The Color of Bee Larkham's Murder

by Sarah J. Harris

  She’d kept her word.

  She’d found me again.

  Here, in Vincent Gardens.

  My knees crumpled and I hung on to the windowsill. I knew that if I let go, nothing could stop me from falling. Not to the floor, way beyond that. I felt a bottomless pit yawning open across the carpet, trying to swallow me up.

  I couldn’t hear what the Woman with No Name said to the men from the truck, but it must have been hilarious. They threw their heads back and laughed marmalade bubbles as she wrapped her long blond hair in knots around her finger.

  As they climbed back into the truck, she tied her dressing gown tighter at the waist. It was low at the front, but she didn’t mind the cold.

  The truck pulled away down the street and tooted shooting stars of deep crimson with gold edges. The Woman with No Name stared at the skip for fifteen seconds before picking a flower, a daisy, I think, from her garden. She walked back towards the front door. Instead of going inside, she swung around.

  She looked directly at me and waved gracefully, like a princess. Her dressing gown sleeve slid down her arm.

  I crouched beneath the windowsill.

  Too late. The Woman with No Name had seen me watching her with binoculars.

  That was the first time she noticed me at my bedroom window.

  I was worried she’d be upset and wouldn’t want to get to know me. She’d complain to Dad or laugh about me with her new neighbors.

  She’d call me a Peeping Tom. Or Peeping Jasper, if she wanted to make a joke.

  The funny thing was, the thing she told me much later on, when we became Great Friends, was that she liked it.

  Being watched, I mean.

  She honestly didn’t mind. She enjoyed having an audience. She said it made her feel alive.

  Later that morning, 7:45 A.M.

  Cinnamon Blocks on paper

  My parakeet watch continued.

  I held binoculars in one hand and a notebook in the other, calculating a chance of less than 13 percent that my favorite breed of bird would return before I left for school. The ugly colors had kept it away. They’d already scared off the other birds. I couldn’t see any of their colors in our street. I didn’t scribble a single note.

  The Woman with No Name probably didn’t realize it, but she was accidentally deterring the local wildlife by hurling her belongings into the skip: a bookshelf, books, chairs, ornaments, pots and pans, newspapers, lampshades, and curtains.

  Bang. Thud. Cinnamon block shapes that transformed into orangey brown shades.

  Backwards and forwards, the woman walked in and out of the house, pulling out things she didn’t want. More and more cardboard boxes ended up with the rubbish. I wanted her to get a move on—the sooner she finished throwing everything out, the greater probability the parakeet would put in another appearance before school.

  Possibly a chance of 22 percent.

  Through my binoculars, I could see some of the boxes were taped up. I had no idea what they’d done to upset her, but she didn’t like any of them. She didn’t want to see their contents. The net curtains also ended up in the skip. They’d offended her for unknown reasons and had to be abandoned.

  I watched the oak tree in the front garden of 20 Vincent Gardens for signs of parakeet life for fourteen minutes and twenty-five seconds, before Dad knocked light tan circles on my bedroom door. He wanted to double-check I was getting ready for school.

  Of course I was. We’d discussed this last night. We all have to do things we don’t want to.

  “Who is she?” I asked him again. “That woman down there? Why doesn’t she like furniture?”

  “She must be a relative,” he replied, “because she’s clearing out the house. David met her last night. I’ll ask him later, when I get back from work if you like? He’ll have all the gossip, as usual.”

  I signaled I liked his idea by shifting my head into the correct position. I hoped Dad wouldn’t mess up again. The first meeting was crucially important because this was when he said impressions were formed. She might not like me if she didn’t like him.

  “She doesn’t want to keep anything,” I observed. “Not a single item. She’s turning Mrs. Larkham’s house inside out. There’ll be nothing left soon.”

  Dad admitted he’d seen the woman from the sitting room window—two people from the same house watching her at the same time. Only I had binoculars.

