The Painting Murders: A Paranormal Painting Mystery- The Beginning

by J. S. Donovan

  Ellie drove back home, deciding it would be best to return in the evening to see if Pamela would be there. Also, night matched the painting. If she could catch the killer in the act, she might be able to get the answers without Detective Peaches’s help. Yes, she was breaking his “rules,” but Ellie wasn’t going to play the waiting game when someone’s life was at risk. She was going to act, and if possible, prevent what may not be as inevitable as she thought.

  With a plan in place, she was actually able to make some progress on her artwork commissions. Her stomach cramped from eating too much in the morning, but that was a good thing. It meant that whatever influences the painting had on her were waning.

  The day would’ve gone by quickly if Ellie wasn’t constantly checking to see if the sun had fallen. She completed a few commissions, replied to some pressing emails, and sent an apology message to the clientele she had delayed. Some were angry, but most gave her their condolences when they heard about her horrible stomach flu. The excuse would give her the space and time she needed to work on the case.

  It was right after dark when Ellie slipped on some dark clothes and made the drive to Pamela’s house. An expensive Lincoln was parked in the driveway. Someone’s home. Ellie parked parallel across the street between two unassuming cars. Light streamed from Pamela’s living room window. The curtains were open in full view. Ellie activated the camera on her phone. It wasn’t as good as Troy’s DLSR, but it would work. She snapped a picture as Pamela walked into the living room while fixing her jade earring. She was dressed in a pinstripe women’s business suit and had her purse resting on the piano bench.

  Ellie’s heart rate quickened and her mouth dried out. Pamela picked up the cereal dish and coffee mug. Why did she lie to the police? Ellie wondered as the woman left her sight. Ellie wasn’t going to get the answers she need from her rent-a-car. Looking both ways down the quiet neighbor’s street, Ellie exited her vehicle and darted across the street. She sped walk toward the home’s front door.

  As she passed by the Lincoln, someone grabbed her wrists.

  Ellie sucked air and turned to see Detective Peaches.

  Ellie let herself breathe and whispered angrily. “Let go.”

  “I thought we agreed to wait,” Peaches reminded her. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ellie said, attempting to pull herself from his iron grip.

  Peaches squeezed tighter. There was something sinister behind his cool demeanor. “It’s not been twenty-fours. Pamela’s safe.”

  “Wrong. She’s going to die tonight if we don’t get inside that house,” Ellie argued. “Let go of me.”

  “I think we need to have a nice long chat, you and I, back at the station.”

  “What? You suddenly think I’m the killer?” Ellie tore free from his grasp and held her sore wrists.

  “I don’t think you are, Ellie, but I think you know a lot more than you’re letting on. Is it your husband who’s killing these women or someone else?”

  Ellie felt the world come crashing down around her. “We’re on the same side.”

  Peaches shook his head. “I’m not so sure of that.”

  The lights cut out in Pamela’s home.

  “It’s happening.” Ellie mumbled.

  She didn’t waste another second and darted for the door. The detective grabbed her shoulder, halting her progression.

  A scream sounded inside of the house.

  Peaches’s eyes went wide. He shoved Ellie aside and rammed into the locked door. It didn’t budge. He hit it two more times before it burst open.

  “Police,” he yelled as he darted inside.

  Ellie followed after him, coming to a halt in the living room where the woman lay against the piano bench with blood spilling from the stab wounds in her torso. She opened her mouth to speak, but only spit blood. Just like in the portrait, her shoulder slumped, and blood and drool trickled from her lower lip, forming a small puddle on her lap.

  Peaches backed away a step.

  Eyes watering, Ellie covered her mouth as she looked at the dead woman.

  She glanced outside the window, seeing her rented car parked on the other side of the street. She recalled the vehicles in the portrait. It was a perfect match.

  7

  Curator

  Peaches bolted to the open back door while calling for backup. Ellie couldn’t take her eyes off Pamela. It was Ellie’s first dead body and, although it matched the portraits in the way it fell and bled, there was a realness about it that Ellie was not prepared for. Her face had gone stark white and she was shaking. The day’s meals were climbing up her throat. As much as she wanted to look away, the dead body absorbed her attention. With it came mountains of guilt. I could’ve stopped this.

  The next half hour was a whirlwind. Police sirens, flashing lights, and forensic photographers seemed to blur around her.

  Skinner yelled, “Get her out of here!” but his voice seemed muffled.

  An officer ushered Ellie out of the front door. She stood in the front yard. With sunken shoulders and her face hollow, she stared at the house as an officer asked a series of questions. Ellie mumbled responses that she couldn’t remember. In her mind, the portrait and Pamela’s body overlapped. Would the woman still be alive if Ellie never painted the pictures, or was it destiny that Pamela couldn’t be saved? Did any of Ellie’s choices actually matter, or was she a cosmic pawn for some greater force that she couldn’t understand? More questions flooded her mind as the officer who interrogated her grew increasingly more frustrated.

