Fatal Brushstroke (An Aurora Anderson Mystery Book 1) (21 page)

After a little more small talk, the three of them went their separate ways. Rory was exiting the bathroom when she heard her name mentioned. She ducked down behind a display of wood pieces and listened to the conversation going on in the next aisle.

“Are you sure?” A woman whose voice Rory recognized as one of her mother’s longtime customers, said.

“Gilbert saw her leaving the station last night. I don’t know why the police didn’t hold her,” an unfamiliar voice replied.

“You remember that fire in the doctor’s office twenty odd years ago, don’t you? That nurse didn’t make it out alive.”

Rory felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. She might not know much about her birth parents but, in the last year or so, she’d heard about the fires they’d set and many of the people they’d harmed.

“Such a waste. She left behind a young daughter, too,” the unfamiliar voice continued.

“A lovely girl. Followed in her mother’s footsteps, you know.”

“Like mother, like daughter. Maybe the same goes for Aurora and
her
mother. You saw that flyer, didn’t you?”

“Better not let Arika hear you say that.” The two women moved away and left Rory staring with unseeing eyes at the shelf in front of her, trying to digest the conversation she’d just overheard.

“Everything okay?” Liz asked.

Rory stood up and turned to face her friend who’d silently appeared in the aisle next to her. “I just heard a disturbing conversation.”

“What about?”

“A fire my birth parents set, the one at the doctor’s office.”

“That was ages ago. Why would anyone be talking about that now?”

“Some people seem to think it’s relevant. That I’m like
her
.”

“Your birth mother? Is that what they said? Morons.” Liz wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Ignore them. You can’t control what they say.”

“I should see if Mom needs me to do anything.” Rory took a step toward the cash register where her mother was working.

Liz grabbed her friend’s arm. “Listen, just because you share some DNA, that doesn’t mean you’re alike. You know you’re not responsible for anything they did, don’t you?”

“Tell that to those two women.”

After taking a few deep breaths, Rory gave herself a quick pep talk and went back to work. She was too busy the rest of the day to worry about what people were saying about her. At one point, she even waited on the customers who’d gossiped about the fire. They were all smiles and gave no indication they’d been talking about her. If Rory hadn’t overheard the unsettling conversation, she would never have guessed they considered her unstable.

Right before the final class was to begin, Rory helped her mother with the grand prize drawing. She thought the woman who won the arched sign board was going to faint she was so excited about winning. By the time Arika’s Scrap ’n Paint finally closed at eight that night, everyone was exhausted. Arika tallied up the sales from the day and declared herself more than pleased with the results.

The sun had long set by the time they finished cleaning up the store and prepping the sales floor for business on Monday. After a late dinner at her mother’s house, Rory drove home shortly before eleven, happy to be only minutes away from a comfortable bed.

Her car’s headlights cut through the inky blackness as she turned onto Seagull Lane. Except for the black cat that crossed her path, her street appeared as silent as the proverbial grave.

Only a handful of houses had exterior lights on, leaving disquieting shadows up and down the block. When Rory had left that morning, she hadn’t thought to turn on her own porch light. She added “put outside lights on timer” to her mental to-do list right next to “fix the back porch light” which she still hadn’t found the time to take care of.

An island of light in a sea of darkness, Mrs. Griswold’s home illuminated the edges of Rory’s pitch-dark property. When Rory passed in front of her own house and pulled into her driveway, the fence that separated the front yard from the back caught her attention. She wasn’t sure why she’d noticed the wooden barrier but, even in the dark, something seemed off. As soon as she parked, she grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment of her car and crossed the front lawn to investigate, the flashlight’s beam lighting her way. When she examined the gate, she discovered a single word written on a diagonal across the boards in what appeared to be blood red paint—Murderer. She stood immobile in front of the chilling sight. After she awoke from her momentary paralysis, Rory grabbed her cell phone and called the police. Afraid the gate was only the tip of the iceberg and the vandal had found a way to enter her home, she locked herself in her car and waited for the police to arrive.

What seemed like an hour later, but was probably less than ten minutes, a patrol car pulled into the driveway behind her and another parked on the street in front of the house. She didn’t see why her call should warrant the extra attention, but perhaps the officers sought safety in numbers after dark or, given the low crime rate in Vista Beach, this was their way of staving off boredom.

She got out of her car to talk to the two officers who had both left the lights flashing atop their respective vehicles. After introductions were made, the one who’d identified himself as Officer Norris said, “You called about a problem, ma’am?”

Rory crossed the lawn to the far side of the property and shone her flashlight on the graffiti-painted wooden gate.

“Did you notice any other damage?” the other officer said.

“I just got home. I didn’t look around much after I saw this. Didn’t even go inside.”

“Wise choice, ma’am. Wait here with Office Yamada while I look around the rest of the property.” His gun at the ready, Officer Norris directed his flashlight on the front door. After determining it was locked, he went through the gate into the backyard.

