by Willow Rose
I park in front of the new Starbucks on State Road 520 and walk inside, still wearing my sunglasses. The girl behind the counter smiles at me and I order a pumpkin spice latte and a chocolate donut. I spot my brother’s big painting on the wall and walk to it. It is actually quite good, I think to myself, while sipping my coffee and taking the first bite of the donut.
I grab a chair and sit down in front of the painting, admiring my brother’s creativity. I have never been able to create anything but words on a piece of paper, and I have always found it astonishing what Blake can create. I never understood why he doesn’t have more success. I know he has tried everything. At one point, he even painted cell phone cases for people, but he didn’t make much on that either. My guess is that he still borrows money from my dad to get by, and I can’t blame my father for being fed up with it. Especially with the lifestyle my brother has led the past years, ever since he got his art degree from college.
“You like the painting?”
It is the girl from behind the counter. She has come over to clean the table next to me. “It’s for sale.”
I chuckle. “Oh, I’m not looking to buy.”
She picks up an empty cup, then stops in front of the painting. “It’s really good, though,” she says. “Too bad he won’t be able to make more.”
I almost choke on my donut. I swallow the bite that almost got stuck and look at her. “What do you mean?”
“Haven’t you heard? He’s going to jail. Apparently, he killed someone. Kind of hard to imagine him doing that, though. But that just shows…you never really know people, right? He seemed so nice.”
“You know him?” I ask.
“Sure. He used to come here every day for his coffee. Then he would ask to talk to Ray, our manager. Every day for almost a year he asked him to let him put up one of his paintings for display. Finally, Ray got tired of saying no. He’s pulling it down later today. Says he doesn’t want some killer’s painting in his shop. I’ll miss it, though. I kind of like it.”
“Say, did he ever come in here with anyone?” I ask. “Or was he always alone?”
“He was always alone,” she says. “Until the day when we put up the painting. Someone was with him that day.”
“Who? Was it a woman?”
“As a matter of fact, it was. I remember we talked about it, since we had never seen him with a woman before and some of us wondered if he was gay. I never thought he was, though. Just doesn’t seem the type. He always flirted with me.”
She makes a shy movement then returns to cleaning up. She throws out the cup. I pull out my phone and find a picture of Olivia Hartman, which I show to her. “Was this the woman who was with him that morning?”
The girl looks at it, then nods with surprise. “Yes. Yes. That was her. How did you know?”
I sigh and put my phone back. “Just a hunch. Say, did you notice if they left together?”
“They did. Drove in separate cars, though. Why?”
I finish my donut and grab my cup. “Tell your boss to not throw away the painting. I’ll buy it and come for it later.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
September 2015
The door to my brother’s studio is decorated with black-and-yellow tape that says CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS.
I slide under it and through the door without breaking the seal. I enter his small studio. The place is a mess. Old beer bottles, cigarette stubs on dirty plates, food with mold on it. The studio is just one big room under the ceiling of the building. His bed is in one corner. Nothing but a mattress on the floor.
Who lives like this?
I pick up a sock from the floor, then realize there is nowhere I can put it, and let it fall to the wooden floor again. There is dust in the corners and on all his lamps; the floor needs to be washed. Shoes that have stepped in paint have left marks all over the wooden planks.
“Probably wouldn’t count on getting that deposit back once you leave, dear brother,” I mumble and walk into the kitchen. A chair is knocked over and I pick it up. I sit down on it and try to take in the room, wondering why I am even here.
“What happened, Blake?”
According to Holland, Blake was arrested right here on that morning he came back from Starbucks.
I want to go visit him again today or tomorrow, but the lawyer has told me not to talk about the case with him. They’re still in a phase where they will be listening in and use anything he says against him. I know we have to be very careful now.
The crime scene investigators have swept the place. I see marks on the walls where they have dusted for fingerprints and same marks on the floors where they have taken footprints. The place doesn’t look much like a crime scene. It’s dirty and messy, yes, but there is no blood anywhere. The kitchen table is in an odd position, though…pushed up against the wall while the chairs are in the middle of the floor. I walk to it and look at the footprints on the floor. Someone stepped in blue paint. The prints are all over the floor underneath the table. What strikes me is the shape of the print. The print from the heel is very small, almost nonexistent. It can only have been made by a pair of high-heeled stilettos. The paint is fresh. I get some on my finger when I touch it.
Who wears stilettos to a crime scene?
I have been at my share of crime scene investigations, covering them as a reporter, and seen many female investigators and detectives, even sometimes the district attorney is female, but none of them ever wore high-heeled shoes, let alone stilettos.
I stare at the print and wonder, then take a picture of it with my phone.
I turn around and look at my brother’s paintings. They are beautiful. I am surprised at how good he has become. I can actually say that I can see myself hanging one of them in my living room without lying anymore. Maybe I am not giving my dear brother enough credit. Maybe he isn’t just some lazy parasite, sucking money out of our dad.