  Glistening with sweat and winded, Peaches approached. His suit jacket was unbuttoned. There was a dirt stain on his knee. A helicopter coasted overhead, raining down its spotlight over the detective, the officer, and Ellie on its way to scout the woods. Peaches said something to the officer that got him to back away. When the frustrated man walked on, Peaches slipped his jacket off of his shoulders and placed it over Ellie. She sank to her knees. The dewy grass quickly soaked into her jeans. Peaches squatted down next to her.

  “It’ll get easier,” Peaches said.

  “When?” Ellie asked.

  Peaches shrugged. “It just does.”

  Ellie wasn’t sure if he was referring to the horrific visage of the body or the heavy guilt that made Ellie feel like a puny and unworthy human being. If no more paintings were being created, no one else would die by her hand. That theory could be completely false, but she’d have no way of knowing.

  Peaches watched the medical examiners extract the body on a covered gurney. They calmly carried it to the proper vehicle.

  “I was wrong,” Peaches said soberly.

  Ellie turned to him, hearing the conviction in his voice. Waiting for him to elaborate, Ellie didn’t reply,

  “The way the body fell, how the purse spilled, the trajectory of the spatter, there’s no way anyone could’ve painted that without seeing it firsthand, unless…” His voice trailed off. His eyes glossed over. He smiled guiltily. “I should’ve believed you. If I had, she could’ve… I made a false judgment call. Sorry.”

  Ellie cast her eyes down on the perfectly trimmed grass. She couldn’t be mad at him; Ellie wouldn’t believe herself either.

  Two dirty sneakers appeared in the grass in front of her. She cast her eyes up to the stout belly of Detective Skinner. He wore a fedora to match his wrinkled tan suit. There was disgust in his eyes.

  “Get up,” he spoke to Ellie as if he were talking to the slime of the earth.

  Peaches stood in between Ellie and his fellow detective.

  “Back away, pretty boy,” Skinner warned. “I’m taking our little accomplice back to the station.”

  Peaches stood defiantly. “She’s not going anywhere.”

  Skinner chuckled. “Okay, white knight, we both know she predicted the woman’s death and then Pamela died in that same way. If that’s not a telltale sign of her involvement, I don’t know what is.”

  Peaches
pulled out his cellphone that still had bloody fingerprints on it from when he got shot in the hand. He opened his saved photo and showed Skinner the portrait and then the photo he had taken of Pamela Cornish. “Spot the difference?”

  Skinner scrutinized the phone’s screen, bouncing his beady eyes between the images. “No.”

  “That’s because it’s a perfect match,” Peaches explained. “There’s no possible way Ellie could’ve known without seeing a body.”

  “You’re blinded by a pretty face, Detective,” Skinner goaded. He glared at Ellie. “You may think that because you got this pretty boy in your corner that you’re going to get out of this scot-free. I’m on to you, Mrs. Batter.”

  Peaches jammed his finger into Skinner’s chest. “That’s enough.”

  Skinner spit on the lawn. “Whatever comes next, it will be on your head, Peaches.”

  The dog-faced detective marched off, grumbling to himself.

  Peaches lent Ellie a hand. Ellie accepted, letting him pull her up. “Are you all right to drive?”

  Ellie closed her eyes and nodded.

  “Good. I need to get back to work.” Peaches started back to the house when Ellie called out to him.

  He turned back, attentive.

  “We need to put an end to this,” Ellie stated.

  Peaches studied her for a long moment.

  Snake. Troy’s words repeated in her thoughts. Ellie wasn’t so sure anymore, but she couldn’t do this alone.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Peaches replied. “Get some rest, Ellie.”

  The drive back was long and quiet. Ellie refused to turn on the radio. Her vision tunneled, and she almost ran two red lights. She returned home and rested her forehead on the steering wheel. She wanted to close her eyes and let sleep drown her. She forced herself to get out of the rental car and shambled into the apartment building. The smiling old man was in the elevator as it ascended. Ellie was too lost in thought to notice him. The first thing she did when she got inside in her apartment was beeline for the shower. Her clothes clumped on the ground. Goosebumps covered her bare skin until the blazing water splashed down on her. She stood under the showerhead, letting the scalding water cascade down her face.

  She crashed in her bed, lay on her belly, and put a pillow over her head. She pretended to be asleep when Troy came in an hour later. He sank into the bed and fell fast asleep. Ellie closed her eyes but couldn’t rest. First it was out of guilt, then out of sorrow, and finally out of fury. The Hooded Man needed to be stopped before she painted her next portrait.

  The next morning, after Troy had left for work, Ellie invited Peaches over. The detective had a large metal canister of iced coffee. “Didn’t sleep last night?”

  “No,” Ellie admitted. “You?”

  Peaches shook his head. “But this should wake us up. I call it The Sludge.”

  “Pleasant title,” Ellie said sarcastically.

  “It’s as black as black can be. Let me pour you a glass.”

  Ellie pulled out two designer mugs for them. One was in the shape of a tabby cat’s face and the other a crocodile. Peaches took the latter and filled it first. When it was topped off, he filled Ellie’s.

  She took a sip and winced.

  Peaches smiled at her. There were sleep circles under his pretty eyes. “Tastes horrible, doesn’t it?”

  “Absolutely,” Ellie replied and took another gulp. She could already feel the caffeine hitting her. “I had a long time to think about this investigation, the painting, everything last night. I’m ready to stop this guy, whatever it takes.”

