LaDonna wasn’t going to share anything with Mrs. Blair. “I’ll run. Don’t worry about me.”
She did run after looking up and down the sidewalk in front of the Blairs. At her own door, she hurriedly pushed the key into the lock and twisted, jumped inside and slammed the door. Leaned against it.
Johnny just came home? And went straight to the shower? Would someone who just murdered a girl be covered with blood? It might depend on how he killed her. Strangling someone wouldn’t cause the killer to get bloody. Stabbing her would. Especially if she fought, as Katherine had.
Without wanting to, LaDonna pictured Johnny’s long, strong fingers on black and white piano keys. She felt his hand in hers. His hand at her waist, long fingers pressing in slightly to pull her close for a hug or to keep them together walking with his arm around her.
Johnny could not kill anyone, she said over and over to herself as she headed for a shower. Are you sure? that other self said, as if it was a part of her.
I’m not sure of anything anymore.
She showered, slipped into an old soft nightgown, and lay on her bed. She stared at the faded wallpaper, the cracks in the ceiling that she had made into animals and plants when she was very young.
She snapped off the light. Lay in the soft darkness for what seemed like hours. Nothing made sense to her since Mr. Sable had come into her life. What did that mean? Nothing really. And one thing was right. Her work.
She felt good about tonight’s painting.
fifteen
THERE WAS NO way LaDonna could avoid reading the headlines in the newspaper the next morning.
CAMPUS KILLER STRIKES AGAIN
Her dad studied the front page while he sipped his coffee. The smell made LaDonna nauseous. She’d be lucky to keep down tea and toast.
When her father handed her the front page of the paper, she debated whether or not she wanted to read the article. Curiosity won. Someone would tell her anyway.
Teachers said that Minette Waterson was the most promising young artist they’d seen for years. Waterson stayed on campus late last night to finish hanging her senior show, a show that will now hang as a memorial to this young woman.
Around ten o’clock police were called to Varsity Pond by women from the nearby sorority house. One of them had heard screams, what sounded like a fight, and then a splash. Another witness said he saw someone running in the direction of College Avenue right after ten.
It took police less than an hour to locate Waterson’s body. Speculation is that she was dead before she hit the water, however. There were numerous knife wounds on her body, one of which was probably fatal.
Retracing Waterson’s steps before she reached the pond, led back to the art room where she had spent the evening. The young artist’s work is nothing short of spectacular.
The police are continuing their investigation. Anyone with further information or who was in the vicinity of Varsity Pond last night is asked to come in and talk with authorities.
LaDonna stared at the newsprint, which blurred before her eyes. I spoke with her. She had my job. She was in the basement. I should go in, she thought over and over. I know I should. And would they get it out of me that Johnny got home about ten thirty? That he immediately went to shower? That someone who knew me called my name earlier? Someone tried to frighten me. Guilt battled with fear.
Another list of police questions filled her mind. Where did you go after someone tried to frighten you? Why didn’t you call us then? If she said she went to paint, they might ask to see her painting, or where she was painting. Then they might ask if she went straight home at eleven o’clock. She could say yes. There was no one at her house to say she didn’t.
This was all too complicated.
“LaDonna are you all right?” Her dad stared at her.
“Yes, Dad. Thanks. I guess with as many people as there are on campus, a couple are certain to be—be—” LaDonna wasn’t sure what to call someone who would murder women for no reason, or none that anyone could see.
“Crazy.” Her dad finished the sentence. “This killer is psychotic. He probably acts perfectly natural most of the time.”
Her dad seemed so sure about his statement, but LaDonna agreed. Again she realized the killer could be someone she knew. He called your name. “Someone called my name.”
“What? Someone called you last night?” Her father seemed interested.
“Oh, no, I was just thinking out loud. It was nothing, Dad, nothing.”
She put her cup in the sink and dashed out of the house.
Johnny wasn’t at school. She missed him. And what did that mean? Was he sick? Hiding out?
She messed with a canvas in art class. Mr. Rodriguez ignored her, giving a lot of attention to Merilee. Eric Hunter spent the class setting up a still life and helping three girls do charcoal sketches. LaDonna had the strange feeling that she was invisible.
She tried to think invisible was good right now. Her instinct told her to lie low. Not volunteer information that could be twisted and turned against Johnny, or anyone else. She hurried up to the college campus after school. She had changed her mind about going straight to work. She wanted to see the senior show the young woman who was killed had stayed late hanging. There might be something in her work that would tell LaDonna more about her. She felt as if she really wanted to know Minette Waterson.
Another building held the art labs where most of the actual painting, sculpting, iron work, crafts was done. LaDonna hurried past her classroom building and into the long hall of the next where paint, glue, wood, and clay smells mixed into a heavenly aroma—if you were an artist.
LaDonna was reminded of the smell of newly sharpened pencils, her new paint box, the new book smells of first grade.
She passed a display of batik and stopped to look at the work, stalling, she knew, but she let it be all right.
