The Color of Bee Larkham's Murder

by Sarah J. Harris

  “She doesn’t go out in the evenings,” I argued. “She stays home and listens to her Martian music or plays the piano. Other times she covers her eyes with her hands and rocks on the floor while she holds a steel blue book. I’ve seen her from my window.”

  “Look. We’re doing it, and when we get back we’re going to have a chat about respecting other people’s privacy. Are you coming or not?” He whipped his baseball cap off the coat rack in the hall.

  I followed him over the road to her front door. I didn’t want him to ruin things between Bee Larkham and me. The timing was also wrong: almost 6:00 P.M., when I should eat supper.

  Dad paused, staring up at her roof.

  “What is it?” I hoped he’d had second thoughts and would go home and cook my chicken pie, our usual Friday night tea.

  “I saw a parakeet. It crawled into the eave space. There goes another.”

  “Wow.”

  I peered up, hoping for a glimpse of green tail feathers or a beak, just as Bee Larkham opened the door.

  “Hello again, Jasper.” Sky blue.

  I looked down and counted seven cardboard boxes in the hallway. “Do you have any binoculars to watch the parakeets up there?” I pointed.

  “Er, not to hand. Why? Did you forget yours?”

  “Yes. I’ll remember next time.”

  I checked her hair: blond, not red. Her earrings were little silver swallows. “One swallow’s upside down.”

  “Is it?” She stared up at the roof. “With the parakeet?”

  I snorted cool blue bubbles. “You’re funny. Swallows and parakeets would never roost together. They’re totally different species.”

  Dad cut in with muddy ocher before I could explain about her earring. “I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself properly this morning. I’m Jasper’s dad, Ed. We live over there.” He pointed over his shoulder.

  “I know where you live,” she replied. “I’ve already had a chat with Jasper about the parakeets and binoculars. You know, watching everything from his bedroom window.”

  Dad took off his cap and looked down at me. He raked a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know. Sorry. We’ve talked about the binoculars, but Jasper does love to watch birds.”

  “And what about you? Do you love birds?”

  Dad coughed clouds of rust-tinged ocher. “Some birds. Some I like a lot.”

  “Listen to you! Anyone would think you’re flirting with me, Eddie.”

  “I wouldn’t think that,” I replied before Dad said something silly. “He wanted to give you his name, which is Ed, not Eddie. That’s all. Now we’re leaving because it’s almost six P.M., which is my teatime.”

  Dad chuckled. “These are for you.” He handed her the tulips. “Apologies—I couldn’t get anything better. They were the only nondead flowers in the local shop. Look, I’m sorry for earlier. I had no idea David would lose the plot like that about the parakeets. He means well but can be a tad OCD at times.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year,” she said. “I’m back two minutes and he’s been around virtually every single day to complain about something or other, and now the parakeets. Does he actually have a gun? Should I be worried about him?”

  “Yes,” I cut in. “You should be extremely worried. David Gilbert enjoys shooting pheasants and partridges, which makes him a murderer. We can’t let him shoot the parakeets.”

  “Of course not,” she replied. “I won’t let that happen. I promise I’ll guard them with my life, Jasper.”

  I gave her my best smile as a present because I believed her. I thought she’d do absolutely anything to protect the parakeets, the same way I would.

  “Did you realize, they’re in your eaves?” Dad asked, looking up. “The parakeets, I mean. That could cause more trouble if, say, they unwisely decide to set up home in David’s eaves.”

  “No way!” She stepped out.

  “Yep!” Dad’s muddy ocher mingled into her sky blue. I shivered at their dirty sap circles.

  They stood side by side, looking up. Her and Dad. Me on the opposing side. Her arm almost brushed Dad’s. She wasn’t wearing blue today, which was disappointing. Her top made a deep V-shape, and her arms were folded beneath it, pushing up alien skin, which erupted into mounds from the fabric.

  “Your clothes are too small for you,” I said. “They look silly that tight. You need to buy a size bigger.”

