The Painting Murders Read online

  Not a sound from came from Troy.

  She moved closer, her socks sliding on the glossy hardwood floor.

  She leaned her head down close to his parted lips, feeling for breath.

  Nothing.

  Ellie’s heart sank. Her lip quivered. She raised her paint-dipped hand to touch him.

  Suddenly, as if struck by a hammer in the chest, Troy snorted loudly and sent Ellie recoiling away from the bed. Her husband’s breathing patterns returned to normal and he rolled to his side, mumbling a sleepless nothing. Ellie trembled, but she didn’t know why. It was chilly in the flat, but far from cold. Dare I wake him… She glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. 4:07 am.

  Ellie backed out of the room slowly and used her elbow to quietly shut the door behind her. She rested her back on the door and shut her eyes. What is happening to me? The paint crusted on her hands. She headed to the bathroom and washed her palms and fingers under the steaming water. She scrubbed harshly and used an ample amount of soap to remove the paint. It had already set. She mumbled to herself in frustration as she rubbed until her flesh was pink and raw. The paint turned the water ruddy like rare meat and then black like char as it swirled down the drain. When Ellie finished, there was still more paint mashed under and around her fingernails. That wouldn’t come out anytime soon.

  She splashed her face with hot water and swiped her hand across the fogged mirror. Dripping wet, she glanced at the tired reflection. It seemed as though she aged ten years in six hours.

  She returned to the art room, but hesitated going inside. She grabbed the handles of the French doors and shut them tightly. She checked the lock and headed upstairs to join Troy in bed. She climbed on the mattress, careful not to wake her husband. With a gentle touch, she pulled up the covers to her chin. Troy rolled over again, this time turning his back to her. Ellie took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling, which was as white as a blank canvas. When Ellie blinked, the dead woman looked back at her with drooping eyelids and lifeless pupils. Ellie shut her eyes, told herself to get some sleep, that things would make sense in the morning, yet she couldn’t turn off her mind.

  Warm rays of sun kissed her skin the next morning. Though it didn’t seem like it, she must’ve slept a little seeing how Troy wasn’t in bed when she re-opened her eyes. She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling the return of that excruciating headache. She swiveled her feet out of bed and curled her toes when she touched down on the hardwood. She was still wearing last night’s clothes and her hair was a mess. She wasted no time stripping down and climbing into the shower. She brushed foaming shampoo across her scalp. The paint still hung in her fingertips. Her head still throbbed even under the relaxing cascade of water. She put on some lazy clothes and shambled down the stairs. Her eyes immediately went to the closed art room door.

  “Good morning,” Troy said as he folded a fresh omelet. He was dressed in dark jeans, fleece, and V-neck. The news was playing on the TV.

  “Morning,” Ellie replied weakly, unable to take her eyes off the art room door.

  “Sit down.” Troy gestured to the kitchen bar.

  Hesitant, Ellie lowered herself on the barstool and locked her fingers on the smooth, granite slab. When she saw the paint still under her fingernails, she hid her hands under the table, thought she didn’t know why she was so terrified of showing Troy.

  Troy placed a steaming fat omelet gushing with goat cheese, diced peppers, and ham on a plate in front of her. “How late did you work last night?”

  “Too late.” Ellie speared the omelet with her fork.

  Troy put down a glass mug of iced coffee next to her plate. “You must’ve gotten a lot done. I don’t remember seeing you come to bed.”

  Troy packed his omelet into a Tupperware container and sealed it tight.

  “Where are you going?” Ellie asked with alarm.

  Troy looked at her with a dumb smile. “To work. You feeling okay?”

  Ellie didn’t reply.

  Concern sank Troy’s handsome face. He claimed the seat next to her. “What is it?”

  “Last night…” Ellie couldn’t find the right words. “It would be better if I just showed you.”

  Leaving her egg speared to the plate, she led him into the art room. Exhaling, she opened the double French doors, revealing the disturbing painting set on the easel at the center of the room.

  “Holy crap,” Troy said in shock as he approached the disturbing masterwork. “You did this?”

