INTIMATE PORTRAITS
by
Cheryl B. Dale
Copyright Notice
Published by J&H Press
Copyright 2013 by Cheryl B. Dale
Cover by http://coversbycali.com
Edited by B.L. Wilson
ISBN: 978-0-9853910-1-0
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected].
All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
www.cherylbdale.com
Chapter 1
“No-o-o!” The toddler threw his sippy cup at Autumn Merriwell.
She sidestepped. It clipped her collar bone but missed her camera and tripod.
“Okay,” she soothed him, thankful that the bruise would get better. A broken Nikon wouldn’t. “It’s okay, Dalton.”
While the doting mother clucked over her son, Autumn swept up the sippy cup, whipped out a tissue, and wiped juice dribbles off the hardwood floor. “I think he’s tired, Mrs. Jenovese, but I’ve got some good shots you can choose from.”
She’d better have. If she didn’t, after thirty minutes of kicking and tantrums, she’d scream, too.
After assuring Mrs. Jenovese the proofs would be ready by the middle of the next week, a relieved Autumn waved goodbye.
The little imp was so photogenic, the shots should have been a breeze. A shame he felt so rotten today. A bigger shame his mother hadn’t cancelled till his cold got better.
As Autumn took her next client—a high school junior wanting a better senior portrait—back to the studio, her receptionist caught her. Excitement made the rotund Iris bounce like a rubber ball. “The lady you shot before Thanksgiving is on line one.”
The lady…? Sarita! Autumn had given up on hearing anything.
“Be right with you.” She rushed off to the teen’s “Hey! I need to get done here before—”
Over the phone, Sarita sounded gravelly, like she lounged in bed after a late night. “I needed a break, and couldn’t wait for Mom to get back next week so I sneaked out of LA early. I’m dying to see those proofs. Can you be a doll and bring them over?”
“Sure.” Like Autumn would turn down Sarita Sartowe, Atlanta’s homegrown living legend? No way. Especially after pretty much writing off Sarita’s photo shoot.
Not that this was a request. The international celebrity expected people to drop everything and jump when she snapped her fingers.
Autumn obliged. “When would you like to see them?”
Sarita’s distinctive gurgle filtered over the line. “Now.”
“Okay.” And it was definitely okay. Nothing mattered except that Sarita was still interested in the photographs taken three weeks back: not the rushed senior picture for the impatient teen, not the four remaining appointments that had to be reshuffled, not the forty-minute drive in heavy lunch traffic. Nothing.
Sarita wanted to see the proofs!
At the entrance gate to the North Atlanta mansion where Sarita waited, Autumn spoke into the box, pleased at how calm she sounded. Like she met with celebrities every day.
But butterflies skimmed her stomach. So much depended on this. If Sarita liked her photographs, the studio’s reputation would be made. People from all over would come to Private Portraits by Merriwell. She could…
No, don’t even go there. Wait to see what Sarita says. She may hate them.
The wrought iron gate swung open, allowing access up the winding drive to the neo-eclectic mansion, a wedding present from Sarita to her mother and stepfather two years back.
At the double front doors, Autumn took a big breath and pushed the bell. Chimes died away before one door cracked to reveal Sarita in designer jeans and tee. Her eyes looked sleepy but her trademark tiny braids were neat. “Come on in.”
Autumn stepped inside. In the empty foyer, silence hung heavy. A lot different from the October shoot amid an entourage of assistants, hairdressers, maids, and a bunch of other people Sarita hadn’t bothered to introduce. “Are you all by yourself?”
“Yep. Just li’l old me.” Sarita made a face. “I told you, girl, I sneaked off. I’m tired of those fools hanging on all the time. Now let me see the pix. Sit.” The curved sofa faced a glass coffee table. “Put them on the table here.” Sarita sank down on an ottoman by the side.
Autumn laid proofs out as commanded. She started to point out lighting and texture, but Sarita, intent on the proofs, ignored her explanations. She hushed and tried not to fidget.
Occasionally, Sarita commented on a hairdo or piece of jewelry but mostly she looked. What was she thinking? No matter how Autumn studied her, her expression didn’t give a clue.
At last, Sarita sat back on the sofa. Her arms stretched up, pulling the tee tight over perfect breasts. Sultry lips pushed out in a bored pout. “Nice.” Her arms fell down. She let out a disappointed sigh, cocked her head to one side, straightened a crooked proof. Sighed again. “Very nice.”
Bummer. Sarita didn’t like the proofs.
So why should she? The woman had the best photographers from all over the world panting to shoot her. She’d only tried out Autumn because Reseda, who cleaned house for Sarita’s mother as well as for Autumn, had asked her to.
Then Sarita’s indifference melted and she hopped up. “I love them!” She squealed and did a victory dance. “They’re effing unbelievable!”
She likes them!
Before Autumn could take it in, Sarita grabbed her and whirled her around the glass coffee table where the proofs lay.
Gushing the entire time.
She totally, absolutely, positively adored the proofs. She had to have at least one eight by ten of each, more of the fab shots she absolutely truly positively loved, definitely one full length life-size pose. Or two. Or three.
