by Roslyn Woods
“I thought I’d come over and see you, Lacy. You weren’t home, so I waited.”
Lacy was still trembling but beginning to recover, and her eyes narrowed. “Who do you think you are coming into my house?”
“I’m just a friend, Lacy. We’ve known each other for, let’s see, almost two years. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Lacy actually seemed frightened, and Shell realized—at least for the moment—she had the upper hand.
“How did you get in?” she asked.
“Easy. I came right through your back door.”
“I locked it!”
“Yeah, well I unlocked it. It was nice of you to leave a key out there for me, and you know, it’s the strangest thing, but I found something else, too.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Remember I came over here the other night and asked you about the painting I’d given to Dr. Leone? Well, I found it! Right here. Right here in your kitchen.”
“Really?” Lacy asked, her red eyes shifting unsteadily around the room.
“Really. You must have found it somewhere, Lacy.”
“That’s right. I was going to call you. I must have accidentally picked it up when Dr. Leone left it at the co-op. It was between some other canvases.”
“Oh, that explains everything! I was wondering. So when did you notice you had it?”
“Not till this morning. I was going to call you.”
“Well, this is just such a relief,” said Shell. She was looking steadily at Lacy, the irony in her voice impossible to miss. “I think we should go in the other room and talk, Lacy. Don’t you?”
“No. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Lacy was backing away from Shell about then, her hand following the edge of the round kitchen table.
“I’m just talking about your living room, Lacy! I don’t have any intention of hurting you. I mean, you have my painting, and we’re going to have to admit it looks bad, but I know these things happen.”
“Let’s just stay in here,” she said.
“Tell me, why is Jeremy over here all the time?”
“None of your business.”
“Is he blackmailing you?”
“How did you guess?”
“He’s sleeping with someone else. I figured he had another reason for seeing you.”
Her eyes looked even more bloodshot than before, and a strange smile started to play on her lips. She kept edging around the table, pulling a bucket of palette knives closer to the edge as she moved.
Shell glanced at the bucket, and Lacy saw the look, so Shell just plunged in.
“I know you killed her, Lacy. And then you took the painting. I just don’t know why.”
The dark haired woman stared at the blond one, saying nothing.
“Killed who?” she asked, finally.
“I just wanna know why. I mean, I get it that you wanted her husband, but why couldn’t you just get him to divorce her? Why the whole murder thing?”
“Because I hated her!” she said furiously. “Because I hated everything about her! Her money, her awards, her pet students—everything!”
“You don’t even love Irving Jansen, do you? You just wanted to hurt Dr. Leone. Was it because she had everything you don’t have? Handsome husband, money, beautiful home, successful career, and everyone who met her loved her—it just didn’t seem fair, did it, Lacy? And Jansen had probably refused to divorce her anyway. He probably wanted to stay married!”
“Fuck you, Shell!”
“I bet he’s rethinking your relationship, isn’t he? Maybe he’d been rethinking it before you killed her. Isn’t that why you’ve been crying?”
“You really ought to shut up,” she answered. “You know, I’ve had to work to achieve something, and I’ve done it! You’re in no position to act superior to me! You’ve had every advantage handed to you! You’ve never had to work a day in your life!”
“How do you know that?” Shell asked.
“California girl comes to Austin, all the guys think you’re so perfect, your teachers even dote on you. You can’t lose! Other people have to work for it.”
“Or kill for it, Lacy? Besides, this isn’t about me, and you know it!”
“Yeah, it is, too! It’s about you and people like you! It’s about your stupid art, and the way you think you know what you’re talking about! But let me tell you, you don’t know a damn thing!”
“How did you do it, Lacy? That’s what I can’t figure out. I mean, you had to push the knife in at the base of her skull. How did you make it happen?”
“Easy! All I had to do is have her show me a detail on your ugly tree picture. I asked her about a shiny spot on your canvas, and she couldn’t see it, so she bent down close to the canvas, and all I had to do is find the spot and shove the knife in.”
It hurt, hearing that. The idea that the last thing her teacher had seen was her own painting made her sick. She wanted to sink to the floor and weep, but she knew she couldn’t.
“You must have been covered with blood,” she said quietly.
“Mostly just on my sweater, and I was wearing layers. She fell, and I went over to the sink and washed my hands and even Ajaxed the basin! I took my sweater off, stuffed it into my purse and put my coat back on.”
“You were there when I found her,” Shell said.
“Yeah,” she laughed, her red eyes amused in a crazed sort of way. “I heard you and hid in the gallery.”
“But you thought to take the painting.”
“Sure,” she said, smiling like a Cheshire cat. “I thought of it as a sort of souvenir, Shell,” she laughed. “Then when you went into the classroom, I left! No one on the street looked twice at me. I just walked a block to my car and drove home! And there was plenty of time. I actually took a shower and changed before I went back. It was so easy! When I got to the co-op, I was one of the first to see the cops guarding the door.”
