24. Chapter 24
Chapter 24
Elise
N othing helped me work through my problems like running. I was only two miles in, and already, my thoughts had settled into an easy rhythm that matched the beat of my shoes against the pavement.
Tonight was a distance run, and somehow, my feet led me up the hill on Center Street without my realizing it. Passing Tara’s landscaping business, I noticed her jeep in the far corner of the lot. A little further up, the noise of people cheering caught my attention. Then, they went still.
The haunting riffs of a base guitar drew me to the crowd standing mesmerized with drinks in hand. They listened as a mellow male voice sang into the microphone on the stage of the health club’s veranda.
Bessey and I veered into the parking lot and onto the sidewalk that edged the fenced in patio. That voice drew me in like a siren netting a sailor. It was almost sultry. Could males sound sultry? This one sure did. It helped that he was singing such an unmitigated classic, Glycerine by Bush.
As I drew closer, I caught a flash of blue hair up on the stage. Wait, was that Dylan’s voice I was swooning over?
He’d invited me to his concert tonight, but I’d turned him down. Now, here I was, watching from the other side of the fence as he strummed his guitar and sang.
Mouth open, I stared. Who was this guy with the deep voice, caressing my emotions with his soulful rendition?
As if I wasn’t impressed enough, an actual violinist stepped up to another mic, adding a silken harmony to the melody that floated on the night air. Dylan strummed his guitar alongside her before giving another signature hair flip and belting out another verse.
I was ruining my run standing here and yet, I couldn’t leave. The music resonated through my whole body, relaxing my muscles to the point they barely held my weight.
He looked so chill, glancing down at his hand occasionally to change the chord, smiling, sweat glistening on his bare chest and abs. I had touched that chest. It had been an accident, but what would it be like if I did it on purpose?
Dylan looked up, his eyes locking with mine. Heat flared through my neck and cheeks while his smile blossomed into a gorgeous wide grin. Did he realize he was reeling me in?
Why couldn’t I look away, continue my run, pretend this moment of utter attraction had never happened? Could he sense how much I wanted to curl my fingers in that blue hair and cover his lips with my own?
He winked at me before glancing down at his guitar again. Goosebumps prickled along my neck and arms, and I gave an involuntary shudder. Dylan’s voice poured over me like warm water from a shower head. Closing my eyes, I let my thoughts drift on the current, let it hold me.
Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to fall for Dylan. If I was honest with myself, there were parts of my heart he already claimed, even though I didn’t remember ever giving them away.
I could have floated in that melodic sea forever, but a loud wham jolted me from my nirvana. Bessey yipped, and my eyes flew open.
“How am I supposed to keep this place afloat when you keep throwing our money away like an idiot?” shrieked a vaguely familiar female voice from the parking lot just below this one.
The music stopped, and people moved to the edge of the veranda for a better view of the arguing couple.
“Babe, I’ll make it up to you,” came a male voice.
When I reached the edge of the sidewalk, the two came into view. Tara, wearing a tight leopard print top, short leather skirt and bright pink heels stood facing a man with hair slicked back in the latest style, a beard, and muscles that bulged beneath his short-sleeved dress shirt.
“You’ll make it up to me, really?” Tara yanked the door of her Jeep open. “You said that the last time you gambled away our future, and the time before that. I’m done cleaning up your messes. You better get a good lawyer, because when I’m finished with you, you won’t have anything more than the shirt on your back!”
Before the man could respond, she jumped into her car and started the engine. Then she sped across the lot, barely missing the man who was most likely her soon to be ex-husband.
After the sound of her engine faded and the man skulked to his car, people on the porch dispersed, murmuring to each other. I turned to continue my run when a familiar voice from the other side of the bars called my name.
“Hey, Elise, glad you could come.” Dylan said, giving his sweaty blue hair another toss.
“Thanks, it was fun to hear you play. You guys are really good.” I decided to leave out the part about never intending to come here in the first place.
“Hey, Girl.” Dylan lowered to a crouch and extended his hand through the bars for Bessey to give it a thorough lick-down.
“So, you liked the song then?” he asked, watching me intently.
Hadn’t he seen the way he’d captured me so entirely?
Rather than meet his eyes, I stared at the guitar that hung from a strap at his side. “You were great.” If he thought I was going to admit that he was the sexiest singer I’d ever seen or heard, then he didn’t know me very well.
“Oh,” Dylan’s tone was full of disappointment. “Would you like to stay? We still have another forty-five minutes of songs left?”
Back on the stage another band member waved for him to return.
“I can’t. I need to get Bessey back home.”
Wow, that sounded lame, but I just felt so…exposed right now. Like every one of my emotions were on full display to this guy. Sure, I liked him, but I wasn’t ready for that level of vulnerability.
“Uh, if you’re worried about Bessey getting dehydrated, we’ve got tons of water bottles, and she’s welcome to have one. You’re welcome to them too.”
