of fabric. I hung my coat, took off the jeans and sweater, and stood in the dressing room in nothing but my underwear and bra. Connor and the salesgirl were talking, but I couldn't pick out exactly what they were saying.

  "Knock, knock!" The salesgirl announced herself and ducked inside the dressing room. "I picked these for you. If you need any help, give a shout." She hung several dresses neatly on a hook and disappeared.

  The first was fire engine red and hugged me everywhere. The hemline hit my knees and the scalloped, v-neckline was sexy. It was the epitome of a date dress. A male throat clearing outside the curtain made me pause as I was struggling to pull up the zipper.

  "Not now! This isn't working," I told the curtain. I bent my arms behind me but I couldn't twist to zip it.

  "Let me," he said, slipping into the small space. The small area shrunk even further with Connor's size stepping into the space.

  "Don't bother, this dress is a no," I stammered. Was I nervous? Why did my voice sound high pitched all of sudden?

  His hands brushed mine away as he turned me toward the wall and deftly secured the zipper. His hands lingered on my shoulders and we both looked in the mirror.

  "This one looks..." He drifted off. Golden-hued eyes slammed into mine in the mirror, darkened. I held my break, not wanting to acknowledge the sparring emotions and defenses waging war in my head. His eyes held a wall in place, something he wouldn't let me see past, but even I could read desire in a man's eyes. I knew I'd remember that heated look of his and what it felt like to wear a red dress and have a man look at me like that for the rest of my life.

  Connor cleared his throat and shifted back. "Try another one," he told me curtly. And then he was gone.

  After trying on several other dresses, I told the sales girl to find something more conservative. She brought me a kelly green long sleeved sixties inspired shift, with pocket details on the front. It was conservative but with just enough edge to meet a gallery owner and sell my work.

  I bounced out of the dressing room to show Connor, a huge smile plastered on my face.

  He looked up from his phone and paused, taking me in and chuckling. "I can tell you love it," he said. "I didn't realize you had such killer legs."

  "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were flirting," I shot back, giggling in spite of myself, spinning in front of the three-way mirror.

  "Believe me, you'd know if I were." He motioned to the sales girl. "Do you have shoes and purses?"

  "Absolutely!" She disappeared.

  She returned with an armful of shoes. "I think the navy would be amazing with the green," she told us. She held up one navy blue pump, with a heel so high I pictured myself falling immediately. I had to admit the color was gorgeous.

  In the gilded three way mirror I barely recognized myself. The wool green dress contrasted beautifully against my fair skin and the heels matched, emphasizing my legs. The ensemble was professional yet edgy and sexy and made me feel confident. I retied my hair in its ponytail, looking a little more polished.

  "Gorgeous, Alabama."

  "Why are you doing this for me?" I asked him quietly.

  "It's a gift. Just accept and say thank you. I want to see you do well," he responded, touching my cheek lightly with the back of his knuckles.

  I changed and watched the sales girl wrap the dress and shoes carefully in tissue before placing it in a glossy shopping bag depicting the boutique's name. Cinderella had nothing on me.

  "Let's go, Alabama," Connor said. He held the door open for me and we exited on the windy New York sidewalk.

  ✽✽✽

  It was late morning by the time we were walking down the street, and the rest of the city took no notice of us. People rushed past. Who were these strangers and what were they doing? What was their story? Their lives were so different from my own; it was fascinating to watch and wonder.

  Connor's tug on my elbow snapped my attention back to the sidewalk. "Let's go, I'm starving." He directed us to a food stand nearby. He ordered bagels and coffee and led us to a bench inside the gated park. Once we were seated, he handed me a bagel and a coffee. "Look, I know things are tough right now for you, but it will get better. You have a big meeting tonight, so let's just try to relax beforehand," he said. He wasn't looking at me, but instead, his eyes were scanning our surroundings in a constant sweep for the first sign of tr
ouble.

  "You mean you want to just...hang out? You want to hang out?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The Connor that didn't sit still and thought I was a pain in the ass, wanted to hang out with me.

