Color Me Dead (Henry Park Book 1)

by Trent, Teresa

  Darla’s lower lip bunched up, “You listen to me, sweetie pie. You’re going to be sorry you ever messed with me. Now you’re taking advantage of Clarence, carelessly using his vehicles. Do you understand me, or do I have to draw a picture for you?”

  “Why don’t you just walk away from the truck before you find yourself wanting to cut the brake lines? Man, you had to be pretty desperate to get your hands greasy doing such a nasty job. Did you study the method on YouTube first or just wing it?”

  “You little …” She grabbed for me through the window and started yanking my hair.

  “Get off of me,” I yelled at her, but her eyes were crazed as if she planned to get rid of me here and now. She looked like she could kill me, get two miles in her, and be back home in time to go to work. Now I was up against the same woman I kept reporting to the police as a possible murderer.

  A pair of headlights came up behind us, blinding me eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “Yo, this ain’t the roller derby, Darla. Get your hands off of Gabby.” A hand came around Darla and pulled her out of my reach. Darla continued to fight, swinging from side to side as Wilma held her in a bear hug.

  “Ladies, what in the world are you fighting about at 6:30 in the morning? There is nothing worth pulling hair out at this time of day.”

  Darla stopped struggling, and Wilma let go of her grip, watching her for a second to make sure she wasn’t planning another attack.

  “She’s trying to ruin my life,” Darla said, straightening the strands of hair in her now imperfect black satin braid.

  “Geez, from what I heard it was the other way around. Why don’t you just run your prissy bee-hind right on down the road and let this poor lady alone.”

  Darla stood up straight now and raised her chin defiantly. “You of all people should understand what we’re up against here. She went around telling people your sister-in-law was dead, and she wasn’t even cold yet.”

  “I heard.”

  “So doesn’t it bother you just a little bit?”

  “What bothers me is you attacking the newest resident on my mail route. Move on, Darla, before I’m forced to move you on. Capisce?”

  Darla harrumphed and began jogging down the road. She got about ten feet and turned around to give me one last insult. “I’m going to tell Clarence you broke his car.”

  I put my head out the window. “It’s a truck, and I’ll be sure to tell Tim how you attacked me through my car … truck window.”

  She harrumphed even louder and started back down the road.

  “Well, well. We meet again. Have you thought of hiring a life coach? Seems you need someone to look after you,” Wilma said, scratching her head.

  “Thank you so much for getting her off of me. She really hates me.”

  “So why in the world are you parked here by the side of the road? Were you waiting for her to jog by so you could tell her to go to hell?” Wilma asked.

  I laughed at Wilma’s joke. “No, I was trying to drive Clarence’s truck home. I stalled the car and then flooded it. I was waiting until I could start it again.”

  “You are in a pickle, aren’t you? Tell you what, my station wagon is a stick shift. Let me give ’er a try.”

  I quickly shuffled out of the driver’s side, and Wilma jumped in. In just a second she had the truck purring like a racecar.

  “How did you do that?” I asked, wondering if I would even be able to get the truck over the bridge.

  “Years of experience. My house is not far from yours, so why don’t you try driving again, and I’ll follow you home. Sound right?”

  “Sounds great.”

  “Alrighty then.” Wilma returned to her station wagon as I took my place behind the wheel. As I put it in first, I said a little prayer I could make the transition to second.

  “Good. The rest of the gears aren’t as hard. Once you’ve done something a couple of times, it always gets easier and easier,” Wilma called to me from beside her car.

  The miracle was I made it all the way to my driveway. It wasn’t what I would call a smooth ride, but I made it.

  As I exited the truck, Wilma jumped out of her station wagon.

  “Thank you so much for helping me this morning. I think I’m getting the hang of it now.”

  Wilma leaned forward. “So tell me, when you look at something, what do you see?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know. I just focus in on stuff. It’s a weird thing. When I was a kid and we were to draw a tree, I sketched the bugs on the leaves.”

