The Color of Bee Larkham's Murder

by Sarah J. Harris

  Bee put the bottle back in the fridge. “Thanks, but I’m being good. I have to be good. Which is hard for me. Because being bad is a lot more fun, don’t you think?” She let out a streaky blue gale of laughter.

  I opened my portfolio, unsure what to say or do.

  I wanted to display all eight pictures for us both to study. That was the original plan, after we’d discussed David Gilbert, but the table was sticky and cluttered. As well as spilt sugar, she’d forgotten to clean up after breakfast. Two cornflakes stuck to the wood. I slumped into a chair and picked at a cereal scab with my nail. It had dried hard and sharp.

  “Ow!” It stuck beneath the nail, piercing my skin.

  Bee Larkham didn’t say anything as I sucked my finger. She hummed a pink ballet-pump tune in my direction, one I didn’t recognize.

  “I’m glad you brought up about Lucas being at school today,” she said finally. “I’ve been worried about him. You too. I haven’t seen either of you since I asked you to deliver my note. It made me wonder what went wrong.”

  I shifted in my seat. I didn’t want to talk about the reddish orange dog barking and the dirty brown with gray edges of Lucas’s dad shouting again.

  “I have to go.” I stood up, knocking over the chair with a radiation of dull brown circles.

  “I’m sorry, Jasper. Sit back down.”

  “I want to take my paintings and notebooks home. You said you wanted to look at them, but you haven’t asked about them once. You’re asking about Lucas. That’s all you’re interested in when you should be interested in protecting our parakeets.”

  “That’s not true,” Bee said. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Jasper. I’m upset. Like you.”

  I stared at the blood pooling underneath my fingernail. The cornflake was sharp, like a tiny knife. How could something tiny cause so much pain?

  “I can’t let you spread your lovely paintings out on my messy table. Sit down again while I make a space for you.”

  I hesitated. The way I had when she caught me on the street.

  Leave or stay.

  Stay or leave.

  I wanted to leave, but Bee scurried around like Snow White, without the animal helpers, tidying the table. She flung the empty milk carton in the bin, scooped up the apple cores and spilt sugar, and threw armfuls of newspapers into a recycling basket.

  “Wait, wait, I’m not done yet. I’m such a slob. It’s been a difficult week. I’ve let things drift. Don’t even look at all the washing up I have to do. The dishwasher broke and I got behind.”

  She soaked a blue sponge under the tap. Light blue-gray lines.

  The water spattered onto the white tiles.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  Darker thimble shapes.

  Bee was in danger of slipping in the spilt water and hurting herself. Accidents were most likely to happen in the home and resulted in around six thousand deaths a year.

  Before I had time to warn her, she sloshed water over the table, splashing one of the paintings in my lap. I shoved my seat backwards and stood up, grabbing hold of the chair to stop it toppling over again and making more shapes.

  “Sorry, sorry. I want it to be perfect for your paintings. The table has to be completely clean to showcase your work. I don’t know what I was thinking, not clearing up before you arrived.”

  I stared at my painting. A small wet spot grew in size. It made the adult parakeet sapphire blue sound run into an offspring’s lighter tone. It changed the tempo of their voices, making them both off-key.

  “My picture’s ruined.”

  “It’s not ruined, Jasper,” Bee said.

  She was wrong, the way she’d been wrong about things before. I didn’t like her voice. It had sharp edges and pointy shapes.

  “Ruined isn’t a spot of water on a painting. It’s barely even noticeable. Ruined is when your life’s going down the toilet and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Ruined is losing the love of your life and not knowing how to get him back.”

  I closed my eyes and felt myself rocking. I didn’t want the parakeets’ songs to be ruined, not when they sang them so beautifully.

  Not fair. I’d be letting the birds down if the painting didn’t capture their colors perfectly.

  “The parakeets are the love of my life,” I pointed out. “Now they are, anyway. Before that was Mum. She’d have loved the parakeets too. She wouldn’t have wanted to lose them. I don’t want to lose them to David Gilbert. I want to stop David Gilbert before he hurts them.”