  “Jasper!” Dad stepped back. “That’s rude. Apologize to Miss Larkham right now.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Bee hitch up her top. “Whoops. Too much cleavage. Sorry. This is the PG version. Call me Bee, by the way. Is that better?”

  I didn’t know why I felt cross when I should be happy. The parakeets liked Bee Larkham so much they’d looked for routes into her house. If they found their way into her eaves, maybe they’d come into ours too.

  Maybe they’d persuade Bee Larkham to stay.

  “I’m hungry,” I said. “I want to go home. It’s three minutes past teatime.”

  “I’m sorry.” Dad turned towards Bee. “I’m afraid he doesn’t have a filter. He usually says the first thing that comes into his head.”

  “Don’t worry,” she replied. “I’m not easily offended. He’s already advised me to change the color of my hair.” I felt her gaze shift to me. “You were right about that, Jasper. I wasn’t being myself. Blond suits me far more than red.”

  I hopped from one foot to the other while Dad laughed soft carrot-cake-colored circles.

  “I should get a move on and cook his tea before he gets even grumpier. Let me know if you ever need anything. Give me a knock. I’m around most nights.”

  “Thanks. I might take you up on that offer with some of the heavy lifting. You know, furniture and boxes I need to move.”

  “Of course. Any time.” Dad walked away but hesitated. “By the way, let me know if Jasper becomes a nuisance and I’ll have words. He has a tendency to get fixated on things. On people. He becomes attached too quickly, particularly to women. You see, his mum . . .” He stopped talking. “Anyway, I apologize in advance if he gets too much.”

  I’d never hated Dad more than I did at that moment. I wanted to explain to Bee he wasn’t telling the whole truth. I had interests and hobbies, that’s all. That didn’t make me a nuisance.

  “Jasper could never be a nuisance to me,” she said, without hesitation. “He’s already been massively helpful. I don’t know what I’d have done without him earlier this week.”

  Bee Larkham explained to Dad about the flyers—instinctively realizing he was trying to make me look bad. She believed me, not him. She’d shifted her position and stood by my side now.

  “In fact I could do with another favor, if you don’t mind, Jasper? Wait one minute.” She raced back into the house and returned with a handful of flyers.

  “Is it OK if Jasper hands these out at school next week?”

  Dad’s shoulders moved up and down as he looked at the flyers. “You’re a musician?” he said softly, his voice the color of warm, buttery toast again. “I’m seriously impressed.”

  “I’m running free taster sessions. I thought Jasper could pass them out among his friends.”

  I was flattered she thought I had lots of friends; there were at least thirty flyers, which massively overestimated my popularity. Still, my heart sank.

  “Will you come with me?” I glanced up hopefully, but her gaze was fixed on Dad.

  “I can’t, I’m afraid. I have to get the house straight before the classes. There’s more to do than I first thought. The house has been neglected for so long. That’s what happens when an old person’s lived here, I guess.”

  “Oh.”

  I couldn’t say no to her, but I’d hated giving out the flyers last time. I hadn’t wanted to draw attention to myself. It’s hard to be invisible if you’re trying to get people to notice what’s in your hand. The best part about helping Bee Larkham was throwing the pieces of paper up into the air and wa
tching them fly.

  “I’ll think of a treat if you manage to get anyone to come along,” she said.

  “What kind of treat?”

  “Well, you love birds, don’t you? How about a chance to watch the parakeets from the front bedroom window? That way you can see them up close. You can bring your binoculars if you want.”

  “Can I come any time I want?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Now you’ve done it,” Dad said, laughing. “I can see myself having to drag him out of your bedroom.”

  “Ha! You’re already picturing yourself in my bedroom, are you? Cheeky bugger.”

  I jumped. I didn’t want Bee Larkham to use dog-diarrhea-colored words, which were beneath someone like her.

  Uncouth. That’s a hollow red word with a greenish tail, which Mum used to describe people who swore. She felt the same about bad words as me. She hated their colors too.

  I looked up from Bee Larkham and across to Dad. She was laughing and tying her hair into a knot around her middle finger the way she’d done with the removal men. His cheeks were chili-sauce red, which I guessed meant he was embarrassed by his mistake.

