The Painting Murders: A Paranormal Painting Mystery- The Beginning
Page 7
When she heard the knock, Ellie ran to door and opened it for Detective Peaches. His hand was wrapped in a bandage. “May I?” he asked at the apartment’s threshold.
Ellie allowed him entry. She poured him a glass of iced tea and opened up a fresh container of coffee cake. The detective happily indulged.
“It’s good,” he said with a full mouth. He swallowed, dabbing his cheek with a fresh napkin from the bar top.
Ellie replied. “What did you learn about the apartment?”
“Nothing yet,” Peaches replied. “His neighbors were reluctant to speak. They say that no one comes in or out of apartment 42A. The landlord leased it out to a Joseph Dillinger at the start of the year. Funny enough, Mr. Dillinger was arrested six months ago and has been in the can ever since.”
“So who’s paying his rent?”
“Someone with an envelope of cash. Forensics is looking for fingerprints now, but that will take days, weeks, months even for them to get the proper test results back.” Peaches ate some more coffee cake.
Ellie watched him. There was something both professional and lax about him. If she were in his shoes, she would’ve cuffed herself and be locked up downtown. Ellie wanted to ask him why he let her walk, but held herself back. Whatever his motive, you need his resources. Ellie directed Peaches’s attention to the painting that she had already set out. “There it is. I was thinking we could look over it for more clues.”
The detective scanned over it. “Are all your paintings this… dark?”
“None,” Ellie replied. She gestured to various homesteads, houses, and flowers paintings decorating the apartment’s walls. “Rural beauty is my niche. The only thing I’m good at painting, really. That was until I created this.”
They both turned their eyes to the painting.
“What was the inspiration?” Peaches asked.
“That’s what I want to figure out,” Ellie admitted. “It was a normal night like any other and then -- boom, I just started flowing.”
Ellie’s gut told her to leave out the detail about her six-hour blackout. It would only make her more seem more suspicious, if that was possible. Peaches was taking a big risk being here, and she was grateful for that.
“Did you tell anyone about us meeting here tonight?” She asked as innocently as possible.
“No,” Peaches replied casually. He was too enamored with the painting. He pulled out his phone and snapped a few photos of it.
“Research,” he said with a small smile. “May I take a look around?”
“My house is your house,” Ellie said. Keep earning his trust, Ellie, she told herself. He’s the only ally you’ve got.
The detective checked the various rooms and bathrooms, snapping photos with his phone. Ellie followed behind him. “Troy and I moved in here eleven months ago. We were in Northampton for a year before that.”
“Where are you from originally,” the detective said as he opened the towel closet.
“Lancaster, Pennsylvania. It was mostly Amish country,” Ellie said as she watched the detective acutely. He was careful not to touch anything. That was good. It meant he wasn’t trying to plant any false evidence. It was a small concern in Ellie’s mind that he was setting her up, but the longer she followed him, the more that seemed not the case. He’d never spend too long in a single room and when he pried, he stayed in view of Ellie. She kept an eye on him, making sure it wasn’t some sort of misdirection or sleight of hand. By the time she returned to the living room, she still didn’t know what Peaches’s motives were for searching the apartment. She finally asked him about it when they returned to the coffee cake.
He smiled at her. “I’m making sure you’re not the killer.”
“Did I convince you?”
“About ninety percent.”
“Hey, it’s more than it was this morning, right?”
Peaches sipped his iced tea. “It’s about the same actually.”
Ellie glanced at the wall clock. Troy would be home in another forty-five minutes. “So how I can help in this investigation?”
“You watch Fight Club?” Peaches asked, seemingly out of the left field.
“It’s not really my cup of tea,” Ellie said, slightly embarrassed. “Chick flicks and dog movies are my weakness.”
“Noted,” Peaches leaned his elbow on the bar. “The first rule of this little partnership is that we don’t discuss it. Not with the police, our loved ones, nobody.”
“And I took you as a stickler for rules,” Ellie said, remember his fine posture in the bullpen and welcoming introduction.
