Distant Obsession
Page 5
Just like when I was a kid.
Reece rubbed the cold side of the bed with his palm. The relationship with his ex had never been what he’d expected; someone to ignore the minor flaws, encourage him to move above the doubt of unachieved goals, at least pretend some relief when her husband returned from serving aboard an eighty thousand ton welded slab of steel. Still, after six years, the void remained.
He perused his partially empty and drab dwelling.
Got to get some more furniture in here. Damn place looks abandoned. Just wanted to wait until…
The grating noise outside broke his concentration. He reached for the shotgun poised above his headboard.
Probably should have taken you out a long time ago.
He pulled back and released the final twelve-gauge solution. The old guy was simply trying to feed his hunger. No greed, no desire to be a nuisance, just a wish to survive. Reece pushed up from the bed, slid both feet across the cold floor, and grabbed the blemished piece of remaining fruit.
You were going to be breakfast, but I guess he needs you more.
The periodic token, a minor payment to the resident neighborhood black-eyed bandit for a promise to ignore all their trash cans, had seemed a reasonable arrangement in the beginning, but lately the raccoon was becoming more demanding. He inched the door open and the critter backtracked a few feet then waited patiently for its prize. “Awful early this morning.”
Reece tossed the tax-for-services-rendered and bopped the rodent on the head. “Sorry, Oscar.” He scanned the pile of droppings left neatly stacked below the bottom step. “And thanks for remembering my birthday with your little gift.”
He returned inside to the bathroom and studied the minor stubble in the mirror.
Hate to shave on Saturday.
Problem was, you never knew who you might see that close to your hometown. He slowly traced the razor among the layers of foam. Through the open window screen, a symphony of sounds and smells announced the birth of a new day. Across the cove, the rabbit beagle yelped and howled.
Daniels needs to get that bitch spaded. She’s always in heat.
Mrs. Williams, next door on her patio, tapped a spoon against a porcelain cup in rhythm to some invisible metronome. Three docks down, Reverend Evans yanked and cursed at the antique Evinrude until it finally started. The twenty-year-old 9.9 horsepower motor spit and sputtered before he cranked her full throttle and raced up the lake to his favorite fishing hole for crappie. The wake from the fourteen-foot Jon boat rocked the only love of Reece’s bachelor world, the Jenny May, until the cable snapped against the main mast.
“Ouch, damn it.”
He drew back a bloody finger. The slapping sound, like hide smacking skin, returned memories; the familiar crack and burning sting of their many disciplinary sessions, behind the tool shed. The anger refreshed, but not the tears. He was too old for that now, yet the resentment still flooded back.
Reece washed the residual lather from his face, tore a sliver of toilet paper as a makeshift bandage, and padded the thick red liquid oozing from his chin. “Crap, that’s going to leave a scab.” He returned to the bedroom, selected the first outfit in the closet, and dashed out the door, only to be greeted by another of his frequent woodland visitors. “Hello little fellow.”
The spotted fawn couldn’t be more than five or six weeks old. Unaware of the normal dangers associated with people scent, the small buck simply glanced at the invader to his territory, flipped the tiny white flag of a tail twice, and returned to nibbling the freshly mowed clover at the edge of the yard. He scanned the boundary of the pined forest for movement from either the parent, or a canine hunter, of this unsuspecting creature.
Mother must be just behind that cedar grove.
Reece eased by the deer and left him undisturbed as he started his car and backed up the asphalt. The drive provided too much time for bothersome thought, so he set the radio to his favorite country station and tried to get lost in the music. Before long, he pulled into Andrews Corner store, brought the Charcoal gray Dakota pickup alongside the pump and slid the credit card in the slot.
The ting ting of the gas pump ticked rhythmically as a backdrop to the sunrise edging above the horizon. Reece drew in half a gallon of crisp unpolluted air, chilled by the autumn night, and his body sighed in appreciation. The serene setting offered in the Cherokee Valley, shadowed by the eastern rim of the Southern Appalachian mountain range, and protected by a rich blanket of mature trees from the adjoining national forest, was an experience he’d never regret.
The nozzle clicked to the off position, indicating a full tank. He punched the yes button on the dial for a receipt but instead, a note displayed on the monitor, see attendant.
Reese scratched his nose and walked inside the country style store. “Need a receipt for pump number four.”
The young girl with a flawless complexion extended a paper slip across the counter. “Right pretty weather we’re havin’.”
Reece smiled. “Yep. I plan to take advantage of the day and enjoy the Apple Festival in Fayeville.”
“Get lots of customers headed that way.”
Reece pocketed the receipt and started toward the door when the large print across the top of a local newspaper drew his attention. He picked up the issue and squinted at the photo of Senator Ben Randall’s wife accompanying an article with the headline; The Wife Knows More Than She’s Telling. The first sentence claimed the whereabouts of the missing woman was still unknown, while the remainder of the story cast suspicion on the wife without offering any proof. Another prime example of the media reporting more gossip than fact. He shook his head at the nonsense but continued to study the female’s face.
“Newspaper will cost ya a dollar,” announced the voice, with the southern accent, from behind the cash register.