While his partner searched the property for intruders, Officer Yamada asked Rory a few questions. She braced herself for the sound of running feet or gunfire, but all she heard was the rustle of leaves and the squeak of a door hinge in the distance. Rory was so preoccupied, the officer had to repeat a question multiple times before she could give a coherent answer.

When she thought she couldn’t take the tension any longer, Officer Norris finally reappeared, a can of spray paint in his hand. “This yours, ma’am?”

“No, I’ve never seen it before.”

“Looks like red paint.” He directed his flashlight so its beam shone on the red cap, then on the graffiti written on the gate. “Hard to be sure in the dark, but this looks like the same color to me. Care to explain?”

“Whoever did this must have left the paint in the garage. I don’t have a lock for the side door.”

“I didn’t say where I found it.”

“I just assumed...”

“Uh-huh.” He examined the can in more detail. “This price tag says AS&P. Isn’t that your mother’s store?” He shone the flashlight on her face. “How is it that you noticed the writing, again? It’s pretty dark.”

Rory put her hand up to shield her face from the bright light. “I didn’t...I couldn’t...” She opened and closed her mouth a few times, but couldn’t think of anything remotely convincing to say. She didn’t know how to explain to the officer it was more a feeling of unease than anything concrete that had prompted her to examine the gate.

“Have you been drinking, ma’am?” Officer Yamada said.

Rory shook her head, aware there was probably nothing she could say that would persuade the policemen of her innocence.

The two officers indicated she should stay where she was, then moved off to the side. Rory strained to hear their conversation. A single sentence drifted over to her on the evening breeze: “You know who she is, don’t you?” After a short talk, the two of them returned to her side.

“We’re going to let you off with a warning seeing as how you’ve had a hard time lately,” Officer Norris said.

“But, I didn’t...”

He held up his hand in a gesture that indicated she should stop talking. “Next time you waste our time, you won’t be so lucky.”

He handed her the can of paint and the two of them returned to their respective patrol cars. Rory stared down at the object that had caused so much trouble. She doubted whoever had used it would ever be discovered given the police department’s refusal to investigate. She should have ignored the graffiti and gone straight inside. All calling the police had done was reinforce the belief she was crazy.

Chapter 31

Rory was tempted to skip church the next morning, but decided the service would bring some peace to her troubled world. When she returned home a little happier and a whole lot calmer, she ate lunch, changed into work clothes, and dug out the leftovers of the gray-blue paint she’d used on the fence. There was just enough time before Liz picked her up for the open house to obliterate the ugly word the unknown vandal had written on the gate. After cleaning off as much of the angry-colored paint as she could, she started covering the boards with the gray-blue color. She was halfway done with the project when her friend arrived, a little earlier than planned.

Appearing professional yet approachable, Liz walked across the lawn that was long overdue for a manicure, her heels sinking into the grass at every step.

Rory added “hire a new gardener” to her rapidly expanding list of things to do. Right now, she was more concerned with eliminating the hateful word from her fence than in keeping her grass in
Better Homes & Garden
condition.

“What happened?” Liz said when she reached Rory’s side. She tilted her head to read the faint remnants of the message. “What does ‘derer’ mean? Sounds vaguely German.”

Rory wiped her forearm across her brow before dipping her brush in the paint can for what seemed like the hundredth time. “It said ‘Murderer.’ Found it when I got home last night.” She started on the next board, covering up the “der” with a few strokes.

“Can I help?”

Rory surveyed her friend’s neatly pressed pants and patterned blouse. “Thanks for the offer, but I wouldn’t want you to ruin your clothes. I’m almost done, anyway.”

Liz paced the grass nearby while Rory worked. Rory was starting on the final board when Liz turned to her friend and said, “What did the police say? You did call them, didn’t you?”

“As soon as I found the graffiti. They...” Blobs of color sprayed out of the brush as Rory slapped the paint on the fence, pressing harder than necessary. “...weren’t...” Slap, spatter, “...very...” Slap, spatter. “...helpful.”

With each brushstroke, Liz retreated a step to avoid any bits of paint headed in her direction. “Did any of the neighbors see anything? The police must have asked around.”

“Why canvass the neighborhood when they’ve already found the culprit?”

“But I thought you said—Who did they arrest?”

Rory stopped painting and looked her friend squarely in the eye. “No one. They think I did it myself.”

“Why would they think that?”

“The usual reason.”

“Your birth parents again? What about Granny G?” Liz nodded toward the mission-style house next door. “Did she see anything?”

“Don’t know. She’s not home right now. I plan on talking to her later.” Rory finished the last stroke and stepped back to check her work. “All done. Needs another coat, but at least you can’t read that horrible word anymore. Let’s go see if we can find that crime scene.”

After Rory cleaned up and returned the painting supplies to the garage, she changed into clothes more appropriate for house hunting. They hopped into Liz’s car and drove the short distance to the Ocean Park condo complex where Julian owned a unit, in a section of Vista Beach close to the water.