“Be glad I’m not, otherwise, you’d be back in a temporary holding cell.”
Ellie felt like he was using that fact against her. This game was becoming more dangerous by the second. “All right, what’s the second rule?”
“It’s an exception to the first. You tell me everything. What you paint, who you talk to you, when you leave your home.”
“That’s a little extreme,” Ellie replied.
“Understandable, but we will need to be transparent with one another about the case and anything linking to it.”
“All right,” Elle compromised. “I can do that.”
“Last rule,” the detective said with complete seriousness. “You won’t pursue any leads or go anywhere without my company. It’s safer this way for everybody.”
“And if I break any of these rules?” Ellie played devil’s advocate.
“We’ll both be in big trouble,” Peaches said. “This may seem like a game to you, but things can wrong in a snap. Partners of mine have died before.”
Ellie cracked a smile, thinking he was joking, but wasn’t completely sure.
The detective checked his phone. “I have to run.” He gestured to the coffee cake. “Do you mind?”
Ellie shook her head. The detective picked up the entire container and headed for the door. “We’ll be in touch.”
He exited. Bastard took my coffee cake. As the door closed, Ellie saw Troy, eyes on his smartphone, bump shoulders with the detective. Peaches apologized and went to the elevator, whistling a jolly tune. Troy gawked at him for a moment before setting his jaw and storming to the door.
Ellie felt a chill up her spine and pangs of guilt. This wasn’t going to be good. Troy slung open the door so hard, it hit the nearby wall. “That better not be who I thought it was.”
“Troy,” Ellie said in a way to calm him down. “He was just stopping by to ask a few follow-up questions.”
“And you didn’t call me first?” Troy shook his head. “Ellie, he’s a cop and you’re a suspect, you shouldn’t be speaking to him without me and an attorney present.”
“He’s not like that,” Ellie argued.
Troy put his laptop down on the kitchen counter. “You’re wrong. I’ve worked with guys like him. He’s a snake. He tells you everything you want to hear, pretends to be your special friend, and then uses every word and deed against you.”
Ellie kept herself from scoffing. If she wanted to keep working with Peaches, she needed to make peace with her husband, at least until she got some real answers. “I made a mistake, Troy. I… I’m sorry. I should’ve called you first.”
Troy shook his head and smiled in that way he did when he was too furious to frown. “Ellie, don’t lie to me.”
Ellie shut up and cast down her eyes.
Troy put his hands on the countertop with his back to Ellie. “I came home early today to pick up my spare camera, and you weren’t here, none of your work was done, and my DLSR was missing. Care to explain?”
Ellie gnashed her teeth. “I borrowed it.”
Troy turned back to her and marched to her purse. Ellie grabbed it before he could reach in and grab the camera. He tilted his head slightly, his face turning cherry red, and he set his jaw.
Nervous as to what he might do, Ellie let go, allowing him to browse the photos on the camera. His anger slowly morphed into dread and horror. “Where did you take these?”
“Yes, yes, it matters. This place… is this where the painting led you?”
Ellie didn’t move, neither confirming nor denying the accusation.
Troy cursed under his breath. He quickly formatted the card, erasing every picture she took of apartment 42A.
“Why?” Ellie’s eyes watered.
“Because it’s condemning.”
She wanted to punch his face in.
Troy put the camera aside. He put his hand on Ellie’s shoulder. She swatted it away. Troy backed off. “I don’t know what to do with you, Ellie. You’re becoming obsessed with this painting. Hell, you are obsessed. It needs to stop. All of this running around. Going to places. Taking pictures. You’re an artist. Not Sherlock Holmes. Whatever sort of cosmic mystery surrounding this painting and its origins is not worth what you’re giving up. And if I’m not clear enough, that’s our relationship. Our marriage. The family we talked about having together.”
“You’re being overdramatic,” Ellie retorted.
“I don’t think I’m being dramatic enough,” Troy said. “I love you, Ellie. I really do, and that’s why this needs to stop. The painting goes tonight.”
“Don’t,” Ellie threatened.