  “And we’re back to the parakeets,” Bee said. “Which I’m, like, totally glad about?” She sighed, rolling bluish white mist.

  It didn’t sound like a longing sigh, a longing to see their voices and music, the longing I felt when I saw and heard them. I sensed for the first time she felt differently. Even when she spoke the same words as me, they had a strange, unfriendly tint.

  “Honestly, I’m glad to be talking about the parakeets again. Yippee! We can run through your interesting conspiracy theories about David Gilbert too now, if you want.”

  “Yes, that’s what I want.”

  She polished the table surface with a towel that was encrusted with dried, old food.

  “Look, all shiny and new! Now let me take a look at your pictures.”

  I pointed to a puddle. “It’s wet there.”

  “Sorry.” She rubbed harder. “Forgive me, when my life’s in such a mess, for not getting everything absolutely perfect for you, the way you like it.”

  The words in the sentence tried to be kind. It sounded like Bee was making an effort, a proper effort. But the corners of her mouth hadn’t moved and edges had crept into her colors. I’d only recognized a smile—a teeth-showing smile—when I first arrived.

  “Do you still want to see my paintings?” I had to check. I didn’t know what she wanted, what she was thinking. We didn’t have a connection. I’d broken it somehow after I’d walked into her messy kitchen and her smile went away.

  “Please, do.” She picked up the hems of her dress and curtsied. “I’d be thrilled if you’d do me this honor. I can’t think of anything else. The suspense is killing me.”

  I honestly didn’t want to kill Bee Larkham. I took my time, arranging the pictures on her table. They had to be in the right order, in sequence with the notebooks, but Bee Larkham tapped her foot on the floor, making teddy-bear-colored circles, which was distracting.

  “Do you want to see them chronologically, in date order? Or by theme? For example, ordered by singing, feeding, pruning, fighting, peeping out of the hole, or on the branches. Or maybe—”

  “The truth is,” she interrupted. “I’ve been trying to understand why Lucas didn’t turn up to meet me after he read my note. That got me thinking. What if this isn’t Lucas’s fault? What if this is your fault?”

  My tummy contracted at the sharp words.

  “This is the sunset collection,” I continued. “And these are their songs at sunrise.”

  “Lovely. Your paintings are lovely, Jasper. As usual. And I know you heard me.” Her voice was low, as if she were afraid of eavesdroppers. “Some people on this street, like David Gilbert, think you’re dumb. They tell me you’re dumb because you’re not like normal kids, but I know you’re not. I know you heard me, Jasper.”

  I carried on arranging my work, laying out the paintings of the parakeets feeding and fighting, singing and chatting.

  “Did you make a mistake when you delivered my note, Jasper? Did you deliver it to the wrong house on Wednesday? Did you give it to someone other than Lucas? Tell me what went wrong!”

  “Reddish orange triangles and dirty brown spikes with gray edges!”

  “Answer me properly, Jasper. In English. I don’t understand your color talk. Did you make a mistake? I’ll forgive you, if you admit you made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. I make them all the time.”

  My face was wet with tears. I couldn’t bear to look at her. I continued to look at my paintings.

  Su
nset, sunrise, feeding.

  “Jasper?”

  “I thought it was Lucas,” I said. “I gave it to the boy in uniform who opened the door.”

  “Now this is important.” She talked slowly; the way Dad did when he was annoyed or when he wanted me to calm down. “Take your time before you answer, Jasper. Is there any possibility, any possibility at all that you might have given the note to his brother, Lee?”

  I didn’t need to take my time.

  “It’s possible. I don’t know. I didn’t ask his name. I’m sorry. The triangular reddish orange barking dog confused me. I had to get away. Fast.”

  Bee shook her head. “That’s not so bad. Not as bad as I feared. At least you got the right address. The letter’s somewhere in the house.”

  “It’s burning.”

  “Something was burning in Lucas’s house? Was that what threw you?”

  “No. Inside your oven.”

  “Damnit. My pie!” She flew across the kitchen and flung open the oven door. “Phew. I thought I’d ruined it.” Clutching the dirty towel, she yanked out the pie and threw it onto the work surface.

  Bang. Red sparks.

