Stolen Secrets: A Collection Of Riveting Mysteries

by J. S. Donovan

  She started with Troy’s slack jaw, lifeless brown eyes, and then moved to his bare, chiseled torso where she used rich scarlet paint to create the laceration. The slash opened his pale skin from the sternum to his belly button. It wasn’t a clean cut like that of a surgeon. This wound was cruel and rough. Whatever edge used to cause the wound must’ve been serrated and notched, because it tore the skin as it cut.

  Ellie’s eyes rolled further back until there was only white visible in her open eyelids. Her sun-kissed hair was disheveled. Black and red paint hardened a few tufts of her bob into a clump behind her ear. She must’ve tried to tuck her hair behind her ear at one point. She wouldn’t remember that either, because all she saw was blackness. Even her dreams were hollow.

  Thunder rumbled.

  Suddenly, Ellie awoke on the plastic-covered floor. Pain throbbed in her wrists. Her stomach was flat and her cheeks were sunken. Agony stung her right behind the eyes. She coughed and shivered. With paint-stained hands, she wiped the spit from her lip and forced herself to sit upright. The simple action shook her world. Black specks danced in her sight.

  Darkness hung in the art room. She reached above her head, grabbing at the air like a blind person reaching desperately for their cane. Her crusted fingers found the beaded string. She squeezed it tightly and pulled.

  The exposed light bulb above her head flickered to life, revealing the room in its entirety. On three of the four walls--the fourth wall being the one that had the double French doors--was a fresh coat of black paint. It wept inky tears down on the floor and cruised across the ruffled surface of the floor’s plastic sheeting. The walls to the left and right had nothing on them. It was the display on the center back wall that stole Ellie’s attention.

  Troy Batter, thirty-four years old, a handsome blond with a beard, piercing eyes, sharp brows, and perfect smile was strung up by his wrists with a crude slash running down his torso and exposing an inch of his insides. Ellie felt vomit climb into her mouth as she looked at the portrait of the man who’d been there for her in those stormy times and good. Who had mourned when Ellie buried her dog, and celebrated with her on her first art sale. They met by chance at Ellie’s grandparents’ 50th anniversary. Troy was her nephew’s plus one. Ellie just wanted to dance with someone. Four years of dating later, Ellie accepted Troy’s proposal. They said their vows less than three weeks ago, but it was on April 21, the night they returned to Northampton, Massachusetts from their honeymoon, that Ellie’s life changed forever.

  On that fateful stormy night seven days ago, Ellie blacked out and painted her first death portrait. It showed a woman she’d never met, Kimberly Jannis, co-owner of a small pottery store, with sixteen stab wounds and a dead crow at her feet. Twenty-four hours later, Kimberly in real life was killed in the same way.

  Three days after that, Ellie painted her second portrait. This time it was of a friend of Kimberly’s, Pamela Cornish, an art museum curator. She was killed by multiple stab wounds, and, like Kimberly, Pamela was murdered in the exact way Ellie had painted during her second blackout. The details were so precise that even the way the blood spatter peppered the wall was identical to what the canvas showed.

  A third portrait followed that. It was of Andrew Maneau, the man who had launched Ellie’s art career, allowing her to work as a full-time painter and make enough money to purchase a twelfth-floor apartment suite in the nice part of Northampton. This time, Ellie saved the victim, but not without confronting the hooded killer, who left her with two fresh wounds: a slash on her right cheek where he tried to stab her in the eye, and a graze on her neck where the hooded man shot at her. Those close calls were mere hours ago. Ellie realize that life would be better if it were slower and more stable. Before they crashed for the evening, Troy and her agreed to run away together, again, after only being back from the honeymoon for a week. That was until this moment.

  Ellie reached out and touched her husband’s portrait. The tan paint used for his skin dotted Ellie’s fingertips. She looked up at the nine-foot creation and the crude slash down Troy’s belly. The blood looked so real. In the corner of her vision, she could see it leaking from his wound like sap from an old tree. Bordered by darkness, the mural gave no clue as to where and when the murder would take place. If the other portrait taught her anything, Ellie had about twenty-four hours to find and stop his killer.

