by Ami Diane
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Author's note
Series List
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organization, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2019 Ami Diane
All rights reserved.
Printed and bound in USA. First Printing March 2019
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages
(200 words or fewer) in a review.
Amazon and the Amazon logo are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
Cover design by Ruda Studio. Images courtesy of Adobe Stock photos.
V.05222019.1
Copyright © 2019 Ami Diane
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 1
ELLA BARTON’S TONGUE slipped between her teeth as she smeared her brush across the canvas. Crimson the color of blood left a path over the white, naked surface. She tilted her head to better inspect what was supposed to be a sunset, but instead, looked very much like her canvas had been knifed in a dark alley.
Turning, she glanced around the studio at the other painters then at the easel beside her and the artist behind it.
Artistic jealousy took hold. “That looks good, Wink. A real Rembrandt. Maybe don’t make the rest of us look so bad, huh?”
She looked from her boss’s painting of a path meandering through a field of lavender to her own, which looked like one of those abstract pieces of art sold at a zoo—the kind elephants painted.
Ella gestured to Wink’s outfit, drops of red paint flying with the gesture. “Sorry, but I got to ask: what are you wearing?”
Wink paused and tipped her hot pink head down at her own attire, her beret nearly toppling off. “This is what I always wear when painting. It helps the muse.” The artist’s smock billowed out like a sail as she returned her attention to her masterpiece.
“Yeah, it’s a-musing, alright.” Ella grinned, waiting for her joke to land. It didn’t.
It was Friday, and the diner owner had closed the railcar early to accommodate the class’s last minute change of time. When Ella had refused to walk down the sidewalk beside Wink in that outfit, her friend had rolled her eyes and waited until they’d arrived at the studio to don her gear.
“And the beret…” she pressed, “it helps?”
“It does,” Wink bit back.
A beeping came from Ella’s left, weedy and high-pitched, like the alarm on a digital watch. A string of swear words followed, shattering the serenity in the studio. Several brushes paused mid-stroke, and heads craned around canvases.
Flo, still swearing up a storm, dug into the deep recesses of her handbag until the beeping stopped.
Ella pointed. “Whatcha got in there, Flo?”
“None of your business, poodle head.” The shriveled woman stabbed a flat-bristled brush into a glob of paint on her palette then mashed it onto her canvas. “This stupid paint’s mixing on the canvas. I got a poop color happening right now.”
“Well, it matches your personality, so….”
Flo flipped Ella the bird.
“Also, I’m sorry to inform you,” Ella continued, glee in her voice, “but that poop color is all over your face.”
How the woman had managed to get so much paint on her face, hands, and clothes was a mystery answered with one simple word: Flo.
Turning back to her easel, Ella dropped her fan brush into the cup of water beside her, exchanging it for a brush that came to a long, thin point.
“Also, this is acrylic, not oil. You have to let the paint dry before adding another layer unless you want to blend it. It takes a little patience.” The half-hour they’d been in the studio so far was enough experience, she felt, to begin doling out advice.
“Don’t say that wretched woman’s name,” Wink said. “And Flo hasn’t known patience for ages.”
“Darn right I haven’t.” A considerable amount of scraping came from Flo’s direction as she dragged a palette knife across the canvas, scraping away layers of paint and using the tool in a way it certainly wasn’t intended to be used. “I kill it every chance I get.”
“Are we talking about the virtue or the councilwoman?” Ella mixed a bit of cerulean blue for a darker shade of red. Her tulips were starting to look like chick pox.
“Both,” Flo grunted.
Ella dropped her brush in frustration and scanned the room to see if anyone else was struggling. By the smiling faces and casual conversation, they were not.
The studio was filled with mostly woman—about ten—and a couple of men whose pinched expressions said they wanted to be anywhere else but spending their Friday afternoon in an art studio.
The easels formed a semi-circle that faced a projector screen. In the center of the circle sat various objects, such as a suitcase, a bust of an elderly gentleman Ella didn’t recognize, an umbrella, and other eclectic items. For those who didn’t wish to use the collection to paint a still life, they were free to paint whatever, which is what she’d chosen. A decision she now regretted.
A tinkling sound came from Flo’s station as she produced a flask from her handbag and uncapped it.
“Flo, what are you doing?” Ella snapped in a low tone.
“I was promised booze. It’s a good thing I always come prepared ‘cause there’s none here.”
Wink paused painting long enough to glare at her best friend. “Because the class time got moved, and no one thinks it’s prudent to drink in the middle of the day—except you, of course.”
A new voice interrupted their impending argument as a frumpy woman floated in from a place unknown. “Attention ladies,” she paused, adding, “and gentlemen.”
The two males dropped their gazes to the floor, and their ears turned the color of Ella’s tulip-chicken pox.
