Love, Art, and Murder: Mystery Romance
Page 8
“Why would anybody create something as crazy as gossip about murder? I mean, it’s one thing to say that Hex is sleeping with some weird model or that he’s stolen art concepts from another artist, but why would someone make up the fact that a murder happened on his property?”
“People are jealous.”
“Not that jealous.”
“Well, I for one choose not to believe this. There was nothing in the news about it.”
“My sources said it happened today.”
“Sure it did.”
“Why would they lie?”
“Why would they tell the truth?”
“Really, Gordon? Are you going to spend all of your life being skeptical about what people say?”
“When a murder is involved, I will be.”
“I just don’t know. I mean, I received an invitation to Hex’s Bon Voyage Gala tomorrow night. I won’t go if people aren’t going to be safe.”
“You’ll go regardless. No one, especially not you, would ever miss a party done by Hex.”
“I have plans.”
“No. You don’t.”
“I may go to just stop by and say hi.”
“You’ll go and get drunk as always and right at midnight you’ll take off your pants and run around the dance floor like an amusing fool. We’ll laugh and take a picture to post on Facebook tomorrow, and then I’ll take you home where we will have the best sex of our life, eat a tub of butter pecan ice cream, and fall asleep as we watch an Audrey Hepburn movie.”
“I’m tired of Audrey Hepburn.”
“You’re never tired of her.”
“Fine. I’ll cancel my plans, but only to make sure you’re safe at this party.”
“I’m honored.”
Although a tiny chill ran up my spine, I smiled at the couple’s conversation and chose to not think of the murdered girl for too long, but instead sink myself back into the fabulous moment ahead of me.
Once the drag queens passed, a few floats done like the most famous paintings rolled by—Salvador Dali’s The Persistence of Memory, Frida Kahlo’s Diego on My Mind, and my most favorite, Pablo Picasso’s Three Musicians. Gourmet food trucks served as the finale. They parked in their prospective areas in front of the gallery and welcomed many over with claims of free wine and appetizer samples. Somewhere among the mob of eating and drinking spectators, a short man made a quick speech and Hex, along with Alvarez, cut the ribbon to open the doors. I jumped out of the way as people barreled in wearing excited faces. The gallery ranked high on my list of the most amazing experiences ever.
Someone tapped me on my back.
“Hey.” A woman with short red hair and green eyes stepped around me and shook my hand. She wore a sea green dress with little white flowers embroidered at the bottom and the sweetest perfume that reminded me of oatmeal cookies being baked on a summer’s afternoon. “You’re Hex’s new model. Right? I’m Patricia, one of the poets who live on the property.”
“Oh, hi. My name is Elle.”
“And aren’t you the infamous Archangel, too?” she asked.
I’d been afraid of people noticing me, which was why I had remained in the background and refused to stand in the front with Hex. I let out an awkward laugh. “Well, no one calls me Archangel anymore and I no longer work with Michael, so I’m trying to stay away from that name.”
She did a big show of twisting an imaginary key to the side of her closed lips, pulling it out, and throwing it away. “Then I shall never say a word of Michael or of you being an archangel again.”
“Awesome.”
Not having much else to say to each other, we stood there for several uncomfortable seconds.
“I’m sorry. Hex told everyone around the castle to introduce themselves to you. It seems you’re the newest addition to his collection. It was a shock to us all that you would be coming,” Patricia said. “I’m probably the first one to get to you and that’s mainly because I broke up with my boyfriend a good month ago and pretty much have been ostracized from my little social group here in Miami. It’s all of his friends. I wasn’t even going to come to the opening, but that castle is so depressing. Would you mind if I kind of hung out with you for a little bit? I figure you may not know anybody here either, since you’ve been standing out here by yourself for so long. I tend to go on and on and on when I’m nervous. I just don’t—”
I held up my hand. “I really only know Alvarez and Hex. I would love to hang out with you.”
She gave me her hand again and shook it. “So then we’re friends?”
“So it seems.” I saw several thick lines of scarred flesh on her wrists.
She noticed me studying them. “Sorry. Those are my life lines.”
“Life lines?”
“It’s what people in my group call slit wrists when they’re healed. Life lines.”
I considered asking why, but wasn’t sure if I wanted to know. What type of people did she hang around with?
She pointed to the art gallery. “Have you already been inside?”
“Yes. I’ve checked the first level. It’s full of installations.”
Patricia grimaced. “I’ve had enough of art installations for the rest of my life.”
Wow. That was a pretty big reaction.
“In fact,” she continued, “let’s bypass the first level all together. Did you check out the other gallery levels?”
“No, not yet.”
“Then I guess we’re hanging out together?” She hooked her arm around mine as if I’d already answered yes.
“Um . . . sure.”
It took us no time to maneuver around the crowds of gawking people, climb the stairs, and enter the second level. Up there, many large screens of different shapes hung on the wall, playing spectacular works. Some viewing areas provided chairs for enthusiasts to sit in while they watched. The video art in the back showed in small dark rooms. Patricia and I went into those first, since there was less of a crowd.