  Coated up to her wrists with paint, Ellie scrambled out of the art room. Her legs felt like noodles, and she almost tripped over a paint bucket when she entered the living room. All of her supplies, paint cans, brushes, spare canvases, half-completed art pieces, carts, cubbies, and everything that had been in the art room were now outside of the French doors. She didn’t remember putting them out there. The last and only thing she recalled was nestling up with Troy after a dastardly night and letting sleep overcome her.

  Ellie took pause at the various objects. She bit into her lower lip, her mind swirling with ideas and fears. She needed to clear her thoughts. Think of a plan. Ellie climbed into the shower and let the hot water wash away the crusted paint on her skin that looked like cracked earth. The drain at the center of her feet slurped up swirls of black and red water as Ellie used a bar of soap to rub her paint-stained flesh raw. By the time she had finished, the skin on her arms were pink and she’d lost small tufts of hair from her violent method of shampooing her scalp.

  She entered the master bedroom and kept the light off as she stealthily pulled open the dresser drawer, careful not to wake Troy, who was snoring lightly with half of his body out of the covers. Ellie grabbed the necessities: undies, shorts, shirt, etc. and made her way back down the exposed spiraling staircase that led from the loft into the living room. Hair still dripping, she got dressed and tossed her paint-stained clothes into the trashcan, making sure to bury them under some of the cleaner garbage. She turned her attention to the mess outside of the art room. She grabbed the massive roll of paper sheeting and the stapler. She went back into the art room, used her phone to snap pictures of the mural, and started to cover the walls with the paper. Some of the black ink bled through the covering, but that didn’t matter. She just had to hide the image of Troy.

  When she had finished, which of course took much longer than it needed, she loaded her supplies back into the art room. She placed them into their proper places, which were questionable because Ellie kept the room messy most of the time. By the time she finished, the sun was edging over the horizon. She opened the blinds in the living room and looked out at the cityscape. It was a quiet spring morning, almost picturesque. Ellie wished she could enjoy it.

  “Hey.”

  Ellie jumped. She turned to her husband leaning on the loft’s black railing. His tapered blond hair was still disheveled from sleep, his pajamas were wrinkled, and his eyelids were heavy. “How are you feeling?”

  Ellie hesitated in her response. She tucked some hair behind her ear, turned her eyes to the floor, and then back to him. “I’m surviving.”

  “Hmmm,” Troy replied agreeably and nodded. He shambled back into the master bedroom.

  With trembling hands, Ellie got the coffee pot started. By the time the batch was brewed and her mug was poured, Troy was dressed. He wore a long sleeve plaid shirt, khakis, and modern man’s moccasins. Elle recognized his pants from the portrait. “Why don’t you wear the jeans I got you?”

  Midway down the spiraling staircase, Troy stopped and looked over himself. Without protest, he returned to the bedroom and returned wearing jeans.

  Ellie breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever she could change from the death mural, the better. She slid a mug of coffee across the kitchen’s open bar and into Troy’s hands. He brought the drink to his lips. His eyes fell on the bandage on Ellie’s neck. “Does it hurt?”

  “Stings,” Ellie replied. Her neck only needed a few stitches. The three-inch slash below her right eye was the deep one. A rectangular patch covered it. The skin around it swelled and turned a purplish pink.

  Troy gave Ell
ie a pitying smile. He walked around the granite countertop and sat down next to her. “I’ve thought more about last night. What about a cabin resort? Somewhere in the country, far away from the world. We could go fishing, hiking, and watch cheesy movies until the break of day. What do you think?”

  “Will your boss let you leave?” Ellie asked, trying to avoid any conversation that might link back to her latest portrait. “We’ve only been back for a week.”

  “To hell with him,” Troy replied with fire. “Jobs come and go. It’s you who I care about.” He took Ellie’s hands in his own and looked her deep in the eyes. “I almost lost you last night. I’m not going to let that happen again.”

  Ellie couldn’t return his gaze. It’s me who should be worried about losing you.