“I want to thank you, all, for coming. I see a few new faces.” Her eyes brushed over Ella and Flo. “So, I’m going to briefly explain how this works.
“Usually, I give an art history lesson while you paint, then I’ll walk around the room, helping where it’s needed and giving advice.”
Wink spoke out of the side of her mouth, whispering, “Her advice usually puts people in tears. Why do you think we started drinking during class?”
Flo held out her flask which both Ella and Wink waved away, although, not before the diner owner hesitated.
Meanwhile, the art teacher continued to glide around the room. “Alright, I’m just going to finish setting up the projector, then I’ll begin.”
She swept across the space, not in the graceful way Rose, the innkeeper, did but more like all movement happened in her legs, her arms frozen in a grip on her shawl.
The shawl itself Ella could swear was just a small blanket draped around the artist’s shoulders and knotted clumsily at her chest. A gaudy, golden cross hung about her neck and tangled with the knot.
“What’s her name, again?” she asked Wink.
“Maria Heinzman.” Wink had now begun to add birds to her sky, drawing a wistful sigh from Ella.
“It really is good.”
“Thank you, dear. I’ve been doing this a long time.” She finally paused in her concentration long enough to peek over at Ella’s canvas. Her eyebrows worked their way down, then up, then down again until they nearly covered her eyes. “Yours looks… nice.” She tilted her head. “I like your mountains.” The last word lilted up with uncertainty.
“Thanks. They’re trees.”
The eyebrows rose. “Oh, I’m so sorry—”
“I’m just kidding. They’re mountains.”
Wink’s shoulders dropped as if relieved she’d guessed correctly.
Classical music from a record player filled the gap in their conversation, and Ella concentrated all her effort on turning the lines from her brush into a tree. That beeping noise came again from Flo’s purse, preceding curses, before the old coot turned whatever it was off. As she did, she left behind smears of red paint on her handbag, making it appear as if the purse had come from a slaughterhouse.
“So,” Wink said in a tone that picked up an earlier thread of conversation, “your first date with Will didn’t go so well?”
“It was a disaster. Unless you consider spilling my drink all over my dress, getting accidentally drunk, and calling him a hack a successful date, then it went great.”
Wink winced.
Flicking her brush at her canvas, Flo sent a spray of cobalt blue flying. “Sounds alright to me.”
“I feel like your bar for a decent date is set a little low.” Ella held her hand at the side of her face to block the onslaught of paint drops.
Wink sniffed. “Bet you wish you had a smock now. What’s this about calling Will a hack?”
“And how’d you get ‘accidentally’ drunk?” Flo added.
“Well, I was so nervous that I hadn’t eaten much all day. Then when we got to the dock for the picnic he’d set up—it was beautiful by the way—I drank a couple glasses of wine to calm my nerves. Then, when I brought up Einstein, I’m afraid it might have come across as me waxing poetic about the man’s accomplishments and sort of implying Will wasn’t in the same league.”
“Oh dear,” Wink said. “I’m sorry. You can always try again. Trust me when I say, being in this town, he’s seen much worse.”
“Thanks?”
Near the front of the room, Maria flipped on the slide projector, brooking any further discussion about the disaster of a date, which was perfectly fine with Ella. If she could erase that evening from history, she would.
Paintings made of light cast onto the screen as Maria launched into a lecture on Spanish artists from the sixteenth century. Someone turned down the record player so the music didn’t compete with the art teacher’s lyrical, if not slightly forced, airy voice.
For the next several minutes, Ella occasionally glanced at the artwork on the screen, half-tuning into Maria, as she rode her brush across the canvas. The history was interesting and the art amazing, but it served little in helping her confidence.
Beside her, Flo nipped another sip from her flask, letting out a small belch, before stuffing it back into her suitcase-sized handbag. Her concentration broken by the borderline alcoholic, Ella leaned over to see for the first time what the crazy woman was painting. Her mouth dropped open.
“What in the Bob Ross is that?”
Wink shushed her. Ella lowered her voice and repeated her question to Flo.
“What do you mean? It’s a battle scene.”
“Of cherubs?”
“No. It’s heaven and hell. Angels and demons.”
“Those aren’t angels. They’re half-naked and chubby. They’re cherubs—wait, is there a difference?” Ella squinted at the ceiling a moment then shook her head, uncertain. “Also, do they need to have pointy teeth? And blood dripping from said teeth?” She shuddered. “They’re cherub-vampires. You painted cherub-vampires.”
Wink hissed at them to be quiet again.
Turning her attention back to her chicken-pox field, Ella attempted to fatten her skeletal tree. At the other end of the studio, Maria was delving into the works of Luis de Morales. Her airy voice swelled over the music as her hand fidgeted with her necklace—a necklace that would put a rapper to shame.
