Still Life: The Randi Lassiter Series, Book 1 (13 page)

She looked around the vast space filled with people, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. She swished her mouth with wine and then drained the glass. She recalled what CJ had said. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity.” Georgia was making a fortune and here she was using Larissa’s death as an addition to the other grisly art displays.

Randi thought about Georgia’s motivation for her callous behavior. It wasn’t for money. Everyone knew Georgia came from money. So it must be a matter of pride. She could see that. Maybe Georgia missed her glory days in the big city and this was the closest she’d get to that without having to start over again. That didn’t make her behavior any more acceptable, but at least it was understandable.

“Excuse me, my darlins, I must mingle.” She gave Randi an air-kiss to the cheek before flitting away, leaving her alone with Jon.

Jon grabbed her hand, pulling her towards him as he bent to speak into her ear. His breath still tickled her neck and made her mind go blank. It was hard to focus on his words, and she inadvertently clasped his hand.

“Let’s make our way over to the studio on the end, the one that Larissa found so intriguing.” He pulled her out of her chair and up against him. Randi didn’t know if it was all the wine, or Jon’s heated breath or the fact that they now had a lead to follow, but she suddenly felt dizzy.

Surprised that Jon hadn’t abandoned her and raced to the artist in question, Randi was even more bewildered when he took his time getting there.

“What are we doing?” She tugged on his arm, but he held her firmly next to him.

“He isn’t going anywhere. Let’s try to do this without looking conspicuous…hmmm?” He smiled down at her, and her heart skipped.

She let out a long sigh. “Fine.” She pretended to be interested in the art they took in on the way to the last installation. They picked up from where they’d left off, again admitting to a lack of appreciation for the art they were seeing. Neither one felt sorry about it, however.

“If this crap is art, I should frame some of Dammit’s lawn biscuits.” Jon joked. They feigned interest in the sculptor using animal droppings as a medium to his art and moved on.

They clung to each other, at first to secret their discussions from others, but soon it began to feel more natural. The wine had taken hold of Randi, and she was tipsy enough that the contact came without thought or purpose.

The next booth was Davina Politan’s. As the small group of patrons vacated space, Randi and Jon moved up front. Apprehensive about watching Davina paint a nude model, given the offer made to her earlier, Randi thought to take an obligatory glance at the work and move on. That plan fell apart when they noticed Davina was painting
on
a nude model.

A busty woman lay in a reclined position on a floral tapestry chaise lounge. She wore a dark latex cap that matched the solid color of the furniture. Davina was bent over her subject making small flicking motions with her sable tipped brush as she painted at lightning fast speed. She changed position and blocked her art with her body as she worked on the finer details.

Randi took that time to examine Davina’s cubicle. The setting was an eclectic mix of sections that varied; books on shelves, a brick wall with a faux window, wallpaper flocked in stripes, and a living wall of jungle plants. In the corner by that wall she recognized the monkey Kotori. He sat on the floor and picked at a trailing succulent while he sucked his thumb and rocked. He must belong to Davina.

As Randi struggled to figure out why Davina chose the disjointed backdrop Jon nudged her back to the performance. Davina stood beside the chaise and bowed. The audience clapped. In the few minutes Randi had looked away Davina had finished her project and the walking canvas had already left.

Dang. She wanted to see the finished product. She’d missed the whole thing. As the applause stopped Davina moved to the side of her space and with a sweep of her arm she introduced…the scenery? No. The room? No…what? Out of nowhere Randi saw the walls move. What appeared to be mere stationary display morphed to 3-D. The chaise did the same as part of the upholstery sat up. Randi realized that Davina painted camouflage body art.

Randi was amazed that she hadn’t seen any of these people up against their backdrops during the performance. Her mouth hung open until she made eye contact with Davina, who gave her a flirty wink. She pulled it together and tugged on Jon’s hand. They retreated back into the meandering crowd outside the galleries and moved on.

After several more exhibits, before they’d made it to the end, it felt as if they were an ordinary couple enjoying the intimacy of an arm around the waist, a squeeze of the hand and close embrace. As Jon would whisper in her ear, he also begun to nuzzle her. She wasn’t certain if Jon’s actions were a pretense, but she knew hers was not. What had started out as a game to Randi had suddenly taken a dangerous turn. Jon’s touch made her feel special, even if it was just for the evening. She released her inhibitions and let it happen. Something she hadn’t done in a long time.

With their fingers intertwined they reached the gallery of Truman Perry. Feeling nervous, Randi tightened her grip on Jon’s hand. He squeezed back.

As soon as the couple entered the exhibition space they were stopped in their tracks by the framed pieces of art for sale—none of which were original—only a few high-quality prints were left hanging up for purchase. This was different than every other artist’s work at the gala somehow.