“Ask yourself this, has this painting benefited you in any way?”
Ellie set her jaw. She thought hard, wanting a quick-witted response, not wanting to lose the argument. Troy couldn’t understand the rush. Fate had put a call-to-action in her life. It gave her a destiny outside of her perfect little world that she was building for herself. It was exciting, horrifying, wonderful, and terrible, something that clawed at her psyche and helped push herself to her max. Even being shot at didn’t matter that much to Ellie, but Troy would never understand it, because it wasn’t his painting. It wasn’t his calling. Her husband took Ellie’s silence as her answer.
“Sorry, Ellie.” Troy snatched up the painting that she had set on the coffee table, stuck it under his armpit, and marched out of the apartment.
Ellie felt the world spin around her as nausea took over. It was like he had pulled an organ from her body and left her helpless and bleeding on the floor. For a second, she thought about pulling the knife from her purse and running him down. The mental image made her run to the sink and nearly spew up her lunch. What’s happening to me? After she splashed her face, she walked to the apartment window and glared down at the sidewalk lit up by lampposts.
Troy put the painting in the back seat of the Jeep Renegade and sped down the street.
Ellie covered her mouth and wept, but didn’t know if it was for the painting, her husband, or herself. She needed to clear her mind. Dragging her feet behind her, she walked into the art room. She wasn’t in the mood for a commission piece. She just wanted to paint something new and calming. The sun setting over a grass knoll. Wild horses running freely.
As she worked, she heard Troy return. He knocked on the door. Ellie didn’t answer.
“Can I come in?” He entered anyway. His shadow cast over Ellie and the early stages of her most recent creation. He watched her, longing for her to turn around and face him. Ellie did not.
“I know you’re upset,” he said.
You think?
He continued. “And I hope one day you find it in your heart to forgive me.”
Ellie kept on working.
Troy placed a bag of fast food next to her feet. “Don’t forget to eat. Goodnight.”
Ellie didn’t reply.
He backed away and shut the doors behind him.
Ellie glanced at the grease-stained paper bag. The day’s hunger was coming back to haunt her. No. Not until you’re done. She put on her earphones, turned on some of her favorite jams, and got to work.
Hours slipped by like seconds. She kept a steady hand and focused her mind and energy solely on the task at hand. For the first time since she returned home, Ellie freed herself from the death of Kimberly Jannis, the investigation, and her rocky relationship. All that mattered was canvas and the brush stroke. The dots and dabbles. The colors and contrast. She could almost see the horses running across the fields. It would be finished soon. Another creation that may not be her greatest but would certainly sate her creative hunger.
That’s when something changed.
She felt the world fall away from her. The music in her ears faded to obscurity. Darkness swept over her vision in an instant. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Her heart raced as steady and as bold as an African war drum. Her mind went blank. She splashed black paint down the front horse’s face, effectively ruining hours of hard work. She rose from her bench, letting it topple to the floor. Troy didn’t hear. He was already asleep. She pulled up multiple cans of paint and started mixing together the deepest reds and darkest black. She picked up a second brush, dabbed it into her newest mixture, and created her latest masterpiece.
6
The Second Woman
Ellie’s head throbbed. She awoke curled up on the floor of her art room. Her hands were coated in drying paint. She knew in her gut it had happened again. She sat up and kept herself from getting too much paint on the plastic-covered flooring. She stared up the newest creation on her easel. By the sunny border running the length of the canvas and thick coat of damp paint in the middle, she could tell that she had painted the latest murder over her calming horse portrait. The paint was still wet and slightly runny, though it appeared to have been sitting for a few hours. Ellie wondered what time it was. She scrunched her nose at the smell of the untouched fast food burger still in its greasy bag. Despite the stench, it made her stomach growl.
Grabbing the lip of her paint cart, she pulled herself to her feet. Her legs were numb and prickly as they had been after her last painting. Her arms were like noodles and felt as brittle as basal wood. Stranger still, her pants felt loose around her waist and her shirt seemed to sag. She’d lost weight, as if the creation of the masterpiece had drained her both mentally and physically. Blinking away the blurriness from her eyes, she examined the disturbing piece of art.