“Oh, girl, when these get released, every woman in LA is gonna be clamoring for you to take their pictures!” She stopped, frowned and cursed. “You have to sign an agreement. My stuff comes first, before you take on anybody else. We’ll put you on retainer or something. You’ll have to move to LA.”
Retainer? Move to LA? Autumn, dazed, recovered enough to say, “Let me get my order sheet and fill—”
Sarita waved a hand. “Later. Leave the proofs and I’ll have my PR man get back to you with how many we need and all that. I can’t believe how super effing great these are! Reseda and Momma kept telling me you were something else, but I thought they were blowing smoke. The only reason I posed for you was to shut them up.”
Not that Autumn cared why Sarita had agreed.
An hour after she entered, Autumn floated out of the half-timbered mansion, hopped into the studio minivan and wheeled down the driveway. The day might have been gloomy, but not anymore, no matter how gray the clouds. And wasn’t the sky lighter on the horizon? It was going to be a beautiful weekend.
“Sarita liked them,” Autumn sang as she exited into the tree-lined neighborhood. "Sarita liked them, she liked them."
Going around a curve in the middle of the quiet street, she almost ran into a florist’s van. A quick swerve, a tap of the brake, and she was back in her lane. Her luck held out.
Not that her pounding heart proved it. "Cool it, idiot. All
you need is a wreck killing you before you can deliver the biggest job of your career."
Lucky she didn’t meet any other traffic till she hit busy West Paces Ferry. By then she’d settled down, thinking of what Sarita had said about putting her on retainer but mostly…
Sarita liked the proofs. After sweating it for weeks, deciding the diva had forgotten her, mentally writing off her big chance… The waiting was over.
Autumn thumped the wheel in triumph, giggled again. No need to worry any longer. She might as well go by Perimeter Square since she was so close, and pick up a holiday top for the weekend. A mountain weekend with the Degardoveras after this morning’s coup would top everything off. Kind of a celebration.
Retainer…move to LA…Degardoveras…
And then the lurking thought came out into the open, unbidden, unwanted.
Rennie’s in LA. I can see him again.
Rennie.
****
An easy job, Bernie had told Sam Bogatti. Get in, do her, collect the stuff, and get out.
Blah, blah, blah.
Easy. Yeah, sure. He’d found the stuff all right, but Sarita had bolted LA for Atlanta. So as quick as he’d handed the package off to the courier, he’d had to haul ass across country.
Huh. Everything was always easy for Bernie, snug in his law office, drawing up wills or contracts or whatever the shit he did to earn his twenty percent. Bernie’s ass wasn’t on the line.
I could’ve gone to school. Sam chewed gum and wheeled the van off the Perimeter. Been a high-priced lawyer like Bernie. Took my cut off the top and never got my hands dirty.
Yeah. Right. Stuck at a desk, choking in a tie, dealing with assholes like Bernie every stinking day.
Not hardly.
Nah, he couldn’t complain. Over the years he’d made a lot of money and traveled all over. Like the west coast Tuesday, the sunny south today. Never got to see much of the countryside, but the pay made up for it.
Entering the exclusive neighborhood that sheltered Sarita, he came around a curve and met a minivan half over the center.
It swerved.
He swerved.
They missed each other by inches, so close he could see the shocked, circled mouth under big sunglasses.
Blonde hair. Woman driver. It figured.
Sam wasn’t an excitable guy so he didn’t overreact. But he did slow to a crawl. The GPS positioned the house a block away, and he needed to check addresses anyway.
Mansions stood like isolated castles among hardwood branches clawing at the sky, but thick evergreen stands of pines, cedars, and hollies barred passers-by from seeing into yards even in December. The owners of the castles valued their privacy.
Like Sam.
A pedestrian appeared. On this crisp December afternoon, the lone out-of-shape jogger gasped for breath as he bounced his way back to health.
More like a heart attack.
Sam, snug inside the van with its stick-on vinyl panels advertising Betty and Lulu’s Flower Boutique, grunted. A man could die trying to lose twenty years' worth of fat in a week.
Not him. He might be pushing forty, but he had the body of a man ten years younger. His skinny frame might fool people into thinking he was a wimp, but he kept himself in tiptop shape.
Had to for his job.
By the time he turned into the winding driveway of the massive half-timbered Tudor dwelling sited across a creek, the jogger had long since staggered out of sight.
Halfway to the house, a closed gate met the van.
No prob-lem-o. He punched in the code. Thanks, Bernie boy.
He drove through, parked in back at the delivery door.
Mother and stepfather gone. Nobody’ll be home but her, Bernie’d said. Piece of cake.
Like Bernie knew shit. Not many things in life that simple.
After Sam took out his gum, he wrapped it in its saved paper and stuffed it in his litter bag. Then he got out with the floral box. It even held roses in case she wanted to see them before opening the door.
Little extras like that had saved him grief more times than he liked to remember.
Double patio doors lay adjacent to the delivery entrance, so he stepped over the edging blocks onto bark mulch that wouldn’t take footprints and leaned over small shrubs for a quick peek.