Last year she had been obsessed by silk screen, but now she knew fine art would be her major in college. Painting. She could never make a living with it, at least not right away, but she’d work someplace in order to paint. Roddy was trying to get her a scholarship in art. Maybe Minette Waterson was here on an art scholarship. Was that why she had first accepted the job from Glen? Was her spectacular art salable? LaDonna would compare it to what she was doing. What would four more years of experience help her to produce?
Go in the gallery, LaDonna. Go in and see her paintings. Somehow LaDonna had equated seeing Minette’s art to seeing her body at a funeral service. She took a deep breath, swallowed, and pulled open the door to the student gallery.
The place was jammed with people. That didn’t surprise LaDonna. Curiosity seekers. People with a morbid sense of needing to see. Did she fall into that category?
Did it matter why she was here?
Spectacular was the right word for the reporter to have used. Incredible, terrific—all those superlatives. Tears came to La Donna’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. Within a few minutes Minette returned to life through her work. What a wasted talent.
Like Katherine. Was that the key to the killer’s victims? Women who were incredibly talented? The woman who got away was a dancer. Or was that a coincidence? Those students would work long hours, creating or practicing.
She was staring at a long, narrow canvas picturing a young man, a man with an elongated body, long, slender hands that reached for the sky. The piece was entitled “Desire.” LaDonna understood the emotion. The reaching for, the longing for something.
“God, she had talent, didn’t she?” said a deep voice behind her. “Like you do.”
LaDonna swung around to find Eric Hunter right behind her, standing way too close. She stepped away.
“Yes, she did.” What else could she say? What are you doing here? He was doing the same thing LaDonna was, looking at the young artist’s show.
“What a waste of talent,” LaDonna commented.
They stood side by side studying the painting, and LaDonna felt Eric relax a littl
e. His attitude helped her breathe more normally, and before she could stop she sighed deeply.
“LaDonna, I owe you an apology.” Eric said without looking at her. “I realize that every time we’ve talked I’ve rubbed you wrong. I’ll even admit to having an abrasive personality.”
“You will?” LaDonna smiled without looking at him.
“If you want to know the whole truth, I was scared that first day I came to class. Teenagers can be very intimidating.”
“We always give student teachers a bad time. Same as substitute teachers.”
“I know. I remember. I’m not that old.”
Their silence was companionable as they moved to another painting, which surprised LaDonna. Finally Eric said, “Have a pizza or a sub with me? I’m sure you’re heading for work, but you have to eat sometime. Give me a second chance?”
“How about mixing with your students?” she teased, giving her a few seconds to decide how she felt about being with him.
“I’m sure it’s safe, and totally kosher as well. I promise not to come on to you.”
“I am hungry.” LaDonna realized she was starved. She’d had no breakfast. School lunch was a disaster. She couldn’t go to work without eating.
“Okay, new start.” LaDonna decided and offered her hand to Eric. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about him, but she was willing to give him another chance to be cool. She wouldn’t mind talking to someone about Minette Waterson’s show.
He grinned and squeezed her palm hard. Then pushed her through the crowd to an exit. “I wonder how many would have attended her show without the publicity, the sensationalism.”
“I would hope a lot would have come. Real art lovers who would appreciate her talent.”
Teresa’s had a line, so they went on to The Sub Shop. LaDonna found a table after telling Eric what she wanted. Waiting gave her time to watch him, and to think about this change in his attitude. Was it real? Did she care? She was only going to have a sandwich with him. She’d like to know more about him.
He answered her first question as he unwrapped the paper from his sandwich. “I came here last summer from New Jersey. I thought I’d live with my aunt who’s here, but she’s pretty old and somewhat of a recluse. I sensed she didn’t want me around.”
“Did you come on to her like you did to me—our whole class?” LaDonna asked.
“Well, I wasn’t afraid of her. I think she’s used to being alone with four cats and her memories.”
“So where are you living?”
“I found a cheap room on Thirteenth. I don’t dare leave anything valuable there. It’s a dump.”
“How about your work? Where do you leave it?”
“I don’t think anyone would want a picture I painted.” Eric studied his ham and cheese. “I’m not very good. My uncle was an artist. A good one. His paintings are worth a lot now.”
LaDonna heard the word “was” but didn’t pry. “I think some people get caught up in the romance of being a painter.” Quickly she added, “I don’t mean you, but everyone. No one realizes how hard it is, what hell it is, if you want the truth. I’m miserable when I’m not painting. I’m miserable when my work is going badly. Work was going badly when you came to school.” Her words weren’t really an apology, but an explanation of how she’d acted when she met him, if he wanted one.
“And now it is?” He smiled. He was really cute when he dropped his Mr. Wonderful act. “Going well?”
“Yes.”
“What changed it for you? Got you out of your block?”
Had Roddy told Eric she was blocked or had he added one and one to get frustration? “I—I don’t think I can tell you. I mean it would sound too strange. Someone helped me.”
“Roddy?”
“No. Someone else. Roddy has helped me lots of times, but I was really down on myself this time. I needed more than words.”
I needed someone whispering to me, leaning over my shoulder, showing me a path to explore.