They were unable to linger as they tried to figure out why that was. A crowd had begun to gather behind them, and they were herded into a front-row position with Truman poised like a statue in the center of the room.

The man wore all black—not head-to-toe burglar black, but Johnny Cash black—button-down shirt open at the neck, creased slacks, leather belt and shoes. He even had black hair, long and slicked back off his face. It was the man Davina had been speaking with earlier, pointing her out to him. He looked at Randi and then turned to face a drop curtain with his back to the audience, hands fisted at the end of his shirt cuffs. His demeanor was foreboding. Sinister.

Randi had never seen performance art before today, but knew it could be intense and theatrical; why else would anyone watch it? And more often than not the artist was making a statement with the performance as much as by the finished product. As more people crammed in, Randi began to feel like a sardine. Voices buzzed like an electric current. A chill ran up her spine as the lights overhead were dimmed and up lights came on beneath the curtains, throwing Truman into silhouette.

The curtain rose. The crowd went still. Everything was framed with stark white gauze curtains hanging as a backdrop. The floor under Truman was one massive white canvas on which a nude woman lay.
What the hell is up with all the naked women?

Randi looked down at the woman posed on her back with her hands over her head, her eyes closed and her blonde hair so pale it was nearly lost against the light material beneath her.

All of a sudden Randi felt light-headed. There was a moment of panic as she tipped sideways and grabbed Jon’s arm for support. Feeling drunk, she said in a voice that came out a little too loud. “Shit—she’s naked too! Where are the naked men?”

Jon leaned in and put a forefinger against her lips.

“Shhhh.” His finger was the only impediment to their lips touching. Everything was moving in slow motion for Randi. She gave him her most irritated frown, disappointed that he had shushed her instead of kissing her. Jon gave a small laugh, grabbed her chin and swung it in the direction of the makeshift stage. “Watch.”

Randi saw a knife with a gleaming lengthy blade appear in Truman’s hand.

As the crowd “ooohed” in unison, Randi gasped in foggy awe as Truman swung his arm up high and arched down in one smooth motion. Bright red blood squirted out. It oozed over the woman’s ribcage and splashed onto the canvas.

Shocked, Randi was unable to speak.
He cut her! He cut her!
repeated in her head as Truman slashed down again and again.

Randi’s legs grew heavy, and her vision blurred as each slice caused the silky peach skin to split apart as if it were unzipped.

“What the f…?” She mumbled. She wasn’t sure if what she was seeing was real. But how could it be? How could it
not
be?

Randi turned to look up at Jon with her brow furrowed as she tried to puzzle out why Jon wasn’t reacting. She hung on his arm as she looked back at the gruesome scene. There was a long gash from breast to pubic bone where blood pooled up and over the pink torso to trickle down between her legs, which in Randi’s addled mind reminded her she was out of tampons.

Each swing of the blade caused blood splatter to rain down over the area. Morbid droplets decorated the victim’s pale hair and face. Randi tilted her head as she saw the women retained a white, toothy smile the entire time and never uttered a sound.

Wobbly and far too warm, perspiration had blossomed across Randi’s forehead. She could feel it ooze down her neck and drop between her breasts. She took hold of Jon by his shoulders and looked up at him. His face was contorted and unrecognizable, as if it were melting. His lips moved, but she couldn’t hear him. In fact, she couldn’t hear anything. She looked back in time to see Truman slice open the woman’s throat and send arterial spray out across the canvas. He paused, arms at his side as blood dripped from the blade, and then he turned to the crowd and bowed.

The last thing Randi remembered before she collapsed was throwing up all over Jon’s shiny black shoes.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Randi’s eyes fluttered as she felt herself coming around. She saw a million twinkling stars framing the handsome face suspended above her. With that backdrop, Jon looked ethereal but too damned contrary to be an angel. There was an attentiveness to him that made her uncomfortable as he brushed her bangs aside and asked how she felt. Randi reached up and placed a finger on his lower lip, running it over the tiny scar she’d seen when they’d first met.

“What happened?” She realized she was lying on a bench outside the lodge with her head in Jon’s lap, and a blanket draped over her, the brisk air feeling good as it wicked away her perspiration.

“You threw up and then fainted.” His arm rested on her chest as his hand slid to her throat, and she realized that he was monitoring her pulse. Feeling self-conscious, she went to sit up, and he helped by supporting her shoulders. “Too much alcohol and not enough food, I guess.” His chagrin spoke volumes as to the guilt he felt. “My fault.”

“That doesn’t sound right.” She shook her head as she calculated her consumption. “Half a glass at home and two throughout the evening? That shouldn’t have incapacitated me.” Plus, she had eaten. Well, okay, mostly chocolate. But still, she had eaten.