I sigh and walk around in this strange place he calls home. I am about to leave when I realize I need to pee. I walk to his bathroom and hope and pray there is toilet paper in there. Luckily, there is, and I do my business. I wash my hands and look at myself in the mirror, then get curious and open the cabinet. In it, I find Blake’s toothbrush, mouthwash, toothpicks, and deodorant. I find his razor and inside of the case, next to the razor, I spot a ring. A silver ring with a beautiful green stone in it. I know nothing about jewelry, but I know enough to know that this is expensive. Completely out of Blake’s price range. I grab it and put it in my pocket, even though I know it’s a crime.
Just when I am about to leave the bathroom, I hear a voice. I pause and wait. The voice is coming closer. I peek out through the crack in the door and spot Detective Chris Fisher. He is one of the Cocoa Beach kids as well. I remember him. I saw him in the newspaper article in Florida Today where I read about my brother’s arrest. I know he is the guy who took him in.
He has a phone to his ear and is speaking loudly while walking into my brother’s studio.
“Yes, yes, of course I’ve got it under control,” he says.
I hold my breath as Chris Fisher walks closer to the door leading to the bathroom, but then changes his mind and walks into the small kitchen instead.
“I know. I know,” he says, while kneeling by the kitchen table. He is looking for something. I stand completely still and hold my breath. Me being there is an offense in itself. I stare at the front door and wonder if I can make a run for it. No. There is no way I can make it out without him seeing me. My heart is pounding in my chest.
I can’t get caught here. He can’t find me here!
“No, I’ll find it. Don’t worry,” he says. “It must be here somewhere.”
I feel the ring burning in my pocket. The detective is looking for something. Can it…Could it be…?
I don’t want to take any chances. I pull the ring out of my pocket and place it on the sink when I see the handle on the door turn.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
September 2015
The handle is moving and I manage to jump into the shower and hide behind the curtain. I hold my breath as detective Chris Fisher enters the bathroom and starts to look around. When he spots the ring on the sink, he lets out a small breath.
“There you are, little fella,” he says and picks it up. “You had us all scared there for a second.”
I watch him put it in his pocket, then rush out of the bathroom. I wait and listen as his footsteps walk across the wooden floors. I wait till they disappear. I don’t dare to breathe until minutes later. Or, at least that’s how it feels. I sit down in the tub until my heart is beating normally again. Then I get up and walk cautiously back into the studio.
As soon as I feel sure that the detective has left, I run across the floor and slide under the tape to get out into the hallway again. I take the stairs down and walk to the street, feeling like a criminal, like everyone’s eyes are on me, that they have all seen what I just did. I jump into my car and drive off.
I can’t believe what I just saw. Who was Detective Fisher talking to on the phone? His superior? Why was he looking for the ring? Why hadn’t they found it and brought it in when they searched the place after the arrest, if it was that important?
I don’t understand it. That and the high-heeled prints have me wondering. Was Olivia there with Blake when he was arrested?
I think about going back to my father’s house, but I don’t want to. There is something I need to do first. An itch I need to scratch.
I park the car in front of Chloe’s house and walk up the small driveway and ring the doorbell. It takes a while before she opens. She looks at me.
“Mary?”
“Do you have a minute? I need your help,” I say.
She doesn’t even think about it for a second before she steps aside and lets me in. “I was just making coffee,” she says. “You look like you could use a cup.”
“Thanks,” I say, and follow her into her kitchen. I see many bottles of pills on the counter. And a tray with food half eaten.
“How’s she doing?” I ask, thinking about how much I had always loved Chloe’s mother. She was the cool mom around. The one who always listened when you spoke, like really listened to what you said and wanted to know how you were feeling. I spent many hours talking to her, while going through the hardest time of my life. She took care of me when I needed it the most.
“So-so,” she says. “You know how it is. Some days are good, others are bad. You never know when it will be her last day, so we try to cherish every moment.”
“That’s nice,” I say, and take the cup she hands me. The smell alone makes me feel better already. I could use something to eat as well, but don’t say anything. I don’t want to impose.
“She’s asleep right now. She sleeps most of the day. So, what can I do for you?” Chloe finally asks.
We sit down in her kitchen. The smell of sickness is everywhere. The air in the house is stuffy. In the corner, I spot her old surfboard. It doesn’t look like it has been in the water recently.
“You know about my brother, right?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, and sips her coffee. “He was arrested this Friday, right? I was shocked when I heard.”
“Me too,” I say. “But the thing is, I am beginning to think something is very wrong with this case.”
“Like what?”
“Okay, first of all, they found the body in a motel room a week before they decided to arrest my brother. Why did it take so long? Second, there is nothing that indicates he was ever in that motel room; he never paid for it with any of his credit cards, nor did anyone seen him there. Third, the eye-witness says she was with him and Jamilla Jenkins at his studio when he stabbed her, but there was no blood found in his studio or in his car.”
Chloe nods and looks at me pensively. “Good points, but still…they might have needed a week to figure out it was him; it takes time to gather all the evidence and find the witness. He could have worn a disguise and paid cash, and he could have cleaned his place and the car afterwards. After all, he had an entire week to hide it.”
I stare at her.
“Just playing the devil’s advocate here,” she says, gesticulating with her hands in the air.