“The work you brought in looked really familiar.” Eric gave her space, but she could tell he was more than curious.
“I guess you could say someone influenced me a lot. But I’ve always studied the great artists. I really like the paintings Turner did late in life.”
Eric stared at her until she felt uncomfortable with him again. She looked away and concentrated on her food. Her throat tightened around a piece of hard roll, so she reached for her Coke and sipped the sharp, fizzy drink, letting it slide down.
“Why don’t you bring one of your paintings to class tomorrow, Eric?” La Donna suggested. “Are you open to criticism?”
“By high school artists?”
“Oh, oh. There goes that chip back on your shoulder.”
“You’re really honest, aren’t you?” He grinned at her.
“I don’t lie to myself. And telling someone else his work is good when it isn’t is of no use to him.”
“Roddy said he often asked you to work with his beginning class. Have you thought of teaching?”
“Occasionally. Roddy is a good role model. You can learn a lot from him. Wow, I have to go to work. My dad has suggested strongly that I be home by dark.”
“I don’t blame him. Take the rest of your sub to work with you. What time do you get off? I could walk you home.”
“Johnny usually does that.” LaDonna wanted Eric to know she wasn’t interested in him as a date, even if she had to lie a little. She wasn’t even sure if Johnny was in the music rooms. And she never knew what time he’d finish.
“I thought you two were an item.”
“We’re friends.” LaDonna put her leftovers in her bag and picked up her Coke.
“Speak of the devil and he appears.” Eric grinned at someone behind her.
“LaDonna, I need to talk to you.” Johnny Blair stepped up to their table.
“She has to go to work.” Eric looked at LaDonna. A tiny smile, left from his grin, curled his lip down. He took on his spoiled, arrogant persona again.
“I’ll walk her over there.” Johnny put emphasis on the word I’ll, as if to say, you leave her alone. Oh, my, was Johnny jealous? She hoped so.
“What are you doing with that guy?” Johnny said as soon as they left the shop.
“Why weren’t you at school today?” LaDonna sparred with her own question.
“I wanted to stay home.” For Johnny that was reason enough to do so. He always did as he pleased.
“You’re in a blue funk, aren’t you? Don’t take it out on me.” LaDonna recognized the depression that Johnny often dealt with. The emotion usually came on him when a recital got close. She knew it originated from his worry about being good enough.
Johnny didn’t answer. He took her arm as they crossed a busy intersection on Broadway. His touch helped her feel a very mixed electrical charge between them.
Neither spoke until he delivered her to the growing shadows of trees near the front door of the art building. She didn’t realize it was nearly five o’clock.
His firm grip on her arm stopped her, swung her around to face him. She looked up and tried to read the expression on his face, his eyes.
“I’ve started thinking of you as my girl, LaDonna.” Johnny was as honest as she was, and she had to admit, she liked this statement from him. But she stalled giving over to his mood.
“You don’t own me.”
“I didn’t say that. I—I’ve realized that—” Johnny stopped squeezing her arm and looked away, towards Varsity Pond. “Oh, hell, LaDonna, I love you.”
She laughed. “Is that so traumatic?”
He looked back into her eyes, and his gaze softened a little. “Yes, it is. I have a schedule for my life. I was going to fall in love about ten years from now.” His shoulders slumped, and he finally laughed, too.
“You can love me, Johnny, and not do anything about it, except—except—”
“Except what?”
“Do I have to tell you what to do? You could kiss me.” She til
ted her lips to his. He didn’t need any more encouragement.
His kiss was tender, then more passionate, and she responded until they were both breathless. She buried her face in his wooly flannel shirt, enjoying the smell of him, the warmth of his arms around her.
“I love you, too, Johnny,” she said finally. “I realized that when I sat behind you the other night and heard you play, watched you practice. Let’s make it all right. I have a lot of plans, too. We can love each other and not run away and get married, don’t you think?”
“I hope so.” He laughed again, took both of her arms and pushed her away a little to look at her. “Would you please be careful? Or wait for me to come and get you tonight?”
“Was that what made you realize you loved me?”
“Partly. I don’t want you—hurt.”
“Please don’t worry, Johnny. And don’t think you have to worry about time in order to come get me. I can take care of myself,” LaDonna assured him. She brushed his cheek with another kiss. “Bye.”
I hope, she thought, as she ran towards her work. Knowing that Johnny loved her made her feel she could do anything.
sixteen
QUICKLY, SHE SORTED a box of paintings. To her surprise, there was one good one. She hung it on the wall to look at further. Finally, tired of unpacking boxes, she stared at a blank canvas waiting for her own work.
“Love is hard to paint,” he said, his voice soft, sensual.
“You know?”
“I’ve known for a long time.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I knew he’d come around eventually. He’s loved you for a long time without knowing it.”
“He got scared when Katherine was killed.”
“Are you still frightened?”
“Of you?”
“No, in general, of the darkness?”
She thought about that. “No,” she said finally. “But someone is killing those women. I’m afraid of him. Do you know who the murderer is?”
“I haven’t tried to find out.”
“But you could. You can leave here?”
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