Color Me Dead

by Mary Bowers

  “I’m sorry.”

  “But I’ll see him again. Oh, not that way – not like Uncle Hank keeps telling me. When I go to work in his studio. He’ll be all around me then. I’ll feel him using my hands. He always had an oily, metallic smell about him, because of the materials he used. His studio smells like him. Who knows? Maybe it’ll bring something out in me, and I’ll find my inner sculptor after all.”

  “And you’re going to share that with Joy.”

  She steadied herself again, and I could see the conflict that the decision was causing. “She loved him. She really did. His death nearly flattened her, and she’s been crawling around trying to find her way back ever since. This is going to be healing – working together in my father’s studio. We’ll finish the works there, where he left them. If we can only get through that – do the work that he left for us to do – maybe we’ll both be healed.”

  “And The Armor Plating of Our Peace? Do you think she’s going to finish that?”

  Her face cleared and she smiled. “That thing? She has to. It’s the only way we’re going to get it out of here, and one way or another, it’s got to go.”

  “Maybe somebody will steal it. It’d bring in big money at the scrap yard.”

  We both laughed, but we had to stifle it when Joy came back. She had controlled her emotions again, and after saying, “Sorry about that,” she looked over at her new sculpture and a look of serenity came onto her face.

  “I think the healing has already begun,” I said. The idea pleased me, until I remembered later that the sculpture represented Grant Rosewood’s final moments of despair.

  * * *

  Carmen walked me to my car, while Joy got back to work in the studio.

  Everything seemed to be working out just fine, and I tried to be happy about it, but it still seemed strange that Carmen had done such a sudden about-face. It bothered me, because though I hadn’t expected exactly that, it fit in smoothly with the theory I was developing. And I didn’t like my theory.

  “And Adam?” I asked. “Will he be handling the sales when you and Joy are finished?”

  “Yes,” she said simply. “He’s earned it. We might make more money if we used the gallery in Miami that Maida wanted, but it wouldn’t be right, somehow.”

  “It wouldn’t have been what your father really wanted. You think he would have changed his mind again?”

  “Well, I don’t think he would have actually let strangers handle the sale of his artwork, no matter what he wrote in his will.”

  “What exactly did the will say?”

  “Oh, not the actual will. One of those addendum notes he wrote, changing the will. What he said sounded just like Maida, and I figured he’d written the note right after talking to her one day. You know, about getting more money from a bigger gallery in a more sophisticated city. Make more noise in the arts community. In time . . . given time . . . he would have changed it back to Adam. I know it.”

  Time hadn’t caught up with Grant Rosewood, though, I thought. Grant Rosewood had chosen his own end-time. Still, facing eternity, maybe things like that hadn’t seemed important.

  “Your mother had a lot of influence over him.”

  “About everything except the execution of his art. He worshipped her. Especially when she was young, she was like a work of art herself. His love for her wasn’t just a man’s love for a woman. It was also an artist’s love of beauty.”

  I hesitated, but considering what was at stake, I went ahead and asked. “And yet . . . students like Joy? Because as I understand it, she wasn’t the only one, over the years.”

  Carmen almost laughed. “Sex? My parents weren’t characters in a ‘sixties sit-com. They didn’t have the usual expectations of one another. In fact, my parents were perfect for one another. Were they faithful to one another? Yes. Just not sexually. There was a bond between them, a code of honor. They knew that other, physical relationships would never weaken that bond. Don’t be shocked. They were happy. Actually, I envied them.”

  “I’m not shocked. Well, I’m sorry for just dropping in like this. I know you made the invitation, but don’t worry, I won’t be bopping over here every single day, checking up on you.”

  “And then reporting in to my Uncle Hank?”

  “Absolutely not. I was just curious about Joy’s new project.”

  “I meant what I said. Drop in any time. By the way, I quit my job at the restaurant.”

  “Oh? Well, I’m glad you’ll be able to devote all your time to studio work instead now.”

