by Cynthia Lott
He took off his jacket, placing it on Sartain’s coat rack, letting the rainwater drip onto her beige shag carpet.
“So, Roberta said these masks are somewhere in a closet. You check the guest bedroom and her bedroom. I’ll check the hallway one.” I started towards the hall.
I slid open the panel door to the closet and, as I suspected, it too was piled high to the ceiling with boxes. I pulled out a few of them. One was labeled Clients and another, Holidays. I slid the opened boxes down the hall and pulled down a few more marked, Ideas for Landscapes and Architecture and Past Compilations. Roy stepped over the boxes as he made his way towards Connie’s bedroom closet. I dug inside each box which held papers about exhibits, invoices, receipts, holiday decorations, witches on broomsticks, silver garland, photos of her work displayed in galleries, pages torn out from various magazines on landscapes and buildings, and letters from gallery owners and patrons.
Dear Ms. Sartain, your exhibit was a success. We couldn’t have asked for a better turnout. Looking forward to seeing you soon.
Dear Ms. Sartain, please find attached our payment for your painting, 'Brief Landing." It is beautiful and hangs in our dining room. We are honored to share such a lovely piece with friends.
Dear Connie, you didn’t return my phone call! We are waiting to hear from you in regards to displaying your work with us in October. Please do respond.
One of the pictures was of Connie standing next to a gallery director. She seemed a few years younger than fifty, her curly red hair pulled back in a side ponytail, blue eyes sparkling with delight, a slight smile on her face. She was a pretty woman, stylish in a smart sculptress frock and black boots. Another photo was of a younger Connie next to a handsome man around thirty with medium blonde hair. They were at a pool party and the mere social side of Connie portrayed in the photo made it seem as if it were a lifetime ago compared to the introverted state at the time of her death.
The last one was her standing next to a fruit stand in the French market. She wore a white kimono, her curly red hair tumbling around her shoulders and on the back was written, Dear Sam, I wanted to send you a picture of me here in New Orleans. I would love to see you again in New York. Hope you miss me…xxxxx
A sadness washed over me, as I realized that the picture was never sent and this Sam left the scene some time ago.
Amazing how our short lives take on so many different stages.
I sat back against the wall, relaxing for a moment, as there were seven more boxes that required searching and I was already exhausted.
“Brenda, I think I found them,” Roy’s voice called out from Connie’s bedroom.
I slid up from the wall and left my trail of boxes behind. I saw Roy on his knees sitting next to several boxes, one cradled in his lap…a large black hatbox.
“Let’s take a look, shall we?” He placed the box on the floor next to him.
The large box was of no particular importance. It had a signature on the top that read, Gleber Hat Designs. It was what we discovered inside that drew our attention. He opened the box to reveal a deep layer of pink tissue paper, and hidden underneath were the four masks.
“Well, Goddamn, she was right. I don’t know about you, Brenda, but they look pretty similar to the sketch of Carpenter’s mask.”
And so they were. They had been made by hand, the feathers and jewels placed with utmost care by a talented person, forming a set of beautiful masks. Each was different from the other but only by a slight variation of feather colors or jewels. All had the same placement along the face, outlining the eyes and nose, and each bore a beak in various colors. One was green, one gold, another purple, and the fourth one, black. I picked up the one that resembled Carpenter’s the most with the golden beak, the green feathers and encrusted jewels in colors of purple, gold, black and green.
“Wow, these are beautiful and sort of creepy.” I placed the mask back into the box.
“Who made these?” Roy retrieved another one and turned it over in his hand. “Brenda, look at this. Look at the inscription on the back of this one. It says, Carpenter.”
I pulled the other three masks from the box and looked at the back of each one. Written in black calligraphy near the bottom was the name, Carpenter along with the date, 1877.
“What the hell? I don’t understand.” I placed the mask back onto the tissue paper.
“I don’t understand either. This could be the person in his past he’s been referring to this whole time…his own great-grandfather? It makes me wonder about the Watkins. If Connie had these masks, what might they have? These masks were from her grandfather, so there’s a historical significance to them. If Carpenter is warning his victims that their murders are caused by something from their pasts, perhaps the others have something that links them, too. I’m sure you’ve heard the quote, ‘old sins have long shadows.’ I think that’s our Carpenter.”
“Sounds like it. I can revisit the Watkins home tomorrow.”
“Think, Brenda. What stood out there?”
“My mind keeps going back to the feathers. He didn’t leave them in the same room with Claire like he did with both David and Connie. He purposefully left them on their bodies, but not on Claire’s. He left them on that small antique table.” I kneeled down close to Roy, feeling the soft carpet underneath my knees.
“I wonder if there was a purpose to that.”
“There might have been. Roy, the mimicking. Think about it.” His blue eyes followed my train of thought. “His voice seduced Claire; he used her piano skills to seduce David; and, in turn, David’s dancing skills to kill Connie. Do you see? He’s using these talents to lure the next victim. And if that’s the case, then at least we know now that the next victim, number four, will be tempted by his drawings. Not sure how helpful that may be but it’s a start. It’s something we didn’t have before.”