Clad in a pinstripe women’s business suit, the blonde was pretty with an angular face, sloped nose, and slender body. Her back rested against the piano bench with her shoulders hunched and eyes downcast. She appeared to studying the bloody jabs decorating her chest and stomach. Blood and spit dripped from her glossy lower lip and formed a bubbly puddle on the lap of her slacks. A series of interpretative paintings hung above the grand piano. Most showed dancers with their bodies morphed together by orange blush strokes, or showcased an instrument that was shaped in a way that it could be construed as a human being.
The room was dark all around the murdered woman. The angle of which the art piece was interpretive was from the perspective of someone standing over the woman about fifteen degrees to her left. In the right corner of the portrait, a third of the living room window could be seen. It was nighttime outside, and there were a few unassuming cars parked parallel on the opposite side of the street. Unlike Kimberly’s murder, there was no dead crow or broken objects. Apart from thick blood, the only thing spilling across the floor was the contents of the woman’s purse: lipsticks, nail polish, an expensive ink pen, and a key chain. By how it littered the ground, the purse appeared to have been knocked down or kicked over accidently.
Ellie scrutinized the near-invisible brush strokes, dabbles of paint, and overall construction of the piece. It was tiers better than the one Troy had confiscated and destroyed. She grabbed a rag stiff with paint and rubbed what she could from her fingers and palms. She couldn’t clean it all, but that didn’t bother her at the moment. She fetched the magnifying glass and scanned over the painting, starting with the blood. It was thick and red scarlet that seemed to flow from the flesh the longer she studied it. Ellie kept an eye out for any hidden images, numbers, or any symbols that would set her on the right path. In the stab wound just above the woman’s breast, she saw a sculpture of a man’s face with Aztec in
fluences. In another one of the wounds, there was a naked woman with ivory skin and pouring an empty vase over her white hair. Ellie studied the last four wounds. Nothing stood out to her. She examined the woman’s fingers. No ring, but there was an old band mark. Recently divorced maybe, or perhaps having an affair. The woman had jade earrings that were worth a few hundred dollars. The piano, artwork on the walls, and fitted suit told the story of a woman with wealth. She was probably self-made like many of the females in Northampton. The woman also had a black speck in the white of her right eye. Was it a genetic or an artistic blemish?
After a long moment of examination, Ellie noticed something in the reflection of the woman’s blue iris. It was a silhouetted figure with a black hoodie and dripping knife. Ellie leaned in close and squinted hard, trying to see if she could make out the mysterious figure’s facial features. The cowl shrouded the figure’s identity.
Ellie leaned away from the painting and lowered the magnifying glass. It felt like her heart was in a wine press. She closed her eyes, and the pain subsided. Covered in goosebumps and her blood pumping, Ellie opened her. She struggled to breathe and suddenly felt lightheaded. She shambled to the kitchen. In green digital letters, the stove clock read 4:24 am. Wonderful. Ellie thought sarcastically as she washed her hands with a liberal amount of hand soap and dish detergent. When she was finished, she took some extra time to scrape out the dry paint from her fingernails. The couch was empty. Troy was up in the bed tonight. Ellie twisted her wedding ring on her finger.
She returned to the art room and tapped the painting with the tip of a fine brush. It was nearly dry now. She pulled it off the easel and found a nice hidden nook in the corner. She put a blank canvas on the easel and used a pencil to sketch out a horse, field, and some other objects. When she finished, she grabbed the greasy fast food bag and returned to the kitchen. Her headache had lessened but still pulsed behind the back of her eyes. Her fingers felt cramped too. She wondered how hard she had painted and how fast. When the blackouts occurred, did she paint with a quick burst of energy or did she utilize the six lost hours to their fullest potential? If only I could work this vigorously in all my projects. If she could, Ellie would be a very wealthy woman. Perhaps even buy earrings like Victim Number Two.