Groundwork for Murder

by Marilyn Baron

  Samantha Bennett dropped out of the art program only months before graduation. There was talk that she’d followed the Professore to Florence, his birthplace. If things had been different, Alex would have been the one running off with her professore to Italy. In all the years since, Alex had never been to Italy, although she longed to go. It was every painter’s dream. But going there with anyone else wouldn’t have been the same.

  Alex pursed her lips. She had been so sure Nick Anselmo had seen something in her, in her work. But then he had chosen Samantha Bennett, destroyed her dreams, colored the rest of her college career, and shaken her confidence as an artist and a woman. Mark’s attention was just what she’d needed to fill the void.

  Seeing Nick again made her aware she still had lingering feelings for the man, no matter what he’d become. He was still the same person who’d made her art and her spirit come alive, and that spark was sorely missing in her life today. She’d been holding a grudge for twenty years, but she didn’t think she could hate a man who was homeless.

  The door of the Reed’s Yard Service truck slammed shut, startling Alex out of her reverie. How long had she been daydreaming? Had he been watching her the whole time?

  On impulse, she ran back into the house, opened the front door, and was pleased to see the truck still idling outside.

  As she signaled to him, she called, “Wait, Professore Anselmo.”

  “I’m not your professore anymore,” he said, eyes sparkling in the sunlight, and she thought she caught a glimpse of her former mentor as he stowed his gear into the back of the truck. “I have nothing left to teach.”

  Alex seriously doubted that.

  She headed into the house again and rummaged around her laundry room, where she gathered up a 9-inch x 12-inch sketch pad of charcoal paper, a partially used pad of newsprint paper, a handful of professional-grade HB, 4B, and 8B pencils, some black charcoal pencils, and a set of 36 color pastel sticks. She threw in some professional colored crayons, so he could draw in the style of Picasso and Degas, two of his favorites, if she remembered correctly. She’d have to replace these essential supplies, but it would be worth it. She placed everything in a large, durable, canvas bag. He could probably find a good use for that too.

  She wasn’t sure if he’d welcome the gifts or be wary of the kindness. As an afterthought, Alex grabbed some non-perishable groceries and placed them in the bag in case Nick got hungry. It was never good to work on an empty stomach.

  She approached the back of the truck where Nick was standing.

  “Please take these in case you get the urge to start sketching,” she said, handing the professore the bag she had prepared. He looked through it and made no mention of the groceries. Probably the thought of charity didn’t sit right with him.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I miss my old No. 2 pencils.”

  “These pencils are designed for different densities,” Alex explained. “The HB is lighter and the 8B is darker.” The world was topsy-turvy. It had changed and gone on without him. Here she was explaining techniques to her former Professore. He must think she was an idiot. Of course he already knew about densities. The man had probably forgotten more than she could learn in a lifetime.

  “I appreciate it,” Nick said sincerely. “Most people don’t talk to me on the job. I guess I just fade into the background and think that’s where I was always meant to be. I’ll do a drawing for you and leave it next time I come to do your lawn.”

  “I’d like that,” Alex said, smiling in anticipation, wondering if she could wait that long to see him again. She stared at Nick’s straining muscles as he hoisted the bag into the cab of the truck and jumped up into the driver’s seat. Her gaze continued to follow him as the vehicle rumbled down the street to the next stop in the neighborhood.

  “An Anselmo original,” she called out. “I’ve always wanted one of those.”

  Chapter Three

  Sleeping Is Your Best State

  Alex rolled over, pressed her face against the pillow, and executed a medal-worthy mid-air breast stroke, pulling the cozy comforter over her head to block out the annoying light that streamed in from the bathroom. But that didn’t shut out the irritating sounds of running water that punctuated her husband’s morning shaving, showering, and flushing ritual.

  “Mark, could you please close the door! I’m trying to sleep.”

  “Sleeping is your best state,” Mark said sullenly.

  Alex grimaced. The man was full of insults this morning, and it was only six a.m. She’d never get back to sleep now, not with the local business show blaring on TV loud enough so Mark could hear it from the bathroom. She had been in the middle of a glorious dream. A very vivid dream about a clean but barely-clothed Professore Anselmo before he had shown up on her doorstep in his present incarnation as her lawn man.

  Since she’d caught him doing his business in her bushes yesterday, she could barely think of anything else. She was debating whether she should bring the incident to her husband’s attention. But now she had some questions of her own for Mark.

  “Why do you have to get up so early every morning anyway?” she asked.

  “Because I work for a living.”

  Alex tensed. She should have seen that one coming. After the girls had gone away to college last fall, Mark had been on her case to get a real job.

  No matter how serious she was about her painting, Mark had always considered it a worthless pastime, and in tax terms, a hobby loss. While she didn’t have a full-time job, Alex painted portraits, landscapes, and seascapes to make extra money for the girls’ college expenses, and supplemented her meager earnings by teaching art classes in her home to children and stay-at-home moms. Unfortunately, the children were more captivated by the rabbit than they were by the canvas. But she made enough to cover the cost of her art supplies. In her spare time, she was a decorative artist, specializing in distressed furniture, which made perfect sense considering how distressed her life had become.

