Murder in Paint

by Rodney Strong

  Oliver showed them out then went into the bathroom, shut the door, and threw up into the toilet.

  Yuck. Are you alright?

  ‘No I’m not,’ he replied in a shaky voice. ‘The police have been here twice now, and each time I feel like they’re going to slap the cuffs on me.’

  For what? You haven’t done anything wrong.

  He paced from the bath to the door and back. ‘Then why do I feel so guilty?’

  Because you’re weak. All men are weak in the stomach – that’s why they feel the need to show how strong they are physically.

  ‘Thanks.’ Rinsing his mouth with water, he wiped his face on the towel and steeled himself for the barrage of questions that were about to come.

  Jennifer forestalled too much conversation by announcing it was bedtime. Knowing that the visit was going to spread through school faster than a plague of head lice, Oliver promised to tell them all about it in the morning. They grudgingly agreed, although it cost him an extra song for Rose, and two extra stories for Reed. When he went back into the kitchen Jennifer was loading the dishwasher.

  ‘What did the police want?’ she asked casually.

  Tell her.

  She’ll think I’m crazy.

  Leave out the bit about me being in your head if you want, but you need to tell her something, and we hate it when you lie to us.

  So he told Jennifer an edited version of the previous day’s events, leaving out anything that made him sound crazy.

  ‘Wow,’ she replied. ‘You’re positively famous.’

  He came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and inhaled the familiar smell of her hair. ‘I’d rather this whole thing just went away.’

  Way to make a girl feel good.

  Jennifer leaned back into him, resting her soapy hands on the edge of the sink. ‘Look on it as research for your book.’

  Oliver kissed her head and stepped away. ‘I like to do my research the old-fashioned way, on the internet.’

  Jennifer laughed, and the sound flowed over him like a warm blanket. Every time she laughed, properly laughed, it was like discovering his home all over again.

  Later as he was brushing his teeth Violet spoke.

  We need to find her.

  ‘And then what?’ he mumbled through a mouthful of toothpaste.

  Then we hope she isn’t a cold-blooded murderer.

  EIGHT

  Once school drop-off was done in the morning, Oliver headed into the city. By mutual consent they decided he would just drive around for a while, to see if Violet could sense the imposter. The only alternative was to walk from one end to the other, which sounded tiring and probably futile given that the fake Violet could be on the move and walking away from them.

  There was a brief discussion about whether the car window needed to be down to give Violet clear access to the vibey world (Oliver’s words). He was adamant it should stay up since it was far too cold, and as the sounds of the city invaded through the open window along with the chill he considered how lucky he was to have another woman in his life who ignored him.

  For an hour they wove through the streets, progressing further out with each circuit. Eventually Oliver stopped at a service station on the edges of the city for a coffee and toilet break. Waiting for his drink to cool from scalding to manageable he pondered the futility of their current action.

  What choice do we have?

  ‘We could wait for the police to find her for us,’ Oliver replied.

  So your plan of action is to take no action?

  ‘We could drive around all day – all week even – and not find her. We don’t even know if she’s still in the city,’ he said in frustration.

  And we don’t know she’s not. We keep going.

  With a sigh he started the car and they resumed their search. By lunchtime even Violet was becoming disheartened. Oliver stopped for food and they parked along Oriental Parade, looking back over the water to the city. The sky was clear and despite the cold there was a steady stream of runners and walkers. They ranged from serious to enthusiastic, with a smattering of pretentious who seemed more interested in appearances than getting fit. Oliver felt a twinge of regret that he wasn’t out there. He loved the solitude of running, just music and his thoughts for company.

  I can’t believe the band rotunda is still there. You know it used to be made out of wood.

  Oliver glanced at the concrete structure jutting out into the harbour. ‘I don’t need a history lesson,’ he said, shoving the last of the burger into his mouth. He got out of the car and carried the rubbish over to a nearby bin.

  ‘Oliver!’

  Belatedly Oliver remembered what day it was. He plastered on a smile. ‘Hey Tamati.’

  The short, supremely fit man jogged to a stop and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘You should have brought your gear.’ Without waiting for a response, he turned and gestured for the straggle of runners approaching to keep going. Tamati, aside from being a world-class athlete and genuinely nice guy, also organised a Thursday lunchtime run squad. When Oliver worked full time in the city he’d gone along every week. There was no denying that it had improved his fitness and running style, and he had enjoyed the comradery of the other runners as they all cursed Tamati for finding new and painful ways to push their limits.

  He got a few sketchy smiles as red faced runners struggled past, and returned a couple of tired waves.

  ‘How’s the running going?’ Tamati asked, one eye on the retreating group.

  I know I’ve said the other guys are cute, but this one is….

  A whistle echoed sharply in Oliver’s ear and he winced. He’d known Tamati for several years, and found this assessment more disconcerting than her previous ones.

  ‘Um, it’s not, to be honest. I hurt my knee and it’s taking longer than I thought to come right.’

  ‘What did the physio say?’ Tamati said.

  I bet his bottom is tight. I’d like to sink my fingernails into that.

