Read Online Murder in Pastel by Josh Lanyon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Josh Lanyon
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flying.
Which isn’t to say that I didn’t like Brett, because strangely enough I sort of did. I appreciated his malicious sense of humor (when it wasn’t aimed at me), and he had certainly livened things up. But he was dangerous. Dangerous in the way of beautiful wild things. You could admire his beauty, but you couldn’t trust him.
Unless you were Adam.
I assumed Adam trusted Brett, but maybe he just loved him unconditionally.
My other problem with Brett was the periodic assault on my chastity—such as it was.
“Haven’t you ever been with anyone?”
“Of course!” I closed my mind to the memory of awkward and fumbling collegiate encounters, more painful than pleasurable, and just plain embarrassing after the fact.
Brett was disconcertingly serious. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean.”
His smile was unkind. “Are you saving yourself for Adam?”
“Bite me.”
“I’m trying to!” He chuckled. “Hey, you get a boner at the mere mention of his name. I could ask him to do you once as a favor. He’d do it for me. He’ll do anything for me.”
“Well, that is sweet of you. I’ll think about it,” I drawled, which seemed to amuse the hell out of Brett. He actually dropped the subject.
The best thing was not to give him a reaction. Easier said than done.
“What is it with Adam and the graveyard?” I inquired, politely batting off Brett’s groping hands one day when I was paying one of my obligatory visits.
“He’s painting the chapel. Maybe he’s getting religion. Or hoping I will. Shit, you are so shy —”
“I’m not shy. I’m not interested.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not— hey !” As his hand shot out to twist my nipple.
“You’re hard again.”
“I am not!”
“Made you look.”
“You are such a juvenile, Brett.”
These impromptu wrestling matches usually ended with Brett collapsing in laughter. The funny thing is, I often ended up laughing too. I’m not sure why.
Once, though, I came up for air to find Jack Cobb standing at the screen door, silently watching us.
Brett was unfazed. He hopped up and went out on the verandah, paid Jack for mowing the lawns and cutting the hedges, and came back inside whistling.
As we sat there listening to the eight-cylinder roar of Jack’s pickup fading away, Brett slid his eyes my way, slapped his forehead and said slyly, “Hey, I could have had a V8!”
* * * * *
Then, on a hot July night when the full moon hung ripe and golden above the ocean, and the fireflies darted about the woods like fairy lights, something truly extraordinary happened.
The way the story was retold to me, Jen was stripping the varnish off a dresser Vince had purchased at a local yard sale. It was an ordinary dresser, not an antique, but real cherry wood beneath the white enamel. Each drawer had a lion head handle with a brass ring through its mouth. Jen removed all the drawers and was waxing the runners when she noticed that the back wall of the dresser appeared to be canvas not wood.
She pulled at it gently. The canvas was nailed to the wooden backing. She tugged harder, working it free. One by one she pried the nails out.
When the last nail was out she slid the canvas up, easing it out through the slats, inch by inch. At last she pulled it free. Immediately it rolled up into a tight scroll.
Jenny carried the rolled canvas into the kitchen and spread it out on the wooden table, using jam jars on the ragged corners to hold it flat.
What she saw there in the lamplight had her gasping for breath. She ran outside, shrieking for Vince.
Vince spilled out of his hammock. He grabbed a hoe and raced in ready to do battle with snakes, mice or spiders.
Jenny dragged him into the kitchen and pointed to what lay on the table. Vince gaped and goggled, and then they phoned Joel.
I heard the tale many times after that, in particular, I heard it from Vince who eventually claimed the find as his own, but it was Joel who called first to
Which isn’t to say that I didn’t like Brett, because strangely enough I sort of did. I appreciated his malicious sense of humor (when it wasn’t aimed at me), and he had certainly livened things up. But he was dangerous. Dangerous in the way of beautiful wild things. You could admire his beauty, but you couldn’t trust him.
Unless you were Adam.
I assumed Adam trusted Brett, but maybe he just loved him unconditionally.
My other problem with Brett was the periodic assault on my chastity—such as it was.
“Haven’t you ever been with anyone?”
“Of course!” I closed my mind to the memory of awkward and fumbling collegiate encounters, more painful than pleasurable, and just plain embarrassing after the fact.
Brett was disconcertingly serious. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean.”
His smile was unkind. “Are you saving yourself for Adam?”
“Bite me.”
“I’m trying to!” He chuckled. “Hey, you get a boner at the mere mention of his name. I could ask him to do you once as a favor. He’d do it for me. He’ll do anything for me.”
“Well, that is sweet of you. I’ll think about it,” I drawled, which seemed to amuse the hell out of Brett. He actually dropped the subject.
The best thing was not to give him a reaction. Easier said than done.
“What is it with Adam and the graveyard?” I inquired, politely batting off Brett’s groping hands one day when I was paying one of my obligatory visits.
“He’s painting the chapel. Maybe he’s getting religion. Or hoping I will. Shit, you are so shy —”
“I’m not shy. I’m not interested.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not— hey !” As his hand shot out to twist my nipple.
“You’re hard again.”
“I am not!”
“Made you look.”
“You are such a juvenile, Brett.”
These impromptu wrestling matches usually ended with Brett collapsing in laughter. The funny thing is, I often ended up laughing too. I’m not sure why.
Once, though, I came up for air to find Jack Cobb standing at the screen door, silently watching us.
Brett was unfazed. He hopped up and went out on the verandah, paid Jack for mowing the lawns and cutting the hedges, and came back inside whistling.
As we sat there listening to the eight-cylinder roar of Jack’s pickup fading away, Brett slid his eyes my way, slapped his forehead and said slyly, “Hey, I could have had a V8!”
* * * * *
Then, on a hot July night when the full moon hung ripe and golden above the ocean, and the fireflies darted about the woods like fairy lights, something truly extraordinary happened.
The way the story was retold to me, Jen was stripping the varnish off a dresser Vince had purchased at a local yard sale. It was an ordinary dresser, not an antique, but real cherry wood beneath the white enamel. Each drawer had a lion head handle with a brass ring through its mouth. Jen removed all the drawers and was waxing the runners when she noticed that the back wall of the dresser appeared to be canvas not wood.
She pulled at it gently. The canvas was nailed to the wooden backing. She tugged harder, working it free. One by one she pried the nails out.
When the last nail was out she slid the canvas up, easing it out through the slats, inch by inch. At last she pulled it free. Immediately it rolled up into a tight scroll.
Jenny carried the rolled canvas into the kitchen and spread it out on the wooden table, using jam jars on the ragged corners to hold it flat.
What she saw there in the lamplight had her gasping for breath. She ran outside, shrieking for Vince.
Vince spilled out of his hammock. He grabbed a hoe and raced in ready to do battle with snakes, mice or spiders.
Jenny dragged him into the kitchen and pointed to what lay on the table. Vince gaped and goggled, and then they phoned Joel.
I heard the tale many times after that, in particular, I heard it from Vince who eventually claimed the find as his own, but it was Joel who called first to
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