“Maybe it was the art.”

Randi rewound the evening in her head and the graphic details of Truman Perry’s performance slammed back into her mind with alarming force. “He killed that woman.” She urgently wanted to stand, but Jon held her in place.

“No. No, it wasn’t real. It looked real enough, I’ll give you that, but it was special effects, lighting, and makeup. He was performing for his audience. I don’t know what’s more disturbing, that he thought of doing it or that people in the gallery appreciated it.”

He looked conflicted as he explained the process to Randi and assured her the mock victim was perfectly fine. “You missed the accolades. People were comparing Perry to someone named Nelson and I heard the Richmonds talking some bullshit about how Perry’s art is a literal verses symbolic comparison, which bridges low-culture and high-culture violence. What the hell is that even supposed to mean?”

Randy didn’t have an answer so she shook her head.

Jon held a bottle of water out to her, and she drank deeply. The sour taste left behind brought back the fuzzy memory of her puking. She swished the water around her mouth and looked down at Jon’s shoes, now smeared and streaky. She looked up at him apologetically. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry.”

“You think you’re the first pretty girl to barf on these babies? Why do you think I bought patent leather? Easier to clean.” He reached over with his hand and stroked her cheek. “No worries. Let’s just make sure you’re okay.”

Randi smiled and downed some more water. Gala attendees trickled out of the lodge, many carrying out bubble-wrapped purchases. The event was officially ending, and all they got for their trouble was one potential hangover and one pair of dirty dress shoes respectively.

“I want to go in and see his art.”

Jon’s brows shot up. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“You saw the way that woman was posed, if this bastard has anything to do with Larissa’s death I want to see it.”

Jon held her by the arms until they were both certain she was steady enough to walk. They swam upstream through the exiting throng, making their way back into the building. All of the guests were either gone or bidding Georgia goodnight.

The artists themselves were in the lounge area, eating and drinking leftovers after the hectic show. Manfred Klaussen and Truman Perry were sharing whiskey with the murdered model, freshly showered and clad in running shorts and a UW T-shirt. She ruffled her clean, damp hair with a towel in one hand and slammed her shot with the other. Manfred refilled their glasses. The model noticed Randi coming and said something to her companions. They turned to look at her, and all three laughed raucously as they downed a second shot. Randi felt her face burn as she walked past.

Wait staff that was working behind the scenes earlier were out in full force now, racing to clean up and be done for the night. The caterer, Sylvia DiBattista, saw them enter and looked more annoyed than usual as she delegated tasks to her catering staff and was forced to work around the artists.

Jon and Randi headed to the galleries unobserved and beelined directly to Truman Perry’s display. The white gauze curtains were splotched with fake blood. Even knowing this Randi’s stomach lurched at the sight. Jon gave her hand a squeeze and let her lead the way. The lights were still dimmed, making the space shadowed and creepy without the crowd. The freshly completed painting was no longer on the floor.

In the time that Jon had been caring for her, Truman had hung the massive new work on an industrial chrome pulley rig. It took up nearly the entire back wall. Randi cocked her head as she studied the piece. If she hadn’t known how the artist had created the canvas, she could have pictured the high art in a trendy loft apartment with high ceilings. Or, at the Richmonds’.

The artist had finished the bare spot where the woman was “slain” with muted pigments of flesh and ivory. The red was nowhere inside the body outline. But the way the body had been lying as the red had sprayed around her, the shape did look like a crime scene to anyone who’d seen it produced. She imagined without that knowledge it was an abstract painting. It would look like the use of creative license with color and shape—not the chalk outline of a corpse with unmistakable appendages.

Jon guided her back to the art prints they’d skimmed past earlier, pieces that she assumed were done in a similar manner as the one they’d witnessed. For the first time, they both got a sense of his visual concepts. Three impressions were hung on the wall and neatly spaced apart. She noted a purchase tag labeling the item as SOLD and read the buyer as Rita Richmond. Just as she’d thought, the misses had the money.

They stopped in front of the last print and Randi let out a gasp. She trembled but could not bring herself to look away. Even though it had been weeks and she’d seen Larissa in the alley for only a matter of minutes, she knew what she was looking at was the same crime scene.

Jon put an arm around her, seeing the same thing she did. He pulled out his phone and called his partner. After a brief set of instructions, he turned to Randi. “You okay?”

She gave a slow shake of her head as her eyes filled with tears.

Jon lifted her chin and had her look at him. “It’s okay,” he said, keeping her focused on him instead of the wall. “I understand.” He brought his hand around to cup her face and wiped a tear away with his thumb, then pulled her into him and held her as she shook.