  Troy glanced at the stove clock and let go of Ellie’s hands. “I’ll call you when I finish my column. Think about where you want to go. I know your folks live in PA, but if you decide to go down to banjo country, I’m completely okay with that.”

  Troy kissed her on the forehead. He lingered there for a while and then headed out the door. Before he left, he turned back in the threshold. “Rest today, Ellie. You need it.”

  “I will,” Ellie replied softly.

  Troy closed the door. Ellie waited a few moments and then approached the living room window, watching Troy climb into his Jeep Renegade twelve stories below. On his way to the local press, he drove into the awakening city.

  As if someone snapped their fingers, Ellie’s passive nature turned frantic. She ran for her phone on the countertop and dialed Detective Adrian Peaches, the one person on the police force who believed she was innocent, and one of the few people outside of Troy who knew about her episodes and the death paintings.

  His phone rang and rang. Ellie paced as she got his voicemail. “Peaches, it’s Ellie. I’ve painted another one. Call me when you can.”

  Ellie waited about three seconds and then redialed. She mumbled to herself, “Pick up, pick up,” while her eyes stayed on the closed art room door.

  Someone answered the phone.

  “Thank God,” Ellie exclaimed. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

  The person on the other end of the line groaned. “I should’ve known it was you.” The voice was gravelly and harsh, far from the soft, reassuring tone of Detective Peaches.

  Ellie’s heart sank. “Detective Skinner?”

  “Don’t sound so excited,” the gruff detective replied. “What? Did you expect little old Peaches would reply to you after last night? His head is swollen like a melon, or did you forget that his skull was smashed in during your heroic skirmish?”

  Ellie set her jaw for a moment. “Let me talk to him.”

  “He’s in bed,” Skinner replied.

  “You his nurse?” Ellie retorted. “He and I need to speak. It’s important.”

  Skinner smirked. “Whatever you can say to him, you can say to me.”

  Another, softer voice sounded on the other end of the line. “Skinner. Let me have it.”

  Skinner groaned. Ellie listened to the ruffling noise of a phone changing hands. Peaches spoke; his voice was soft and dry. “Hey, Ellie. How’s the neck?”

  “Feels like I’ve been shot,” Ellie replied. “I need to talk you. In private.”

  Peaches lowered the phone and said to Skinner. “Give me a moment.”

  Detective Skinner grumbled. His footsteps exited the hospital room.

  “Is he gone?” Ellie asked suspiciously.

  “He is. Don’t worry. I’m not on speaker phone.”

  Ellie took a breath. “I painted another one last night. It’s bigger than the rest. It was of Troy.”

  A bed squeaked. Peaches must’ve sat up. “Describe it to me.”

  “I’ll send you a picture.” Ellie texted him the images of the mural.

  “That’s a nasty cut,” Peaches said in regards to Troy’s wound. “Have you told him?”

  “No,” Ellie admitted. “He’ll just try to do something stupid. I need your help to stop the hooded man before he attacks again.”

  “I’d love to, Ellie, but he nearly killed me. The doctors said I have a major concussion and won’t be out of the hospital for a few days. After that, I’m looking at a three-month recovery time. It’s bad, Ellie. Really bad. If not for the funny pills they gave me, I wouldn’t be talking right now.”

  Ellie’s stomach dropped. She felt the walls of her apartment pressing in. “So what do I do?”

  “Work with Skinner.”

  “He thinks I’m working with the killer!”

  “I know he’s rough around the edges, but he’s good,” Peaches replied. “Besides, going after this guy alone is very foolish, and you’re far from that.”

  Ellie ran her hand up her scalp. She rested her forearm on the glass window of the apartment and gazed down at the city. Her mouth made a line on her face.

  Peaches spoke with concern. “You there?”

  “Yeah,” Ellie replied.

  “Skinner will take care of you, I’ll make sure of it.” Peaches replied. Ellie imagined a reassuring smile on his stubbled jaw. “Alright?” Peaches asked, expecting a reply.

  Ellie shut her eyes and took a breath. “Sure.”

