Bound to Execute

by ACF Bookens

  No sooner had she left with her giant cappuccino and paperback than my parents stormed in. My mother was doing what I thought of as her catwalk stomp, the walk that Tyra Banks always taught the women on America’s Next Top Model, all vim and vigor and just a taste of anger.

  “Anastasia Lovejoy Beckett, what are you thinking? You cannot possibly believe that Henri Johnson murdered that woman.”

  Clearly my decision to ignore the increasingly intense barrage of texts questioning both my physical and mental health had made my mother a wee bit angry. She’d never liked my nickname Harvey, but she only pulled out the three full names when she was really peeved.

  “It’s nice to see you, too, Mom. What brings you in today?”

  My father cleared his throat. “Your mother thought it important,” he gave me an exaggerated shrug from where he stood behind her, “to make it clear that we find it horrible that you would betray your friend like this.”

  “That’s right, Harvey, and I know you think I’m ridiculous coming in here like this, Burt.” She threw him a knife-life look over her shoulder. “But friends matter. I thought you knew that.”

  I started to straighten the paper bags on the end of the register counter. “I do know that, Mom. I’m not betraying my friend to believe what the sheriff believes. I’m simply trusting the evidence.”

  “Poppycock.” My mother’s worst non-expletive rang through the store. “That woman could not kill a rabid raccoon, much less a person. I like Sheriff Mason, but he’s got this one wrong.”

  “He hasn’t arrested her yet, Sharon,” my dad said, trying to soothe her.

  “Well, he hasn’t exonerated her yet either, at least not in the court of public opinion.” She stomped back toward the door. “I’m going to go buy another piece of her work right now, to show I stand in solidarity with her.”

  If there was one thing I loved deeply about my mother, she was passionate about what she believed, and she’d stand by her beliefs come hell or high water.

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate that, Mom,” I said.

  Mom turned back to me. “Maybe you should consider doing the same, Harvey, after you reexamine your loyalties.”

  My dad gave a little wave as he followed my mom out of the shop.

  I leaned back against the half-wall behind the register and laughed.

  “Your mom does put on a good show, Harvey,” Rocky said from the café behind me. “She’s right, though. Henri didn’t do this.”

  I almost turned around and said, “I know,” but I caught myself just in time. Instead, I turned slowly and said, “I hope you’re right.”

  Rocky gave me a sad smile and turned to rinse out a coffee carafe.

  Gracious, I hated this. But I hated a murderer going free more, and as much as I disliked Wilma Painter, she did deserve justice.

  * * *

  At noon, Ollie arrived with two canvases as big as his body held in front of him. I wasn’t sure how he’d been able to see to walk up the street, much less bike twenty miles.

  But when he leaned them against the bookshelves by the front windows, they seemed to grow even larger. One was a depiction of a tree on a hill, all greens and blues with just the smallest bits of sunshine yellow. It looked like a painting, a lovely landscape, but when I leaned in, I saw it was all pieces of garbage. A spearmint gum package. A label from a can of green beans. The wrapper from a box of baby’s rice cereal. The visual effect was striking because the picture had depth and shifted subtly when I looked at it from different angles. Add to that the quiet message of how trash can become beauty, and you had something remarkable.

  The second piece was even more three-dimensional. In it, a woman sat in a chair, her stomach exposed between her T-shirt, which was tied in a knot below her chest, and her cut-off shorts. There, just below her navel, was a long, pink scar. The image itself was striking, and I couldn’t recall if I’d ever seen an artistic rendering of a woman with a C-section scar before. But what really brought the piece to life was that it was made entirely of sequins. It wasn’t garish or glittery though. No, somehow, Ollie had managed to turn those shiny bits of metal into little mirrors that drew me into the image, almost literally, through my reflection. I was in awe, and I decided that if anyone asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I was going to ask for this painting. In fact, I was going to tell everyone I wanted this painting, since I knew they’d probably have to pool resources to get it for me.

