by Liz Bradbury
I grew desperate for a spend and moaned my need in a primal way which was somehow not foreign to this ancient spot. She parted me and clove me with her tongue using skill that would have rivaled Charlotte’s, but driven with an ardent force that would have put Charlotte to shame.
I felt my body grow ready and she felt my readiness as well, using it to excellent advantage. She concentrated on building my urgency until I begged release, which she achieved with surprising boldness, using her entire hand in a way I had not experienced previously. Indeed, I doubt such a sizable... stimulation would have been as intensely pleasurable had I not been so perfectly prepared and desperately desirous, and, indeed, so in love with my Angel. In fact, when the primal sounds of my release had ceased to echo against the yew trees, I found I was ready for it yet again.
I was joyously exhausted by Evangeline when she finally allowed me rest. But the merest sight of her fueled me, and I took her in similar ways, slowly working her to peak again after each culmination. We spent hours taking turns bringing each other delight. Speaking strictly for me, I could have spent the rest of my life in that circle of yews, making love with my Angel.
I am very glad my skillful mentor Charlotte Cushman had taken me... well, shall we say under her wing... And based on my experiences of the afternoon, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of Charlotte’s disciples took Evangeline under her wing whilst in Rome. Because my darling had delivered to me pleasures many times my wildest imagination. If indeed Evangeline developed her skills from her own imagination, then she is as inventive as the entire White Marmorean Flock (as Mr. James described us) grouped as one.
When we finally drew back to rest as the sun dipped below the trees, she said, “It has always been you. There has never been another.”
I am sure, dear journal, I will always consider those ten words the sweetest I have ever heard. I told her I felt the same.
As Evangeline lay back against the pool’s edge that a million years of swirling water had etched, I suddenly saw her as a siren, a naiad, a Rhein maiden. She is my muse, the one for whom I will make every sculpture, every work, from whom every inspiration will come. I know, as sure as the sun will come up tomorrow, that this will always be true. If I were never to behold another woman, or even another beautiful thing of any kind, it would not matter because the vision of Evangeline at that sweet moment will be enough to sustain my commitment to art itself and will inform my every work for the rest of my life.
Kathryn stopped reading and looked up.
Finally Farrel said, “Can’t beat the 19th century for poetic license.”
Jessie said with amusement, “That’s how you feel about me, isn’t it, Farrel?”
Farrel replied, in a remarkably serious voice, “Yes, it is.”
Kathryn saw I was staring at her and she smiled.
So that was how Victoria was able to create a thousand sculptures in a windowless cave. The memory of Evangeline was her inspiration. She didn’t need anything else.
Kathryn scanned the next page, then she read:
We are now together. She is mine, I am hers. And I count the seconds until I shall be with her again.
There was a pause in the room that was filled with heavy breathing and considerable shifting in seats. I had a feeling that everyone was thinking about being alone with the woman who shared her bed. I certainly was.
“My, my,” said Kathryn.
“Talk about Uhaul Lesbians! One afternoon and it’s a lifetime commitment,” said Farrel.
“It happens that way sometimes,” said Kathryn.
“Yes, it does,” said Jessie.
Kathryn was looking at me with that half-smile that thrills me and makes me weak at the same time.
Jessie’s head snapped up. She looked at the clock on the wall. “Do you think the police still have Gabe or that he’s back home?” she asked insistently.
“I don’t know. He has that alibi, so they won’t hold him long.”
“It’s Buster’s dinnertime. Not eating will make him sick... Remember that time?” asked Jessie turning to Farrel.
“Uh huh, he got dehydrated and had to go to the animal hospital.”
“Can you find out?” Jessie asked me.
“I’ll check.”
I reached Sgt. Ed O’Brien on my cell in a minute.
“No question she was murdered, Maggie. Stabbed twice in the neck close together. Looked like a vampire bite, but they were kind of square holes. Do they make, like, sculpture tools like that?” asked O’Brien.
Kathryn, Jessie, and Farrel were following my every word. I hated to shock them, but I had to respond. “Yeah, there are all sorts of things like that. Handmade icepicks, files, even old-fashioned flooring nails. Any one of those could have been within reach in the studio.”
“Well, whatever it was, it’s not there now. The guys checked everything for bloodstains. There’s nothing. If the perp used a tool from the studio, then he took it along.”
Or she, popped into my brain. It always does when people presume it has to be one gender or the other.
“No way Carbondale could have done it, unless he hired a hit man. We’re getting ready to send him home in a squad car right now,” said O’Brien. He told me a few things about Gabe’s interview and then asked me to let him know if I found out anything else.
I turned to the group after O’Brien hung up. “They’re bringing Gabe home in a few minutes. Sgt. O’Brien says Gabe’s alibi is pretty solid.”
“He said something else, didn’t he?” asked Kathryn.
I nodded. “Gabe told the police investigators that Suzanne had already left him before he went to his conference. She’d moved out her clothes, office papers, her best kitchen tools. Everything she really cared about she packed up and took away a week before he left for England.”
“I wonder why she didn’t tell me,” said Jessie softly.