  “It was an impulse, but at least it wasn’t done in anger. Adam has already sold some of my pieces, and Joy’s paying most of the rent. Along with what I’ll inherit – well, if it doesn’t work out, I can always get another job waiting tables.”

  “Something tells me those days are over for you. Bye now, Carmen.”

  “See ya, Taylor.”

  I got into my car and drove away, feeling heavy and tired.

  It fit. It all fit. And I hated it.

  Chapter 23 – The Wistful Rastafarian

  I was road-weary, in the way that people who normally stay home a lot can get when they’ve been making a lot of stops around town. I wanted to go home. But to do so, I had to drive right by the Karma Café, and they wouldn’t be busy any more by this time of day. In fact, they were getting close to closing time and the staff was more likely to have time to talk. The timing was perfect, so in spite of the fact that I was beginning to fade, I knew I had to make this one last stop.

  When I walked in the door of the café, the place was empty except for a couple of snowbirds from up north, lingering over coffee and enjoying the ocean view. The only waitperson still working the shift was my Rastafarian. He’d been halfheartedly wiping things preparatory to closing up and mopping down, and when he saw me he said, “You again!” in a cheery tone.

  He had a gentle air about him, always, and when he really zeroed in on you, you did notice the eyes. They were a warm, misty green. I just hadn’t really looked at him before, because I’d been keyed up for Detective Frane.

  “I decided to have one more for the road,” I told him. “After I left here, I went south and visited some artist friends in their studio. I’m on my way home now, and I think I need another coffee so I can keep my eyes open. And to be honest, I checked in to see if you had any pastries left. If so, I’ll take them all.”

  He looked across to the pastry case and said, “Two carrot muffins with cream cheese frosting and a blueberry tart.”

  “Box ‘em,” I said. “They’re mine.”

  He grinned. “And a coffee to go?”

  “No, I’ve been running around all day. I’d like to just sit a while. You’re going to be open for a little while yet, aren’t you?”

  He checked the wall clock, since he wasn’t wearing a watch. “Another half hour.”

  “Perfect.”

  When he brought over the pastry box and the coffee cup, he had a shy look in his eyes. The hint I’d thrown out had taken root, just as I’d hoped.

  “You mentioned you visited some artist friends, south of here?”

  “Uh huh. Carmen Rosewood and Joy Hardy. Do you know them?”

  “Oh, yeah, they come in here all the time.”

  “Joy’s working on something new, and I wanted to see it. Sit down, if you’re not busy,” I invited, and he immediately took a seat. “Joy’s a real beauty, isn’t she? And so talented.”

  “Yeah, she is,” he said, bobbing his head, but not showing any detectible enthusiasm.

  I tried again, certain now that I was going to hit the mark. “And Carmen is . . . I don’t know . . . there’s something about her. She’s not a classic beauty, but she’s got such beautiful bones. Does that sound stupid?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I know exactly what you mean. The shape of her face, the way she moves her hands, the way she walks. It’s not girly, know what I mean? But it’s real.”

  “You know her father was a famous ar
tist?”

  “Grant Rosewood. A genius. I wish I could afford some of his work.” He became shy again. “So – you saw the new thing Joy’s working on? What about Carmen? Did she show you anything of hers?”

  “She did the last time I was out at the studio,” I said, implying I was over there all the time. “She’s doing underwater things, kind of fantastic and dreamy. Impossible fish, reef formations – it’s hard to describe.”

  “I know,” he said. “She brought one in once to show me. I made such a big fuss about it, she made a four-by-eight for me – just little, but perfect.” He framed his hands to show the dimensions in inches. “I’ve got it at home. It was a gift.”

  “That was nice of her.”

  “She’s like that.” His smile took on a hint of sadness, and I began to think I knew all there was to know about Calvin’s wistful heart.

  “I’m Taylor, by the way,” I told him, before I could let his name slip out before I was supposed to know it.

  He ducked his head. “Calvin. So . . . you know Carmen pretty well?”

