Murder in Paint

by Rodney Strong

  What’s a transgender?

  Oliver did his best to explain it to Violet.

  He paused before getting in the car. ‘I don’t get it. If you knew that her Dad wouldn’t approve of her partner, why go through the charade with the professor? Why not just blackmail her?’

  Amanda’s eye’s narrowed, and her nostrils flared. ‘Any moron can blackmail somebody. Do I look like a moron?’

  Oliver was glad there were a couple of tons of metal between them. ‘Of course not, I…’

  ‘My way she ends up slightly confused, maybe a little embarrassed when she figures out she was conned. Your way she is humiliated. Is that what you want Oliver? To humiliate a young girl?’

  For Gods sake say no!

  Oliver didn’t need Violet’s advice this time and to his relief Amanda – mildly placated – got in the car. Joining her, he commented.

  ‘So we’ve learned that Katie didn’t tell anyone about the painting, if we can believe her. That doesn’t mean Eugene’s friends didn’t say anything. And what are we trying to achieve anyway? Do you honestly think one of his friends broke into the antique store, killed the owner and stole the painting?’

  `No, they’re all mostly harmless. It’s who they might have told that worries me. Not many people know the true value of the painting, but the right word in the wrong ear can cause a lot of trouble.’

  Oliver’s cell phone beeped. It was a message from Jennifer asking him where he was and when he’d be home. He typed out a response, then turned his attention back to Amanda.

  ‘So who is Victor?’

  Amanda tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘He’s what the movies might call a fixer. People hire him to resolve problems they might have.’

  Oliver thought over the ramifications of her words. ‘Is he violent?’

  ‘No.’ She started the engine and pulled into traffic.

  Oliver felt the tension he’d been unaware of leave his shoulders.

  ‘He has people for that.’

  A chill swept through him.

  ‘Don’t worry Oliver, I won’t let anything happen.’

  ‘Why do you care? You could just up and leave.’ He struggled to keep the bitterness from his voice.

  She nodded, accepting the accusation. ‘Because I made a mistake involving you, and I don’t like making mistakes. You make one and another follows, and in my line of work that can be the difference between success and failure.’

  She made a mistake using my name.

  Oliver relayed the opinion to Amanda who laughed. ‘It wasn’t a mistake, it was a calculated risk. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone around to notice. Violet died young and had no family to miss her. It should have been a no-brainer.’

  ‘So this is what you do – pop down to the local cemetery and randomly pick out a new name for yourself?’

  She threw him a grin. ‘Can you think of a better way? Besides, who said it was random.’

  What does she mean by that?

  If you give me a chance I’ll ask her.

  Then hurry up. What does she mean it wasn’t random?

  ‘I can’t figure you out Oliver. Why does it matter so much to you that I chose this name?’

  Oliver tried to mute the outraged voice in his head. ‘Because after you take away the memories and the possessions and the people who knew her, her name is all she has left.’

  Amanda’s eyes grew wide. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘I just said it.’

  She lapsed into silence. After a while Oliver realised they had left the city centre and were heading back towards his house.

  ‘Are we done for the day?’

  ‘I need to follow up the rest of the names on Eugene’s list. You need to spend time with your family. We can pick it up tomorrow morning.’

  ‘The clock’s ticking,’ he protested.

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ she snapped. ‘But it’s better to have a planned approach then to go off half cocked.’

  When they pulled up outside the house, Oliver asked the question that had been nagging at him all day. ‘What happens if we don’t find the painting in time?’

  Amanda looked him in the eye, her face calm, and voice steady. ‘Then we go to plan B.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Still in development.’

  Disillusioned, Oliver climbed out of the car.

  The passenger window glided smoothly down. ‘I’ll pick you up at 9.30am tomorrow.’

  ‘How do I get hold of you if I need to?’

  She smiled at him, said, ‘See you tomorrow Oliver,’ then accelerated away.

  When he walked inside Oliver was swamped by excited children, who tumbled over each other to tell him about the ice cream and toys their grandmother had bought them. Jennifer just shrugged at Oliver’s raised eyebrows.

  ‘How was your day?’ she asked when he kissed her.

  ‘Confusing.’

  ‘Solved the case yet?’

  He shook his head and she switched subject, telling the kids to put their shoes back on since Daddy was taking them to the playground.

  ‘Daddy is?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Daddy is,’ she responded firmly.

  I wish my mum had been that cool.

  Reed and Rose talked over each other the entire way to the local park. Filtering through the references to poo, calling each other farty heads, and Rose threatening to hit her brother, Oliver managed to build up a reasonable picture of their day. He felt a twinge of chagrin at missing out. That quickly died when Rose hit her brother, who promptly hit her back, causing tears and the end of the world.

  How do you do it every day? I’d go mad listening to that.

  Says the voice inside my head. You just learn to tune out the white noise and listen for the important things.

  How do you know what’s important?

  If there’s blood spilt or a bone protruding out then it’s important. Everything else is gone in less than a minute.

  Rose went straight for the swings and demanded to be pushed. Given it required the least amount of energy, and brain power, Oliver was always happy to oblige. Reed wandered off in search of the highest thing to climb and dangle off with one hand.