“She didn’t have much, but what she had was pretty fine. All the art was original. Her kitchen stuff was top of the line. She had one Remington chef’s knife she paid $75 for at an auction. But everything she valued would have fit into a couple of boxes. Wouldn’t you say, Jessie?” asked Farrel.
“I don’t know what to say... Oh Maggie, I thought she left without telling me goodbye. Now it turns out she’s been lying at the bottom of that thing all this time. I hate to think...” Jessie sobbed and Farrel went to her to hold her in her arms. Jessie hugged her back tightly.
Kathryn reached for my hand. I held it and saw the glistening tears in her eyes.
Then Kathryn said, “What was that last thing... about the tools?”
Nothing got by Kathryn.
I took a breath. “The Coroner confirms it was murder.”
“You already figured that, Maggie. What else?” said Kathryn.
“She was stabbed twice in the neck by something pointy, like a square skewer.”
Farrel nodded saying, “A needle file could look like that, or a horseshoe nail, or an eighth-inch mortise chisel, even the tang on the other end of a chisel. Did they find it down there? The murder weapon?”
I shook my head. “It’s not there.”
Jessie got up from her seat and walked to the other end of the kitchen, out of earshot. “You don’t have to stop talking. I just don’t want to hear this,” she called back.
“So how do they think it happened? Was it like you said?” asked Kathryn.
I nodded. “The Coroner said it hit a vital artery when she was stabbed. That’s why there was so much blood. She probably didn’t regain consciousness.”
“That’s a tiny bit of comfort,” said Farrel softly.
“So the murderer grabbed a tool to use as a weapon and killed her, and then took the weapon along?” asked Kathryn.
“Looks like it. Or I guess the killer could have brought the weapon into the basement...” I mused.
“Unlikely that someone would be carrying a mortise chisel in their pocket or purse. Even I don’t do that,” said Farrel.
“I’m going to call Gabe. I’m worried about Buster. I don’t trust Gabe to take care of him,” said Jessie coming back to the group. She dialed but got no answer.
“He dropped his cell phone in Buster’s dog dish. He probably hasn’t replaced it,” I said.
Jessie said slowly, “If she died right after I saw her... then where is all her stuff. If she moved it out, where did she put it?”
“I saw some boxes in the mudroom of the stuff she left there. Gabe must have shuffled the remainders of her things into boxes so he could do his macho remodel. Suzanne did always say she traveled light. You would have had a lot in common with her Kathryn. Traveling light,” I said.
“I have more than I thought, though. Mostly books, and now I have my Victoria Snow sculpture and a baby grand piano. So I guess my light traveling days are behind me,” said Kathryn
I smiled at that. “You have that nice little watercolor... um...” Something flashed into my brain. I said, “Farrel what did you say about original art?”
“Huh? You mean about Suzanne? Well, that she had some pieces she loved. Small things, but great.”
“No repros? None?”
“No, Gabe had some, but all of Suzanne’s things were original.”
I thought back to the day I’d fixed Gabe’s lunch. I asked, “Everything she had was original?”
Farrel and Jessie nodded.
“What is it?” asked Kathryn.
“I think... I think I better go over to Gabe’s.”
“Why?” Farrel and Kathryn asked in unison.
“Because when I was at Gabe’s, Buster knocked over a box in the mudroom and I saw what was in it.” In my mind I saw Gabriel Carbondale packing those boxes and putting them there. Then I thought back to Nora Hasan saying, ‘And now, all the world’s a stage.’
“Kathryn, all those pompous things that Gabe is always saying, they aren’t just random are they?” I asked. “Giving short shrift, bag and baggage, meat and drink to me, good riddance, vanish into thin air... He’s not just making those up, is he?”
“No, of course not,” said Kathryn. “It’s all Shakespeare.”
I stood up and grabbed my jacket.
“What’s this about?” - Farrel.
“It’s about Gabe lying. Lying a lot and having the acting skills to pull it off. It’s time I got some answers from Gabe.”
“I’m coming with you,” Kathryn said, getting her coat.
As we left, Jessie called, “Be sure Buster has his dinner!”
And I distinctly heard Farrel say the word, “Team.”
“What did you see in that box that is making us rush over to Gabe’s?” asked Kathryn as we walked swiftly along the darkening street.
I was still putting things together in my mind. When I hadn’t answered her for a block, Kathryn said, “I’m supposed to be the steadfast partner. Enlighten me about the evidence.”
“OK, Suzanne had a small Matisse cutout. It fell on the floor when Buster tipped over a box.”
“A real Matisse?”
“I think it was a book plate print. But if it wasn’t a repro....”
“I priced one of those once. The ones from Jazz are worth around seven thousand dollars!” said Kathryn.
“I know. It’s hard to believe someone would leave that behind when they moved out and Gabe must have known that when he packed it away. I’d like to get a better look in those boxes.”
As we made it to 10th Street we saw a squad car pulling up to Fen House.
A uniformed officer and Gabriel Carbondale got out of the idling car and walked to the door.
“OK, are you up for some team work?” I asked Kathryn.
“Consider me your able-bodied apprentice. What are we going to do?”