  “Hot, hot, hot!” She blew on her fingers and stuck them under the tap. Blurring gray lines.

  “I should go home. Dad will be wondering where I am.”

  “That’s not likely, is it?” Bee spoke without looking back. It sounded like a question, but she didn’t wait for a reply. “I doubt he’s missed you at all because he’s not home from work yet, is he?”

  Under the table, I checked my watch. She was right.

  “Did you even tell him you were coming to see me tonight?” she asked. “Does he know where you are?”

  I continued to study my watch.

  “Don’t worry, Jasper. I’m sure your dad won’t mind. He likes me. He always has, ever since the party. Maybe even at first sight. I saw you both watching me from your bedroom window the night I moved back to this godforsaken street.”

  I wasn’t sure Dad did like Bee because he’d called her a silly little tart, but I didn’t want to upset her again. She thought a God who didn’t exist had forsaken her. I hadn’t.

  “I’m sorry about your fingers. And about Lucas not turning up to meet you. And about how I gave your important note to the wrong brother. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  The angular greenish blue word trilled on my lips.

  “Don’t be, Jasper. I’m a lot happier now I know what happened. Lucas never got my note. His brother must have forgotten to give it to him. You know what young kids are like, right? They’re unreliable. They screw things up, important things.”

  I counted my teeth with my tongue because I’d forgotten to put Mum’s button in my pocket.

  “Where are my manners, Jasper? You must be starving. Let’s have some pie.”

  “I’m not that—”

  “Please don’t say you’re not hungry, Jasper, because that would be rude after I’ve gone to all this trouble to cook you a special pie. I’ve even made my own pastry instead of buying it.”

  I didn’t want to be rude, but she’d been rude first. She hadn’t looked at my paintings. Not properly. She hadn’t asked to see my notebooks or brainstormed more ideas about how to tackle David Gilbert. She only wanted to talk about Lucas Drury and why he hadn’t turned up to meet her. I hesitated again as she pulled out a knife from the drawer.

  “How about a nice big slice?” She didn’t wait for my answer and slammed the metal through the dark brown pastry, with one long laceration.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the knife. It flashed bright steel beneath the pendant light overhead. In a fraction of a second, I could see my distorted reflection in the metal.

  Then I was gone, as if I’d never been in Bee Larkham’s kitchen. Never even existed.

  48

  Interview: Saturday, April 16, 11:23 A.M.

  “You’re doing well, Jasper. Can we go back to talking about the knife?” Rusty Chrome Orange asks. “The knife that Bee Larkham used to cut the pie?”

  I close my eyes again and feel the paintbrush in my hand. It’s trying to defend me.

  But it’s no good.

  Everyone knows a paintbrush can’t win in a fight against a knife.

  • • •

  “What do you think of my chicken pie, Jasper?”

  The pastry was flaky, the way I usually liked it, but overcooked on top. I’d scraped off the burnt bits when Bee Larkham wasn’t looking, but I could still taste copper. It wasn’t the same as my usual Friday-night chicken pie that came inside cardboard packaging.

  “I think it tastes almost OK.” An unidentifiable piece of dark meat had bobbed up through the sauce. I prodded it with my fork.

  “Almost OK? You’re a hard person to please, Jasper.”

  “The sauce is lumpy and tastes of pennies and the pastry is overcooked and bitter,” I muttered. “Apart from that, it’s OK.”

  “Wow. Thanks for the compliment. I’m overwhelmed.” She took a bite, closing her eyes. “Mmmm. Delicious. It’s funny how a good, home-cooked meal can make you feel better, something you’ve cooked from scratch and know where all the ingredients have come from.”

  I never knew this fact for sure. Dad and me never cooked anything from scratch. It usually came out of a packet from the freezer or fridge and had to be reheated in the microwave or oven. Dad’s specialty was lasagne ready meal.

  “Now I’m feeling less light-headed I can look at your parakeet pictures properly. Pass them over, Jasper. I’m sorry I didn’t pay enough attention earlier.”

  I repeatedly stressed how worried I was about her getting greasy pie marks on my paintings, but she insisted she’d be careful. She looked at each one—ranging from ten to fifteen seconds per painting—and placed them in a neat pile on the chair next to her.