  Stephen and Walter came in a few moments after Ollie had set up the canvases. I knew as soon as they came in that they loved the work. Stephen’s hand flew to his mouth, and he stopped dead in the doorway to stare. Walter moved around him and walked up, silent and gaping.

  Meanwhile, Ollie kept his hands in his pockets and tried to look casual. But that shuffling he was doing wasn’t the motion of a confident artist. I kind of wanted to hug him.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have to scare the young man with a surprise hug because my two friends went over and immediately said they loved the pieces. Well, what Stephen said was, “You are brilliant, sir. Brilliant.”

  Ollie, who I wasn’t sure I had ever seen smile, lit up. His whole face changed. He went from a somewhat dour and slightly under-noticeable fellow to a veritable showman. Suddenly, his shoulders were back, and his hands took up animation. But his smile, his smile was what did it. In that minute, I knew that this kid was not capable of killing anyone. I couldn’t put my finger on why I knew, I just did.

  Walter came over to me. “Harvey, you love these, right?”

  “I do, especially that one.” I pointed to the image of the woman. “I’m so surprised. I usually avoid sequins fastidiously.”

  Ollie said, “Most people do. That’s the point, kind of. We try to avoid things that make us feel imperfect or draw too much attention to our imperfections. Or we try to cover them up with sparkle.”

  I looked at the piece again. That was it exactly. The sequins weren’t distracting; they were creating. I loved it even more. “Ollie, I would hang that on my wall any day.”

  “Good,” Walter said, “because we’re buying both pieces, and we’re loaning you the one you love, Harvey, because you need it.”

  I started to protest, but Walter put his palm up to my face. “You need it, Harvey.” I stopped talking.

  “You’re going to buy them both? But I haven’t even told you how much they are.” Ollie’s nervousness returned. I guessed he was afraid they’d balk at his price.

  Walter looked at Stephen. “He’s right. We should know the price before committing.”

  Stephen nodded. “True. What are you asking, Ollie?”

  Ollie winced. “Would five hundred a piece be too much? To cover materials. That’s all.”

  Stephen and Walter exchanged a look, and I knew what was coming because I’d seen Stephen do this before, this thing where he makes someone’s day in a way they couldn’t have imagined before.

  Once, in San Francisco, the three of us had been having dinner at North Beach Pizza – their Quattro Formaggi pizza still showed up in my dreams – and a woman pushing a shopping cart came by. She clearly lived on the street, as so many people do in San Francisco, and she was clearly hungry. She’d checked every trash can on the block, and despite the tradition of leaving leftover boxes on the trashcans for people who needed them, no one had yet left anything out.

  Stephen took one look at her, grabbed the remaining four pieces of pizza and the pan and ran after her. As Walter and I watched, he handed her the food and then talked with her for a minute. The next thing we knew, both of them were walking into the restaurant. Walter asked the waitress for another setting, and they proceeded to buy that woman – Sable – anything she wanted. It took a bit of coaxing, but eventually, she had five sodas, all four slices of pizza, a chef’s salad, and a slice of cheesecake. Plus, we’d had the privilege of getting to know her. She was a musician, a cellist, and she’d been in school at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music when her husband decided to
leave her out of the blue, taking with him everything in their bank accounts. She tried to make do at her minimum wage job at a store in the Sunset District, but within three months, she was out on the street because she couldn’t afford her rent. She had to drop out of school, and here she was, two years later, just barely making it through each day.

  I have to admit, I was feeling pretty smug that day, feeling pretty good about how generous I’d been to share my table with this woman I didn’t know. I even planned to help pay the bill for dinner, something which I normally didn’t even attempt anymore since my friends always insisted on treating me. But then, Stephen floored me.

  “Sable, would you like to come live with us for a while? No strings but no expenses either. You’d have your own room and bathroom. You could spend time with us or not as you’d like. But if you’d like to live with us, we would like to have you be our roommate.”

  I looked at Stephen with my mouth wide open, and I thought for sure that Walter would put the kibosh on this idea, for the sake of safety if nothing else. But when I looked at my other friend, he was nodding.

