The Mosaic Murder. Lonni Lees
short necked, thick fingered. “She’s a masterpiece, Belinda.”
“Oh Goddess,” Barbara chanted, “source of gods and mortals, all-fertile, all-destroying Gaia!” Then added: “You’ve captured her essence to perfection, Belinda. You should be proud.”
“First in my prayer, before all deities, I call upon Gaia, primeval prophetess, the Greek great earth mother,” chimed in Adrian with a dramatic bow.
“Oy, enough already,” said Belinda, grinning ear to ear. “Hey, Armando, bubeleh, how about uncorking some of that bubbly? I’m ready to rock and roll.”
“Make that two,” said Adrian.
“Three,” said Rocco.
“Three’s an unlucky number,” said Barbara. “Better make that four.”
“And one for the bartender,” said Armando, as he popped the cork and began to pour.
The bell above the door jingled as Misty Waters entered the gallery. She walked softly through the first public room, pleased that her oils were displayed where they were the first thing one’s eyes set sight on upon entering. Her paintings were large and abstract, in shades of white as pale as her own complexion. Despite being only thirty her head was crowned with snow white hair. As always, Misty dressed in flowing white gauze from head to toe. She was as abstract as her art and as difficult to figure. She floated in like a passing cloud, avoiding eye contact.
“Misty, I’m so glad you could come,” said Barbara. “I can always depend on you.”
Rocco walked over to where Misty stood. She recoiled from his welcoming hug, her arms remaining awkwardly at her sides. Physical contact clearly made her uncomfortable. He pulled away and said, “Why don’t I get you something to drink? What would you like?”
“Do we have white wine?” she asked.
Rocco turned to Armando with a slight smile. He should have guessed that Misty Waters would only drink something white. Everything about her was white. Weird, he thought with a shrug. White as an unpainted wall, a blank canvas, an icy snow bank. How, he wondered, did she manage to stay so pale in the Arizona sun? She was spooky, like a vampire who only ventured out after sundown. In their close-knit gallery family Misty was their resident enigma.
Armando fished through the mini-fridge and took out a bottle of white zinfandel. “Will this work for the fine señorita?” She nodded her approval. He poured some into a plastic cup and handed it to Rocco who in turn handed it to Misty.
“Thank you,” she whispered as she turned and walked into another room, looking at the display of art on the walls, ignoring everyone as she faded silently into the background.
“Talk about distant,” Adrian said under her breath.
Barbara walked over to where Adrian stood. “But she always comes to the receptions. That’s more than some of the artists do.”
“She never stays long. It’s like an obligation that she has to suffer through.”
Rocco joined the two women. “Remember, we’re a family. We don’t judge, we accept. Where would we be if we didn’t embrace one another just the way we are? Not one of us is perfect. And some of us are flawed almost beyond repair.” He laughed at his own comment. “That’s what makes us special, don’t you think?”
“You’re painfully magnanimous,” said Adrian. “She’s so invisible she could be a hit man or a spy for the CIA. Or a serial killer. They say it’s the quiet ones you’ve got to look out for.”
“We can all learn a thing or two from you Rocco,” said Barbara. “You’re a highly evolved soul and I truly believe the gods brought you here to guide us. You’re my favorite motorcycle riding, rough and tumble, tattooed guru.”
“Aw shucks ma’am,” he said in his best cowboy drawl.
“Mary Rose,” said Adrian as the elderly woman walked in. She wore a floral dress and a soft lavender silk shawl that reflected the color of the flower in her hair. “I’m so glad you came. You’re beautiful as always.”
“For a crone, my dear, for a crone.”
Armando walked out from where he stood at the bar and took Mary Rose’s hand, her skin as thin and frail as crepe paper. He twirled her around gracefully. “You, my lady, are my favorite work of art.”
“Enough with your flattery, you silly rascal. How about pouring me a glass of cold bubbles?” Mary Rose walked over to a chair and sat down while Barbara filled a small dish with cheese and crackers and grapes and took them to her, along with the glass of champagne that Armando had poured.
“Your watercolors look beautiful,” Barbara said. “I would wager every one is going to sell.”
“That’d be a plus,” she said, looking over to Armando. “You certainly have quite the catch there. As does he, of course. Such a handsome couple. You know if I were a bit younger I’d have his shoes under my bed in no time.”
“He does have his appeal,” Barbara answered with a laugh.
CHAPTER THREE
SHADES OF YESTERDAY
Prowler had finished his food and settled comfortably on Maggie Reardon’s lap, licking his paws. She wore a ragged chenille bathrobe and had the television on low to an old rerun of Cops as she picked away at a tasteless TV dinner. It was worse than not eating at all and she wondered why she kept buying them. Maybe because they were fast and no fuss. Or maybe because the photographs on the package made them look downright yummy. Or maybe she thought one of these days she’d hit on one that was actually edible. She hadn’t yet. Was it masochism? Hardly. Lack of imagination? More likely than not it was just plain laziness. She pushed Prowler onto the floor and set down the tray, which still held a few bites of over-salted beef trapped in congealing gravy.
“There you go, Prowler. Have at it boy.”
Prowler took one sniff and gagged as if he were ready to cough up a fur ball. He looked at the tray with disgust, then jumped back onto Maggie’s lap.
“I guess you’re smarter than I am,” she said scratching him behind the ear. “Your cat food probably has more flavor. Maybe I’ll try it sometime.”
Prowler began to purr, digging his sharp claws affectionately into her thigh.
“You’re right. It couldn’t be any worse.”
She looked up at the television just as two cops were shoving some perp into the back seat of their squad car. “Cuff ‘em and stuff ’em!” she yelled at the set. “Way to go!”
The black cat let out a low growl in his best imitation of a Siamese.
“Makes one proud, doesn’t it Prowler?”
There was a knock at the front door. Then another. And another.
Maggie rose, tossed Prowler across her shoulder and walked to the door. She looked through the peephole and there stood Marty the ex, flowers in hand. She was in no mood to answer. He kept knocking and she kept looking through the little round hole waiting for him to give up and go away. His baby blues peeked through curly blonde hair that fell forward over his eyebrows, his expression naive yet determined.
He was becoming a pest.
“Please open the door, Maggie. I know you’re in there.”
He held the flowers against his chest and furrowed his brow.
“I brought a peace offering.”
She yelled at him. “You’re starting to act like a stalker, Marty. Get away from here before I call in for back-up and have you hauled away.”
It was a full minute before he turned and walked away, defeated.
“The guy is starting to creep me out,” she said to the cat.
She