  “Now that’s interesting. So what have you zeroed in on with Amelia’s death?”

  I sighed and stretched.

  “Have you picked up on something else about our cold-blooded killer?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “Sort of. I depend heavily on my sense of sight to catalog things in my brain. I forgot I smelled something too. Smoke.”

  “Smelling smoke can’t be much of a clue. Weren’t you out there smoking?” Wilma said.

  “Yes, but I hadn’t lit a cigarette yet. I was about to, but I already smelled smoke. It was heavy.”

  “So the killer smokes. Who do we know that smokes?”

  “And that is a good question. Wish I knew.” I thought of Gigi for a moment. “Actually, there might be someone I could ask.”

  Wilma glanced at her watch. “Well, I’ve got to get going. The mail won’t deliver itself. It’s been real entertaining—I’ll give you that. I was going in early today. We’re having Amelia’s visitation and funeral tonight.”

  I walked with her back to her car. “Thanks for helping me get down the road in the truck.”

  “No problem. I think you’ve got the hang of it now.” She leaned a little closer, “Will you be coming to the funeral home tonight? Amelia’s parents are out of the country, so I’m kind of taking the lead on the final arrangements.”

  I shifted from one foot to another. This was awkward. What would I say at a visitation for a person I barely knew? But with Mitch’s involvement, there was no getting out of it.

  “What time?”

  “From five until eight tonight. First the visitation and then the funeral. I’ll see you there.”

  As I entered my home, there was one thing I couldn’t get out of my mind. The murderer was like me. A smoker.

  Chapter 26

  The turnout for visitation at the Henry Park Funeral Home was not very big. We sat in the pew behind Clarence and Ryan Bradford, who were next to Katy and Timmy, who had positioned themselves directly behind Timothy and Darla. Awkward, to be sure. A few of Amelia’s other housecleaning clients came in to pay their respects but didn’t stay for the funeral. Mitch fidgeted in his seat. He’d confided in me earlier that he didn’t feel comfortable attending the funeral of a person he’d been accused of killing. Mitch had imagined himself falling in love with her and had started trying to put distance between himself and the infatuation. The only reason he came was he surmised the murderer was probably sitting among the mourners.

  I struggled to make small talk. “Katy, how are you liking Henry Park?”

  “It’s a beautiful place,” she answered, stroking Timmy’s sandy-colored hair. Timmy glanced across the room where a young man with a flower-shop logo on his shirt came in with a pot of flowers. He set the flowers next to a group of other displays near the casket.

  “Are you thinking about staying, or is this just a visit?” I asked. Darla sat up a little straighter in the front row. I was sure she would love to know when Katy was leaving.

  “I don’t know. It sure is nice to be around Timmy’s daddy.” She answered, and Darla’s shoulders slumped. Katy and Timmy’s presence was not something she could paint over and forget.

  The casket remained closed, and people gathered around it talking about Amelia. I barely met the woman, but listening to her clients talk about her ability to clean their houses in an efficient manner made me wish I had known her better. Anybody who creates their own job and then works very
hard to do it right year after year was someone I could relate to. I studied art in college, but once I graduated, I also had to create my own opportunities. She might have been making the front of a dishwasher shine while I was drawing a street scene with thousands of little elements in it, but in that way Amelia and I had a lot in common.

  Jane and Gigi came in, and upon seeing me, situated themselves in the next row, placing Gigi’s wheelchair on the end. I leaned forward and whispered to Jane. “Did you know Amelia?”

  “Yes. She went to school with Gigi, and everyone in town knew Billy. He had a way of making himself known. Very sad,” Jane said. Although Gigi had her sound turned down, she was typing a message for me with her eyes. “SHE’S THE HAND.”

  I whispered a yes into Gigi’s ear, then continued, “Thanks for trying to warn me with your text the other day. Unfortunately, I thought you wanted to sell me a candle and ignored it right up until my car landed in the lake.”

  “I heard,” she responded.