  “I met her through her mother, Maida. She was a volunteer for the animal shelter I run, out at Cadbury House.”

  “Yeah, I know who you are,” he said bashfully. “Everybody around town knows who you are. So you knew her mother?”

  I nodded and adjusted my face. “Isn’t it terrible, what happened?”

  “Unbelievable. They don’t seem like the kind of people that bad things happen to,” he added obscurely. “Karma,” he added. “It’s real. And Carmen has good karma. She does good in the world. Bad things shouldn’t happen to her.”

  “Women her age make a lot of mistakes,” I said, letting my eyes wander off as if I were mulling over a secret.

  After only a slight hesitation, he asked me, “Do you know who the guy is that she’s in love with?”

  “I do think Maida was with a man that night, but no, I don’t know who he is.”

  “Oh, right,” he said, nodding. “Yeah, what I really meant was Carmen.”

  “I don’t think Carmen knows either, but if she does, I hope she’ll tell the police.”

  “Um, what I really mean is, do you know who Carmen is seeing right now?”

  “Oh, Carmen? As far as I know, she’s not dating anybody.”

  “I don’t mean dating. I mean love.”

  “She’s never shown any sign to me that she’s in love with anybody. I think the field is clear, Calvin. Why don’t you ask her for a date?”

  “I already have. There’s somebody else.”

  “Oh. She didn’t say who?”

  “She didn’t come out and say it exactly – that there was somebody else – but there is. I can see into her soul. There’s a piece of her missing, and an ache where it used to be. She loves somebody, and he doesn’t love her. I’m afraid he might be using her. That would be terrible.”

  “Have you been asking around about her?”

  “I don’t have to. I know. I know the look, when you’re thinking about somebody you love. And,” he added with a rueful smile, “she doesn’t look at me like that. She’s nice, she’s friendly, but she’s not hooked.”

  I considered him with my head tilted. “Use your eyes, Calvin.”

  “Oh, I can see her pretty good.”

  “No, use your eyes, Calvin. They’re beautiful. Unusual. She’s an artist. She’s bound to notice.”

  But I’d gone too far, and he got shy again. He got up and said, “I’d better deliver the check over there before they decide to walk out. Nice talking to you, Taylor.”

  “Nice talking to you, Calvin. And . . . .”

  He waited, then said, “And what?”

  “And I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

  He smiled and nodded, and I was sure he knew I’d changed the way I was about to finish the sentence. He was intuitive about things like that, and I’d been clumsy.

  But I’d wanted so badly to tell him not to give up, because she would have been so much better off with him instead.

  Chapter 24 – Home

  Michael came toward me with Bastet at his heels when I got home. “You’re late today,” he said. “I was just beginning to think about calling to see where you’d gotten to.”

  “I have gotten,” I declared, setting my purse down on the sofa table, “to the state of confusion.” I looked down at Bastet. “Do you have any suggestions? You got me into this mess, you know.”

  The cat stared at me evenly, not even blinking. The emerald eyes shimmered.

  “She did?” Michael said. “How?”

  “I had a dream.”

  “Oh,” he said in a suppressed voice. I looked at him sharply. He shook his head and said, “You think I don’t know? We’ve lived together for a few years now. I’ve noticed a thing or two.”

  Of course he had, I thought. He’s not an idiot. I just nodded, looking unhappy.

  He took a meaningful glance at the kitchen, where Myrtle was getting supper together and trying to look as if she weren’t listening.

  “Come out to the veranda,” he said to me. “I’ll get us some lemonade, and we can sit awhile.”

  Bastet followed us out, and when we were seated in the rattan throne chairs facing the river, he quietly waited. The lemonade glasses were on a little round table between us, and on the other side of me, Bastet had perched herself on another throne chair. Her head was up high enough that she could have looked at me over the armrest, but she didn’t. She stayed where I could see her profile and just gazed out over the river. In that position, she looked like a figure on the wall of an Egyptian tomb.