  By the time we left that night, Sable had decided to take a risk on two strangers who had shown her a remarkable kindness, and I had learned a huge lesson about what real generosity means. Sable lived with Stephen and Walter for six months, and in that time, she got back into the Conservatory, found a job at a local music studio teaching lessons, and received enough money in loans and grants to cover the rest of her expenses.

  Now, five years later, she was the principal cellist with the San Francisco Conservatory. Recently, she texted me a photo of herself on a banner hanging in front of Davies Symphony Hall. I had cried.

  So when I heard Ollie name that ridiculously low figure of five hundred each for his amazing works of art, I knew that Stephen and Walter would insist on paying more. But then, Stephen had that look, and I leaned forward. Something big was coming.

  Stephen stepped forward, put out his hand, and when Ollie shook it, he said, “Great! Five thousand a piece it is. Also, we have a whole floor in our house that’s empty. It’s got great natural light and a huge room with a concrete floor that has been sealed. There’s a small bathroom and bedroom there, too. We’ve been trying to figure out what to do with the space, so you’d be doing us a huge favor if you’d live there. Help us feel less guilty about the unused rooms and let us be your patrons as you get your art career established.”

  Ollie was still shaking Stephen’s arm up and down, and I thought maybe he would just keep doing that forever since it didn’t seem like he could process what was happening. I stepped forward and put my hand on Ollie’s arm. “They’re serious, Ollie. They mean it. It would mean less of a ride to work for you, right? And more time to make your art.”

  It took a couple of minutes but, eventually, Ollie turned to focus on me. Then he looked back at Stephen and Walter who were studying his art again, as if they’d just made the most normal suggestion ever. I loved my friends.

  “They’re serious?” Ollie said, looking at me again.

  “Serious as a crab shack running out of Old Bay.”

  He leaned over and whispered right in my ear. “I need to say no, right?”

  I looked at him seriously and said, “No, you need to say yes . . . if you want to. They’re good people, Ollie. They mean what they say, and they are excellent cooks.”

  That smile broke across his face again. “If I can cook at least twice a week, I’d love to, er, help you out. I just need to be sure I can afford the rent. What are you asking?”

  Stephen turned back to us and smiled. “Oh, no rent. Just agree to watch the house when we’re on vacation. Does that work?”

  Ollie looked at me again. “They’re serious?”

  “Yep. They’re serious.”

  He took a deep breath. “Okay then. Wow. Alright. Okay.”

  I smiled at my friends. “So when can he move in?”

  “Today if you want. The space is empty. We can get a truck and go get your things whenever you’re ready,” Walter said.

  That energy from before was animating Ollie again. “Oh, I’m ready. I’ve been living on a friend’s couch for four months. I’d love a door.”

  I sighed. There it was, the thing that Stephen had seen that I hadn’t. This boy was suffering, and they could help. I felt tears well in my eyes.

  The three of them headed out, both pieces in hand. “We’ll drop this one off at your place, Harvey.” Walter winked as he went out the door.

  Ollie gave me a shy wave as he left. There goes a young man whose life has just changed, I thought.

  Only then did I notice Marcus standing over by Rocky in the café. He had been scheduled to come in at noon and handle closing, but in the midst of the art and the kindness, I’d totally forgotten.

  Now, he leaned over and gave Rocky a kiss on the cheek before coming my way. “Ms. B, you are an amazing person, you know that?”

  “What are you talking about? That was all Stephen and Walter.”

  “Nope, that was you. You invited Ollie in. You told your friends. You are the kind of person who has friends like Stephen and Walter. It was you.”

  He leaned over and gave me a hug. “Thank you,” he said quietly before turning to help the woman who had patiently been waiting to buy her copy of I Capture the Castle.

  “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” I said.

  “Oh my, don’t apologize. That was just the sort of pick-me-up I needed. It’s been a hard week.” She set her purse on the counter, and I noticed a brochure for the local funeral home sticking out.