  She couldn’t seem to finish a painting. She just needed some inspiration to build a portfolio.

  “When I have my own show, things will be different,” Alex promised.

  “How many years have you been telling me that? You’re just fooling yourself. You have about as much chance of getting your own show as you do of winning the lottery. It’s never going to happen.”

  “A lottery is based on luck, not talent.”

  “Well, maybe you don’t have any. I mean you’re pretty good, but you’re no Michelangelo.”

  Alex stiffened.

  “My acrylic and oil paintings take first place in juried shows all around Jacksonville.”

  “Blue ribbons don’t pay the rent,” Mark replied.

  Mark’s cruel remarks made her more determined than ever to make her dream come true. All she needed was someone to take a chance on her and a place to showcase her work.

  Some support from her husband might be nice, but she’d given up on that particular pipe dream a long time ago. Painting gave Alex the satisfaction she craved, satisfaction her marriage no longer did.

  “Well, if you’d build me a real art studio where I could create and teach art, I could get more accomplished.” Alex said.

  “It’s a waste of money. What’s wrong with the laundry room?”

  The laundry room was where she painted because it was directly under a skylight, which she preferred for its natural light on her canvases, and the tile floors were easy to clean. But the long galley-like space felt as confining as a jail cell. It also doubled as Mark’s workout room, her art supply storage area, and the kids’ junk room, so it was much too cramped to accommodate her art classes. She thought about posting a sign outside the laundry room: “Enter at Your Own Risk.”

  Multitasking did have its advantages. She could throw in a load of wash between brush strokes, toss the clothes into the dryer while her canvas set, and after she folded the clothes, cross that task off her to-do list.

  Lately, she’d let every
thing else in her life slide. She was blocked. Whenever she did finish a painting, it wasn’t her best work.

  Since she was already awake, with her bladder tugging desperately at her subconscious, Alex slid into her comfy slippers and padded across the sea-green leaf-patterned carpet to their recently remodeled bathroom.

  She’d have liked to grab another sixty minutes of sleep before her roller-coaster day got started, but she’d promised to take the girls to the mall as soon as they got up.

  “Mark, do you want to meet us for lunch? The girls have hardly seen you since they’ve been home.”

  “I can’t, not with my tight schedule. I’m going to be tied up all day.”

  “The girls will be disappointed.”

  “They’ll get over it.”

  When it came to her children, Alex did most of the heavy lifting. She’d practically raised the twins alone. Oh, Mark was there, but he was hiding in plain sight, present but unaccounted for.

  He had been going in to the office early every morning for the past five months. Her husband had always been a workaholic, but his latest schedule was ridiculous even by his standards. She didn’t know whether he stayed away to avoid being sucked more deeply into the stagnant world their lives inhabited, or to avoid her specifically. When she’d questioned him about it, Mark said economic times were tough and he had to put in more hours to keep up with the bills. That explanation made sense.

  Mark stared into the mirror, admiring his classic good looks as he adjusted his tie. Alex breathed in his masculine scent and wondered how anyone could look so good this early in the morning. He’d aged well. She, on the other hand, was experiencing middle-age spread. Glancing into her own mirror, she felt inadequate and looked every bit her age.

  She yawned. “Where did you say you were going?”

  “A breakfast meeting.”

  “That’s the third one this week. Who are you meeting with? Anyone I know?”

  “Just an associate.”

  “This early?”

  Mark turned to face her. “You look constipated.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And what happened to your hair?”

  “Mark, I just got out of bed. I haven’t fixed my hair yet.”

  “For the amount of money you spend at that hairdresser of yours, I think you’re getting cheated. You’re going to bankrupt me.”

  Alex walked over to the sink to wash her hands. When Mark got on a roll there was no stopping him. Lately, she couldn’t satisfy the man, in or out of the bedroom, not that he’d even given her a chance in that arena. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d had sex.

  Alex knew that was just the fear talking. Mark’s real estate development company was in trouble, and he’d survived several rounds of layoffs and been forced to take a pay cut each time the company cut back. He didn’t like to talk about it when she brought it up, but he was definitely holding something back.

  “I have to work harder to keep my job,” was all she’d managed to pry out of him.

  The more she pressed, the more Mark resisted. It was now unspoken between them that this particular topic was off limits.

  As long as she was up, Alex decided to get dressed. She brushed her teeth and wriggled into a new bright orange crepe sleeveless shirt dress and matching tee she’d just bought.

  When Alex returned to the bathroom to model her new ensemble for her husband, his eyes narrowed, and he appraised her suspiciously.

  “You look like your mother in that dress.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Her mother was a little nontraditional, but she’d always been, and still was, a beautiful woman. A woman who thought Mark was too handsome for his own good. Mark was aware of her mother’s ambivalent feelings toward him. Consequently, he never missed an opportunity to belittle her.

  “It looks like the rag she always wears around the kitchen. Is that new? If it is, you need to take it back.”

  Alex cringed at his tone of voice, which echoed around the room like a slap in the face.

  “I love this dress. I feel comfortable in it. It’s colorful, and Vicky says it will add some punch to my wardrobe.”

