Groundwork for Murder

by Marilyn Baron

  In the house, she sliced and baked some cookies, which she intended to leave out where Nick would find them. She couldn’t get close enough yet to thank him for the drawing. The subject matter was too personal, and she felt flushed, like a schoolgirl with a secret crush. Maybe next week she would engage him in another conversation to fill in the missing spaces of his life.

  Meanwhile, she was going to do something to improve his immediate situation and give his life some stability.

  She picked up the phone book and looked up the number for Reed’s Lawn Service. Rummaging through a pile of papers on the granite countertop, she located her cell phone and pressed the numbers, asking to speak to the owner.

  “Mr. Reed, this is Alexandra Newborn, Mrs. Mark Newborn, at the Hidden Oaks subdivision. I just want to tell you what a great job your lawn person is doing.”

  “Let me see, that would be Nick Anselmo. He’s a very dedicated employee, very steady.”

  “Yes, I agree. And I’d like to ensure that he continues to do our work.”

  “He’s only part-time, but I think that can be arranged.”

  “Actually, I’m thinking about putting in a special herb garden in our backyard. Would that be something your company could handle?” She already knew the answer. Her index finger tapped the type on the Reed’s ad, which boasted herb gardens as one of their special services.

  “Definitely. I’ll work up a cost estimate for you.”

  “Some thyme, rosemary, sage, fennel, you know, the usual herbs. And I would also be interested in taking advantage of a special shrub treatment service.”

  “No problem. We like to keep our customers satisfied.” Mark would be furious about the new expenses, and Nick would be mortified if he knew she had interceded on his behalf, even though she had only the best intentions. True, her machinations were designed to keep Nick at her house for longer and longer periods of time. She didn’t see the harm in that.

  So why did she feel she was treading on dangerous ground?

  Chapter Seven

  Diamonds or a Crystal Chandelier

  “Well, show me your wrist. Are you wearing the bracelet?” As they walked into the gym, Vicky pulled Alex’s hand toward her and started to examine it.

  Alex wished she’d never told Vicky about the birthday bracelet because now she faced the ultimate humiliation.

  Over the weekend, Mark had taken her and the girls out to dinner at one of his favorite steak restaurants. He’d given her a present, but it wasn’t the present she was expecting. She’d feigned interest in the brushed-stainless-steel food processor he’d proudly presented her. After she’d gotten over the initial shock, she’d just stared at her husband, open-mouthed.

  “Don’t you like it?” he asked. “The girls said you wanted one.”

  “Yes,” she said, trying not to let her disappointment show in front of Ella and Emory, who had come back to town to help her celebrate her fortieth birthday.

  She did need a new food processor. And this was a great food processor. But need and want are two different emotions. What she didn’t want for her fortieth birthday was a housewifely appliance—no matter how powerful it claimed to be or how perfectly it could slice and shred ingredients, or even if it could also knead bread dough. At this point in her life and her marriage, she didn’t want bread dough. She wanted diamonds. Diamonds were a symbol of desire. Glamorous women got diamonds.

  Mark was clueless. Last Christmas, he’d made the same blunder when he’d presented her with a juicer. She didn’t want a juicer. Mark wanted a juicer. Obviously he hadn’t been thinking of her when he had picked out that gift.

  Before she knew about the bracelet, Alex had craved a beautiful crystal chandelier she’d seen hanging in the window of a pricey furniture store. She’d been mesmerized by the way the pure white morning light reflected on the prisms, splashing sparkling rainbows around the showroom like fairy dust from a sorcerer’s potter’s wheel. She needed rainbows in her life. Why didn’t Mark understand that? The chandelier elicited a visceral reaction that was better than sex. It was almost a work of art. If it came down to a choice—Sex or Chandelier?—it was no contest. The chandelier would prevail, no matter how Mark was hung.