The house’s open design gave a clear view across an open interior to large windows framing trees. Nice. He liked that.
What he saw inside he liked even better.
Sarita Sartowe, this year’s flavor of superstardom, sat by herself on an ottoman with her back to him. He could tell it was her by the mass of tiny braids tumbling forward as she bent over something in front of her. Her arm occasionally moved.
Thumbing through a magazine? Searching for articles about herself? Sure were lots of them out there.
He tried a door. Unlocked. No need to ring the bell. Maybe Bernie would be right for once.
Inside, notes from a sultry trumpet flowed from surround sound speakers and masked the door click. Louis Armstrong. Sweet. Not what he’d expect from a trending gal like Sarita.
Retrieving the silenced .22 Ruger, he laid the floral box on a cozy dining table. Four chintz place mats and bright red napkins circled a fern centerpiece.
Cheerful. Homey. A lot different from Sarita’s LA digs.
Sam noticed stuff like that. His wife said he had a sensitive soul, but his eye helped in his work. Like he spotted right off there was no bodyguard tucked in the corner of the great room.
Yeah, she was alone like Bernie the prick had promised.
Nice layout, too. Like a scene from an old noir film where the director posed his leading lady in silhouette against ceiling high windows while the bad guy sneaked up behind her.
And Sarita was oblivious as any noir heroine.
When the trumpet’s suggestive tones gave way to the raspy croon of Satchmo, she began to sway and hum with the music. Her voice was husky, delicious, unmistakable.
Mesmerizing.
Sarita Sartowe, performing for herself and an uninvited fan. Glorious. One of those rare unforgettable moments.
A bullet in her head seemed out of place. Blasphemous.
He stuffed the Ruger into his belt and pulled out a thin blade six and a half inches long from its utilitarian hilt to its tip. Its edges were honed razor sharp, an instrument designed to his specifications and fabricated for a single purpose.
Weighing it, he hesitated. All that blood. Messy as a bullet.
Eyes on her back, he retreated to a window where he slashed the cord of a Roman shade and looped an end around either hand.
There. The cord felt right. More appropriate.
Go with the gut. It’s never wrong.
When he glided toward the sofa, when he was three feet away, she stopped humming.
He froze.
She gave one long luxuriant sigh and stretched both arms up.
The braids must have been hot because she caught and held them away from her neck for a moment, then bent back to whatever kept her so rapt.
Sam relaxed. Not a clue.
The big windows to her front trapped his shadow behind him. The thick carpet muffled his sneakers.
Not until he threw the cord over her head in one lightning quick stroke did she realize she wasn’t alone.
Too late.
“Ahhhh—” What would have been a scream died.
She struggled, but he held firm.
She half rose and clawed at the cord.
He didn’t let go.
She tried for his face.
He pulled his head out of reach.
All the time the cord’s pressure choked her windpipe. He sweated, but held on tight long after she slumped against his chest. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears.
Kind of eerie holding her so close. Almost like he was one of her lovers.
She was still, not breathing, but he kept her there for three minutes, four minutes, five.
Trembling from the effort—how com
e movies make strangling somebody seem so frigging easy?—Sam released the cord and lowered her to the ottoman.
No pulse, but his own heart thudded so he could have missed any thread of life.
Wait till you can tell. He did his stress exercises, counted his pulse rate, settled down. Okay. He checked again.
She was dead. The sensual lips were slack, never again to curve invitingly. Nor would that dainty ear hear any more whispered endearments from besotted lovers.
Shit, he hated this part of his job.
Don’t look at her.
He couldn’t help it. Her complexion, once vibrant as mellowed oak, had dulled to grayish brown. Her tongue lolled to one side. Dark eyes popped out, opaque and staring.
She was ugly now as she’d never been in life.
He’d seen violent death lots of times, but this…
The familiar queasiness surged.
Don’t get sick. Look away, dumbass. Think of something else.
What had engrossed her so much she hadn’t heard him?
Pictures. His latex-clad finger fanned them out. Photographs of her. Lovely, every one. Like her.
He could imagine her, pointing with a long magenta nail, saying, “This is good,” and her soft hand that in a different time, a different place, could drive a man wild, shifting that proof into a stack to keep.
Two years ago he and his wife had attended Sarita’s United Center concert. If that night had left any doubts of her charisma, these photos dispelled them. She was unique.
In one lounging shot, a snowy sheet emerged from between her thighs to cover most of the dark triangle and one golden hip. A hand cupped a breast, not protectively but like she relived a lover’s caress. Tiny black braids fanned to one side. An amulet lay on the hollow of her collarbone. A lacy earring traced a pattern on the white pillow. Huge eyes wore sex’s aftermath.
Jeez, that picture was something else.
There were others, all seductive, all with her looking like an angel. Sam shuffled through them. She’d been a damn fine singer, a damn splendid woman. A shame he’d had to do her.
It’s my job. No reason to feel guilty. And she was no angel, that was for sure. A wonder someone hadn’t offed her before now.
Intimate Portraits Page 1