  Oh my God shut up. ‘Um, oh you know, she gave me some exercises to strengthen it.’ He still had the piece of paper somewhere with the exercises he should have been doing. ‘I’m thinking I might try it out on the weekend with a short run.’

  Tamati’s eyes dropped to Oliver’s stomach and Oliver automatically sucked it in. ‘Good luck buddy. Give me a bell and I might come out with you. And come back to run squad.’ With a wave he set off after the group. Oliver let out his breath.

  I could watch him leave all day.

  ‘That’s my friend,’ he protested.

  So?

  Disgusted he threw his rubbish in the bin and strode back to the car.

  Why did you lie to him?

  Oliver gripped the door handle and hesitated. ‘What makes you think I lied to him?’ he asked.

  Your heart rate went up when you told him you were going for a run.

  ‘I thought you were in my head.’

  I was, I am. But it seems the more I’m in your head the more I know what’s going on in the rest of you.

  ‘Great,’ he replied in a voice indicating it was anything but. He opened the car door.

  Wait!

  ‘What now?’ he snapped.

  I can feel her.

  ‘Are you sure?’ He looked around but couldn’t see the fake Violet.

  I think I’d know if I can feel that the woman impersonating me is close by.

  Oliver reflected on the absurdity of that statement, before starting to get back into the car.

  No, I mean she’s really close by.

  Oliver hauled himself back out and re-locked the car. ‘Where?’

  She directed him across the road and to the left. His head vibrated and it took him a moment to realise it was Violet.

  Here, right here!

  They were outside a three-storey apartment building – the sort that would set you back seven figures for a view of the harbour and a container wharf in the distance. The front door had a keypad lock, and a buzzer
for each of the six apartments. Apartments were numbered but not named. Hopefully, Oliver tried the front door, but it stayed firmly closed.

  ‘I don’t suppose you can sense what apartment she’s in?’ he asked, earning strange looks from an elderly couple walking their poodle. He smiled and the woman clutched her handbag tighter.

  No, but she’s in the building, I’m sure of it.

  Oliver had never had to break into a locked building before, but he had seen plenty of television where the hero had. Starting from the top he pressed the apartment buzzers one at a time. The first three yielded no answer. On the third a male voice brusquely asked him what he wanted.

  ‘I’m trying to find my sister.’

  ‘Wrong apartment.’ He disconnected.

  The fourth apartment was empty as well and the fifth was answered by someone who told him to go away in words of four letters.

  Before he could buzz the sixth apartment the front door opened from the inside and a mother juggling bags, a push chair, and two crying toddlers, pushed through. Oliver quickly grabbed the door and held it open, earning a tired and stressed smile, and access to the building.

  The tiny foyer had an elevator, stairs to the right, and a small wooden table with a glass vase and bright yellow flowers.

  ‘Where now?’

  Top floor.

  ‘No one was home.’

  No one answered. When you’re hiding from the police you don’t exactly answer the front door?

  ‘That sounds like you’re speaking from experience.’

  Hurry up.

  With a sigh he pressed the lift button.

  It’s only two floors. You should walk.

  He told her what she could do with her suggestion, then watched the numbers above the lift move agonisingly downward. For once Violet kept quiet as he trudged up the stairs.

  At the top the stairs opened onto a narrow landing with two doors.

  Left one.

  He pressed the doorbell and faintly heard a chime, but no one came. ‘Are you sure?’

  Knock. She’s in there.

  He knocked on the door, and pressed the doorbell again. Suddenly the door swung open and Oliver stepped back involuntarily.

  ‘You don’t appear dangerous,’ Fake Violet said.

  ‘I’m not,’ he assured her.

  She peered past him and frowned. ‘You’re the man from the shop.’ She brought her hand out from behind her back and pointed the gun at him. ‘You’d better come in.’

  NINE

  The lounge was straight out of a magazine, complete with leather lounge suite, designer rug, and ugly painting. A sliding door led out to a balcony littered with an assortment of pot plants and chairs. Through the glass seagulls drifted lazily above the water and in the distance ant like cars crawled along the bottom of hills. It was an idyllic picture that projected a sense of tranquillity. Oliver took all of this in while being painfully aware of the gun pointed at his back. He sat on the couch, while the woman sat opposite. His entire world shrank to just the gun. It was small, fitting comfortably and disturbingly naturally in Fake Violet’s hand. But this being the first time he’d had a gun pointed at him, Oliver wasn’t going to discriminate on the basis of size. After all a small bullet could still kill you.

  The hand that held it was steady, the eyes behind it calm and a deep shade of green. She sat on a single seat, having motioned for him to take the couch.

  How dare she point a gun at me.

  Technically she’s pointing it at me.

  Get it off her. She won’t pull the trigger.

  That’s easy for you to say, you’re already dead. I don’t want to join you.

  ‘Who are you?’ Fake Violet asked.

  Who are you?

  ‘I’m nobody. I mean, I’m somebody obviously, but nobody important. Nobody that needs a gun pointed at them.’

  Fake Violet’s lips twitched in amusement. ‘Why are you here? How did you track me?’