  But Mark hadn’t taken the hint—or he was practicing selective hearing. To him, the brilliant crystal chandelier, or the magnificent diamond bracelet that might have represented the best of their marriage, had somehow translated to a boring food processor, fit for a boring, frumpy wife. A food processor that blended a homogenous mix of unfulfilled dreams. A food processor that didn’t inspire passion. Alex took that as a sign her marriage was in even more trouble than she’d suspected. Neither wanted what the other was giving.

  Needless to say, there was no birthday sex that night.

  When she’d pointed out the chandelier at the store, Mark had commented, “Why do all women like bright and shiny things: chandeliers, sparkly rings. It must be elemental.”

  “Yes, I’m a regular magpie,” she’d answered, wondering what Mark knew about “all women.”

  “Well, where is it, then?” Vicky pressed, interrupting her thoughts.

  “It was a mistake, or maybe I imagined the whole thing, but as you can see, there’s no bracelet,” Alex said, dismissing the topic with the wave of her hand. “Let’s just get on the treadmill. I need to work off some of this stress.” Not that her life wasn’t already on a treadmill set at the highest level of difficulty—not a forest walk but an uphill climb all the way.

  She hadn’t imagined the diamond bracelet. She had seen the receipt, but she could rationalize with the best of them. Here’s what had probably happened. Mark must have realized how hard-pressed their finances were and decided he couldn’t afford it. He’d wanted to get her the diamond bracelet, but he’d had to return it. That couldn’t have been easy for him. She wasn’t going to bring it up and embarrass him. If they couldn’t afford it, she could live without the bracelet. She lived without a lot of things.

  At the moment, she had no idea what their financial situation was. They took turns paying the bills. Mark’s six-month shift was almost over. He handled all their investments, and she trusted him and had gladly handed over that chore. She was smart and could have reviewed the statements at any time, but she’d been too busy to bother and, frankly, not interested enough to care. Not a smart move for any woman, since if something were to happen to her husband, she’d be left to sink or swim on her own. She’d probably drown in a sea of debts. She didn’t much like the thought of that.

  A life without Mark might be blissful and the freedom to do what she wanted to do sublime. Suddenly having to worry about where the money was coming from was a responsibility she could live without but would probably have to learn to live with if Mark was no longer in the picture.

  Teaching art classes was not cutting it. Securing her own gallery show was the only realistic answer to the question of how she could earn her own money and become more self-sufficient. If she found a full-time job, it would leave no time for painting. With two children in college, it was clear something drastic had to be done. After her meeting with Elizabeth Diamond this afternoon, she’d have her answer.

  Chapter Eight

  Old, Tired, Lacking Excitement

  Alex walked into the Diamond Gallery on the Beach with her portfolio of paintings, her resume, business cards, and a flash drive she could leave behind, containing her work. Elizabeth was busy with a client, so Alex placed the case on an empty counter and roamed around the gallery.

  The walls were stark white, and several rooms had large openings connecting one wing to another. Some of the paintings on the wall were very traditional and exquisitely detailed, depicting local marshes, flora and fauna. Other rooms were filled with abstracts and nondescript images. Alex wondered where her work would fit in. She knew one thing: The gallery was first-class, and she desperately wanted her work displayed here.

  When Elizabeth’s client left, she motioned for Alex to join her at the back
of the gallery.

  “You’re the woman from the gym,” Elizabeth began, when Alex extended her hand. The gallery owner kept her arms at her side, not bothering to return the greeting.

  “That’s right,” answered Alex, undeterred. “I appreciate this opportunity to show you my work.”

  Alex presented one of her business cards and Elizabeth glanced at it and then perused it again, narrowing her eyes.

  “Hmm,” she said, appraising Alex from head to foot like she was a lab specimen. She smiled, more of a Wicked Witch smile than a warm and genuine one. Maybe Elizabeth Diamond had heard of her. That was a good sign.

  Elizabeth scanned Alex’s work rather quickly as Alex anxiously awaited her evaluation. The gallery owner turned the portfolio pages quickly, rarely stopping, asking no questions. She didn’t even have the courtesy to ask Alex to have a seat. The whole “interview” was conducted, standing up, in a matter of minutes. Elizabeth cleared her throat. Alex tensed for the verdict.