  Why is your name so important to you?

  The sound of air escaping tickled his ears and he searched for its source before realising Violet had sighed.

  It was different back then. When we were growing up it was the Depression, and then it was the war, so we never had much. Sometimes we were lucky to have food on the table. There definitely weren’t toys or books. You could survive okay if you were smart. If you learnt where to go, who to avoid, who might have an extra loaf of bread or scrap of cloth that your mother could make into a dress so you weren’t always in the same one. I hated it, hated the begging, the relying on others who’d look down their noses at you but might consent to give you scraps from their house. I had virtually nothing, but my name. My friend Alice and I had each other’s backs. We were constantly making plans about what we would do, where we would go. Then I turned sixteen and my father decided I would get married to the local merchant. It would be a good fit, he said. But what he meant was it would ensure his supply of alcohol never stopped. I argued, yelled, even hit him a couple of times, but he wouldn’t budge. So I was set to become Violet Marston. The week before the wedding Alice and I left town forever and hitched a ride to Wellington. We fought for everything we had; money, jobs, clothes. We had fun too, but it was a different time for a woman. There were expectations for your future, whether you wanted them or not. In the end, after everything went away, I was back at the beginning – the only thing I had was the dress I was wearing, and my name.

  Rose let out a loud protest and Oliver realised he’d stopped pushing her. He gave her an extra hard shove and she barely held on, admonishing her father in words he hadn’t thought she knew.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  They both grunted their acknowledgement.

  Viol
et, how did you die?

  Alone.

  Reed chose that moment to fall off the top of the slide and thud onto the bark covered ground. He immediately started crying.

  Important?

  Oliver shook his head as he wandered over to pick his son up. That’s every day crying, not my-ulna-is-sticking-out-of-my-wrist crying.

  Sure enough, once Reed was convinced there wasn’t anything major wrong he recovered and ran off to play.

  I’m sorry Oliver.

  ‘What for?’ he muttered.

  For dragging you into all this. I guess I thought it would be easy. Find the fake Violet, tell her to stop using my name, and I’d disappear back to where I came from. I never figured it would be so complicated.

  Oliver laughed. ‘Complicated doesn’t even start to cover it.’

  ‘Daddy, come and push me,’ Rose demanded.

  But I accept your apology.

  As usual Oliver was ready to go before his children, and it took fifteen minutes worth of “two more minutes and then we’re leaving” before he got them in the car.

  When they walked into the house Jennifer told the kids to wash their hands for dinner, and informed Oliver he had twenty minutes to cook them spaghetti and get ready.

  ‘It’s the first Saturday of the month. Date night,’ she said to his blank look. ‘Don’t tell me you forgot? It’s your turn to book the restaurant.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t forget,’ he replied indignantly. ‘I’ll just do dinner then have a quick shower.’

  After the children were ensconced in front of the TV with plates of messy noodles Oliver went into the ensuite bathroom, closed the door, pulled his phone out and frantically searched for the number for their favourite Italian restaurant. Pleading tiredness or any other excuse was not an option – date night was sacred in their house. Fortunately he was able to make a booking.

  Lucky you.

  Oliver shed his clothes. ‘Shut up. And close your ghost eyes.’

  TWENTY

  As he slid into the seat opposite his wife he flashed back to their first date. The restaurant was the same, right down to the décor and most of the menu, but he was different – and so was she. Gone was the nervous conversation and gentle probing questions as they got to know each other. Gone too were the hummingbirds in his stomach, with their vibrating wings shaking his whole body. Back then he’d considered her hot, young and assured. Now she was beautiful. The figure-hugging top and the hair that fell just the right way had morphed into more comfortable clothes and hair that was maybe more than one colour – don’t mention the “g” word. But despite – or perhaps because of – two children, lack of sleep, and the stress of being the sole breadwinner she had grown into her beauty. He felt the familiar doubts bubble up, the ones that said she deserved better than him.

  Are you that insecure?

  Shut up.

  Please. Shut up please.

  Please shut your ghost mouth and let me enjoy dinner with my wife.

  That’s better.

  He and Jennifer ordered and spent a while talking about the kids. When the entrée arrived – garlic bread with parmesan cheese on top – they pulled pieces onto their plates and sampled it. While Oliver chewed, Jennifer asked him how his day had been. Her tone was casual but the lines around her eyes conveyed her worry, and he knew nothing he could tell her would change that.

  ‘Are you sure you want to know?’

  ‘No I’m not sure. About any of this, Oliver.’

  ‘I’m not sure either,’ he admitted with a smile, which she didn’t return. He told her about the day from the moment he got into Amanda’s car. By the time he’d finished, the garlic bread was gone and the level in their wine glasses had diminished.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  Jennifer considered her answer carefully. ‘Oliver, you know I support you wanting to be a writer, and you know it’s been a little tougher without the double income, so ten thousand dollars would be helpful.’

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve been stressing about money. I thought we’d be okay for a while.’

  She waved her hand dismissively. ‘It’s not about the money.’

  Oliver swallowed a ton of words before settling on the ones he was most afraid to ask. ‘Is it us?’