  Oliver squirmed, the couch’s leather making an unfortunate sound. Fake Violet laughed and the gun wobbled upwards towards Oliver’s face. He shifted again and there was another sound. She laughed once more and lowered her arm, resting the gun on her bare leg. She was wearing a different blue dress, one that left her arms and legs bare, and clung in appropriate places.

  ‘Let’s start with an easy question. What’s your name?’

  Don’t tell her.

  ‘Oliver.’

  Don’t give her your last name.

  ‘Oliver Atkinson.’

  It’s like talking to a dog.

  ‘Well Oliver Atkinson, this is the second time I’ve seen you, and I don’t believe in coincidences, so why don’t we start with what business you have with me?’ There was a lilt in her voice, a slight accent that Oliver couldn’t place.

  He cleared his throat. ‘It’s to do with your name.’

  She tilted her head. ‘You don’t like my name?’

  ‘I don’t know your name.’

  ‘I’m sure you heard it in the shop.’

  He shook his head. ‘I meant your real name.’

  Her eyes narrowed and she considered the gun in her hand. ‘Violet Tumbleton is my real name,’ she replied carefully.

  She’s lying!

  Oliver’s experience of liars was mainly limited to his children, who could be broken with relatively simple tactics. Did you brush your teeth? Come here and let me smell your breath for toothpaste. Okay now go and brush your teeth. He was painfully aware that he was ill equipped to deal with a professional liar.

  She is definitely lying.

  ‘What makes you think Violet isn’t my name?’ Her voice signalled curiousity rather than fear.

  ‘I..um..have it on good authority.’

  Yeah, mine.

  Now she seemed interested. ‘Whose authority?’

  Tell her.

  Oliver felt his face flush even as he was saying the words. ‘The real Violet Tumbleton.’

  Fake Violet relaxed back into her chair and smiled and that more than anything convinced Oliver she was lying.

  Told you so.

  All right, now keep quiet.

  Fake Violet slipped the gun into a bag hanging off the back of her chair. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Coffee?’

  Oliver nodded, confused at the sudden change in direction.

  ‘Which?’ Her smiled widened as she smoothly rose from her chair.

  ‘Tea, please.’

  Fake Violet went over to the kitchen and made herself busy preparing the drinks.

  Get the gun. It’s right there, just grab it.

  Keeping an eye on the woman in the kitchen, Oliver inched forward out of his seat, then lunged for the bag. The chair fell sideways and Oliver went with it, the bag trapped underneath. Scrabbling, he pushed the chair clear but the bag was still hooked over the end so it flew further out of reach. Desperately crawling across the floor, he succeeded in grabbing the bag, then spent several long seconds fumbling with the latch before it came open and he thrust a hand inside. It was empty. Trembling he rose to his knees to see Fake Violet watching.

  ‘Milk and sugar?’ she asked, pulling the gun out from behind her back and placing it on the bench.

  How the heck did she do that?

  She was waiting expectantly.

  ‘Um, milk only please.’

  Holding onto the edge of the coffee table for support, Oliver shakily climbed to his feet and slid back onto the couch.

  That was so smooth I almost swooned.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Fake Violet came around the bench with two hot drinks.

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied.

  You know, you keep telling me to shut up and it never works.

  Fake Violet looked down at the knocked over chair, then at Oliver. It took him a moment to realise what she wanted, then shame faced he straightened up the chair for her before retreating to the couch.

  She handed him a mug and he automatically said thanks. />
  ‘We may have gotten off on the wrong foot. So, Oliver, if you would be so kind to tell me why you are here and how you found me.’

  His tea was too hot to drink. He searched for a coaster but couldn’t find one so rested it on his knee. ‘The owner of the antique store was murdered.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes I had heard that. A tragedy.’

  ‘The police came to see me. They asked me about you.’

  She was quiet for a few moments, blowing on her drink. ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t know anything. I only met you for a few seconds.’

  She was silent for a moment, then the gun appeared in her hand. ‘Stand up,’ she ordered.

  Oliver almost fell over in his haste to comply, hot tea spilling onto his leg.

  ‘Strip.’

  He gaped at her in confusion.

  ‘Take your clothes off.’ She spelled it out for him.

  ‘W–w–why?’

  ‘Just do it. And give me your phone.’

  With shaking hands Oliver handed over his phone. She took the back off and pulled out the battery. Meanwhile Oliver removed his T-shirt and dropped it on the couch. Extremely conscious of the extra weight he sucked in his stomach, while trying to appear natural at the same time. She gestured to his pants and all thoughts of naturalness fled. Reluctantly he unzipped his jeans and pushed them down to the floor. He was thankful he wasn’t wearing his old underwear.

  You’re not trying to impress her.

  ‘Turn around.’

  He shuffled around on the spot, an image appearing in his mind of being found dead in an apartment with his pants around his ankles. How would Jennifer explain that to the kids.

  ‘Okay, get dressed.’

  Flooded with relief he quickly put his clothes back on and collapsed onto the couch.

  ‘Someone is murdered and you tracked me down to what? Confront me as the murderer? Warn me that I might be in danger? What’s your angle here?’

  Oliver shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t have an angle. I’d rather not be here at all.’

  ‘Then why are you?’

  Ask her again about her real name.

  ‘The police came to see me. They asked about you and your painting and –.’