  "If that's what you want to call it, yeah. We don't talk about the murder or the Sgambatis. Let's just be Connor and Emma today." He said with a boyish shrug. "Except for me watching your back and keeping you alive, naturally."

  I was bewildered. "Huh. Okay." I said and took a bite of my bagel, imitating the way he ate his – like a sandwich. "What do we do?"

  He shrugged. "We take a walk. There's lots to see around here. Not sure if you knew that about New York." He winked again and stood. "C'mon."

  Connor surprised me. Other than the few times he checked our surroundings and the gun hidden under his jacket, he was a different person. We walked along the Westside Highway, as he pointed out the Statue of Liberty and buildings in the distance. It was a cold day, but the breeze was light off the Hudson, and I was snug in my coat. He hailed a cab and took me to Times Square, laughing when my jaw fell open at the sheer amount of people and incessant content screaming from billboards.

  "Tell me something about you. Something odd," I said, after we wandered into a coffee shop to warm up.

  "Let's see. I drink from the milk carton?" He shrugged, his golden eyes twinkling at me.

  I rolled my eyes. "That's not weird. Something quirky about you. The fact that you drink milk is a little weird though."

  "What about I've never had a headache?"

  "That's freakish and I'm envious."

  "Okay, my turn. Rolling Stones or the Beatles?"

  I laughed. "That's easy. The Stones of course!" I sipped the hot chocolate too fast and recoiled from the scalding liquid.

  "Good answer." He seemed to approve.

  "Alright." I nursed my burnt tongue and went on. "How did you end up catching bad guys and working for the FBI?"

  He laughed, and the sound of it spread through me, glowing and warm. "It's not all catching bad guys, you know. Its building evidence over a long time, missed opportunities, and sitting around, bored while you watch your suspects. And none of that includes the bureaucracy that goes on in D.C." He sipped his coffee, thinking.

  "Besides that. How does one become an FBI agent?"

  "Honestly?" A pensive look cast over his sharp features. "I enlisted in the Navy out of high school, spent a few years abroad, college on the GI bill, Special Forces training, and after a few re-up's, got an offer from the FBI."

  "So you actually re-up'ed your enlistment? You weren't scared to go overseas?"

  His eyes caught mine and he smirked. "You don't really think about it, to be honest. And no, I wasn't scared." His features held that wall and I didn't miss the flicker of something pass over his face before hiding behind that familiar joking facade.

  "What about your family?" I asked softly.

  "That's more than one question," he said, turning to me and dodging the topic, raising his eyebrows. "My turn. What's your favorite food?"

  "Veggie pizza," I answered quickly.

  "That's disgusting. Onions on pizza?"

  I laughed at the face he made. "Okay, I've got one. If you could have dinner with anyone who would it be?"

  "My parents."

  "You don't see them?"

  "That's more than one question," Connor said in a low voice, as he leaned in and raised his eyebrows at me.

  "We didn't make that a rule!" I protested.

  "I just did," he responded with another wink. "Now tell me, who would you have dinner with?"

  "My mother," I answered instantly. I held up my finger when he started to open his mouth with a question. "Nope! My turn. What makes your soul feel free?"

  He burst out laughing. "What kind of new age bullshit question is that?"

  "It's supposed to tell me something about your soul! What you love to do for fun!" I threw my hands up in mock exasperation but couldn't help smiling. I'd never seen Connor laugh before and it was nice.

  He shrugged. "I work a lot, and when I'm not working, sleeping or working out."

  "Hmm. Maybe you need a hobby. Like golf or bird-watching or--"

  "Bird-watching? What do you take me for?"

  "Some people do it. Your co-worker could be a bird-watcher and you'd never know." I shrugged and smiled back at him.

  "Ever the optimist." Connor rolled his eyes and drained his coffee. "What happened in Alabama that still gives you nightmares?"

  I paused, my hot cocoa suspended in mid-air, before emptying the cup. Something in me made me tell him the bare minimum. He didn't need to know about the nightmares that plagued me with guilt and reminders of what happened. "I don't have them." We stared at each other momentarily, and I could see he wanted to know more but wouldn't ask. He left it to me to tell him, but the way he looked at me spoke volumes. He knew.