Reece dug in his pocket for change and tossed four quarters onto the worn Formica countertop.
Something about the lady in the fuzzy image, surrounded by reporters, echoed across his brain.
I’ve seen her before, or someone like her.
The name referenced, Mrs. Randall, meant nothing, but the face… Reece searched his memory, but returned nothing. He shrugged and slipped the paper under his arm as he made his way back to his double cab truck.
Eight
The tree-lined streets, the nineteenth-century homes, even the brick sidewalks screamed welcome home to its lost son. Reece crawled along Lee Highway, passed the cornucopia of vendors, art centers, cafes and restaurants; enough to delight the curiosity and palette of male and female visitors to the visual splendor and rich history of the Blue Ridge Highlands of Virginia.
To the left, along Arch Drive, the classic early American architecture of the Stasny Art Museum announced, you’re almost there. Half a mile farther, near Park Plaza, the Queen Theatre stood ready to house another gathering of thespians, both locals and Hollywood notables like Peck, Spacey, Beatty and a dozen more. Two blocks north and to the right on Bain Street, he noted the early activity at the Garden House in preparation for the Fall Festival near Cherry Blossom Trail. One by one, each corner, each landmark, all birth sites of historical figures, reflected the wonder of his scenic hometown nestled in the foothills of White Top and Iron Mountain.
Within the hidden shadows of his injured pride, the closet where he’d tucked away the mental anguish of a small boy’s tears; a distant voice declared, you’ve been gone too long.
Reece followed the signs to the festival, turned into the grass field designated for thousands of patrons, then took the five-minute shuttle ride to the gate. He searched through three dozen exhibitors, the hand-woven baskets, the scented candles and soap molded from animal fat, stopped by the metal smith forging and hammering knife ware until finally arriving at his destination; Dreamscapes by Carmen.
As before at the wine festival last week, patrons filled the booth, but the artist was absent from her table. He scanned the numerous portraits displayed against the metal lattice
lining the exhibit to discover the hand painted likeness of himself gone.
Damn, must have sold it. Not sure if I like that or not.
To have a stranger copy your image, steal one’s soul without permission and paste it on a canvas for all to see, was invasive as hell. Especially in the virtually nude profile he was depicted, with all the real and imagined bulges pigmented by the painter. Yet, when he perused the three new creations of the artist’s favorite subject, the offense of her intrusion morphed into softer tones; pride, admiration, and an affinity for an unknown human with a remarkable gift to capture beauty and form using a mere cluster of camel hair and oil. Perhaps to the artist, he and she weren’t strangers after all. To capture the outer and inner secrets of another implied a familiarity beyond casual, even if the root cause stemmed from a distant obsession.
“Look, Sarabeth, it’s the model.” A middle aged woman tugged another patron toward Reece. “You look real nice in these paintings, Mister. Doesn’t he, Sarabeth?”
Reece warmed at the sudden attention his presence generated as the female’s loud comment alerted others milling about the booth. He waved them off with a chuckle. “Though there is a resemblance, it’s not me in that portrait. I’ve never intentionally posed for an artist.” Not quite the truth but not really a lie either.
The woman backed away clearly disappointed.
Reece felt a driving motivation to meet this phantom admirer, but how? He focused on a new piece at the center of her display. His heartstring, the Jenny May, was captured directly across from the cell tower at Pelican point. Assuming she recorded the image on a camera from her cabin, he could triangulate her position using simple geometry.
Reece removed his cell phone, insured no one’s attention was directed his way, and snapped his own stolen copy of another’s visual property. He backed out of the booth, turned right, and stopped. Across the isle of human traffic, three booths up stood a familiar face.
Damn, it’s her again, Ms. Blue Jeans.
He partially raised his right arm to wave before realizing her attention was drawn past his position.
Must be looking at someone else.
Reece calculated a visual line between her eyes and a point thirty yards along the line of canopies before identifying the object of her attention.
That guy, she’s studying his features.
As if he were a face noted from a past encounter, vague, but recognizable enough to motivate interest.
No, concern. Like she’s afraid of whom it might be.
He advanced toward her, but just as quickly she merged backward within the mass of people crawling upright through the thick cluster of bodies.
A familiarity beyond the casual encounter at the donut shop stood on the edge of the fog clouding his brain, just out of reach. Reece closed his eyes, struggled to pull her image forward from all the stored snapshots in his mind.
Damn it, I’ve seen that face before she spilled the coffee.
A book, a TV program, some media outlet. Perhaps there was an article in the local newspaper about regional artists. The newspaper article flashed in his mind.
It can’t be. Why would she hide here, of all places?
Then again, why not? The strong resemblance between his mystery woman and the late Ben Randall’s wife could be mere coincidence, or something deeper. The flair of emotions toward the remote admirer and the senator’s wife stimulated more than his curiosity. Reece sensed a hint of distant admiration himself for such an enigma, an unexplained anomaly that piqued both his physical and intellectual elements.
Something about this woman – I can’t get her out of my mind.
~ * ~
She packed her artwork in a hurry, all the while looking over her shoulder. How could her pilot-slash-sailor man be here? At the festival?