  “What’s the deal with Amelia’s parents?”

  Jane leaned back, her eyes on the crowd by the casket. “They’re missionaries somewhere. Africa, I think? I know it must tear them up not to be able to get back for their own daughter’s funeral. It’s good Wilma was here to put this together. Amelia deserved that at least.”

  When Wilma entered, I thought it might be an appropriate time to go ahead and pay our respects, so I tapped Mitch on the arm. We rose and walked over. She seemed happy to see us.

  “Thanks for coming to Amelia’s funeral,” Wilma said. Her practical wardrobe now manifested as a black suit that could have fit on a man or a woman. Her thick straight hair was as ever, neatly groomed.

  “Of course,” I patted Wilma on the shoulder. An older woman in a polyester black jacket and skirt with a large black handbag joined our little circle and extended a hand.

  “Hello, dear. You’re the artist working with Clarence, aren’t you? I also heard you’re renting the old Miller place. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Mrs. McFadden. I live a couple of houses down from you. Amelia cleaned for my husband and me. Such a loss.”

  I wasn’t sure if she was talking about Amelia herself or the loss of an industrious cleaning lady.

  “Nice to meet you. Which house do you live in?”

  “We’re the white house with the green shutters. You’ve probably seen Ken out cutting the grass.”

  I vaguely remembered seeing an old man working in the yard. They lived in a neat little pin of a house, and from the size of the dish on the roof they had to be picking up channels in Europe.

  Wilma laid a hand on the casket. “I’m sure going to miss her. We weren’t sisters by blood, but after Billy died, we became as close as sisters. She moved in with me after she closed out their apartment. We thought it would be better to share expenses for a while.”

  First her brother and now her sister-in-law. It was curious. Mitch stepped forward before I could ask what was playing around in the back of my mind. “If I may ask, did they ever find the burglar who shot your brother?”

  Mrs. McFadden stiffened a bit, and I knew instantly Mitch had asked the one question he shouldn’t have asked. Kind of like, your not-real sister just died, but wait let’s go back and relive how your brother died, too. Grief overkill.

  “Not yet. My brother had a terrible temper. One, I’m sad to say, he took out on Amelia here. Still, though, he didn’t deserve to die like that. Shot right through the head. Between the eyes. It was awful, but little Amelia’s life was just beginning again, although it was as if she could never quite shake off the fear she felt right up until the end. She went through so much just to survive.”

  Mitch’s brows furrowed at the news. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It seems like a long time ago now. You were curious … Excuse me,” she said, escaping as more mourners entered the chapel.

  “Smooth move bringing up her dead brother at her dead sister-in-law’s funeral. You should sign up for one of those grief hotlines. You’re a natural,” I whispered.

  When the funeral started, we returned to our seats next to Katy and Timmy. Darla had been checking Facebook on her phone. She returned it to her purse, and she glanced back our way and sneered at me. It was a row full of people who seemed to be attempting to ruin her life. It was convenient for us to sit together. It saved her time casting dirty looks.

  Wilma sat in the front row with her hands fidgeting in her lap, looking like she wanted to get this over with. She let out a long sigh as the funeral director spoke. When he asked everyone to share their experiences with Amelia, I hoped he didn’t mean me.

  The director, not getting any immediate takers, walked around with a handheld microphone and offered it to Wilma.

  She stood and turned around to the small gathering. “I will miss Amelia. No matter what happened between her and Billy, she was still family, and I believe in that kind of thing. I hope they catch whoever did this terrible thing to her.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “That’s all.” She handed the microphone back to the director who then, much to my great dismay, repeated the involuntary speech demand for every person who was attending the funeral. When he got to Darla, she promptly pushed the microphone away.

  As the director approached my brother and me, Mitch stood and took the microphone.

  “I would like to speak for the both of us.” He placed one hand on my shoulder. “I was just starting to get to know Amelia, and I wish we had been given more time together. She was smart, witty, beautiful, sexy …”

  I reached up and squeezed Mitch’s hand. No need to go into that part of getting to know her.