  “I think I know what happened the night that Maida died,” I began.

  “I was afraid of that. You think you know who killed her?”

  “Yes. Somebody she loved very much. Carmen just explained it to me, though I don’t think she realized I actually understood what she was talking about.”

  “You saw Carmen?”

  “I went out to the studio this afternoon.” I told him the news about Joy and Carmen working together to complete Grant Rosewood’s artwork.

  “And she talked about her mother’s death?”

  “About both her parents. Grant’s death actually led directly to Maida’s. I know that now. Poor Maida, she had become a nuisance, even a threat. And after the things she’d done, I’m sure revenge had something to do with it.

  “It’s like this, Michael: after what I did at Paranormal SWAT’s cleansing of her house, Maida must have thought I could read minds or something. She was consulting me, the way people consult fortune tellers, hoping I’d tell her whether or not she was in danger. But I didn’t understand. I was half-asleep, I wasn’t all that interested in her problems, and in the end, I failed her. After we hung up, she gave in to her feelings and did exactly what she had wanted me to talk her out of.”

  “She had a tryst that night,” Michael said, nodding.

  “No, that’s not what I mean.”

  “It’s not? Then I don’t understand.”

  “I know. And Detective Frane is never going to, either.”

  Knowing how muddled that sounded, I turned toward the river again, and was shocked to realize that Bastet was now standing on the two armrests between us, staring at me, stretching her head forward until it was almost touching my face. I couldn’t breathe.

  “Well,” Michael was saying, “whatever it is, it needs to be resolved. Are you going to call the detective, or try to handle this on your own?”

  I lowered my head and turned away from Bastet. “Oh, I’m going to call the detective. He’s the only one who can stage the meeting I need to get the opposing forces together. And I think it’s time.”

  Slowly, I turned my head to look Bastet fully in the eyes, and she stared at me a full ten seconds. I stared back without blinking, and gradually, my vision blurred and took on a greenish tint. Then she disengaged, turned her back on me, jumped down and strode off around the corner of the house.

  I exhaled and lea
ned my head against the back of the chair, staring across to the tiny island out in the river. Such a peaceful scene. And really, I was at peace now. I blinked until my vision returned to normal. I knew what needed to be done and how I was going to do it.

  Chapter 25 – Setting the Chessboard

  “Are you going to call the detective?” Michael asked that night, sitting on the edge of the bed. He was about to lie down beside me, and I felt as if I’d been hiding under the covers like a child.

  “It’s late,” I said. “I’ll call him in the morning. Even detectives have to sleep.”

  “All right,” he said, leaning over for a kiss. “No dreams tonight, okay?”

  “My mind’s a blank.”

  But it wasn’t. My mind was troubled, and my heart ached. Such a sad story.

  Among the living and the dead, the only one I didn’t feel sorry for was Maida. Heck, I even felt sorry for Grant, and in his own way he’d been even more selfish than Maida.

  I tried not to think, but in order to do that, you have to think. Lay flat, I told myself, relax your eyes, relax your cheeks, relax your mouth. Stop your ears, loosen your fingers, let go.

  But I couldn’t stop my ears. I heard the sound, creeping along, almost visible, like a fog rolling across the floor, coming into me without having to pass through any physical barriers, not even the air.

  I felt the presence, overbearing and overwhelming; I could even see the glimmer of her eyes through my own closed eyelids. It lit the bedroom outside my body, and the world was the color of her eyes.

  She drew me, tried to pull at me, but my legs were weak and my mind rebelled. No. I won’t go.

  And so she came to me. She stood beside me staring down, displeased, but I’d had my tiny victory. I was in the presence of an entity that intimidated me, but didn’t terrify me, as she had when she had risen up before me in the gallery.

  The fingers of her power invaded my mind and touched this memory, that fact, the suggestive thing that somebody had said. Yes. I know. You don’t have to tell me. Go away. After a flash of pain, the fingers withdrew and my mind was my own again.