Read Online Vanessa Gray Bartal - Lacy Steele 07 - Icy Grip of Murder by Vanessa Gray Bartal - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vanessa Gray Bartal
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there,
whoever it was had gone. The cop’s still there, though.” He tossed a wave to
the police officer who pretended not to notice. “They
probably think I’m activating my old gang for some kind of super heist. I wish
I were half as psychotic as they give me credit for.”
“Me, too,” Lacy said. “I don’t have
nearly enough psychopaths in my life. Are we really going to see Larva in the
‘cocoon’?”
“It’s the last stop of the day, I
promise. Except for supper,” he added when Jason opened his mouth to protest.
“What is a cocoon?”
“It’s his grandmother’s basement,”
Michael said.
“He lives in his grandmother’s
basement?” Jason said.
“When he’s not working planting
trees for the lumber company. During the high season, he travels between here
and Canada.”
“Lumber companies plant trees?”
Lacy said.
“They have to, it’s the law,”
Michael said. “Guys like Larva can make enough to live on all year, if they
work fast and live cheap.”
“Mooching off your grandma probably
helps stretch the budget a lot,” Jason said.
“Yes, it does,” Lacy said, jabbing him in the side to remind him that she lived with her
grandmother.
Jason put his arm around her. “When
you have enough money to buy the lumber mill, you’re not exactly a moocher.”
“I don’t have enough for a mill.
Maybe a few acres,” she said.
“I stand corrected,” he said. They
were acting normally, but there was a silent thrum of tension between them. It
had started with the ring. What began as a joke took on a different context and
now both of them were spooked and trying not to be.
“There’s one more thing you need to
know about Larva,” Michael said.
“What’s that?” Lacy asked as dread
filled her stomach again. Not another foot thing; she couldn’t take it.
“He impersonates Bob Ross.”
“Who?”
“Bob Ross, the painter. The ‘happy little trees’ guy. When we were growing up, PBS
was the only station allowed on TV. We watched a lot of Bob Ross. Larva sort of
formed an unhealthy attachment to him.”
“Are you joking?” Jason asked.
“You’ll see,” Michael said.
Larva’s grandmother’s house was an
unassuming brick bungalow. Larva greeted them outside. Despite the below
freezing temperatures, he was attempting to paint on a canvas, and he was
clearly nervous.
“I don’t know anything,” he
announced, almost before they could depart the car.
“I just want to talk,” Michael
said. “Who told you we were coming?”
Larva paused in his painting and
looked momentarily baffled by the question. Lacy used the time to observe the
man. He was Nordic, like almost everyone else they had met, but his blond hair
had somehow formed into a large afro . The only way
Lacy could imagine he maneuvered it was to get a tight perm and tease it into
its current dome-like shape.
“I don’t remember,” he said.
“Why are you so nervous?” Michael
asked.
“I’m not.” He stopped painting and set
down the brush, clutching his fingers behind his back. As they drew closer,
Lacy caught a look at his painting. It was horrible. Not in the sense that the
content was disturbing, but more in the sense that the guy had no talent. He
was attempting a landscape of the backyard, or so she assumed. She saw a
cylindrical blob that may have been the trashcan. An ugly red rectangle represented
the house, and some green triangles passed for pine trees. She also understood
why this one was called Larva. Either he had a baby face or he was younger than
the others. Judging by the dullness of his expression, he wasn’t the scholar of
the group, either. But since his hair was his dominating feature, no one
probably paid much attention to his face.
“So, Larva, I was wondering if
you’ve seen Jenny,” Michael said.
“Jenny’s dead,” Larva said.
“But she’s not, is she? Come on,
Larva. This is me you’re talking to. I know you don’t want me to go to prison
for something I
whoever it was had gone. The cop’s still there, though.” He tossed a wave to
the police officer who pretended not to notice. “They
probably think I’m activating my old gang for some kind of super heist. I wish
I were half as psychotic as they give me credit for.”
“Me, too,” Lacy said. “I don’t have
nearly enough psychopaths in my life. Are we really going to see Larva in the
‘cocoon’?”
“It’s the last stop of the day, I
promise. Except for supper,” he added when Jason opened his mouth to protest.
“What is a cocoon?”
“It’s his grandmother’s basement,”
Michael said.
“He lives in his grandmother’s
basement?” Jason said.
“When he’s not working planting
trees for the lumber company. During the high season, he travels between here
and Canada.”
“Lumber companies plant trees?”
Lacy said.
“They have to, it’s the law,”
Michael said. “Guys like Larva can make enough to live on all year, if they
work fast and live cheap.”
“Mooching off your grandma probably
helps stretch the budget a lot,” Jason said.
“Yes, it does,” Lacy said, jabbing him in the side to remind him that she lived with her
grandmother.
Jason put his arm around her. “When
you have enough money to buy the lumber mill, you’re not exactly a moocher.”
“I don’t have enough for a mill.
Maybe a few acres,” she said.
“I stand corrected,” he said. They
were acting normally, but there was a silent thrum of tension between them. It
had started with the ring. What began as a joke took on a different context and
now both of them were spooked and trying not to be.
“There’s one more thing you need to
know about Larva,” Michael said.
“What’s that?” Lacy asked as dread
filled her stomach again. Not another foot thing; she couldn’t take it.
“He impersonates Bob Ross.”
“Who?”
“Bob Ross, the painter. The ‘happy little trees’ guy. When we were growing up, PBS
was the only station allowed on TV. We watched a lot of Bob Ross. Larva sort of
formed an unhealthy attachment to him.”
“Are you joking?” Jason asked.
“You’ll see,” Michael said.
Larva’s grandmother’s house was an
unassuming brick bungalow. Larva greeted them outside. Despite the below
freezing temperatures, he was attempting to paint on a canvas, and he was
clearly nervous.
“I don’t know anything,” he
announced, almost before they could depart the car.
“I just want to talk,” Michael
said. “Who told you we were coming?”
Larva paused in his painting and
looked momentarily baffled by the question. Lacy used the time to observe the
man. He was Nordic, like almost everyone else they had met, but his blond hair
had somehow formed into a large afro . The only way
Lacy could imagine he maneuvered it was to get a tight perm and tease it into
its current dome-like shape.
“I don’t remember,” he said.
“Why are you so nervous?” Michael
asked.
“I’m not.” He stopped painting and set
down the brush, clutching his fingers behind his back. As they drew closer,
Lacy caught a look at his painting. It was horrible. Not in the sense that the
content was disturbing, but more in the sense that the guy had no talent. He
was attempting a landscape of the backyard, or so she assumed. She saw a
cylindrical blob that may have been the trashcan. An ugly red rectangle represented
the house, and some green triangles passed for pine trees. She also understood
why this one was called Larva. Either he had a baby face or he was younger than
the others. Judging by the dullness of his expression, he wasn’t the scholar of
the group, either. But since his hair was his dominating feature, no one
probably paid much attention to his face.
“So, Larva, I was wondering if
you’ve seen Jenny,” Michael said.
“Jenny’s dead,” Larva said.
“But she’s not, is she? Come on,
Larva. This is me you’re talking to. I know you don’t want me to go to prison
for something I
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