“Holy cow! That scared the crap out of me.” Patricia fanned herself as we left one of the last viewings.
“Yeah. I think it’s supposed to explore the idea of death.”
“Aren’t they all doing that in some way?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“You should.”
“What about the video of all the men dancing in different parts of the city? That one was about movement and space.”
“Yes, but I could easily argue that the promotion of people to get up and move is sort of a motivation for everyone to try and live as much as they can before they die.”
Alrighty.
I held in a small laugh. “Or it could be argued that you’re a bit morbid.”
“Life is morbid. I just write poems about it.”
“Now you sound like Hex.”
“I’ve been around him too long.”
We chuckled together and headed to the stairs.
“So most of your poems are about death?” I asked when the metal door slammed behind us.
“Pretty much. I write sad love poems, ones that analyze the death of love. I know all about that.” She formed her lips into a frown. “My heart is a black spot within my core. A sheet of dark paper for men to write their experiences on, crumble up, shoot into a trash can, and move on. I love, so that I can experience and write about it. That’s what my mentor told me to do. Experience love and then when you’re broken in two, write about it.”
“Hmmm. It sounds like a good plan.” I guess.
“Yeah. Until my mentor broke my heart, too.” She paused at the top of the staircase and gazed at the empty wall. Whatever she studied, it wasn’t the wall; it was some distant love between her and her mentor. With my heart newly destroyed, I understood and gave her time to reflect. I wasn’t as torn as her. I’d been ready to leave Michael for some time. When he finally presented his cheating right in front of me, there hadn’t been anything inside of me for him to break. The act just motivated me to get going faster.
I’d been consuming lots of water due to my early samplings of wine and descent into exquisite tipsiness, but Patricia’s sad state shifted my giddy mood back to semi-broken heartedness. Miami and Hex proved to be just what I needed to get over Michael. They kept my mind busy as my heart healed, but I never underestimated the quick power of alcohol whenever I was reminded of him. “I wouldn’t mind a little sip of something.”
“Do you smoke, too?” she asked.
“No. I hate cigarettes.”
“Well, I’m not talking about cigarettes. I’m talking about Mother Earth’s herb.”
“Oh. I’m not really into smoking. I’m pretty much a wine girl and that’s it, but I have no problem with keeping you company.”
“Great. Company is just what I need.” She dabbed at the corner of her eye. “A lot has happened this week.”
Because she seemed like she needed to talk to somebody, I asked, “What happened?”
“A whole lot, but the most important was that I lost a good friend. Her name was Brenda. She was a video artist Hex invited six months ago. I didn’t even know her before then, but once we met, we clicked instantly.”
Is Brenda the girl who died earlier today?
“When did she pass away?” I asked.
“Today. This morning, to be exact.” She slipped out a tiny metal container with a silver dragon painted on the black surface. We arrived at the double doors. She clicked the box open, once we passed people as well as rows of food trucks and parked cars. Tiny joints lay in the container. Continuing to guide me away from the people, she pulled one of the joints out, took her lighter from the side and lit it. Once we approached an empty block, she placed it between her lips. “I probably shouldn’t talk too much about Brenda. It’s not even common knowledge, but you’re working with Hex now so you’re going to be a part of the inside group.”
Brenda has to be the girl that passed away on Hex’s grounds.
“I’m sorry to ask you this, and I hope I’m not being insensitive, but was Brenda found on Hex’s property this morning?”
Patricia snapped her attention to me. “How did you know?”
“I happened to be coming onto the property when the ambulance was leaving.”
“Lucky you.” She snorted. “Your first day of work and you’re greeted by death. Welcome to Hex’s realm.”
“I guess.” I took a few more steps before asking, “How do you think your friend died?”
“The way most people do. From a broken heart.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” She dabbed at her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
Silence passed between us. We strolled down the empty street as she smoked her joint with the casualness of a person sucking on an expensive cigarette. The earthy scent of marijuana drifted my way. Traveling through the neighborhood was like walking within a world full of jumbled paintings. Elaborate murals decorated the surrounding buildings’ walls. Even the sidewalks boasted graffiti art or little mini paintings. A big metal sculpture or two beautified each corner.
“You’re not worried about the cops stopping you while you smoke?” I asked.
“The streets are empty and we’re in Wynwood Design District. If there are cops here, they’re just making sure unwanteds aren’t in the area to bother the rich, artsy people.”
“Unwanteds?”
“This district is close to the impoverished area barely a block or two away. The cops are here to keep everyone separated.” She blew out a long wave of smoke. “It pretty much sucks. A poor kid couldn’t stray onto these blocks and look at art without being harassed by the police for why he or she is here.”
“That isn’t right. I was poor in a way and art surely benefited me, even though I’m not an artist myself.”
“The great thing about Hex is that he contacted the schools near the area and designed a special program where poor kids who are interested in art can actually come to his castle for classes, as well as come to X-lab for art presentations. I think it’s all free, too, but I’m not sure.”