  “It’s amazing the things people throw away,” he said, edging closer to the window. “She should have hired a house clearance company to come around and sort through everything. She’d have made some money. There’s good stuff in the skip.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want anyone else to own anything that’s been in the house. Maybe she hates the idea of someone else using it or looking at it.”

  “Good point,” he said, “but that’s not going to stop people having a good forage for valuables to take for themselves or sell on. A dealer will want those chairs. They look in good nick.”

  A drug dealer?

  “Is that allowed? Isn’t that theft?”

  “Well, you can’t exactly stop anyone if you’re throwing it away,” he pointed out. “It’s not your property any longer if you’ve left it lying about for others to take.”

  I could stop the skip thieves and the drug dealers. I had to. What if the Woman with No Name changed her mind and wanted to keep one of the boxes or chairs?

  This wasn’t the first or the last time I’d rung 999 to ask for help, but it was the first emergency call I’d made to do with Bee Larkham.

  I turned on my mobile and punched in the three numbers, and while Dad read a newspaper in the bathroom, I reported a theft from the Woman with No Name.

  A potential future theft from the skip outside her house, 20 Vincent Gardens.

  Drug dealers shouldn’t be allowed to drive her out, the way the magpies had scared off the parakeet.

  The operator asked me to put Dad on the phone. I apologized and told her I couldn’t. He was doing a number two and didn’t like to be disturbed. She insisted I try. I knocked three light brown circles and made him unlock the door. I passed the phone through the gap. They chatted for a few minutes while Dad sat on the loo.

  I’ll talk to him again, I promise. I’m sorry. He gets overexcited about things. He thinks they’re more significant than they are. I know. I understand.

  More apologies. I heard the light pink-gray rustle of toilet paper and the silvery blue spangles of the flush.

  I grabbed my school bag and ran out before I had to listen to another of his lectures. I didn’t want to talk to him. Why didn’t he defend me to the police operator?

  He watched TV crime shows most nights and had to know that stealing was evidence of a flawed character.

  Because if someone stole, they would probably be prepared to do something much, much worse.

  • • •

  I found it hard to concentrate at school for the rest of the day—far more than usual. The background colors and blur of anonymous faces weren’t responsible this time. It was due to the Woman with No Name.

  I jotted down Important Facts about her in the inside cover of my maths book:

  1. She enjoys Martian music.

  2. She likes cobalt blue.

  3. She likes to dance.

  4. She doesn’t like anything that belonged in the house before.

  5. She’s a relative or friend of Pauline Larkham, who died in another home.

  6. She’s going to be a troublemaker (Dad’s opinion).

  7. She plays music too loud (David Gilbert’s and Ollie Watkins’s opinion).

  Most of all, I wanted to know the two things missing off my list:

  What’s her name?

  What’s the color of her voice?

  Was it blue? It had to be a shade of blue. She looked like she had a blue voice. I hoped she did. It couldn’t be a crinkly yellowish brown or brash orange voice.

  It’d be like discovering a rotting bouquet of flowers—it ha
d the potential to smell sweet and be dazzling but had become faded and brown, unfit for anything except the inside of a bin.

  It’d ruin everything.

  I brooded about her color all day and didn’t speak much, not even to my friends Jeanne and Aar, who found me at my usual seat in the canteen at lunchtime—far right-hand table, third seat from the end.

  “Has someone upset you again, Jasper?” Aar (goldfish orange) asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “They have.”

  That was the truth.

  “You should talk to a teacher, Jasper,” Jeanne (sunset yellow) said. “You shouldn’t have to put up with being bullied every day.”

  I remember I was quick to jump to the Woman with No Name’s defense. She couldn’t help it if she had a rotten-colored voice and I didn’t know that for sure yet. I was jumping to conclusions without all the Important Facts lined up in front of me.

  “It’s not her fault,” I pointed out. “Some things you can’t help, whoever you are. They’re out of your control.”

  “No, they’re not, Jasper,” Jeanne insisted. “The kids who give you stick know exactly what they’re doing. It’s not out of their control. That’s what they want you to think, that it’s your fault, when it isn’t. It’s theirs. They’re the losers.”