“I still don’t get why you took the painting.”
“Because, I didn’t want you to get it back, that’s why.”
“But why did you care?”
“Because I did.”
Shell couldn’t help but look at her with a pitying and confused expression, and Lacy didn’t like it. She reached in the bucket in front of her and pulled out a longish, palette knife, and Shell knew what she had in mind.
“I’m not going to bend down and bare the base of my skull for you, Lacy. You may cut me, but you’re going to have a lot of trouble doing any real damage.”
Lacy came around the table and lunged at her, but Shell rounded the table at the same time, and she was just out of reach. The woman in red was laughing now, trying to round the table as Shell continued to dodge her, just far enough out of reach to make her lunges ineffectual.
By now Shell’s back was to the kitchen counter, and she reached behind and picked up a bucket of paint brushes and threw it, but Lacy ducked.
“I’m going to cut you, Shell,” she said, “and I’m going to mess up your face.” She lashed at her again with the knife, and this time Shell grabbed a can of knives from the table and threw it. Some flew from the can as it hit Lacy, slowing her down and making her laugh, but one of the knives had nicked her forehead, and a small stream of blood began its journey down her face.
“You haven’t had much practice at this,” she said, making a big X in the air with the knife in her hand and laughing a crazy sort of laugh Shell had never heard before.
She is completely insane.
Just then, there was a loud sound at the front door, and it suddenly flew open. A police officer came into the room with his gun drawn. “Stop where you are!” he shouted.
Lacy ran around the table and pulled the back door open, hoping to make a run for it, but an officer was just entering the back porch with her gun drawn.
Shell could hear her from where she stood in the kitchen.
“Put your hands in the air,” the officer said, “and drop your weapon.
”
Chapter 37
Margie was relieved to see the police cars had already arrived.
She and Donald rushed up the steps of the front porch but were stopped by an officer at the door.
“We’re trying to see if our friend is okay,” Donald said.
“You’re going to have to wait outside.”
“But my friend!” Margie said urgently. “Is my friend okay?”
“Everyone is okay. Wait outside,” he ordered.
Donald took Margie’s hand and drew her down the steps with him. They waited on the lawn, Margie with tears in her eyes. They still weren’t sure what was going on, but they were at least pretty sure Shell hadn’t been hurt.
“Why does she keep doing dangerous things?” Margie asked Donald. “Going to see Irving Jansen alone, then Brigitte, then my house last night without texting me, now this!”
“I think she’s obsessed with the murder,” he answered. “It seems she and her teacher were strangely close.”
“But she says not.”
“I think maybe it was a kind of psychic bond. At least, Doris Leone spoke about the student who painted the tree as an artist with depth. She thought she was connected to something mystical and important.”
“I think that about Shell, too.”
“I’m glad she’s such a good friend.”
“More like a sister, really.”
“I see that.”
“But she scares the hell out of me.”
“There won’t always be murder investigations.”
“I certainly hope not.”
In another few minutes the police were bringing their prisoner out of the house in handcuffs. Shell followed them and rushed to Margie when she saw her. She had tears in her eyes.
“You okay, sweetie?” Margie asked as they hugged and Donald looked on.
“Not really. I mean, yes, it’s just that I learned how she did it.” Her voice broke and her friend held her for a moment. “I’m okay,” she said, drawing herself back. “It’s just, how could she do it? She hated her, hated me. She had my painting.”
“I suppose it had to do with the affair,” Donald said.
“Yes, the affair, too, but I’m not sure she even loved Irving Jansen. I think she just wanted to take what belonged to Dr. Leone for herself.”
Just then Sgt. Moore came down the steps carrying the painting. “I think you said this is yours?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid we have to take it into evidence for the time being.”
“It’s fine.”
“You’ll get it back when the trial is over—if there is a trial.”
“You think she’ll confess?” Shell asked, looking over her shoulder at Lacy as the officers were putting her into the squad car.
“She’s already talking,” he answered.
“Hmm.”
“Miss Hodge,” he asked, “do you think Irving Jansen had anything to do with the murder?”
“I don’t think so, but I’m pretty sure he was supplying money to Lacy Michaels so she could pay Jeremy to keep the affair quiet. He was blackmailing her.”
“What an ugly mess,” said the sergeant.
Chapter 38
Margie asked Shell if she and Patrick wanted to join them for dinner that night.
“Oh, thanks, that’s sweet, but I think I just want to chill at home. I need to call my mom, drink some wine, maybe watch a movie.”
“No Patrick in the picture?”
“No Patrick.”
“He’s not the one, is he?”