  “Well, you know what I think of Vicky.” Mark was not at the top of her best friend’s list of favorite people either.

  Mark rarely commented on the way she looked. Alex decided she liked it better when he didn’t notice her at all. That was preferable to his constant biting criticisms that dug into her self-esteem like a gravedigger’s shovel—digging, digging, digging—until all the important parts of her had been swallowed up by a sinkhole so big she sometimes doubted their marriage would survive it.

  Alex sighed. Mark was infuriating, but she didn’t have the strength to argue with him this early in the morning. She was facing a bear of a day. After their shopping and lunch date, the girls each had dentist appointments. She’d promised to meet Vicky at the gym to keep her body in shape for a husband who could care less about her curves. Then she needed to get back home to teach art lessons. If she had time, she wanted to finish the commissioned painting she was working on. And, oh, yes, cook dinner—really four different dinners. Mark always wanted steak; she was sick of steak. One of her girls was a vegetarian and the other ate anything Alex didn’t eat. With such a rigorous schedule, it was hard to find time for herself.

  When the girls were growing up, Mark usually didn’t get home from work until close to 8:00 p.m. He said his “family time” was important to him so he insisted Alex and the girls hold dinner for him. Then, after dinner, the girls were too tired to do much more than drag themselves upstairs to bed. Mark was rarely home, and when he was home, he spent every waking moment on his smart phone. She was sick to death of that thing. Some day she was accidentally going to throw it into the swimming pool. And maybe drown Mark along with it.

  Something needed to change about their routine, but Alex couldn’t figure out how she was going to make that happen. It always seemed easier to maintain the status quo.

  “Um, Mark, I’ve been meaning to tell you about something that happened yesterday with the lawn man.”

  “Is this going to be one of your long, drawn-out stories? I’m running late. And since you brought up the lawn man, I need you to cancel our contract with Reed’s. It’s a waste of money in this drought.”

  “But all of our beautiful flowers and trees will die.”

  “The trees can take care of themselves. You’re home all day. You can water the flowers if you like them so much.”

  “You want me to cut the lawn too?”

  “Why not? I’ve seen other women in the neighborhood do it.”

  “Mark, the girls are home for spring break. We have a lot of running around to do. I want to take them to the bookstore to get them something to read.” She needed to say something to get his attention off canceling the lawn service before any decision was finalized or she might never see Nick again.

  “Don’t buy any more books,” he warned.

  Alex laughed to break the tension. “Mark, we’re going to a bookstore—what do you think people do at a bookstore?” Now he was taking his austerity program too far.

  “What’s wrong with the library?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the library. I’m going there today too. Is something wrong with our finances?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, everything’s under control—except your spending.”

  Alex gnashed her teeth.

  “Hey, hand me my jacket, would you?” he called out from the bathroom, where he was still preening like a peacock in front of the mirror.

  Alex stepped into the walk-in closet. They sure had a lot of things, she mused. Things she had to have at the time but now had no use for. Their closet was a veritable showroom of shoes, purses, suits, and dresses, some of which she hadn’t worn in years because she could no longer fit into them. Going to the gym was supposed to help with that, but it pretty much only let her eat what she wanted and maintain her weight. She had
n’t lost any pounds or inches in years. Yesterday, Vicky had mentioned something about the chocolate milk diet. That sounded delicious. If she was going to be on a diet, she was damn well going to enjoy doing it.

  Alex continued to rifle through the closet. Which jacket was he talking about? The man had dozens of them, but he always balked when she suggested they donate some to charity. He was a fastidious dresser. His side of the closet was like something out of an ad for dream closets. Everything was in its place. Her side was a mess. Part of his side, where she had encroached, was also a mess. She selected one of his favorite jackets that matched the slacks he was wearing.

  As she pulled it off the hanger, a white slip of paper cascaded to the carpet from the inside jacket pocket. She bent to pick up what had fallen. Unfolding it, she was surprised to see a receipt from Harbor Island Jewelers. As far as she knew, Mark had never stepped foot in Harbor Island Jewelers—or any jewelry store since they’d shopped for her engagement ring. When she got a look at the purchase price, she did a double-take. The bottom line was in the thousands. What had he purchased—The Hope diamond? Alex scoured the receipt for a clue. A 5-carat diamond bracelet? What was going on here? They didn’t have that kind of money to spend.

  She was about to call him on it when she stopped and smiled. How dense could she be? Her birthday was this weekend. It was a special one too, the Big 4-0. Okay, that explained all the long hours at work. Suddenly everything made perfect sense. She had underestimated her husband again. She hadn’t even thought he’d remember her birthday. He hadn’t mentioned it. He’d just been acting like an asshole to throw her off track.

  A diamond bracelet! Her pulse quickened, and she couldn’t get a silly smile off her face. She could hardly refrain from doing a happy dance right there in the closet. Extending her arm, she tilted her wrist in a queen wave, imagining the sparkling bracelet that would soon adorn it. Okay, diamonds, especially that many diamonds, could cure a lot of ills in a marriage. She carefully folded the receipt and placed it back in her husband’s coat pocket. Let him have his little surprise.