  “Goodness, I guess so.” I gestured toward the brochure. “Planning a funeral is never a highlight, I expect.”

  She looked down at the pamphlet. “No. No, probably not. My sister died on Saturday.”

  I shook my head. “I’m terribly sorry. I can’t imagine.”

  She looked at me. “The worst part. She was murdered.”

  I felt a wave of shock rush from my feet and out the top of my head. “You’re Wilma Painter’s sister.”

  “You knew her?” She looked at me with kindness. “I guess everyone knew Wilma. She wasn’t always what you’d call easy. Never had been, not even as a kid.”

  “Buy you a cup of coffee? I’d love to hear about her. I didn’t know her well, just through the bank.” I tried to suppress my curiosity and pretend I was just being kind.

  Marcus smiled softly. “See, it’s all you,” he said under his breath. Then he rang up the book.

  “I’m Harvey Beckett.” I extended my hand across my body as the woman and I walked into the café.

  “Renee Forsham. Thanks for this. I don’t know anyone here, and while everyone has been kind, such a thing does take a person back, you know?”

  “I bet.” I took the two mugs of coffee that Rocky had poured when I’d waved two fingers at her with a big smile as we approached. “Thanks, Rocky. You’re the best,” I said.

  She smiled and slid two cinnamon rolls across the counter. “Last two.”

  “You are too good to me. Thank you.”

  Renee and I took a table by the window, and I explained that she was about to eat the best cinnamon roll she’d ever tasted. But then I had a horrible thought. “You can eat gluten, right?”

  She laughed. “Oh yes. I am so grateful that God has not seen fit to take away the simple pleasure of bread.” She picked up the roll and took a bite of the size I could really respect.

  “If you feel like sharing,” I said after having my own healthy bite, “I’d love to hear more about Wilma, especially about her as a kid.”

  Renee smiled. “She was, as I said, always a little difficult. This one time, I had left a few of our Barbies out of the dream house. When Wilma got home from school – she was probably six at the time – she had a fit. I was made to sit down and listen to a lecture about the importance of tidiness and about how the Barbies must have felt laying out there in the open all afternoon.”

  I smil
ed. “I can kind of picture Wilma doing that.”

  She laughed. “Did I mention I was the older sister?”

  I cackled. “She had courage. I’ll give her that.”

  “Yes she did. Did you know that she took the job as the manager of this branch way back in 1988? She was the first woman manager in the chain, and she moved here all the way from our hometown up in Indiana. She didn’t know a soul, but she took the opportunity when it came. She worked hard, and she was never afraid to see the fruits of her labor.” Her voice had a bit of ice to it, and I thought maybe she was simply trying hard not to get emotional.

  I tried to imagine Wilma as a woman in her twenties here in rural, isolated St. Marin’s. It couldn’t have been easy. “She didn’t marry?”

  Renee shrugged. “She dated, discreetly, but this town wasn’t all that welcoming to lesbians back then.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know,” I said, and once again, I realized how very little I knew about the people I saw regularly. “No, I imagine that wouldn’t have been easy. Gosh, that seems almost impossible.”

  “It was hard. But Wilma was determined, and then she came to love it here. She told me stories all the time about the people in this town, about who was having children and who was getting married or divorced. She even told me about you, said that I should come see your “cute little bookstore” when I visited again.” She looked down at her hands. “And here I am, on my next visit.”

  “Goodness.” I let the silence hold her grief for a minute before speaking again. “Is there anything I can do? Anything we can do in the shop?”

  She looked up and smiled again. “What a kind offer. Mostly, I’m just here to oversee all the processes that Wilma already put in place. She was thorough, and so everything from her funeral to her casket to the interim bank manager is already in place. So no, I don’t think there’s anything you can do, but thank you for asking.” There was that ice in her voice again.

  “Anytime. If you think of something, you’ll let me know?”

  She stood then, shoving the last bite of her cinnamon roll in her mouth, “I will. Thanks for this.”