  She’d invited me to watch the parakeets from her bedroom window, not him.

  He’d got horribly confused and messed up, which was why I hadn’t wanted him to come over in the first place.

  “No, well. That came out badly. What I meant to say was—”

  “You know, a surprise visitor’s always a welcome visitor,” she said, interrupting his dark ocher tones.

  “I’ll remember that.” Dad’s left eye closed and opened again.

  Bee Larkham laughed larger bubbles of soft sky blue. “I’m the perfect hostess. I rarely turn anyone away.”

  • • •

  The dirty sap circles make me shiver as I check my watch. I’ve got exactly six minutes and thirty seconds to complete the next picture before Dad kicks open my bedroom door with sharp splinters of glistening orange.

  I need to paint exactly what happened the following week, without leaving out any awkward shade.

  Looking out of the window, I grasp my paintbrush tightly. I’m unable to let it go even though I’m worried about where its accusatory strokes will take me next.

  Our street is empty.

  The police cars have disappeared, the officers have given up looking for clues. Why haven’t they checked the alleyway that runs behind the houses on the opposite side of the street? Or have they?

  Have they missed the trail of bread crumbs that leads to Bee Larkham’s back door?

  Dad couldn’t have left her body in the house.

  Decomposing bodies smell and attract flies; he’d have known that from his TV crime shows. He must have carried lifeless Bee Larkham out the back door and through the alleyway on Friday night—the same route I used to flee her house.

  Dad would have realized the front door was too risky.

  He knew where Bee Larkham kept her back door key because I’d told him about the secret hiding place after he found me in my den with the knife.

  25

  January 27, 4:30 P.M.

  Blue Teal and Fir Tree Green on canvas

  “Is it that time already?” Bee Larkham opened her front door five days later and breathed out bright sky blue bubbles. Her feet were bare, her blond hair loose around her shoulders, the way I liked it. I counted seven cardboard boxes in the hallway again.

  “It’s four thirty P.M. exactly,” I said, checking my watch. “You haven’t moved the boxes yet. That’s how many were there before.”

  “What? Yes, I’m slow. Mum had packed these before she went into the home. I’ve dumped a few in the skip already. There’s so much old crap to go through, I keep putting it off. I can’t face it without getting pissed first. Too many sad memories, you know?”

  I tried to turn up the corners of my lips to form a smile as I stepped inside. She had to stop using vile-colored words.

  “Can we go to your bedroom, please?”

  She giggled shimmering light sky blue circular blobs, opening the door wider. “You’re not one to beat around the bush, are you? How can I refuse that kind of offer from a lovely gentleman like you?”

  I took off my shoes and placed them neatly next to the sealed-up boxes. I waited for her to go up first. That’s what Dad said I should do.

  Don’t get excited and run up the stairs before she says you can go into the bedroom. Do exactly as she tells you, otherwise she might not invite you back.

  “Let me show you where to set up,” she said. “I’ll need to be quick because my music lessons are about to start. The first student will arrive soon. You’ll need to be quiet, OK?”

  I moved my head up and down to demonstrate I understood.

  Bee Larkham climbed the threadbare red stairs and disappeared into a room off the landing, second left. I followed, holding my breath. The carpet was stained and smelly, probably teeming with germs. Maybe mites.

  “It’s my mum’s old room, but I’m using it now,” she said.

  The room was as empty as the sitting room, cold too. The music had forced out most of the furniture onto the van or the skip outside. The windows were open, and the walls were a melting snowman white with gray gritty bits, except in two small areas, where I could clearly see the shapes of two crosses imprinted in sharp, pristine white.

  “My mum’s porcelain crucifixes of Jesus were first to go on the skip,” she said, following my gaze. “It doesn’t matter how hard I scrub the wallpaper, I can’t get rid of the marks.”

  “The devil was looking for the crucifixes,” I said, remembering the thing I’d seen in her skip.

  “Who?”