“I know it’s not much, but it’s still enough for me to wonder. Why would he move the body to a hotel room? Why not throw it in the river or the ocean?” I ask.
“Maybe he figured someone else could take the blame. Maybe he thought they would react exactly the way you did. If the eyewitness hadn’t stepped out, no one would have thought of him, the way I see it. Listen. I know he’s your brother and we all love him and care for him, but you’ve got to admit he looks pretty guilty. They found the bloody chisel in his place, for Christ sake.”
“I know,” I say and drink my coffee, suddenly wishing it were something stronger. “I still think he’s been framed. I just don’t know how to prove it. I also believe he wasn’t alone when he was arrested. Someone was with him. A woman. I need to know if she was there.”
“And how do you plan on doing that?” Chloe asks.
I look at her while a smile spreads across my face.
Chapter Forty
September 2015
Cassie Morgan is waiting. Standing outside the door to the nursery, her ear pressed against it, she waits for the baby to start crying again. When it doesn’t happen, she closes her eyes and lets out a deep sigh.
“I’m too old for this,” she mumbles to herself.
She walks downstairs, cursing her husband, Ben. It was all his idea. Let’s have another baby. It’ll be fun!
Cassie thought she was done with all that, since the two others were teenagers now, but Ben kept asking her, begging her to have another one, one last baby. Cassie said no, but somehow he got his way anyway. Accidentally, she became pregnant and now they have started all over again.
“It’ll be fun,” she mumbles to herself, mocking her husband’s voice. No wonder he thinks it is fun. He gets to do all the good stuff with the baby. It’s not like he’s the one who has to give up his job and his entire life for this.
Cassie places the receiver to the baby monitor on the counter in the kitchen and starts to empty the dishwasher. Just like every other morning. Cassie sighs and puts the dishes away, then the glasses and the silverware. With every fork she puts back in its place, she grumbles and curses her husband.
Cassie hates being a housewife. She loathes having to stay home and take care of the baby while everyone else gets to go out in the wide world and be with grownups and have grown up conversations. She misses her job like crazy, and with the age she is, there is no guarantee that she will get it back once she is ready for it. Ben wants her to take at least three years off, like she did with the others. But she doesn’t want to spend three years like this, doing house chores and walking the baby in the stroller. She hates it. And, worst of all, there is no one her age with babies around here. All the other moms are in their early twenties. She has nothing in common with them. Nothing at all.
Cassie sighs again and closes the dishwasher. No. Life hasn’t been any fun for many years. It’s always about them and what they need and what activity she has to drive them to.
Cassie looks at the baby monitor and is filled with peace. It looks like the baby is finally really heavily asleep.
He sure needs the sleep, she thinks to herself. After the night we had with him waking up every other hour. He must be exhausted.
Cassie grabs her phone and smiles when she sees the picture of little Jared. She never admits it publicly, but of course, she is glad she had him. Even if it is a lot of trouble and a lot of work all over again, she loves him dearly. He’s the only boy she ever had, and she is fonder of him than either of the others. There is no doubt about it. She would do anything for that little munchkin. It’s the lack of sleep and the overload of work that gets to her.
But it’ll pass. Just like it did with the others. It’ll get better.
Cassie finds her fr
iend in her contacts and calls her. Her friend is a stay at home mom as well, even though her children are all grown up. She never made it back to work. Now she is doing charity work and is in charge of the girl scouts.
“Hey, it’s me. How’s it going?” she asks.
“Great. Getting ready for the spook-tacular event next month. We’re raising money for the orphanage in Titusville.”
“Sounds exciting,” Cassie says without meaning it. The friend throws these events every year to raise money for a charity of her choice, but it is really all about them getting together and getting drunk, just for a good cause.
“I’ve been thinking about getting some of Blake Mills’ paintings for the auction,” she says. “I think they will have great value this year.”
“Oh, what an excellent idea,” Cassie says. “The works of a local murderer. How very spook-tacular, indeed.”
“I thought it might attract some attention.”
Cassie agrees, then pauses and takes the phone away from her ear. She looks at the baby monitor.
“What’s wrong?” her friend asks.
“Nothing. I just thought I heard Jared, but there is nothing on the monitor. You were saying?”
“I was just saying I wanted to find out who to ask to buy the paintings. I bet he has a lot.”
“Maybe talk to his dad. I believe the old Mills still live on 7th Street right on the water. Maybe you could just drive down there and ask. I heard Mary is home too.”
“I just don’t want to impose, you know. I don’t want to come out like a vulture.”
“Wait a minute,” Cassie says and looks at the monitor again. “I thought I heard something again, but it was nothing.”
“Don’t you have one of those with a camera?” her friend asks.
“Nah. I just have the old type with a light display.” She looks at it again and sees the light moving.
“You should get one with a camera. That way, you always know if he is just turning over in bed.”
“Well, there is definitely sound. I gotta go,” she says and hangs up. The monitor is quiet now again, and Cassie stares at it. She feels like screaming at it for controlling every minute of her life. She really wants Jared to sleep longer.