“How can he be doing this?”
“Wait a minute.” I put down the hatbox, walked into the hallway, and retrieved my briefcase. I returned to the bedroom and sat down again on the floor next to him, taking out the folders containing both Connie’s sketch of the birds and Carpenter’s napkin depicting the same illustration. I placed them alongside one another on the beige carpet in front of him.
“Look at them.”
He looked at each one in detail from top to bottom.
“They look identical. Except for his three birds scratched out, I can’t tell the difference.”
“And you won’t. There aren’t any differences. Carpenter has taken on each one of their skills with perfection.”
* * *
Chapter Twelve
Connie M. Sartain
How long had it been since she had someone visit? Maybe it was a month ago when Roberta stopped by and their afternoon together turned into a wicked argument. Her sister wanted to clean her house from top to bottom…a request Connie found inappropriate and intrusive. After drinking a few glasses of merlot, the sisters rose above the argument like they always did, saying that they would meet for dinner the following week. But they never did.
It was easy to hide away, to sequester herself in the depths of her own home, surrounded by all that made her feel comfortable and serene.
Wasn’t that what a home was for anyway?
It was rare when she came across someone worth an evening’s dinner or hours long conversation. And when she did, she found herself yearning to return home, to her artwork and projects.
Any wasted time could be better spent painting.
But here was this beautiful man, an admirer of her work. His name was Thomas Milano and he appeared at her door wearing a bird mask…like the ones owned by her grandfather. Exactly like those.
Had he been a client or a student? It barely mattered because she wanted him to come in…his mask and his presence warranted it. He could have been a wealthy patron who was using a different name. She could understand that…no need to showcase one’s personal life if it was deemed unnecessary. God knows she l
oved anonymity when it suited her.
Refreshingly, he didn’t seem to mind the state of her home. It was an evening she had been waiting for and she relished every moment. They drank Bordeaux and discussed the origin of his mask. Both his mask and those belonging to her grandfather shared a common denominator: a Thomas Carpenter created them all.
“He was my great-grandfather. Remarkable how well they have held together,” he said and they studied each one, removing them from the hatbox, as he explained the process of how they came to be.
What a small world.
He promised to take her to Venice one day, to visit the shops where the old world mask makers still resided and practiced their craft. She had been to most of the typical travel spots: Paris, London, Berlin and Rome but never Venice. Maybe it was time to take a vacation...a long trip and perhaps this time, she wouldn't come back. She would stay overseas and live out the rest of her life there. Venice could work.
Younger than Connie, he had a beautiful dancer’s body…she could tell from underneath his clothing. He told her that he had been studying both ballet and modern dance at a local academy.
She had been planning a new project: paintings and sketches capturing people in all sorts of motion. Sitting on a bench near the levee, she already explored the concept on a small scale by sketching cyclists, Frisbee players, roller skaters and joggers. But she was still waiting for more inspiration…something profound. And then on that evening, she found her answer: draw Thomas’s body while he danced, reflect the fluidity and gracefulness of his movements. And so she did and it was exquisite.
It felt natural to allow him down the hallway and into her bedroom. She hadn’t been with a man since her boyfriend, Sam. Had he been her boyfriend? Not necessarily. He was a gallery owner in New York with whom she had an affair around four years ago, a few trysts after too much wine and discussions over art. She had adored him, sucking on his words like hard candy, trying to extract the last bits of sweetness. The sex had been amazing but he was long gone, and here she was with this man who was inviting and willing.
Would it come naturally again after all of this time? Of course it would. She was a sexual woman after all. She had been with enough men in her earlier days to remember how to slip back into the groove. So many men before. So much sex and for what? To end up hidden away in your own home with hardly anyone calling on you. But tonight would be different, wouldn't it?
She lay on the bed as he bent down near her face, the beak near her lips, sensual and erotic. She let him tie her hands behind her back with a red ribbon – something she had never done before, but wanted to. She needed him to seduce her. It had been too long with everything in her life becoming overwhelming and convoluted. When he placed the pillow on her face, she didn’t struggle. She welcomed this, too, like the tidal wave of a messy home or the submersion of an introverted lifestyle, and she let it wash her away towards a peaceful calm.
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
I found myself once again standing in front of the large cherry wood door that opened into the Watkins home. With its white wrap-around porch, two wood swings suspended from the ceiling, a dozen ferns and large urn-like containers of flowers, the porch signified a welcoming residence. This visit, however, left me with an overall feeling of uneasiness, as I knew my presence would only be equated with their dead daughter – a hard reality associated with the nature of my job.
As I rang the doorbell, hearing the pleasant chime, I observed various signs of neighborhood normalcy down the large tree-lined street. A child with curly red hair furiously peddled his Big Wheel down the sidewalk; a young woman hung some colorful petunias on her porch, wiping dirty hands on an apron; and an older man walked his dogs, two standard poodles.
When the door opened, Karen’s young face peered between the doorframe and the silver chain. Through the crack of the door, I heard “Devil Gate Drive” by Suzi Quatro playing in the background, a reassuring reminder that Karen was still a teenager.