  I shook my head. Mentioning the devil was a mistake; it might scare her away. I didn’t want her to sell the house and leave. She had to stay with the parakeets and me. “Nobody. Nothing.”

  “Excuse the mess.” She picked up a black dustbin liner, spewing out clothes that were shades of gray and brown. “I need to take Mum’s old clothes to a charity shop tomorrow. I’ll probably try to pick up a new wardrobe too. Her old one was falling apart and the doors wouldn’t shut properly. I don’t want anything expensive. Just something to dress the room for showings.”

  The room was currently dressed with a chest of drawers next to the window, four bin bags, a dustpan and brush, a can of furniture polish, and three cardboard boxes. The heads of china ladies poked out of the largest box.

  “You don’t have a bed,” I said, pointing at the blow-up mattress on the floor. I liked her sleeping bag. Midnight blue.

  “The mattress was ruined. I got rid of it. Mine too. I couldn’t face the thought of sleeping in my old bedroom. I’ve cleared it out and cleansed it with crystals. Everything’s in the skip apart from some of my old journals I’d forgotten I’d kept.”

  “It would make you too sad to sleep in your old bedroom,” I said, shivering. “It would remind you of being a kid, like me. I keep journals about birds because they make me happy. Thinking about your dead mum and her crucifixes makes you sad.”

  Bee Larkham sniffed whitish blue streaks.

  “No. That’s where you’re wrong, Jasper. That old witch makes me mad as hell, even now. I’d have thrown her stuff on a huge bonfire in the back garden if I hadn’t thought it’d bring the neighbors round again. I might still do it. It could make me feel better. You know, show that I’m not afraid anymore. I’m strong.”

  I fiddled with my binoculars. Estranged. That’s the word Dad had used to describe Bee Larkham’s relationship with her mum. I hadn’t understood what the word meant. Now I did.

  It meant hating someone who was dead and buried so much you wanted to burn their belongings and destroy their stuff. You wanted to obliterate them until nothing was left except for a pile of ashes.

  Mrs. Larkham must have been a terrible person for Bee to say such mean things about her. I guessed her mum’s voice was a horrible chrome, orangey brown color. It couldn’t have been sky blue like Bee’s or cobalt bl
ue like Mum’s. The old witch would probably have hated the parakeets too, the way David Gilbert did.

  I walked to the window because I didn’t want her to see the frown marks forking between my eyes. She must have had valid reasons for hating her mum. I blinked away the cobalt blue color that drifted into my head. I wanted to protect it from the pumpkin hue of estranged.

  “You can close the window if you like. It’s freezing in here. I’ve been trying to air the room.”

  I didn’t mind the cold because I had my anorak on. The coat rack downstairs didn’t have a spare peg, not one that didn’t look rusty, and I couldn’t leave the anorak on the germy carpet.

  “The parakeets! It’s a perfect view!” I leaned on the windowsill, the crease marks melting away from my face like butter in a frying pan. Mrs. Larkham, the old witch who died in a home, was pushed far from my mind. Three parakeets sat on a branch tantalizingly close to the window. If I reached out and they didn’t fly away, I’d almost be able to touch them. They were that close.

  “I know. I love them.” The parakeets fluttered higher up the tree as she joined me at the window. “They’re the first thing I see in the morning, Jasper. They make me feel happy. They help me forget all the bad stuff, you know? It melts away.”

  Like butter in a frying pan.

  “That’s how I feel too,” I said. “When I paint the parakeets. When I paint you.”

  “Wow. You’re painting me now, are you? You’ll have to show me.”

  “I will. Next time I come around to see the parakeets I’ll bring all my paintings to show you.”

  “There’s going to be a next time, is there?” Bee asked. “Because I don’t remember inviting you, Jasper.”

  I bit my lip, hard. Until I tasted copper. Had I misunderstood her, the way Dad had about coming up to her bedroom? Hadn’t she invited me to show her the paintings? Or in my excitement had I misheard her?

  “Ignore me. I’m being a cow. Sorry. Of course, you can come back. You were a great success with the flyers. I’ve had lots of inquiries from your friends’ parents.”