Her favorite from the series of paintings she’d done of the man caught her eye. The portrait stared at Lilah, accusing her of some heinous crime. Damn. All she’d done was find a worthy subject for her imagination, so why all the guilt?
Because you were caught.
The subject of her infatuation had stood in front of this very canvas and peered at the composition. His stormy blue gaze had reflected frustration, anger, and admiration.
How in the world would she ever explain herself to the man? First she used his image without permission for artwork that earned her a modest yet growing income. Then, after colliding with him, she offered no word of apology for her rude behavior. If they ever met, he’d likely think her deranged.
She hefted the heavy framed canvas from the hook when her cell rang. Slipping the painting to the floor and leaning it against the wire mesh display board, she pulled the phone from her pocket. “Hello.”
“Mrs. Randall?”
Lilah had long forgotten she once was branded by that label.“This is she.”
“This is Detective Ames. You might remember me.”
She glanced around and seeing others tearing down their booths, she moved to a more private location under the shade of a Bradford pear tree. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“I have some new information on your husband’s murder case. Can you come into the office?” The expectation in his gravelly voice made her feel like a child.
“No. I’m nowhere near DC at the moment. Can you just tell me over the phone?”
Silence, quickly followed by an audible sigh. “I’d rather tell you in person, but the graveness of the matter forces me to comply. A witness came forward recently who places a known hit man in the area where Ben Randall died.”
“A hit man? And you think he might have been contracted to kill my husband?”
“It’s looking more and more like that might be the case.”
“You think his death is related to work?”
“We don’t know, but we’re considering the possibility. Might be best if you had a protective detail assigned to you until we can sort out the reason for the hit.”
“No!” She gripped the phone with sweaty palms. Her life had already been turned upside down by the tragic incident. Lilah refused to allow any more drama to invade her quiet sanctuary. “Thanks for your concern, but I’ll be fine. It’s been a year, and the only dangerous rodents are the ones in my basement. I know you mean well, but really, I’m quite safe in my current location.”
“All right, but let me give a description of the man.”
“If you think it’s necessary, go ahead.”
“It’s necessary,” he said, his voice holding a ring of exasperation. “The hit man goes by the name Jason Holdrich, but he’s probably using an alias. He’s tall with an average build, dirty blond hair, and a scar on his left temple. If any stranger fitting this description approaches, call the police.”
“I will, but I doubt he’ll find me here. The area is pretty secluded.”
“I appreciate that, but I want to fax you a photo of the man we suspect, anyway. Do you have a fax machine at your disposal?”
“Yes,” she said and gave them the library’s number. “Can you wait to send it until late Sunday evening?”
“How ‘bout early Monday morning?”
“Before eight?”
“I can do that.” Papers rustled on the other end. “Mrs. Randall, seriously, if you see the man, call immediately. He’s armed, dangerous, and he just might be hunting you this time.”
The phone went dead, and Lilah stared at the blank screen for a full minute before slipping it into her pocket. She snorted her disbelief. What could a killer possibly want with her?
She’d have to go in early Monday to make sure she
retrieved the photo well before the other employees arrived. A shiver ran the length of her spine. The detective’s phone call had stirred memories of that fateful night, thoughts and feelings she’d tried with little success to bury.
A hit man had been seen in the vicinity of their brownstone, but that didn’t necessarily mean Ben had been killed by the man. On the other hand, the known killer’s
presence was too coincidental to be ignored, and Ben’s hand had been in all sorts of under-the-table deals. One transaction gone bad was all it would take for someone to contract his death.
She concentrated on the events of that evening, vaguely remembering the man who’d flown out the door, almost knocking her to the ground. Could he have been Ben’s murderer? Could he have been the hit man?
What had he looked like? Lilah closed her eyes in frustration, unable to bring forth details. Irritated at her lack of memory, she sauntered back to her exhibition and threw another cautionary glance about to make sure the sailor remained absent.
“There you are,” Rose Wentworth stated as she approached, her straw hat sitting crookedly on top her head. “Ready to finish packing?”
“Oh goodness, I thought you’d already left.”
“No, dear heart. I wouldn’t run out on you like that. I just needed a break. So – what’s left to do?” She surveyed the few leftover paintings, hands on generous hips.
“Just need to slip these last three framed works into the boxes, dismantle the display units, and we’re done.”
Rose picked up one of the paintings of the pilot and his boat. “I just love your work. I think he liked it also.”
“What?”
“The man in this piece. He was here. Stood in front of the work for almost half an hour. Who is he?”
Lilah swallowed hard, not wanting to lie but not willing to tell her friend and mentor he was a complete stranger. “Someone who lives near my lake house.”
She studied her favorite of the Jenny May paintings. Her sailor man had turned many an eye today. She smiled. When had she begun to think of him as her sailor man? But Lilah knew the answer. He’d become real the moment she’d bumped into the flesh and blood specimen.
A wayward curl fell across her brow, and she pushed it aside. Somehow, some way, she needed to meet the man and not because Ashley had thrown the gauntlet with their old game of I spy. No, she owed the source of her artistic imagination an apology for encroaching on his personal space.