  Ellie bit into her lower lip. With unblinking eyes, she nodded slowly.

  Troy ran his hand up his tapered blond hair and turned back to her. “Ellie, this is… this is amazing.”

  “Troy, I don’t…”

  Troy laughed as he looked over the canvas. “Wow. Good job, Ellie. You did all this in one night? I didn’t know you had this in you. No wonder you’re exhausted.”

  Ellie grabbed his arm and forced him to face her. “I don’t remember painting it, Troy.”

  Troy crinkled his brows, not understanding.

  “I had some sort of, I don’t know, blackout, and then… this! Look at it!”

  “I see it,” Troy said, prying her fingers off his biceps. “You should be proud of it. Yeah, it’s a bit out there, but I’m glad you’re branching out. That’s bold of you.”

  Ellie felt her face go red. “You’re not understanding. I can’t paint like this. I wouldn’t even dream about painting something like this.”

  “Ellie, you’re too hard on yourself,” Troy said sternly.

  Ellie wanted to sock him across the jaw. “I didn’t paint this. I-I mean, I did, but I didn’t.”

  “You’re not making any sense,” Troy said sternly.

  “I blacked out last night. Fainted. Something. When I got up, this painting was here. That doesn’t just happen.”

  “Okay, okay, I agree. That’s abnormal.” The two of them were quiet for a moment. Troy offered a suggestion. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”

  “Should I?” Ellie asked, unsure.

  “It’s up to you.” He glanced back to the painting and then back to Ellie. “But if you want my advice, I say eat your breakfast and get some sleep. If you’re still feeling sick, we’ll get you looked at.”

  “The commissions, Troy. I’m backlogged enough as is. I can’t just rest.”

  “Tell them to wait,” Troy said, starting to get upset. “You’re obviously not feeling well.” His watch beeped. Tory glanced at the time and his lips made a line on his face. “I have to go. I’ll be back tonight. Just take it easy, alright?”

  Not waiting for Ellie’s response, he planted a kiss on her forehead. He grabbed his shoulder pack from the kitchen bar and hurried out the door, saying, “I love you,” before he shut it.

  Ellie stood alone in the apartment for a long moment before approaching the painting. She knew Troy was right. She was just tired. That’s it. Nothing weird. Right?

  The dead woman in the painting watched her with lifeless eyes. She hesitantly brushed her fingers across the woman’s face. It had layers of paint and, by the amount of detail, it would’ve been impossible to paint this in less than six hours. Even a master of craft would’ve drawn it out by hand first before diving right into the painting process. Ellie never thought about gory things. She didn’t even watch horror movies. Why would she create this? What did it mean? Was it chance? It couldn’t be. Ellie’s head kept throbbing. She pulled the canvas off the easel and set off to the side. Out of view. There, Ellie thought with accomplishment as she returned to her breakfast. She felt better already.

  The next two days, she didn’t even look at the painting. Every moment she had a thought, she cast it off and took a walk down the street, breathing in the spring Massachusetts air, or she’d thrust herself at another project. At first, she was nervous what she’d created, but after she was able to finish up a river under a wonderful sunrise, she was back on a roll. Moreover, she was working faster and better than ever.

  Troy
would come home late. He was a journalist for the local paper, though his true love was American history. It was something that him and Ellie’s father had in common. They’d met at Ellie’s grandparents’ fiftieth anniversary. Troy was a friend of Ellie’s cousin and asked her to dance. Four years of dating later and they were hitched. Troy had proposed multiple times during that period, but Ellie politely refused him each time, waiting for her art career to flourish.

  “My latest assignment will excite you,” Troy said as he set his laptop back on the kitchen bar.

  “What’s that?” Ellie asked as she ate green beans from their recently restocked refrigerator.

  “I’m covering the rise of local art galleries in Northampton. That means more work for you. I could get some inside leads for you if you’re interested.”

  “That would be nice. Thanks.” Ellie said, secretly glad that the wedding daze had ended and they were back to their normal, somewhat boring selves.

  “Yeah, I was thinking we could advertise your new piece. These curators are always looking for freaky stuff. It will fit in quite nicely.”

