The Mosaic Murder. Lonni Lees
picked them up and went inside, locking and bolting the door behind her. For a split second she thought of putting them in water. Then she threw them into the waste basket, returned to her comfortable chair and kicked up the volume on the TV.
Tickling the cat under his chin she muttered, “He doesn’t know me at all. If there’s anything I’m not it’s dainty pink!”
The purring cat repositioned himself more comfortably on Maggie’s lap, and meowed in response to the sound of her voice.
“Prickly cactus? That’s a bit harsh Prowler, don’t you think?”
* * * *
“Aye, Calypso!” Rocco said as the redhead entered the gallery. Her hair was as bright orange as a clown wig and just as wild. Her tiny blue eyes scrunched up with a smile as she looked at him. She wore a patchwork prairie skirt in bright shades of purple, green, orange and turquoise with a tee top in a yellow bright as the sun. Huge earrings touched her shoulders and four necklaces hung long and tangled from her neck down to her heavy braless breasts. She was a walking color wheel that hurt the eyes. A hodgepodge of utter confusion. Not unlike the mysterious Misty, she too was a reflection of her art. Calypso was the collage artist who added vibrant, lively colors to the gallery walls and shelves. Her works were happy and made people smile. She collaged everything that came within her reach, from little boxes to clip boards to canvases to lamp bases. Nothing escaped her scissors and decoupage paste. Like a gypsy on the run, the proverbial packrat collected anything that shone or caught her eye. She lived at garage sales and thrift stores and scoured the alleyways on trash collection day. She ripped colors and patterns and faces from the pages of magazines with a manic fervor. Even the photographs on the newspapers obituary page weren’t safe from her assault.
“Rocco, Rocco, Rocco!” She reached out for him, a myriad of bracelets clanked cacophonously as she embraced him. “My roly-poly welcoming committee of one, give me a hug, you big cuddly-bear.”
With the attention span of a gnat Calypso looked around the room. “Barbara, Adrian, Mary Rose!” Then she broke into a belly dance as she moved towards Armando and the bar. Shuffle, shuffle, kick, shimmy. “Wine, let there be wine.”
“That’s all she needs,” Adrian said to Rocco. “Last month we nearly had to carry her out.”
“She’s a free spirit.”
“She’s as wacky as a jar of mixed nuts.”
Barbara Atwell walked into the second room to welcome customers. The gallery was filling fast, the conversation loud and rowdy, the body heat mixed with outside temperature, thick and stifling. She jacked up the air conditioner and stood before it, letting the chill breeze cool her before making another sweep of the room. It was an impressive turnout for this time of year and she was pleased.
Two familiar faces entered the room, eyes glazed and bloodshot as always. Crazy Jake held his beat up guitar with one hand and held onto Mouse’s skinny arm with the other. Their flea-bitten cur followed obediently at their heels as they headed straight for the free food. Barbara would have banned them from the gallery a long time ago had it not been for the fact they always bought something. They were one step up from living on the street but they managed to buy Armando’s little statues at every opening. She heard they lived in a rented garage somewhere in midtown and imagined their walls filled with those tacky little statues from Mexico. They were like focused hoarders who shared but one common fixation. And there was another plus. They would sit on the porch until closing time, Crazy Jake strumming his guitar and Mouse, jittery and pale from too many drugs, singing accompaniment. She had the voice of a siren that lured people off the street and into the gallery.
“Tonight I dance at the Oasis,” Calypso whispered to Armando, petting his arm suggestively. “Why don’t you meet up with me later?”
“Oh, mi amiga,” he replied. “I have already made plans.”
“Arrogant jerk,” she said under her breath. “You always have other plans.”
As Crazy Jake and Mouse neared the food table, Armando walked over to them, a good excuse to get away from the clinging Calypso.
“It is a pleasure to see you both,” he said. “But the dog, she has to stay outside. It is no allowed you see.”
“Awe, ’mando,” Mouse said. “Just this once, huh, huh?”
“Es no posseeb-lay,” he said. “She is no my rules.”
With a shrug Jake took a square of cheese from the table and fed it to the dog. Then he handed it some crackers which it downed hungrily. He took the leash from Mouse and headed to the front door, the dog drooling and coughing a path of crumbs in its wake.
“C’mon Pooter,” Jake mumbled to the dog. “It’s under the tree time for you.”
A few people snickered as he passed.
“Shame on you Jake,” said Mouse. “You know her name is Pewter, like the color of her fur.” The dog was her baby and making fun of her name like that just wasn’t nice. No matter how funny he thought it was. But her irritation with him was as brief as her ability to focus.
“Hurry back,” she squeaked, her voice high and thin as she piled up all the food she could fit onto her plate. She wrapped more in a napkin and shoved it into her large purse. “I’m waitin’ right here for ya, Jake.”
Mary Rose walked slowly to the table and refilled her plate. “You’ve such a lovely voice my dear, will you be singing for us tonight?”
“Jake says I sing for my supper.”
“With that voice you deserve a feast.”
The flattery pleased Mouse. She was used to people looking at her as though she was contagious. Or averting their eyes completely as they walked by. Her clothes were dirty, she knew that, but given a choice between soap and feeding Pewter it was no contest. It was only when they played their music that people would stop and really notice them, a look akin to respect in their eyes. Like they were somebody. Like they had faces. They played for loose change that put a roof over their heads. And while it filled their pockets it also filled their hearts with joy. But mostly they played because it reminded them of who they used to be. Who they might have been if somewhere along the way they’d turned right instead of left.
“I like it here,” Mouse said as she shoved another bite of cheese into her mouth. “People are nice to us here.”
Barbara sat at the desk giving change to a couple who’d just bought a music box. Calypso had likely found it at a garage sale, but when she was finished working her magic it was something new and wonderful. Re-purposing the tossed and forgotten and giving it a new life. Bringing pleasure to fresh eyes. And adding a little more to the till in the process.
“I will answer that,” said Armando as the phone rang.
Mary Rose couldn’t help but overhear his end of the conversation.
“Oh, sí, sí,” he said. “Is very busy and good. Why you are no here?”
He turned and faced away from the room as he continued, lowering his voice.
“How around midnight, my beautiful dove?”
Mary Rose’s ears perked up.
“Is no problema. Until midnight then.” And he hung up.
“Paloma sends her apologies,” he called out to his wife. “She is no feeling so well.”
Mary Rose returned to her chair in the corner of the room. She loved these receptions. It was like watching a free movie and she rarely missed a scene. There was a time she might have been the star player but those days were behind her and now she relished in the role of silent observer. It was damn near as much fun. But not quite mind you. Not quite.
She wondered why Armando felt he had to sneak around. It wasn’t as though everyone didn’t know. Most even participated. Barbara had plenty of her own action, truth be told, and made no secret