  “Awesome. I’ll let you know when the doctor gives me the okay to leave.” By his tone, he wasn’t overjoyed with the idea of being benched for the remainder of this investigation. He called Skinner in and filled him on the plan.

  Detective Skinner grabbed Peaches’s phone. “So we’re partners now?”

  “Apparently,” Ellie said unenthusiastically.

  “You wait at home and call if you have any more visions,” Skinner commanded, “I can’t have you running willy-nilly when there’s a killer about.”

  “Thanks for your concern,” Ellie replied.

  She hung up the phone. No way in hell she was working with Skinner. He’d much rather see her behind bars than be part of this tag team. After grabbing the canvases with Pamela Cornish’s murder and Andrew Maneau’s botched killing, Ellie put on her coat and ball cap. She headed out of the apartment, made sure the front door was locked, and then rode the elevator down to the lobby. When she got outside, she got a cab and sent Troy a quick text, telling him that she was going to run a few errands before they left town.

  He replied, reminding her to purchase some plane tickets with flights that would depart tonight or tomorrow. He also made it very clear that money was no issue. Maybe we should just leave, Ellie thought. Leaving did seem like the logical choice, but what threw Ellie for a loop was the black backdrop of the mural. All of the other death portraits revealed the murder room in impeccable detail. But, she knew nothing about where Troy would die. Flying to a vacation destination might be fulfilling destiny. What she needed at this point was answers. The cab took her toward Andrew Maneau’s estate, the place where she was almost killed last night.

  There was intensity to her silent cab ride out of Northampton. The morning sun twinkled on the surface of the Connecticut River. The bridge across the river rumbled through the car and gave Ellie a small shake. Her vision was tunneled the whole way down the winding back road. Tall trees clothed in spring’s green leaves lined both sides of the street that separated the famous art collector from the rest of the world.

  The estate, a three-story mansion reminiscent of what one might see in Westchester, New York, grew larger in the distance. It was encircled with massive trees that had been expertly trimmed. The green grass on the front yard was checkered. A sleek black Limo was parked outside of the double front doors, along with Ellie’s rent-a-car she drove last night.

  The cab parked in the roundabout driveway. Ellie put on her shades to mask her bloodshot eyes and stepped out of the vehicle. Unseen birds chirped in the surrounding trees. A gardener mowed the lawn in the backyard. A few more trimmed the bushes along the sides of the mansion. If Ellie didn’t know better, she’d say it looked like it was just a normal day at the Maneau house despite al
l that had happened less than ten hours ago.

  She gave the front door a buzz, set down the cardboard boxes containing the canvases, and waited with her hands buried deep in her pockets. A gentle breeze brushed her blonde hair against her bandaged cheek. The door opened. A woman answered. She was elderly, with a hooked nose and a wet mop in her hand. In judgmental silence, she scrutinized Ellie.

  Ellie kept her face neutral. Her eyes were hidden behind her buggy sunglasses. “Tell Andrew that Ellie’s here.”

  “Mr. Maneau’s not seeing any visitors this morning.” The woman grabbed the doorknob and began to shut the door.

  Ellie caught the rim before it could close. Using some force, she pried it open.

  “Get him, please.” Ellie said, equal parts polite and forceful.

  When it seemed like the elderly woman understood what Ellie had said, Ellie let go of the door and allowed the elderly woman to shut it. She waited outside for a good four minutes before the door re-opened and the woman gestured for Ellie to enter.

  “Upstairs,” the woman said. “Gallery.”

  Ellie adjusted the cardboard boxes tucked under her left armpit and started up the stairs. Blood stained one of the upper steps. Ellie frowned heavily and stepped over the drying puddle. The help inside marched the halls, collecting half drunken champagne flutes from various lamp stands and decorative sideboards.

  Ellie made her way to the third floor, home to Andrew’s bedroom and private collection. The hall here was empty compared to the rest of the house. There were no workers. No big mess. No anyone, really. When Ellie walked across the floor, she could only hear the sound of her footsteps and the faint hum of the air conditioner. She stopped in front of the sealed gallery doors, took a breath, and grabbed one of the brass handles that spiraled like a candy cane.