  “A little too traditional. Old. Tired. Lacking excitement. A little heavy-handed,” Elizabeth said, dismissing her and her paintings outright. Those words could easily have been used to describe Alex’s marriage.

  “Are you talking about me or my work?” Alex asked.

  “Oh, you have a good sense of humor. You’ll need that. Your work, of course. Not that it’s not good on a basic level. I checked you out. You have a positive reputation around the local art scene. Your paintings are well executed. I’ve even judged your work to be juried into shows in the past. You’re actually pretty good, but pretty good doesn’t cut it in this business. I’m looking for fresh, dynamic, youthful, passionate, unexpected, aggressive, yet light-handed.”

  Pretty good was how Mark had characterized her work. And that hurt.

  Elizabeth smirked as she shook her blonde, shiny mane, which was no longer imprisoned in a ponytail but flowing free like a mermaid’s tresses.

  “But I’m not an artist. I’m just a patron of great art. And that’s not what I’m seeing here. I’ll tell you what. I’ll take your flash drive and download some of your samples and put them into my ‘favorites’ file.”

  Translation, her flash drive would be dumped directly into the nearest trash bin.

  “I was hoping—” Alex began.

  “Hoping for what?” Elizabeth asked, barely concealing her delight at her visitor’s disappointment.

  Alex hung her head.

  She couldn’t summon up the nerve to tell Elizabeth Diamond how much she longed for her own show in this very art gallery. That it was a dream more important than eating or breathing.

  Alex could feel the prize slipping away. Obviously this woman didn’t feel Alex’s work merited her own showing. She knew she should fight for what she wanted, but instead she sagged, like a balloon leaking air, as her hopes deflated.

  “In the meantime, try working on something a little less predictable. Something with more drama and intrigue, more spontaneity, if you know what I mean.”

  While Elizabeth’s final words sounded like she was leaving the door open, her tone told Alex the gallery owner was slamming it shut in her face. Unfortunately, Alex knew exactly what she meant. Drama? Intrigue? There wasn’t much of that in her life. But she had received the message loud and clear: The woman was passing on her work. She may as well have picked up a small scale precision artist’s knife and stabbed Alex right in the heart.

  Alex gathered her paintings, untucked her tail from between her legs, and dragged herself out the door, dashed dreams and all. Tears threatened, but Alex willed them away. She wasn’t going to let Elizabeth Diamond see her cry. Maybe her work wasn’t this woman’s cup of tea, but it wasn’t as substandard as Elizabeth had insinuated. It would appeal to someone, somewhere. She wasn’t going to give up on her dream that easily.

  One day, her work would hang in this gallery. She was certain of it.

  Chapter Nine

  The Blood Rushed to Her Cheeks Only for Nick

  Alex woke up Wednesday morning excited about the prospect of continuing her thematic series of the bald cypress in its glorious surroundings in her backyard. The breakfast dishes were done, and the dining room table wiped down. Wednesday was her skip-the-gym day, at least until she made progress on her paintings. With the girls back to college, she had no distractions, and she was ready to be productive. Light as a feather, she could almost feel her soul stretching with expectation.

  Alex had set up her easel on the back deck the night before because the next few days promised to be sunny and clear with no chance of rain. With a canvas under her arm, paint box in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, she sought the outdoors with an uncharacteristic skip in her step.

  Wednesday was also the day Reed’s came—specifically Nick came—to do the lawn. Alex wanted to get a good start so when Nick came by to edge, weed, and mow, and do his other yardly things, he would be able to critique her work and give her his usual weekly pointers. Nick was as reliable as a fine Swiss watch. He always showed up on time. In comparison, Mark came and went with the inconsistency of an old broken-down clock with its ticker ready to flatline.

  Occasionally, Alex experienced a moment of anxiety before the appointed time. Nick was a drifter. What if he had already moved on? He had no loyalty to her or this place. No reason to stay.