“Hi, Karen.” I mustered up as much enthusiasm as possible.
“Oh, hi, Detective. Wait a minute.” She shut the door and unlocked the chain. A moment passed as the music volume was lowered. She reopened the door and stepped aside to let me pass.
“Come in.”
“Sorry to come around unexpectedly. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time. I should have called first, but I was in the neighborhood.”
“No, no, it’s okay. Everyone’s gone, though. They’re all at Arnaud’s for my Grandmother Edith’s eighty-fifth birthday. I wasn’t feeling well, so I didn’t go. Cramps. You know.” A grim look took over her face as she held her stomach.
“Yeah, I know.” I offered a small laugh. “You can call me Brenda, Karen.”
“Sorry. Brenda.” She smiled which was a comfort to see.
Her long blondish-brown hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, highlighting a young face bare of makeup. Draped across her thin shoulders was a Led Zepplin shirt. She was still in her black pajama bottoms and completed the look with pink fuzzy slippers. The house smelled of vanilla and spice, ironically comforting – homey – and I felt relieved that the only Watkins family member I would have to interact with that day was Karen.
“How are you?” We walked past the foyer and into the living room, still listening to Quatro’s voice low in the background.
“I’m okay. Just going to school. I’m visiting London this summer for a three-month theater program.” She scratched her left leg. “I auditioned for it months before Claire’s death but I’m happy to have an excuse to get the hell out of here. I mean…there are too many memories right now. You know.”
“Yes, I do know. Believe me. Time away will be good for you. And London. That’s wonderful. Good for you.”
“Thanks. The workshop has a great reputation. Laurence Olivier may even visit us. That would be cool. Do you want anything to drink?”
“Tea would be great.”
Although I could take something stronger.
“I’ll be right back.” She smiled and made her way into the kitchen. Her thin frame disappeared behind the swinging door. I looked around the living room and noticed that everything seemed as it was before except for additional photos of Claire at the piano, the whole family on picnics and birthday celebrations before her murder and over twenty sympathy cards lining the fireplace mantel. And that’s where my eyes stopped for a moment: nestled among the various cards and a small bouquet of red roses was Claire’s urn. I swallowed hard and looked away. On the coffee table lay the Scrabble board, a few words left in formation from an earlier game: “dragon,” “monster,” and “engine.” I left the living room and walked to the bottom of the staircase, looking towards the upstairs rooms. I imagined Claire descending from the top floor, virtually walking through me like a ghost, while Carpenter waited for her at the bottom of the staircase.
Claire had come down willingly. He was welcomed into the home, encouraged, trusted.
Karen’s hand touched my shoulder.
I flinched from her touch, stifling a scream. “Oh, God. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. Here you are. I feel her, too.” She handed me the glass of ice tea and looked towards the upstairs bedrooms as if she could envision my own thoughts.
“Thank you.” I sipped it slowly, tasting the strong pekoe tea, reminiscent of my mother’s when she left the pitcher out in the sun to brew. We loved our small tea parties in my bedroom, my mother pouring brewed pekoe into our little teacups, with my dolls watching as we ate homemade pralines. We would drink our tea and giggle over the doll’s tacky outfits that my grandmother made, so proud of her creations.
“Sometimes I think I see her and forget she’s not around. I keep on waiting for her to come out of her room but she never does. It’s a drag. I hate it.”
“How are your parents and brother?”
“My mother cries a lot, but my dad…he throws himself into his work. He always has. Stephen misses her but he
has sports and a lot of friends.”
I could see the pain in her eyes as she attempted strength.
“I do miss her, though. Have you ever lost anyone, Brenda?” Tears formed in her eyes.
“Yes, I have. I lost both of my parents – my mother when I was young and my father last year. I do understand.” I touched Karen’s arm, hoping I could relay some warmth.
“Oh, gosh. I’m so sorry. That’s a real bummer.” She looked at me as if she couldn’t fathom someone losing both parents.
“You never get over someone’s death. You just manage it. If it’s any consolation, you don’t ever have to put a timetable on your grief, Karen. Your grief is all your own no matter what anyone says.”
“Thanks. I like that.” She relaxed her whole body with one long breath. “It’s hard to be the neighbors with the murdered sister. There have been a lot of people giving us their sympathy, but also a lot of other ones that stare at us. It’s weird and totally uncomfortable. I guess they don’t know what to say. It’s like we’ve all contracted some strange disease.”
“Yeah, I went through that when my parents died. It was as if their deaths were contagious. You’re not alone.”
“Totally.”
I was starting to regret my visit. I could see that by digging up Carpenter and bringing him to the forefront again was causing Karen unnecessary pain, but hopefully an admittance of my own loss had somehow soothed her.
“Karen, I came here for a reason. I thought I would stop by and visit, because I think there’s something in your home that may help us with the investigation.”
“In finding Carpenter?”
“Yes. But I want to ask you something first. Do you remember Carpenter having any type of accent when he spoke to you?”