  Considering the hand I was dealt, I was lucky to have escaped childhood relatively unscathed. I was cautious with people, especially men. Ten homes with alcoholics had taught me how to read people and proceed with caution. When one foster father was on a drunken rant looking for a punching bag, or another foster mom was battling health issues and couldn't give us the attention we needed, I learned to make myself invisible. And when one family turned a blind eye, there was a tipping point in my life, resulting in guilt I could never release. But I'd survived. I was fortunate to have won a partial academic scholarship awarded to wards of the state. Learning I was going to college was a relief. College was a blur of classes, waiting tables six days a week and studying on the seventh. Happiness? I didn't know what that felt like and I wasn't about to tell Connor something he could use against me.

  ✽✽✽

  After strolling around the city, Connor hailed a taxi for us, and we sped to the Chelsea Market, housed in a tall brick building near the Hudson. "I promised you lunch," he told me, grabbing my hand to help me out of the cab. He kept a hand lightly on my elbow, and I was aware of its presence, not grabbing me, but the light touch searing through my coat.

  The market was crowded with tourists and the working lunch crowd. The scent of seafood and fresh bread mingled in the air above the din of several languages, all competing to be heard. He led us into an oyster bar where I immediately balked.

  "No way. No raw seafood."

  "You're kidding." He stopped short, and peered down at me. People jostled around us to get by and instinctively we moved closer together.

  "I don't eat raw seafood as a general rule," I repeated.

  "You're missing out one of life's great culinary experiences." Warmth radiated from him and I had to hold myself back from pressing my face into his jacket and inhaling that teasing scent of leather and cologne that was distinctly Connor. I dug my nails into my palms and met his gaze instead.

  "There's enough risk in my life without getting sick from eating raw seafood. You go right ahead."

  He shrugged in a have-it-your-way gesture. The market was crowded and we squeezed into a tiny corner table with our elbows bumping into one another. I opted for the safer choice of grilled salmon salad with a rainbow of vegetables. Connor ordered two dozen oysters and beers for us both. He tried to get me to try an oyster and after endless taunting, I relented.

  "It's not...awful," I admitted, washing it down with my beer.

  Later, we strolled through the rest of the market, sampling pastries and cheese and admiring fresh-cut flowers.

  By mid-afternoon, it was time to head back to the apartment and prepare for tonight. Exhausted, I fell asleep in the cab ride back. It was hard to admit, but I enjoyed our time together, as Emma and Connor. I was sorry for it to end.

  Eighteen

  We dashed back to his mysterious colleague's apartment, where I showered and changed into the new dress and heels, freshened my makeup, grabbed my portfolio and then we were off to meet Alexander Campo of Alexander C. Gallery.

  Our taxi weaved in and out of traffic at breakneck speed and the driv
er's erratic driving added to my nerves. Weren't there lanes and traffic laws in New York? I clutched my belongings, running my fingers absently over the smooth leather of the portfolio case. The crowds fascinated me. Never had I seen such diversity and all walks of life in one place. What were they doing? Where were they going? Were they happy, or simply trying to survive it?

  Connor sat next to me tapping on his phone, his face set in concentration. I wondered about him, his job and what a normal day looked like, or more precisely, if there ever was a typical day for him. Today was one in a million for me, the moment I'd been working toward for so long. Someone was interested in showing my work and selling it to the general public. Torn between nerves, humility and gratitude, I still hated not knowing details, and all Connor would tell me was that his colleague was taking care of it. In addition to letting someone take the reins, I'd also have to hope that an FBI agent making these arrangements didn't ruin my chances with this gallery and scare them off.

  "Connor? Can I interrupt you a moment?"

  "Hm?" He put down his phone and looked up at me.

  "Thanks for today, for the dress and everything. I've never done anything like that before...so thank you for that."

  "It was nothing. And your Christmas-morning smile was worth it."

  "You take a woman shopping, and she'll definitely smile!" I laughed.

  "You can let us off on the next block," Connor told the driver.

  We were still in the city, but I was clueless as to where. He paid the driver and I waited for him on the street. My coat offered warmth but did little for my legs. Heels and tights were no match for the New York winter.