“Nope.”
“But you care about him.”
“I do. He’s going back to Michigan when the semester ends. His masters will be complete. He’ll start applying for teaching jobs, I guess, or maybe get involved in the corporate world.”
“I was thinking we might ask everyone who was here on Sunday to come over to my place tomorrow night for dessert.”
“That’s very nice of you, Margie.”
“I’m a very nice person,” she said, smiling.
“Okay. Let’s do that. Everyone deserves some closure about the murder.”
“I think so, too,” Margie said.
“And, maybe, lemon cake,” Shell added.
“That’s just what I was thinking.”
It was one of those anomalous Austin afternoons. The day before had been cold, and it wasn’t yet February, but today the sun had come out, and it was surprisingly warm. The temperature was in the high sixties, and there was a light breeze.
“Let’s take a walk by Lady Bird Lake before dinner,” Donald suggested.
“I love that idea,” said Margie. “I’ve been longing for sunshine.”
“Me too,” he replied, but Margie could see he looked pensive.
The path beside the lake was sometimes crowded, but it was a weekday, and they ended up walking mostly alone, occasionally meeting a jogger or a bicycle.
“I have to tell you something, Margie,” Donald said, the dappled light through the tall, river trees catching the serious look on his handsome face.
“You do? Is everything okay?”
“I don’t really know.”
He looked solemn, and she thought she read pain in his dark eyes. Was he sick? Was he moving to another state? Had he decided he was attracted to Geraldine after all and dreaded telling her?
“What is it, Donald?” she asked, her heart in her throat.
“Everything has changed,” he said.
“Changed?”
“Yes.”
“How has it changed?” she asked, stopping in the path and looking up at him. A gust of wind was blowing a lock of copper hair across her mouth, and Donald gently lifted it away while looking intensely at her coral lips for a moment before searching her eyes.
“Am I too old for you, Margie? Because if I am, I need for you to tell me now—”
“Too old?” she asked.
“Too old.”
“To be my friend?”
“To be more than your friend.”
Margie tried to read his eyes, but he couldn’t wait for her response.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen, and I intend to give you all the space you need—”
“You didn’t mean for what to happen?” she asked, stepping closer to him, putting her hands on his chest. She could feel his heart racing under her fingertips before his arms went around her and he pulled her roughly to him, his face against hers, his lips at her ear.
“I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, Margie.”
Her arms found their way around his neck. “So you’re saying, you couldn’t block me out, after all?”
“That’s right. I tried, but I couldn’t do it.”
They held each other for a few silent moments. “It’s okay,” she said, finally. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with you either.”
“You didn’t?” he asked, looking down at her.
“It just happened by mistake,” she said, and he kissed her.
About the Author
Roslyn Woods, an oil painter and watercolorist, has quietly written fiction for years. She lived in Barcelona as a child, the daughter of two writers. Roslyn now lives in Austin, Texas with her husband and her dog, a lovable mutt.
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Also by Roslyn Woods
The Murder Motif (Book 2)
When twenty-nine year old Shell Hodge returns to Austin, she is ready to start a new life as a single woman with her focus squarely on her art career. After reuniting with her best friend Margie and re
nting a house from Margie’s older brother Dean, Shell believes life will be as uncomplicated as moving in and getting back to her painting. But Margie’s older brother is distractingly handsome, and he has a charming dog that wins her heart. More importantly, a murder charge is looming over Dean, and trying to find the real killer is drawing Shell into a world of intrigue and danger.
Romancing the Brush (Book 3)
Thirty-year-old Shell Hodge seems to have it all: a great life with the man of her dreams, and an art career that is taking off. But when one of the partners in her gallery, Garrett Hall, is murdered, Shell’s life seems to go into a tailspin. She is thrown into a fearful state as memories of her parents’ deaths surface, and she finds herself worrying about her relationship while she puzzles over Garrett’s murder. To make matters worse, Shell’s ex-boyfriend intrudes into a family visit at just the wrong moment, causing a rift between herself and the man she loves just when she needs him most. She is on her own again, and a killer is on the loose. Will she work out her troubles before something worse happens, or will it be too late? Shell has gone missing…
The Girl With the Dragonfly Tattoo (Book 4)
Could you forgive the father who abandoned you to an indifferent mother when you were only two? When thirty-nine year old Octavia Bishop hears from an Austin lawyer that she needs to come to Texas to bury Edwin Bishop, the father she can barely remember, she finds herself in emotional turmoil. It's especially confusing to discover he had a secret life and a different name. After learning his death is being looked into as a homicide, Octavia has little hope of finding answers until she meets two important people: Shell Hodge, the person who heard her father's last words, and Gus Kerr, her father's closest friend--a man who is too attractive, and possibly too dangerous, to ignore.
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