  “I’d like to say something.” Mrs. McFadden rose, and Mitch handed her the microphone. “I hope they find the killer real soon. Amelia was a vital part of our little community … Oh, and did Amelia leave any notes about how she got mold off the cracks in the tub? My friend Doris told me she did wonders in her bathroom. It would be a real help.”

  The funeral director gave her a thin smile and pulled back his microphone.

  Amelia would be missed, maybe not for her contribution to society, but definitely for her part in making this a bright and shiny world.

  After the funeral, we all stood around for a few minutes in front of the white folding chairs while the cloying scent of carnations drifted our way. Ryan, in a black suit and a gray-and-white-striped shirt, stood between his father and Tim. I couldn’t help but feel like he was watching me.

  “Just an awful thing to happen to us right here at our lake,” Clarence said, his arms folded across his chest.

  Darla straightened her black scarf. She was the only one in the room with enough black in her closet to go to a funeral every day of the year. “Yes, a lot of bad things have been happening around here just since …” She cast a glance toward Mitch and me.

  “We should also add,” Ryan joined in, “burglaries in this area have picked up significantly.” Once again the group’s eyes traveled to my brother and me.

  I squared my shoulders. I had heard enough of these veiled accusations. “Just what are you trying to say?”

  Elise stepped in, “Nothing at all. If you can’t say something nice, then go somewhere else.” She swatted at the air toward Ryan.

  “Daddy?” Little Timmy pulled on Tim’s sleeve.

  “Yes?” Tim knelt down to address the little boy.

  “Where did Uncle Justin go?”

  “Who?” Tim asked.

  Katy bit the corner of her lip and then appeared confused at the question. “Who is Uncle Justin?”

  The little boy giggled. “Mommy! You know.”

  Katy put her hand on his shoulder and then addressed the circle of mourners. “He’s been going through the imaginary-friend phase. Uncle Justin is probably a new one. Let’s see, this week we’ve had Bobo the monkey, and then of course there was Myrtle. She’s a little girl who steals cookies and puts the blame on Timmy.”

  Mitch reached out and fluffe
d Timmy’s hair. “Trust me, kid, I know all about being accused of something somebody else did.”

  Katy tightened her grip on Timmy. “I probably shouldn’t have brought him here, but when they said it would be a closed casket, I thought it might be all right.”

  Elise gave her a reassuring smile. “He was as good as gold.”

  “So, Mitch. Have they told you anything about leads on a suspect?” Ryan asked. “That is, a suspect other than yourself?”

  Mitch didn’t miss the slight, but he could take it and dish it out. “They haven’t called you yet, Ryan?”

  “Boys.” Clarence scolded. Ryan had bullied me and was now trying to pick on my brother. I’ve never been much on conspiracy theories, but you would almost think it was all part of a plan to get rid of us. I knew it was tough on him, and the sooner we found out who the real killer was, the better. “Enough of this. I’ll be seeing you soon, Gabby.” The Bradfords, along with Tim and his women, started moving toward the door. Maybe Tim should check out the polygamy laws in the rest of the country and just keep them both?

  I noticed the collection of vases and sprays of flowers sent by the cleaning clients who didn’t come to the funeral and realized this might be a chance for me to find out more about Amelia. Having more facts to operate on instead of what came to me in a vision might be a little easier to figure out. Wilma returned from the funeral director’s office, with no doubt a freshly printed bill in her pocket.

  I stepped forward. “You have so many flowers to carry. How are you going to get them all home?”

  “I hadn’t thought about the flowers. Would you like some? Would you like four or five arrangements? The daisies would make a lovely centerpiece for your table.”

  I picked up the vase of pink daisies. “Sure. We’ll take one, but what about the other ten? I wouldn’t mind putting a few in Mitch’s car and following you to your house.”

  Wilma sighed and glanced around. This was the best offer she was going to get.

  “I would appreciate it. Where’s his car parked?”