  The last one had the spot of water in the corner. Bee didn’t mention it. This one was her favorite, for some bizarre reason. She couldn’t tell it was ruined, the way I could.

  “I want this one for my collection. Would you give me your wonderful painting? I’d like it right there.” She pointed to the white wall behind me, bare apart from a rusty nail. “It’s where my mum used to hang a dreadful sea scene that I always hated.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I’ve done far better paintings, like the one at the start of the pile. This one’s damaged.”

  “No, I feel something when I look at this one, more than I feel about the others,” she replied. “Don’t get me wrong—they’re all fab. It’s just this painting is like me, imperfect but still beautiful. That’s right, isn’t it, Jasper? You see all my flaws yet you like me, don’t you? You like me a lot.”

  “I love the color of your voice and your music,” I admitted. “You’re beautiful and you love parakeets. You want to protect them from David Gilbert. You’re my friend.”

  “Thank you. You’re a sweet boy. I’m sorry I was snappy with you earlier. I was going wild with worry. I think you’re perfect too. You’re an amazing painter, Jasper, and all-round human being.” She burst out laughing. “Listen to us having a luvvie-fest!”

  She reached out her hand and waited. I passed her my plate, trying to avoid looking at the red stripes on her wrist. I’d finished my pie and she probably wanted to do the washing up.

  “No. I wanted to hold your hand, Jasper. Can I? I know many autistic children hate being touched and hate loud music, but your dad said you’re different. You’re not like other autistic children. You have other problems though. Lots of them, he said, which makes life difficult.”

  When had Dad talked about me? What else had he said about me?

  She waited until I stretched my left hand out, our fingers almost touching. My hand wobbled and I wanted to hide it beneath the table. I wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with it.

  “Closer,” she said. “I know you can do it.”

  I shifted in my seat, my fingertips brushing hers. Suddenly, she grasped my hand tightly. “How are we
going to fix this problem you’ve caused, Jasper?”

  I tried to pull away, but she held on. “I wouldn’t ask you again, unless I was desperate, and I am. You don’t know what it’s been like for me these past few days. I’ve been going out of my head with worry.”

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I told you already I’m sorry. I see but don’t see faces. Remember what I said about the big dog that barks reddish orange triangles? I can’t go back there.”

  I attempted to wrestle my hand back, but she hung on.

  “Get off me!”

  “Calm down, Jasper, and stop shouting.” She released her grip. “It’s not nice. It’s not what nice boys do.”

  I rubbed my wrist. I wanted to stand up but felt too dizzy. Her words had sealed me to my seat, as if she’d pasted my chair with glue. She wouldn’t release me. I was stuck, like Alice in Wonderland, and couldn’t get back up through the rabbit hole to safety.

  “I’m too young. I don’t want to deliver your letters. I don’t want to talk to Lucas. I hate him.”

  “That’s not true, Jasper. You don’t hate him. Hate’s a strong word for a little boy like you to use.”

  “Hate’s a smoky green word,” I corrected. “And I’m not little. I’m five foot, which makes me just under average height for my age.”

  Her gaze burrowed into my forehead. I wanted to throw something to make her stop. All I could see in front of me was the pie dish. Creamy sauce oozed out, making my tummy lurch. I shifted my gaze and stared at the knife instead.

  “Look at my paintings, but not at me. I don’t like it.”

  “Sorry, Jasper. I’m not looking at you, I promise. I need you to do this one last thing for me. I need you to give Lucas another note early tomorrow morning at home before his dad wakes up. I’ll write it for you now.”

  “I won’t, I won’t! I’m not playing this game. I’m going home.” I stood up and almost fell over. The room swam around me, knocking me off balance. If I fell, I doubted Bee Larkham would catch me.

  “No, Jasper, you’re not. You’re not going anywhere yet. I’ve tried to be nice. I’ve looked at your paintings. I’ll even hang one on my wall. I’ve let you drone on about your David Gilbert obsession. If you refuse to do this for me, I’ll . . .” Her voice trailed off.