Read Online Murder on a Bad Hair Day by Anne George - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne George
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stood back while I walked in. “Well, what do you think?”
It was like falling into a snowbank. Everything in the whole apartment was white, not flat white but glistening. The carpet, walls, furniture, even paintings and bric-a-brac wereall white. I felt like reaching into my purse for my dark glasses.
“What do you think?” Bo Peep asked again.
“It’s white. I thought it was going to be messed up.”
“Look carefully.”
This time I saw slashes in the sofa where white stuffing was spilling and shards of glass shining on the white hearth. The more I looked, the more damage I saw.
“Here’s where the knife hit.” Bo Mitchell closed the front door and a dark gash shone in all that whiteness like a bloodstain. “Probably a butcher knife.”
I shivered. “This is what you wanted me to see?”
“Upstairs.”
These apartments all had three small bedrooms upstairs when they were first built. Many of the residents have combined the two smaller rooms into a large master bedroom. I saw immediately that was what Claire, or the people she bought the unit from, had done. Everything was white up there, too, and was made even more blinding by a large skylight that centered a rectangle of December sun on a king-sized bed. Above the bed, the word whore was sprayed with red paint. The paint had dripped like blood.
“Oh, my,” I said, closing my eyes.
“In here is what I want you to see,” Bo said. I followed her into the small guest bedroom. By comparison, it was much darker than the adjacent room. My eyes had to adjust to the change.
“What do you think?” Bo asked.
“About what? I can’t see a thing.”
“Close your eyes a minute.”
I did, and when I opened them, I was no longer immersed in whiteness. The walls were covered in graffiti done in bold, primary colors. Obscene words were written across the wall. Streaks of color crossed and crisscrossed in long swaths as if the vandal had delighted in aiming the spray can at the white walls.
“My God,” I said.
“Just look.” Bo Mitchell turned on an overhead light andthe extent of the damage sprang out at me. The reddest of red poured down the walls. What seemed to be an exploding sun rained fire over the whole scene.
“My God!” I exclaimed, fighting nausea.
“But look here.”
I knelt down and looked at the corner where Bo Peep Mitchell was pointing. There, in a small rectangular area, probably ten inches by twelve, was a pastoral scene. In the softest of pastels, a red-haired woman sat in a meadow painting three pictures of a dark-haired subject. The painter’s back was to us, so what we saw were the portraits on three easels.
“What is this?” I asked Bo. “You got a flashlight?”
She handed me one and I shined it against the painting with one hand and held my bifocals away with the other so the bottom part would magnify the pictures.
“All three of the pictures are of a woman with hair like Claire’s,” I said. “But they don’t have any features.”
Bo Peep sat down beside me on the floor. “Let me see your glasses.”
She held them away from her and studied the painting.
“Mercy Armistead was redheaded,” I said.
Bo Peep handed me my glasses. “That’s what I heard.” She motioned at the wall above us. “What do you think?”
“What do you mean, what do I think? Quit asking me that, damn it. I’m not a psychiatrist.” I grabbed the handle on the door, pulled myself up, and stomped into the other room. The whole morning had finally gotten to me. “Are you asking me if I think the average person paints stuff like that on walls?” I pointed to the word whore . “I hope not. But can I psychoanalyze it? No.”
Bo Peep followed me into the master bedroom.
“And right now,” I said, “I’m going to get a sick girl some clean nightgowns.”
“Bet they’re white,” Bo Mitchell said.
They were.
When I got home, I was exhausted. I fixed myself a peanut butter and banana sandwich and a glass of milk and sat
It was like falling into a snowbank. Everything in the whole apartment was white, not flat white but glistening. The carpet, walls, furniture, even paintings and bric-a-brac wereall white. I felt like reaching into my purse for my dark glasses.
“What do you think?” Bo Peep asked again.
“It’s white. I thought it was going to be messed up.”
“Look carefully.”
This time I saw slashes in the sofa where white stuffing was spilling and shards of glass shining on the white hearth. The more I looked, the more damage I saw.
“Here’s where the knife hit.” Bo Mitchell closed the front door and a dark gash shone in all that whiteness like a bloodstain. “Probably a butcher knife.”
I shivered. “This is what you wanted me to see?”
“Upstairs.”
These apartments all had three small bedrooms upstairs when they were first built. Many of the residents have combined the two smaller rooms into a large master bedroom. I saw immediately that was what Claire, or the people she bought the unit from, had done. Everything was white up there, too, and was made even more blinding by a large skylight that centered a rectangle of December sun on a king-sized bed. Above the bed, the word whore was sprayed with red paint. The paint had dripped like blood.
“Oh, my,” I said, closing my eyes.
“In here is what I want you to see,” Bo said. I followed her into the small guest bedroom. By comparison, it was much darker than the adjacent room. My eyes had to adjust to the change.
“What do you think?” Bo asked.
“About what? I can’t see a thing.”
“Close your eyes a minute.”
I did, and when I opened them, I was no longer immersed in whiteness. The walls were covered in graffiti done in bold, primary colors. Obscene words were written across the wall. Streaks of color crossed and crisscrossed in long swaths as if the vandal had delighted in aiming the spray can at the white walls.
“My God,” I said.
“Just look.” Bo Mitchell turned on an overhead light andthe extent of the damage sprang out at me. The reddest of red poured down the walls. What seemed to be an exploding sun rained fire over the whole scene.
“My God!” I exclaimed, fighting nausea.
“But look here.”
I knelt down and looked at the corner where Bo Peep Mitchell was pointing. There, in a small rectangular area, probably ten inches by twelve, was a pastoral scene. In the softest of pastels, a red-haired woman sat in a meadow painting three pictures of a dark-haired subject. The painter’s back was to us, so what we saw were the portraits on three easels.
“What is this?” I asked Bo. “You got a flashlight?”
She handed me one and I shined it against the painting with one hand and held my bifocals away with the other so the bottom part would magnify the pictures.
“All three of the pictures are of a woman with hair like Claire’s,” I said. “But they don’t have any features.”
Bo Peep sat down beside me on the floor. “Let me see your glasses.”
She held them away from her and studied the painting.
“Mercy Armistead was redheaded,” I said.
Bo Peep handed me my glasses. “That’s what I heard.” She motioned at the wall above us. “What do you think?”
“What do you mean, what do I think? Quit asking me that, damn it. I’m not a psychiatrist.” I grabbed the handle on the door, pulled myself up, and stomped into the other room. The whole morning had finally gotten to me. “Are you asking me if I think the average person paints stuff like that on walls?” I pointed to the word whore . “I hope not. But can I psychoanalyze it? No.”
Bo Peep followed me into the master bedroom.
“And right now,” I said, “I’m going to get a sick girl some clean nightgowns.”
“Bet they’re white,” Bo Mitchell said.
They were.
When I got home, I was exhausted. I fixed myself a peanut butter and banana sandwich and a glass of milk and sat
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