“As soon as the police car drives away, ring the doorbell. Then chat with Gabe to get him to stay in the front of the house while I take a quick look around the back.”
“You can’t just break in. Oh rats, we’re back to that again.”
“I’m going to get Buster to invite me into the mudroom. I just want another look at those boxes before I talk to Gabe. Ring my phone as soon as he stops talking to you.”
“Just don’t shoot the dog,” said Kathryn.
“Jessie would kill me with her bare hands if I did that.”
“Wait, Maggie... um... When Carbondale came back from England and found Suzanne’s expensive Matisse still on the wall, surely that was suspicious. Why didn’t he tell you or say anything to the police? Why didn’t he act more concerned?”
“Act is the pivotal word. He didn’t act concerned because he’s an actor. Get ready.”
We gripped each other’s hands and looked into each others eyes and then Kathryn moved closer to the front door to be able to swoop in as soon as the police left. I ran around to the back alley. I reached over the top of the backyard gate, slid the latch back, and swung it open enough to slip through and edge into the yard.
Buster burst through his dog door, bounding toward me like a bull charging a matador. He reared up, landing his snowshoe-sized paws on my shoulders. Dog slobber whipped my cheek. I lifted him down and wiped my face with my sleeve.”
“Hi buddy,” I whispered as I patted him into a tail-wagging frenzy.
“Shhhh. OK, calm down.”
He immediately turned and charged back through his dog door into the kitchen.
I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the window into the mudroom. There was a low light on in the kitchen. Nobody back there... Not a creature was stirring except a dog the size of a small pony. Buster paced the room, swinging his beer-can-thick tail like a dull scythe.
I could faintly hear Gabe and the cop talking in the vestibule. Then I heard the front door close and the police car pulling away. As I waited for the doorbell, I admitted to myself I had no good excuse to sneak into Gabe’s house.
I tapped on the glass. “Buster... Buster... gimme a reason.” He tilted his head, then he ran out of view in the direction of Suzanne’s old office. A minute later he came back to the mudroom doorway, sat down, and looked at me. Then he looked toward the office, then toward me, then toward the office. He ran to the office again, his frying-pan-sized paws were surprisingly quiet. He came back to the door, sat down, and looked up at me, doing a great imitation of every fictional dog in media history trying to tell the main character something important. Buster yawned and shook his head, jangling his tags and chain collar like sleigh bells.
I took a step back into the dark yard because Gabriel Carbondale suddenly walked into the kitchen from the living room hallway. He shrugged off his jacket to hang it on the hook next to the back door. He moved slowly, like a man who had way to much on his mind. Not a surprise, since his wife had just been found murdered.
Gabe noticed Buster, who ran out of view to the left. Gabe watched him and then followed. I faintly heard him say something. A light went on to the left in Suzanne’s office. Buster ran back into my view and sat down, looking left then at me, then left.
Then suddenly a gunshot split the night and Buster reared back and howled like a horror movie werewolf, just as the doorbell began to ring.
Chapter 18
Before I was even conscious of moving, I was squeezing through Buster’s dog door, glad I still had my gun with me. I pulled it out of my shoulder holster and flattened against the wall. Buster continued to howl until I told him to stop.
Buster pranced ahead of me and I slowly followed in full defense mode, with my left hand teacupping my right hand that held my gun, pointed down but ready. Somewhere close was a person who had just squeezed a trigger.
I turned the corner. Gabriel Carbondale was slumped over Suzanne’s office table. There was a small neat hole in the side of his head and the small gun that had made it lay on the floor below his dangling hand. A red pool was rapidly leaking from Gabe’s head and spreading over the tabletop. I
moved toward Gabe. Buster held back, politely letting me go first.
I inched into the office and uselessly felt Gabe’s neck for a pulse. I scanned the room. The other door that faced the hall to the living room was open. The hall beyond it was empty.
Buster padded back into view and sat in the doorway.
“Is there anybody in here?” I whispered to him.
He cocked his head to one side, flipping an uncut ear over his eyes. He leaned toward the rest of the house as if to listen. Then he shook his errant ear back in place, exhaled like a person, and yawned.
Either that meant no, or it was just comic relief.
I listened intently. There was no noise. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the house. It looked pretty conclusively like suicide.
I called the police, told them simply that there was a dead body at Gabe’s, and it was Gabe. I could hear the sirens before I’d even finished giving the information on the phone.
Kathryn texted me while I was talking to the police.
< Sirens? >
I texted back, < Gabe’s dead >
*******
The police swarmed the block. In minutes Kathryn joined me in the backyard and Sgt. Ed O’Brien was on the scene again.
“You’ve been drumming up a bucket of business for us lately, Maggie,” said O’Brien, meeting me in the backyard.
He brought me back into the house and Kathryn tagged along without asking. As Jessie always says, It’s easier to get forgiveness than to get permission.
“Maggie, you want to tell me how you got in, or shall we just overlook the little issue of the back door being locked.”
By way of explanation I glanced at Buster’s dog door.
“Usually people leave notes, but there’s no note. So, help me out here... Carbondale just killed himself because he was upset about his wife being dead, or because somehow he flew over here from England and killed her and felt remorse?”