“Thanks, I just can’t.”
The corners of his lips turned down. “Alright, have a good run then.” Dylan turned and headed toward his band.
I almost called after him. Would it really be so awful if I hung in the back and quietly fangirled while he played?
No, it was better this way. I needed to finish this run and sort out my emotions. As the opening chords of another song hummed through the speakers, I jogged out of the parking lot and onto the pavement.
The rest of my run was anything but good. Side aches and stomach cramps plagued me the whole way. Was that my body's way of punishing me for shooting Dylan down? Though it was a missed opportunity for me, it wasn’t like I hurt him that much. I was one fish in a sea of girls who would fall all over themselves to get a date with him, especially if they ever heard him perform.
Last year, he’d been voted Homecoming King, with the prettiest girl in the whole school as his queen. I couldn’t compete with her or any of those other flashy girls who were ready to throw themselves at Dylan. It would be stupid for me to even try. What if he only saw me as a fling while I hoped for something more?
Six miles of discomfort ended with me huffing as much as Bessey. Even though it was a bad idea, I skipped the cool down and headed straight for the house after my feet crossed our driveway.
My phone buzzed with a text. Seeing it was from Dylan, I read, “I think it’s time for a chat with Tara.”
“Agreed,” I responded. “I also think we should go through my dad’s and your aunt’s stuff to see if there’s anything related to Carter. I’m wondering if my dad knew something more about Kelly’s death, and that’s why he was killed.”
Dylan replied with a thumbs-up. “Let’s plan it out after practice tomorrow.”
Well, the guy couldn’t be that hurt if he was already making plans to spend more time with me. Hopefully, he didn’t bring his guitar. I didn’t need to melt like a hot popsicle all over the track, especially if any of our kids were watching.
I lifted the cover to the garage keypad, ready to type in the code, when something on the steps leading to the front door caught my attention. Squinting, I couldn’t make out more than the outlines of a heap of something in the darkness. Bessey and I walked around my parked car to get a better look.
Something crunched beneath my feet. Was that broken glass? I hurried to scoop up the pooch before any more got on her paws and headed back to the garage. Wrestling with a dog that was anxious to be down, it took three tries before I entered the code correctly and the door shuddered open. I nearly dropped her while getting into the house.
“Elise, is that you?” Grandma called from her recliner.
“Yep, it’s me.” I flicked on the kitchen light and laid Bessey across the empty counter.
She whimpered, unaccustomed to being allowed anywhere near the forbidden surface.
“Shhh, you’re okay.” I stroked her ears before turning my attention to her paws.
I lifted them toward the light, looking for blood. No drops of red, only glistening bits of broken glass. None of them seemed to have pierced her skin. Carefully, I rinsed her paws in the sink, first without soap, then with it.
Now with Bessey taken care of, I hurried to the front door and flipped on the porch light. A massacre of beer bottles lay across the porch and steps, along with a large torn canvas.
“Elise, what’s going on?” called Grandma.
“Um, did you hear anything happening on the porch while I was gone?” I called, still staring at the mess.
“It was hard to hear much of anything with the Hoffmiller‘s boy blaring his music. It just barely stopped a few minutes ago.”
The Hoffmiller’s boy. Did he do this? Loud music would have been the perfect cover.
Crimson words streaked across the neatly painted still life of fruit and flowers.
“Time to move.”
I shuddered. This had to be the work of Greg Hoffmiller. Should we call the police and hope Detective Jerkface didn’t show up?
“What is it? What’s out there?” The chatter of voices from the tv stopped. Grandma must have switched it off.
“It’s nothing. Someone just dumped some trash on the porch. I’ll clean it up.”
I closed the door before she could argue. Grandma had enough difficulties in her life. She didn’t need to worry about this as well.
With a sigh, I looked up and down our street. It would be nice if one of our neighbors had a doorbell cam that could have caught the incident on camera since it would take solid proof for the police to do anything about this. Unfortunately, this neighborhood was built over forty-years ago, and most of the residents were seniors not inclined to use technology.
I tiptoed around the shards of glass, headed for the garage, a pair of gloves and a trash bag, then stopped. The style of the painting, the use of muted colors, even the brushstrokes were familiar. Crouching, I studied the signature in the corner— D. Sudbury.
This was one of Dad’s works. It wasn’t as good as his more recent paintings. He hadn’t done a still-life since before I was born. Painstakingly detailed, this work had the look of one done by a student who was still learning what to highlight with precision and what to leave undefined.
Though I didn’t have his skill, Dad had taught me the concepts of how to create good art. I’d spent hours in his studio mixing colors and spreading them across canvases before finally realizing that writing was what spoke to me.
So this was a painting from either Dad’s high school or college days. Where had it been for the last thirty years, and why was it sitting here now, torn and defiled by a threat?