  Ellie thought it over. There was something about that beautiful, hideous thing that made her want to hang onto it. Nonetheless, she said, “Get me their names and numbers, and I’ll see what they’re offering.”

  The next morning, after Troy had just walked out of the door, Ellie got a phone call from Andrew, her best friend and avid art collector.

  “Mrs. Ellie Batter. I got to say, it’s going to feel weird not calling you Smith.”

  “I know. I’m still getting used to it. Batter makes me sound like I’m a baseball coach.”

  “How was the honeymoon?”

  “Dreamy,” Ellie said, in high spirits. “We went to Naples, Florida.”

  “Going to the beach in spring? Was the water cold?

  Ellie smiled to herself. “We didn’t spend much time in the water.”

  “Oh,” Andrew replied with chuckle. “Say, Troy stopped by the other day, said that you had a piece you’re shopping around. Something that breaks your normal mold. I’d love to see it.”

  “I’ll be honest with you, it’s a little disturbing,” Ellie said, biting into some crunchy toast and ignoring the news Troy had forgotten to turn off.

  “You and disturbing?” Andrew said suspiciously. “Those are two words I’d never thought in conjunction. Still, I like the sound of it.”

  “I thought you would,” Ellie replied. “I’ve seen your personal gallery. You got a knack for picking the weird ones.”

  “I picked you, darling,” Andrew boasted. “And you made me a very happy man.”

  “Don’t tell Troy,” Ellie teased. Their pretend affair was a little inside joke her and Andrew had after some members in the art community berated Andrew for investing so much time trying to sell Ellie’s work. The truth was, Andrew managed many artists and was a collector/sculptor himself. Everyone in the business knew Ellie was his favorite, and even she didn’t know why. Her friend was about ten years older than her and single, but even after all the years they had known each other, she knew he liked her more like a daughter than a potential lover.

  “When can I stop by?” Ellie asked.

  He made a noise as he thought. “I’m planning a private showing of my personal collection, lots of bigwigs, artists, you know the type. Needless to say, it’s not been easy finding free time. But if this new piece is as good as your husband says it is, I’ll make an opening when things mellow out.”

  “The lovely grind of an artist,” Ellie replied.

  “If we didn’t love it, we would’ve gone insane a long time ago.”

  “Amen to that. Have a good one, Andy.”

  “Likewise, Mrs. Batter.”

  After the call ended, Ellie reached for the TV remote. She had a small smile on her face. If anyone would buy her work, it was Andrew. He’d been in the art business for much longer than her and after the countless stack of rejection letters she got from gallery owners, he was the first one to take a chance on her. He even convinced her to move from the Pennsylvania countryside to Northampton. The investment earned Ellie a tiny fortune and a lifelong career in the arts.

  Ellie was about to turn off the TV when something on the screen grabbed her attention. A picture of a woman with a chiseled face that was fiercely beautiful. Ellie recognized her. She turned up the volume.

  “Co-owner of Gatts Jannis Pottery and Antiquities, Kimberly Jannis’s body was discovered in her shop storeroom,” the anchor said.

  3

  Dead Woman

  Ellie involuntarily covered her mouth as the news displayed brief images of the crime scene: caution tape, police activity, broken pottery, and blood spatter up on a wall.

  “Jannis was stabbed sixteen times in what local police are calling the most brutal robbery homicide in recent months. There has been no word as to who is responsible.”

  The channel turned to a commercial break. Ellie stared stupidly at the TV. A sickening feeling pitted in her stomach. Slowly, she turned to the art room. She carefully approached and pulled open the double French doors. She found the disturbing painting resting off to the side. Ellie picked it up and returned to the living room. She examined the dead woman. There was no doubt about it. This was Kimberly Jannis in a vase shop storage room, just as the news had shown. Ellie counted the number of glossy stab wounds on Kim’s torso. Sixteen. Once again, exactly as the news described. Ellie didn’t know what to think. She felt terrified, sickened, confused, and alive. Adrenaline coursed through her veins.

