Maid of Murder

Chapter Fourteen

For the second time that weekend, I directed my car down my childhood street. Several homeowners along its length were mowing their lawns or gardening through the oppressive afternoon heat. The Blocken house remained rooted and stone silent. Several cars speckled its long driveway. The blinds and curtains at every window were sealed tight. I discreetly passed the house, searching for my brother’s car.

Childishly, I directed my eyes forward as I rolled beyond the Blocken home, believing that if I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me. I drove the street’s length, and I didn’t see Mark’s car or any other sign of him. I exhaled with relief and guilt. How could I think that he would have come here? Oh, me of little faith. Maybe Mark was smarter than I gave him credit for, I thought. I looped around the block for a second pass—just to be sure—and headed home.

I parked the car in my driveway and sprinted into the apartment, while awkwardly managing Theodore and his now-empty food dish, before Ina could burst out of her unit and harangue me with questions. Slamming the door, I bolted it behind me. I dropped the cat. He landed with a resounding thud.

Templeton hissed and arched his back at the intruder. The two felines knew each other socially, but weren’t best pals. Theodore stomped across the room to examine Templeton, who jumped off of the couch and dashed out of the room faster than the speed of sound, no doubt to stew under my bed while contemplating the most inconvenient place to deposit a hairball in revenge. Theodore leapt onto the couch and settled into Templeton’s favorite spot. I showed Theodore where the litter box was in the tiny utility room.

“Use it, or you’ll make a very nice fur collar,” I told him.

For the first time in days, I entered my studio. My shoulders sagged. I hadn’t painted in weeks. It was so easy to simply accept mediocre failure in place of lifelong ambition. I mentally excused myself, considering the circumstances of late, but my guilty conscience would not forgive me.

The studio was a small second bedroom that I had converted into an art den when I had rented the apartment. The flooring was slab-cement stained with acrylics, paint thinner, and every other possible substance a painter can spill, drop, or knock over while at work. Ina, upon hearing that I was a painter, allowed me to remove the carpet under a three-finger Girl Scout swear that I would replace it if and when I moved out. The room contained one window flanked on either side by metal shelves holding all the essential trappings of a painter’s arsenal: brushes, blank canvases, pigments, and remnants of rejected works. My easel faced away from the door and dominated the middle of the room. Across from the easel sat a decrepit sofa I’d salvaged from a Martin dorm and splattered with every shade of oil paint in the rainbow.

On the colored cushions, someone lay prostrate.

Startled, I cried out. The other person released an equally girlish squeak.

Mark.

“What are you doing here?” I gasped.

He clutched a throw pillow to his chest. “I was looking for you. You weren’t here, so I let myself in.”

“What are you doing in this room?” I demanded, to cover up my relief at finding him.

“I was looking for you, and then, I saw . . .” He gestured to my easel, which held a nearly complete twelve by fourteen portrait of a young girl. The girl was about ten, had cropped brown hair, startling blue eyes, and small features. She wore a bright T-shirt and ratty jean shorts. She perched on the edge of the front steps that led into her home. Her knees touched, and she hinged forward at the waist. The gaze held intensity and concealed amusement.

Olivia. A forgotten wedding gift.

“I haven’t slept in two days, but I was able to sleep here.” He stared at the painting and avoided my eyes. He laughed mirthlessly, bitterly. “She’s dead. Her mother called me this morning. She accused me of killing her. Is that what you think?”

I froze in the studio doorway. “Of course, I don’t think that.” Like Mark, I avoided using Olivia’s name. “Mrs. Blocken’s searching for a scapegoat. No one could seriously think you’d hurt anyone.” My conversation with Mains that morning came to mind, but I pushed it away. He might suspect Mark, but he didn’t know my brother.

Mark nodded, staring at his feet. Then he started to cry, powerful sobs that shook his entire body. I remained frozen, again wishing my more compassionate and maternal sister was with me. Something soft grazed my leg. Theodore. He walked across the room and crawled into Mark’s lap. Mark clung to the cat and wept into his thick fur. The cat purred in reply. Mark didn’t question the cat’s presence.

After several tense minutes in which Mark wept, Theodore comforted, and I idled, Mark wiped his face on the pillow that would never be quite the same. With his mission accomplished, Theodore deserted his master.

“Is there anything I can get you?” I asked.

He ignored the question. “I can’t even believe it, you know. Can you?”

“No.” Tired from standing but not wanting to move any closer to my brother, I sat on the cool cement floor.

“I knew that she didn’t love me and never did. I was just someone she used to pass the time,” he muttered. “But when I found out that she was engaged, I lost it. I thought I was over her. All those equations and theorems I put in my head pushed her out. But now, I know I wasn’t over her, I was just distracted from thinking about her. With her face splashed on the front page of the paper announcing the wedding, I couldn’t be distracted. I didn’t expect to feel that way when I heard about her wedding. I’m not a total idiot; I knew she was bound to get married some day. I wish I didn’t feel this way about her.”

“I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think at all, India. You knew that I’d find out about the wedding, the social event of the summer.” His teary voice didn’t veil his anger. He stood up. “You should have told me, to at least prepare me. You could have done that much.”

I was fixed to the floor.

“So, I went to the Blocken house, the last place in the world I’d ever want to go, only to find my sister there, laughing and socializing with the family that I was never good enough for, that she was never good enough for.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to do it when she asked. I wasn’t thinking about you and her. I was thinking about her and me. She is my friend . . .” It was all I could say. Mark would not understand how Olivia pulled me in with childhood memories, why I didn’t think of him before agreeing to be a bridesmaid. He wouldn’t understand why Olivia’s use of creepy Brad Coldecker had changed my mind.

Mark stepped back and laughed hollowly. “You mean she was your friend. She’s dead, India, dead. Do you understand that? She’s not marrying anyone now.”

My stomach dropped and tears welled in my eyes. “Mark, no. You didn’t.”

“I didn’t what? Tell me what I didn’t do.”

I stood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Did I kill her? Isn’t that what you want to know? No. But thank you for your sisterly faith. Did I see her on campus yesterday? Yes. I couldn’t believe that she actually came to see me. But she wasn’t alone.”

“Who else was there?”

“I didn’t see anyone. I only heard her talking to someone. Since she wasn’t alone, I went back to my office and waited for her to come to me. After a half hour, she never showed, and I went to the fountain and found her.” His voice trailed off.

“What were they talking about, Olivia and this other person?” I said Olivia’s name for the first time since I’d found Mark in my studio.

Mark swallowed hard. He walked directly to my easel and kicked it over. Both easel and canvas clattered to the floor. We both looked at the damage. The sharp edge of the metal easel had torn a five-inch gash into the canvas just above Olivia’s head. With a moan, Mark pushed past me and fled the room.

After a moment of paralysis, I followed him. At the front door, he struggled with lock and bolt.

“You have to tell the police what you heard.” I said, frightened by his behavior but also terrified for him. “You have to. If you don’t, even if they can never prove that you attacked her, people will still think you had something to do with it. You have to prove them wrong.”

He continued to wrestle with the door. His mania made it impossible for him to manipulate his hands correctly.

“Don’t you want to be cleared, Mark?”

I heard the mechanical click as the bolt recessed into the wooden door frame. Mark threw open the door and was gone.