  “I’m glad Pamela’s fate didn’t discourage you,” Peaches said with his usual confidence and positivity.

  “It’s the same with my artwork,” Ellie started. “You make one bad piece, you can either give up, or you dust yourself off and try not to repeat the past.”

  Ellie could tell the words resonated with Peaches. “We have a lot more in common than you think.”

  “How so?” Ellie inquired.

  “I had a case in Chicago. Someone was killing drug dealers. It was a sort of Death Wish fantasy, I suppose. Anyway, I got too close to it and let some evidence slip by. The killer was able to walk.”

  “That might not be a bad thing,” Ellie thought aloud.

  “It is when an innocent man took his place,” Peaches replied. “That’s why I transferred to Northampton. I like the culture and creativity. Also, there are not as many homicides here so when one comes up, I’m able to put my best foot forward.”

  Ellie took another sip of the sludge. She grimaced at the taste but couldn’t deny its powerful effects. “I moved here by request of a good friend of mine, Andrew. He offered to help me with my art sales. He’d bought a few of my pieces for more than they were worth and helped me get established in the industry.” Ellie glanced about the apartment. “I’d say I owe this place to him.”

  Peaches waltzed around the living room, studying the various portraits on the wall. “You do have quite a talent.”

  Ellie smiled to herself. It felt good to be complimented. Nonetheless, they needed to stay on task. “So, what do we need to do to find the hooded killer?”

  Peaches glanced out the window, took a sip of the crocodile mug, and turned back to her. “You need to be better equipped. Mentally and physically.”

  “How so?”

  “Basic self-defense techniques. Unfortunately, we don’t have the luxury of time to spend on teaching you everything you need to know. Still, there are a few maneuvers that might save your life.”

  “Okay,” Ellie said wearily. Deep down, she was excited, like she was becoming a spy. It may have been a childish thought, but whatever got her away from the horrors of last night, she welcomed openly.

  “Get a knife,” Peaches ordered. “The one from your purse will work.”

  Ellie approached the kitchen bar and retrieved the ten-inch steak knife from her purse. Its blade shimmered under the ceiling lights. “Now what?” Ellie asked.

  Peaches outstretched his arms. “Stab me.”

  Ellie chuckled.

  Peaches’s expression turned hard.

  “You’re serious?” Ellie asked. “What happens if I hurt you? Wouldn’t that be the same as assaulting an officer?”

  Peaches kept his arms outstretched. “Plunge the knife into my heart.”

  Ellie’s heart rate spiked. With careful steps, she approached him and squeezed the knife in her slightly raised right hand. Taking a breath, she pulled back her arm and took aim. She couldn’t extend her arm. She lowered the knife. “That is ridiculous. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

  “Ellie, trust me,” Peaches said with cool confidence.

  “I don’t know if I do, Detective,” Ellie admitted.

  “Touché, then imagine I’m the man who killed Kimberly and Pamela, and now I’m coming after you and your husband. Stab me.”

  Ellie readied the weapon. She envisioned the hooded gunman and Troy’s bleeding body at his feet. Anger flushed over her. She planted one foot and drew back the blade. Gnashing her teeth, she lunged the knife at the detective’s chest. In one swift motion, Peaches took a step back, knocked down Ellie’s knife-wielding hand with a cross block, grabbed her wrist, and twisted. Ellie hunched over, knees hitting the hardwood as Peaches applied pressure at the back center of her hand. She gasped in pain. The knife fell to the floor. Ellie tapped the floor. Peaches let go. Ellie clenched her free hand, holding back the pain that shot like lightning bolts down her forearm.

  She held back tears.

  Peaches helped her up. “That’s how you disarm him.”

  “Can’t I kick him in the balls?” Ellie said as she sniffled.

  “If you want him to slice your leg open, sure,” Peaches said casually.

  Ellie shook out her wrist.

  “Now, it’s my turn.” Peaches said as he fetched the knife from the floor.

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “Will our enemy be using a practice knife?�
�� Peaches asked.

  Ellie shook her head. “No, but my husband will kill me if he found out I was stabbed during self-defense training.”

  “All right,” Peaches said in a condescending manner. He withdrew a plastic training knife from the inside of his dark blue suit jacket.

  “You had one on you the whole time?” Ellie exclaimed.

  “You think I’d show up unprepared?” Peaches replied. He adjusted his grip on the practice knife and readied his stance. “You disarm me now.”

  Ellie focused on the weapon and her attacker. Peaches went in for a jab. Ellie was too slow. The plastic point bent sideways as it punched her torso.

  “See?” Ellie said. “If that were real...”

  Peaches smiled. “You would’ve reacted faster. Again.”

  Ellie tried again, this time being stabbed under the breast. “Watch it.”

  “Again,” Peaches repeated.

  After forty-five minutes, Ellie finally bested him. She rested her palms on her knees. Taking deep breaths, she said. “Easy.”

  Welts painted her torso, but she didn’t care. It felt good to win.

  Peaches slipped the practice knife back into his suit jacket’s inner pocket. “I have to say, Ellie--”