  I stabbed the broccoli on my plate with a fork. Jeanne’s sentence was puzzling. No one had tried to give me a stick today.

  “Think about it,” Aar said. “Taking action is better than sitting around feeling miserable.”

  Aar was right.

  I had to take action. I couldn’t leave the important job of discovering my new neighbor’s name to Dad. He’d probably mess it up again. He couldn’t tell me the color of her voice either, since he wouldn’t be able to see it.

  I had to be prepared. After lunch, I made a list of the openings to possible conversations, the way Dad had taught me, and memorized them during history class. The repeal of the Corn Laws had already happened. It could wait.

  Hello. I’m Jasper Wishart.

  Hello. I’m Jasper. What’s your name?

  Hello. Who are you? I’m Jasper.

  How old are you? I’m thirteen years, two months, one day, and four hours old.

  I fleshed out my introduction again and again until I was sure it was exactly right.

  Hello. Welcome to our street. I’m Jasper Wishart. I’m thirteen years old and live at 19 Vincent Gardens. I’m a pupil at St. Alton’s High School and I like to paint. What’s your name?

  This was relevant and to the point. It contained all the important information and passed the baton to the Woman with No Name to provide a similar description of herself.

  I couldn’t think about anything else. I repeated the words over and over in my head all day. Whenever the teacher asked me a question, I blocked it out and silently answered:

  Hello. Welcome to our street, et cetera.

  By home time, I’d memorized it perfectly. I was prepared to meet the Woman with No Name.

  15

  January 18, 3:31 P.M.

  Sky Blue Meets Cool Blue on canvas

  A woman appeared in the doorway of 20 Vincent Gardens, surrounded by cardboard boxes and bulging black bin bags. I’d knocked loudly once, only after the colors of the piano notes had faded. I hadn’t wanted to interrupt the raindrops of electric blue and waves of elegant, shiny navy. Waiting also enabled me to knead the stabbing pain in my side after the Blazers had chased me two-fifths of the way home.

  She arrived within one minute and twenty-five seconds, which I appreciated almost as much as the musical colors. I like people who don’t delay doing important things.

  I studied the figure. This looked like the Woman with No Name, except she was smaller than I’d expected and reminded me of a baby bird. She was thin, like me, and only a few inches taller.

  She’d pushed her blond hair behind her ears, showing off tiny silver swallow earrings. Her sweater had a deep V-neck, which was in a race to reach the waistband of her long skirt. I watched the tassels at the bottom of the material tickle the floor.

  Swish, swish, swish.

  I wanted to study her earrings further, but that meant seeing the V-neck again, which looked alien, like on the first night.

  “Hello. Can I help you?”

  Sky blue.

  A bright, cloudless sky blue, the kind you see on a perfect, hot summer afternoon on a beach—a mixture of ultramarine and cerulean.

  Her voice was almost cobalt blue, like Mum’s but not quite. Yet it was close enough, more than I’d ever hoped, more than I’d thought possible. No one I’d met since Mum died had ever come as near as this to her hue.

  My mind went blank and I forgot everything I’d memorized about myself.

  “Jasper’s a semiprecious stone,” I said.

  She laughed dazzling sky blue with ultramarine edges. “You’re absolutely right. Jasper’s one of my all-time favorite stones. Did you know it’s believed to have strong healing powers?”

  I looked up from her tassels as she continued talking.

  “It provides comfort, security, and strength as well as great joy.” She flicked her hair behind her shoulders. I wanted her to wipe her forehead, which had a streak of gray dust. “Why do you like Jasper?”

  “I’m Jasper. How old are you?”

  “Ha! I see. You get to the point, don’t you? You do realize you can never ask a woman a personal question like that?”

  “Why not? I live over the road from you.” I pointed to my window. “My bedroom’s up there. That’s where I sleep.”

  “Ah, the boy with the binoculars. The one with the handsome dad in the window.”