Morales’s vivid, exquisite detail was astonishing. His work had centered around religious figures, particularly Christ and the Virgin Mary.
A soft click came from the projector as Maria flipped to the next slide, revealing a painting of his favorite subject: Jesus. Maria’s ethereal voice describing the piece Christ before Pilate melted into the background as Ella stared, open-mouthed at it.
In the painting, two figures stood on either side of Christ. She recoiled at seeing the far left figure with a face only a mother could love. Morales’s talent was obvious, but he’d certainly not put any effort into making the figure attractive.
She dragged her eyes to the far right, and her mouth fell open further before twisting into a wide grin. Without tearing her eyes away, she reached over and patted Wink’s arm, causing her friend to growl about her painting getting ruined.
“Look.” Ella’s patting became more insistent. “Look, look. That guy’s shooting Jesus the finger guns. Well, a finger gun.” Her grin stretched wider.
“That’s Pontius Pilate,” Maria said, having heard Ella’s comment. “And he’s about to condemn Christ to death.”
Ella arranged her face into what she hoped was a sobering expression. “Yes, and that’s terrible.” She shook her head while reaching into her back pocket and whipped out her cellphone. She snapped a photo of the painting, the grin creeping back.
“May I continue?” asked the art teacher. Gone was the wispy, Old Hollywood starlet voice, replaced by ice.
Ella shot Maria a finger gun and winked. “Continue.”
The woman was two sentences into a rumor regarding a missing painting of Morales’s when Flo’s purse beeped again. Maria’s face turned a shade of purple that wasn’t unlike Ella’s sunset. The room stilled, and all heads turned in Flo’s direction.
Wink apologized to the others for her friend, then in a low hiss threatened Flo to knock it off or she’d be sorry.
“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” Flo mumbled, digging the device from her bag.
Ella returned several glares and spoke out of the side of her mouth. “Whatever is making that racket, can’t you just turn it off?”
“It’s my spectral alarm. Lets me know when there are trans-dimensional beings nearby.” She held aloft an old radio with several antennas duct taped to it and shook it. “Huh. That’s odd. It’s not malfunctioning.”
The confusion cleared in her expression, and she moved around the room, flitting from one horrified person to the next, pushing the radio into their faces.
“Oh boy,” Ella breathed. Wink’s expression was livid.
The radio went berserk on no one in particular, and quick as a Bob Ross brush stroke, Flo whipped out a weapon that looked like a prop from Lost in Space.
“Crap, crap, crap.” Ella jogged across the room, hollering back at Wink, “I thought you checked her purse?”
“No, I thought you did!”
Wannabe artists ducked behind their easels as if the wooden frames and canvas would protect them from whatever fresh hell Flo packed in her hand.
Ella grabbed Flo’s meaty shoulders just as she was raising the weapon at the bust of the unknown man in the center of the room.
“Danger, Will Robinson! Put that away before you shoot someone!”
“This doesn’t shoot projectiles,” Flo protested as Ella wrenched the weapon from her grip.
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“It melts non-corporeal forms.”
Ella paused. “What’s it do to corporeal forms?”
Flo scratched her nose then inspected her nails, finally saying, “Not too sure. I never tried it on one, but it did melt my window when I pointed it too long at the glass.”
After staring at the weapon, Ella held it at arm’s length as she guided Flo away from the offending bust.
“Out!” Maria screeched. “I want you out of here right now!” She turned her accusing finger on Wink who’d ducked behind her canvas and continued to paint. “That includes you, too, Wink.”
Ella glared at Flo before gathering her things. “Thanks, Flo. My painting was really coming along.”
“Take it. I’m taking mine,” Wink said, grabbing her art.
“Oh.” Ella looked at the red, purple, and green stripes that represented a sunset and field of tulips. “You know, I’m good. I think this masterpiece might be best appreciated here.”
Maria stomped forward, her shawl swaying like a cape and her gilded rosary-type necklace swinging wildly.
“Time to go.” Ella backed towards the door, dragging Flo with her.
“But my painting!”
“I’m doing you a favor.”
After exiting the squat brick building, the trio power-walked down the sidewalk until they were at least a block away from the studio, then they eased their pace to a leisurely stroll.
“Can I have my gun back?” Flo scuffed the toe of one of her sensible sneakers on the concrete like a petulant child. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“After you prove to me you can be responsible. Try going one week without an incident that gets us either kicked out of an establishment or endangers someone’s life.”
Beside her, Wink harrumphed. “Fat chance of that happening.”
They ambled south in the direction of Keystone Inn and Grandma’s Kitchen. A salty, fresh breeze whipped Ella’s hair in front of her face, and she inhaled the scent of ocean and family vacations.
“Probably for the best,” Wink said, intruding on Ella’s memories. “I got to get home and check on the ham I’m cooking for tonight’s family dinner, anyway.”