“That’s amazing. I wish I could do something like that. Maybe when I have the money or power to do it.”
“You’re even better. You’re a muse. You inspire the creative to imagine something great and you stimulate the dull and unoriginals’ minds to think outside of the box.”
I laughed. “That’s really nice to say, but I don’t think I’ve truly done all of that.”
“Well,” she took a hit from her joint. “I guess we’ll see if you do it while you stay at Castillo Castle. Brenda modeled, too.”
“Did she do a lot of modeling for Hex?”
“No. Not really.” She inhaled smoke, paused in the middle of the sidewalk, and took great care putting out the joint on the rough surface. “She more or less helped Hex with video work, taught him about cameras. I used to sit around and watch them. It was a lot of fun. They bought tons of tiny mini cameras that were barely two inches big. Brenda loved it. Those days were probably the only time I saw her smile.”
“She didn’t smile a lot?”
“No.” Patricia placed the unfinished joint back in her little tin with the silver dragon and dropped it in her pocket book. “She was sad a great amount of time. It’s her story so I won’t tell you why, but she had things to deal with like all of us, I guess.”
Patricia raised her head and stared at the stars glittering above us. “But it’s no big deal anymore. I’ll bet she’s smiling at us now. When she did smile, it was such a beautiful sight. She had the most perfect teeth. Yeah. She’s grinning at us all now and probably laughing her ass off as she watches the big show.”
Al righty.
Tension built in my shoulders. The night shifted from enjoyable to out of the ordinary all at once. That appeared to be the theme of life around Hex—interesting to strange, appealing to peculiar.
Patricia finished with star gazing and turned to me. “Are you ready to head to the bar, get some wine, and then drink in all of the great performance art on the last level?”
“Yes. That sounds like a great idea.”
Chapter 8
Alvarez
The gallery opening proved to be a success and didn’t end until three in the morning. By a little after four, I returned to the castle, went straight to my office, signed a few more contracts, and ended up falling asleep right in my chair. With a stiff neck and sore shoulders, I woke up in pure embarrassment, got in a quick shower, changed, and rushed downstairs for an even quicker lunch where my assistant, Reece found me stuffing newly made cheese empanadas into my mouth.
Reece practically dragged me out of the kitchen. “We need to discuss a serious matter, sir.”
“Okay. Go ahead.” I spotted Elle through the window, wandering next to a woman with red hair. Today, Elle wore almond colored pants that formed around her thighs and hung below her waist. A thin, white material wrapped around her breasts. All of that luscious black hair draped her shoulders and fell past her behind as it waved in the breeze. I almost tapped on the window to get her attention.
For what, to say hi like a bumbling idiot? What did I expect, that a few minutes in an art museum would form some sort of connection?
Reece talked to me about whatever emergency was happening, but my attention remained on Elle while she walked with the women toward the garden.
“. . . but Mrs. Greer promised that it won’t happen again. I’ve called a locksmith to fix the attic door and—”
“What?” I stopped ogling Elle and directed my attention to Reece. “Mrs. Greer said what?”
“Well, the night before last the doorknob and lock were broken on the entrance to the attic, but she confirmed that no one entered or left last night.”
Dear god.
I ran trembling fingers through my hair. “How could she con
firm it?”
“Mrs. Greer had security look at the cameras outside the attic door. They reported that no one walked in or out of that level.”
The attic door is messed with and a girl is killed, all in the same evening. That can’t be simple coincidence.
“Get a guard for the door.” Instead of heading to my office, I took the last flight of stairs to the attic.
“That’s a total of twenty new guards on the property, sir.”
“That’s fine. I would rather overdo it than have another person die. Make sure this party is monitored as well. No one can attend but the guests who lived here. I also want them watched as much as possible. For all we know, one of them killed the girl and we’re throwing the sicko a celebration.”
She scribbled it all down. A beep sounded from her hip. “That’s the reminder for the meeting with Metropolitan Art Museum. I rescheduled it for four. We have fifteen minutes.”
“You go ahead. I have to check on something.” I left her right there. The rest of the people who ventured this way did so out of duty and responsibility. Our maids didn’t clean the space daily like the rest of the castle. Only the one maid who had been in service with us for years could clean this section. Security did nightly patrols of the door outside of the attic. I didn’t inform them of why, they simply did what they were told. Hex never made it up here. He couldn’t deal with it. Grandma did out of a sense of duty and knew that no one else would, no one else cared.
Did you hurt that girl?
I approached the door. A guard stood next to a man in a blue uniform as he stayed on his knees and fidgeted with the door. This must be the locksmith. I studied the area. Scrape marks trimmed the edges of the metal hinges. They hadn’t been there when I visited last time. When had I last come up here? Last month, or longer?
“Does it look like someone broke out of this door, or was someone trying to break in?” I asked the locksmith.
“It looks like someone kept slamming things against the door.” He pointed to the hinges. “You see how the nails are sticking forward like that? That means the door was being pushed from the inside. The door knob had that same problem. In my opinion, I don’t think anyone was breaking in. It looks like someone was trying to break out.”