  Don’t be an idiot – she clearly loves you.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot – you know I love you.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  Their mains arrived and when the waiter asked if they needed anything else Jennifer ordered another glass of wine. Oliver considered a two-wine conversation to be serious, and suddenly the nerves that had been simmering broke the surface.

  He picked at his ravioli, pushing pieces around the plate. When he raised his eyes Jennifer had fixed him with a look he couldn’t immediately identify. Reluctantly he asked, ‘If it isn’t us then what is it?’

  Jennifer sighed and put her knife and fork down. ‘It’s you, Oliver. But -,’ she held up her hand to halt any protests, ‘- you need to let me explain before you start using your brain.’

  With difficulty Oliver’s brain shifted from manic to neutral.

  ‘You’ve always been sure of yourself Oliver, that’s one of the things I love about you. But since you quit your job that confidence has disappeared. It’s like you’re not sure who you are anymore. And this past week has been the worst. The police? That woman?’

  ‘I’m not having an affair.’

  Jennifer smiled. ‘I know you’re not. I never really believed you were – I guess your uncertainty was catching. My point is there’s something wrong and I don’t know if you realise it, but it’s got me worried.’

  Oliver wasn’t surprised by her words, which he found surprising. His eyes scanned the crowded restaurant, and he spotted a couple who could have been him and Jennifer all those years ago. First-date nerves screamed from every movement. At the table behind them were an older couple, comfortable enough to let silence be a companion rather than a burden. Oliver wondered if that would be them in thirty years.

  ‘You know I’ve always wanted to be a writer. And while I was working full time it was never going to happen – not with the kids and everything else. But working full time was also an excuse. I don’t know if I can do this, I don’t know if I’m good enough. It’s been my dream for so long, and if it doesn’t work I’m going to be lost. So, yeah, I have been worried and less sure of myself than normal. I didn’t realise it was so obvious.’

  ‘Honey, I’ve known you for almost a third of my life. Everything you do is obvious to me.’

  The background noise faded as Oliver focussed on the woman he loved.

  Hold her hand.

  I got this bit.

  He reached out and took her hand. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She squeezed his fingers. ‘Don’t be sorry babe, just fix it. Why do you think I agreed to let you go out and find the painting?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want you to rediscover who you are. I want my Oliver back – the one who takes charge and gets things done.’

  ‘You don’t think folding washing every day is getting things done?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it’s you doing the washing and not me.’ She withdrew her hand and picked up her fork. ‘But I’d rather you wrote the damn book, made a lot of money, and got a cleaner in.’

  ‘Finding the painting could be complicated, and a little dangerous.’

  Jennifer chewed her mouthful carefully and stabbed her fork in Oliver’s direction. ‘Then stop. Under no circumstances are you to put yourself in danger.’

  Oliver picked up his own fork. ‘It might be too late for that. Some people think I know where it is and they don’t seem inclined to believe otherwise.’

  ‘Then call the police.’

  He ate some ravioli; it had cooled and was slightly rubbery, but chewing gave him a chance to collect his thoughts.

  Are you going to stop like she asked?

  ‘And say what? That some ma
n offered me ten thousand dollars to find a painting? Honey, the last thing I’m going to do is put you or the kids in danger, and I basically have the police on speed dial. But I think I need to see it through.’

  Jennifer considered him, then nodded. ‘Okay, then remember this, I want you to find yourself, but not if yourself is standing in the line of fire. If that’s the case you leave yourself and run like hell. I’d rather have the new version of you than no version at all.’

  ‘Yes dear.’ He grinned.

  Satisfied, Jennifer attacked her food, and they spent the rest of the dinner in a more relaxed state.

  Later that night, after dropping the babysitter home, Oliver checked on the kids. Rose stirred as he stood next to her bed and he sat down and rubbed her back.

  ‘Daddy, Reed says that you’re a police man,’ she murmured.

  ‘Sshh. No, I’m just helping them out honey.’

  ‘Good. We need to help people, don’t we, Daddy?’

  Oliver made a soothing sound, but Rose wasn’t going to be distracted, despite still being mostly asleep.

  ‘Don’t we Daddy?’

  ‘Yes Rose, we need to help people.’

  ‘Are you doing your best?’

  A couple of weeks ago the kids had run in a cross-country race. Oliver had sat them down before the start and told them it didn’t matter where they came in the race – if they did their best then Daddy would be proud of them. He thought about Rose’s question. Had he been doing his best? On reflection, probably not. The whole thing had been a tornado of being pulled in different directions by different people; he’d barely had a chance to catch his breath let alone do his best. The conversation with Jennifer at dinner flitted forward. Maybe it was time to rediscover himself.

  He leaned down and kissed Rose on the forehead. ‘I’m going to, honey.’

  Rose snuggled down further under the covers and pulled her teddy bear closer. ‘Then I’m proud of you, Daddy.’

  TWENTY ONE

  Sunday’s were normally quiet in the Atkinson house, with a slow start to the day usually morphing into brunch at the local café, followed by a playground trip, all the while punctuated with continual requests for new toys.