  The news returned with a live interview outside of the two-story vase shop on an under-trafficked road. The man speaking was labeled as Harold Gatts, co-owner of the vase shop. “Kimberly was a fine young woman with great talent. Ten years ago, I added her name to my store title because of her hard work and dedication...”

  Ellie turned off the TV. She paced, chewing her fingernail. The walls of her simple life pressed in on her. That crippling headache returned.

  Her phone rang.

  Andrew again.

  Ellie answered with an uneasy “Hello.”

  Andrew spoke. “Hi again. I know it’s sudden, but a client canceled her lunch this afternoon. If you want to stop by my place and show me what you got, I’m open.” There was something urgent in his voice, though he was doing well to hide it.

  Ellie couldn’t take her eyes off the picture of a real woman who actually died. “I… not today, Andrew.”

  “You sound funny,” Andrew said. “Something happen?”

  Ellie’s heart raced. Showing Andrew the painting didn’t sit right. “Sorry, Andrew. I… I have to go.” Ellie hung up.

  Coincidence, that’s all it is. The painting pulled at her focus. The room blurred away. The scarlet blood began to pump from the sixteen stab wounds. Ellie blinked, and the painting was dry and ‘normal’ again. The dead woman’s bubbled blood glistened under the ceiling light. Coincidence, she told herself again, though she knew she was lying to herself.

  Barefoot and still in her pajamas, she walked back into the kitchen that merged with the living room. She splashed her face with tap water, trying to wash away the fury of thoughts in her mind. The black handles jutting from the wooden knife block grabbed her attention. She wrapped her hand around one, noticing paint chips still packed under her fingernails as she drew out the chef’s knife. She backed away from it and looked at the blade, reflecting on what she was about to do. Logical-minded people don’t attack paintings, but this one that on her couch was far from normal.

  She drove her teeth into her lower lip and held them there as she looked at the painting. With steady, silent steps, she returned to the couch and hovered the blade’s edge above the portrait. The immaculate detail of the crow’s feathers, the perfect contrast of color and blacks, and expert brush strokes that breathed life into the dead woman’s face kept Ellie from slashing it apart. Troy was right, she knew, this was her greatest creation.

  She put the painting back i
nto the art room and covered it with a white sheet. She checked the time. She needed to start working, as hard as that was to do.

  She began her latest commission and found herself adding red accents to a gloomy sky, completely opposite of the buyer expected. She took a ten-minute walk, allowing herself to clear her head, and returned to the canvas again. This time she turned the rustic barn meant to evoke feelings of nostalgia into a twisted building made with dark gray wood, hollow windows, and a crimson sun bleeding down the canvas. There was no blackout, no loss of control, but Ellie knew that something at a subconscious level was hijacking her style back to the gloomy and dark mood of the Broken Crow Murder: the name she’d given her cursed masterpiece.

  It was about lunchtime when she gave up on thinking of anything but the painting.

  She slipped on jeans over her toned legs and put on a nice spring sweater. She fixed her sun-kissed hair cut in a bob and put on some lip gloss. After putting on tennis shoes and her beige coat, she exited her apartment, locked the door, double checked it twice, and then mashed the elevator button about twenty times. It opened with a ding. The old man inside smiled at her, impressed by her looks. Ellie briefly smiled back as she dialed a cab.

  The air outside the downtown apartment was crisp. Laughing and enjoy their midweek lunch break, pedestrians bustled in and out of bars, small cafes, and other boutique restaurants. Northampton was home to thousands of aspiring artists, designer, and musicians, and it showed in their diverse hipster hairstyles, garments, and independent political leanings. The city was an estimated thirty thousand strong with architecture seen in all old New England towns: brick townhouses, tall buildings boasting clock towers, etc. Apart from art, one of the city’s magnets was the Smiths Women College. A college started by women for women, it was a great inspiration for Ellie.

  The cab rolled to a halt at the curbside. She climbed inside. “Gatts Jannis Pottery and Antiquities, please.”

  The cab driver, a short man with big head, big nose, and wooly worm eyebrows gave her a funny look in the rearview mirror. “I saw it on the news this morning. Girl was murdered there. I imagine it will be closed for a few days.”