When they reached their destination on Mobley Avenue, Liz pulled into the last visitor’s space in the open parking lot. They followed the signs through a propped-open gate to the two-story unit that was up for sale.

Before going inside, they paused out front while Liz pretended to point out interesting aspects of the exterior. Indicating a townhome three buildings down, she whispered, “Julian’s place is just over there.”

Rory did her best to act the part of an interested buyer, nodding intelligently and turning her head to follow the real estate agent’s pointing finger. “Do you think we’ll run into him?” She kept her own voice low so anyone passing by wouldn’t overhear their conversation.

“I doubt it. Probably hiding out in Malibu after his open letter to the residents of Vista Beach.”

“What open letter?”

“Guess you didn’t catch Vista Beach Confidential this morning. He basically repeated the same apology he gave at the paint-a-thon, only to a wider audience.”

That must have been the topic of the whispered conversation with Veronica yesterday, Rory thought. “I’m sure Kevin loves that.”

“He’s still in jail. Probably doesn’t even know about it yet.”

Rory doubted that would last much longer. A “concerned friend” was bound to tell him about the blog entry as soon as he posted bail.

“Let’s do a quick look around inside, then we can search the common areas,” Liz whispered. In a louder voice she continued, “As you can see all of these units open onto a grassy courtyard. Most people find them more desirable than the ones near the back that are on a service road. This is one of the older complexes in the Sand Section, but still a good buy. Everything’s just a short walk or bike ride to the beach, of course.”

As soon as the two of them entered the 2-bedroom 2 1/2-bath townhome, the real estate agent hosting the open house greeted them. Rory picked up a flyer from a stack on a counter then left her friend in the kitchen while she poked her head in every room and closet in what she hoped was a convincing manner. When she felt the charade had lasted long enough, Rory returned to the kitchen where Liz was still chatting with the other realtor. After Rory asked questions about the unit to keep up the pretense, they headed back outside.

“The community room is this way,” Liz said. “I think it’s our best bet.”

When they passed by the Bouquets’ townhome—a hop, skip, and a jump from their destination—Rory braced herself for the owner’s sudden appearance, but the door remained closed and the curtains drawn. She breathed a sigh of relief once they stepped through French doors into the community room and frosted windows concealed their presence.

Rory surveyed the empty room, searching for signs that anything was missing or had been recently replaced, but all she saw were a dozen circular tables surrounded by wooden chairs and what looked like a full-service kitchen in the corner. The smell of rotting food mingled with the scent of industrial strength cleaner. She wished they had access to the mysterious chemicals crime scene investigators used on television so she could examine the area for invisible traces of blood.

“I’ll check out the bathrooms,” Liz said when she spied the overflowing garbage can next to the kitchen.

Rory wrinkled her nose in disgust as she dug through the trash. After finding nothing other than used napkins and discarded Styrofoam boxes containing half-eaten burgers and fried chicken, she opened cupboards and inspected pots and pans, looking for anything that might indicate one of them had been used to bash in someone’s head. She was examining the handle of a promising chef’s pan for stray specks of blood when she heard a voice behind her say, “Looking for something?”

Rory turned around to find the man she’d thought miles away in Malibu standing barely three feet from her, staring pointedly at the pan she still held in her hand. She hurriedly put it back in the cupboard. “This is a nicely stocked kitchen. Does everyone who lives here have access to it?”

“Why do you want to know?” Julian asked.

Rory searched her mind for a plausible excuse for rummaging around in strange kitchen cabinets. “One of my cousins is thinking of moving to town so I told her I’d look at some properties for her.”

“Which one is it? Maybe I’ve met her.”

“I don’t think so. She lives on the East Coast. New York.”

“Do you mean Carla? She visited last summer, right? Has a daughter named Samantha?”

Rory would have chosen a different part of the country for the home of her fictional relative if she’d known Julian was so well-versed in her family tree. “No, no. This is a different cousin. I’m sure you’ve never met.” The creak of a door stopped him from asking for any more information about the nonexistent relative.

Praying her friend would take the hint, Rory called to Liz before she could retreat into the bathroom from which she’d emerged. “I was just telling Julian about my cousin who’s thinking of moving here.”

Julian cast a curious glance in Liz’s direction, but chose not to ask why the real estate agent had come out of the door with the blue triangle on it instead of the gender appropriate rest room next to it.

Liz gave Rory her best what-have-you-gotten-me-into-now look and said, “That’s right. We wanted to see how the common areas were being kept up. It is one of the older condo complexes in town. How’s your experience been here?” For the next few minutes, the conversation revolved around the upkeep of the buildings and the recent increase in association fees.

“I think you’ve seen enough here. Let me give you a personal tour of the rest of the complex.” Julian ushered them out the community room door.

Rory hoped he would soon get bored and let them look around by themselves. She didn’t know how much they’d learn with Hester’s husband following their every move.