  I didn’t know about this last bit, as I’d never heard Dad called this before, but confirmed I was the Boy with the Binoculars. I doubted there could be another on this street; well, not one I’d noticed.

  “I use the binoculars for bird-watching,” I explained.

  “That’s one way to describe it.” She giggled light blue with white margins. I didn’t join in because bird-watching isn’t funny. It’s a serious pursuit, watching and logging every bird I see. It takes time to learn all the species in the United Kingdom, let alone the whole world.

  “Are you going to die soon? Is that why you don’t want to tell me how old you are?”

  “What? I should hope not. You do ask funny questions!”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re an unusual boy,” the woman said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before.”

  I moved the edges of my lips upwards into a curve because she made being unusual sound like a good thing. I began my introduction all over again, because I’d messed up on my first attempt—the way I do when I get distracted and put too much water on my paintbrush.

  “That’s an impressive introduction,” she replied when I’d given it. “Thank you.”

  “Can I hear yours?” I prompted.

  “Well let me see. I’ve come back from Australia for a friend’s wedding and to deal with the house. I’ll have to live in this shithole until I decide what to do with it. It’ll need a lot of work before I put it on the market.”

  I tried to focus on the overall color of her voice rather than the mushy tangerine swearword.

  “Are you a niece, a friend, or Pauline Larkham’s long-lost daughter?” I asked, attempting to fit the piece into the jigsaw puzzle. The Australian part surprised me. She didn’t have an accent.

  “A long-lost daughter?” The woman’s tassels swished again as she laughed bright sky blue. “I’m not sure about that. I was never lost. I guess I never wanted to be found, you know? I wanted to disappear. Nobody was going to come looking for me, least of all my mum.”

  “Like all that stuff?” I glanced over my shoulder. “Do you want it to be found? Or do you mind if someone takes it?”

  Not that they’d be able to, now I’d alerted the police. I’d made sure of that.

  The boxes were piled high in the skip. The Woman with No Name mu
st have worked hard all day, clearing the house.

  “Out with the old and in with the new, that’s my motto,” she said. “I don’t want to hold on to the past. I’m trying not to keep too much of Mum’s old stuff. There’s hardly anything worth saving anyway, apart from a few pieces of furniture and old cookbooks.”

  I don’t want to hold on to the past.

  I pretended I agreed by moving my head up and down, but I knew she was wrong. You can’t hold on to the past, even if you want to; it has a habit of slipping from your grasp.

  “I saw you watching me this morning,” she continued. “I was hoping you or your hunky dad would come over and help me clear this stuff out. The boxes are heavy.”

  “I was watching your oak tree,” I corrected, ignoring her reference to my dad. “We don’t have trees in our front garden. Lots of birds visit your tree. I want to see the parakeet most of all.”

  “You’ve seen a wild parakeet?”

  I confirmed its Latin name: Psittacula krameri.

  “Cool. I used to see budgies all the time where I lived in Australia. They’re the same, right?”

  “They have the same characteristics as parakeets, like curved bills and zygodactyl feet—two toes pointing forward and two pointing back.”

  “Wow. I’m living opposite an expert. How exciting.”

  I felt my cheeks warm.

  “I’ll make sure I keep an eye out for it.” The woman gazed down at her boxes. “I have to get through a lot today, making the sitting room look presentable for visitors. I should go back to it. It’s been a pleasure though, kid.”

  “You didn’t finish your introduction.” I was anxious for her to continue, because now I knew the color of her voice, I needed a name to put to the color.

  Hazy sky blue shimmers. “Hmmm. I thought we were saying goodbye! Let me see. I’m a professional musician. At least, I was in Australia, but now I’m planning to work as a piano and guitar teacher until I get the house sorted. Because I love music. I love it more than anything else.”

  “Loud music,” I said, moving my head up and down. “That’s the way it should be played.”

  “Ha! We’re on the same wavelength, right? I’m not sure Mum’s neighbors feel the same. I mean it’s an old street, isn’t it? I can’t believe the ancient faces that are still here. I’m used to being around young people, not the elderly and the dying.”