  But when he did show up, her heart started beating again. Alex was as excited about painting as she was about seeing Nick again. She felt terribly conflicted. She ought to be aroused when her husband walked through the door in the evenings—but those days were long gone, and she might as well stop trying to fool herself. Lately, the blood rushed to her cheeks only for Nick.

  Of course she would never act on her urges because she intended to keep her wedding vows, but with each passing week she felt more like that infatuated college girl she used to be, when she was in Nick’s presence, as if no time at all had passed. Whether or not he felt anything for her was another matter.

  Today, Nick would be starting work on her outdoor culinary herb garden. There would be a lot of consultation about what perennial herbs to plant and discussions about the footprint and location of the garden. That meant more time with Nick and more time he’d be able to spare to help her with her new series.

  Alex loved Claude Monet’s Water Lilies. She’d studied Monet, as well as her other favorite Impressionists, with Professore Anselmo in college art history class. The Water Lilies series of some 250 lush, colorful oil paintings depicted Monet’s flower garden in Giverny, France. She would love to visit there one day. Monet’s paintings were displayed in museums all across the world.

  She only hoped her paintings would be displayed in one local art gallery. Was that too much to ask?

  In 2008, one of the Water Lilies paintings sold for forty-one million dollars. Alex would be thrilled to sell a painting for $4,100 or even $410. And to think Monet was painting those masterpieces while suffering with cataracts! How could he be that good and see such subtlety in light and form, with such a debilitating condition? Maybe, Alex thought, she should rub Vaseline on the lenses of her sunglasses and try to re-create the cloudiness of Monet’s vision. She could barely contain a smile.

  As Alex painted, she remembered studying Monet’s Haystacks, a twenty-five-canvas series of stacks of hay in a field after harvest season, painted from one autumn to spring. Haystacks was known for its thematic use of repetition, showing light differences at various times of day. This was exactly what she intended to do with her cypress tree. She knew in her heart her bald cypress tree by the lagoon was her Haystack. Alex worked quickly and excitedly because she could visualize the goal and she was determined to achieve it.

  Engrossed in her canvas, Alex was startled when she heard the Reed’s truck pull up in front of her house, even though by now she was attuned to the truck’s particular sound and had memorized the familiar rumble of its engine. The truck door slammed shut, setting off a tsunami in her heart, threatening to drown her. But she willed herse
lf to remain calm, forcing herself to keep painting. She was determined not to be distracted by the sound of the lawn man bringing his power tool to life.

  She heard the hum of the tool as it skirted her front flower beds, rounded the curve of her driveway, and moved between the mulched areas and the grass.

  She pictured Nick’s tan, shirtless chest starting to bead up with sweat. She heard him work his way slowly around the side yard, apparently not in as big a hurry to get to the backyard as she was for him to get there.

  As he got closer, she could hardly concentrate on her painting, out of sheer anticipation. She watched him come into view, his shades shielding his eyes from the sun and blocking out the rest of the world. He radiated heat.

  She worked slowly and pretended to be engrossed in her painting as he rounded the corner. He edged the back lawn before he worked his way over to her, turned off his edger, and came close enough she could feel his warm breath on her slightly sweat-dampened neck.

  “So, bella, I mean Mrs. Newborn, how is your Bald Cypress series coming along?” asked Nick, his tone growing more animated.

  “Please, call me Alex.”

  Alex gave Nick her full attention. She was delighted he’d started calling her bella again. And she noticed he continued to take great care with his appearance. He was coming more alive every week. Today he wore new clothes—crisp, body-hugging blue jeans and a freshly-laundered white T-shirt, adding a veneer of respectability.

  Unfortunately, he had not gone shirtless again. He had shaved, and even though he was sweaty, she could smell the mix of aftershave and perspiration on him, the lawn man’s own hunky outdoor scent.

  “Well, I hope I captured the sunlight on the cypress in contrast to the rest of the dark reflections in the lagoon. I added some chromium oxide green and Davy’s gray and raw umber to tone down the shadowed trees, as you suggested. The terre verte helped as well.”

  A slight smile formed around Nick’s lips. She could tell he was pleased to be teaching again.