CHAPTER NINE
As they approached the outskirts of Trentville, Jenna stared out the passenger window, her mind replaying the conversation with Roger Dixon.
His cavalier attitude about Derek’s death had left her uneasy.
Was his open hostility just the swagger of a man with something to prove, or based on something darker?
Or was she just overthinking it? She thought that the man they were about to visit, David Ellington, might present a different kind of puzzle entirely.
“We’ve still got about fifteen minutes before we get to Ellington’s place,” Jake said, slowing for a deer that bounded across the narrow country road before disappearing into the woods. “Enough time for you to check in at home if you want.”
Jenna nodded, already reaching for her phone. “I should. I haven’t spoken to Mom or Piper since I left this morning.”
She hadn’t wanted to leave so soon after bringing Piper home, but murder investigations waited for no one.
Her mother answered the phone call. “Jenna? Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine, Mom. I’m just checking in. How’s Piper doing?”
Her mother exhaled audibly. “She’s... adjusting. We’ve been looking through old photo albums. I think it helps her remember, seeing the pictures.”
“That’s good.” Jenna watched the landscape roll by—farmhouses set back from the road, fields dotted with hay bales. “Has she remembered anything more about... before?”
“Not exactly,” her mother finally said. “She remembers bits and pieces of growing up here, but there’s still a gap around the time she left.”
“The doctor said it might take time, that memories sometimes return in fragments.” Jenna closed her eyes briefly. “Has she had any more... episodes? Like the one this morning?”
“No, nothing like that. And Frank’s here now. He brought over a casserole and has been telling Piper stories about when you two were little. She likes hearing them, even if she doesn’t remember all of it herself. Do you want to talk to him?”
“Yes, put him on, please.”
There was a rustling sound, muted voices, and then Frank’s familiar gruff tone filled the line.
“Jenna Marie, how’s the investigation coming along?”
“We’re following some leads. About to talk to David Ellington.”
“The artist?” Frank made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. “Strange fellow. Never could get a straight answer out of him when I was sheriff.”
“That’s what I’m expecting,” Jenna admitted. “Listen, Frank, has Piper said anything else about what she mentioned this morning? About ‘red is for rage’?”
“No more trances or messages, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It is,” Jenna confirmed.
“I haven’t told either your mother or Piper about the case or the yarn.”
“That’s for the best. Keep me posted if anything changes?”
“Of course.” Frank’s voice softened. “She’s doing well, Jenna. Better than I expected, considering everything she’s been through. Give yourself permission to focus on your job right now. We’ve got things covered here.”
“Thanks, Frank. That means a lot,” Jenna said as she ended the call.
“No new psychic messages?” Jake asked, eyes still on the road ahead.
“Nothing.”
“So, David Ellington,” Jake said, changing the subject. “What’s your take on him?”
Jenna considered the question, pulling together fragments of interactions over the years. “Brilliant but unstable. His art is... unsettling. But compelling.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Jake said with a short laugh. “Remember that installation he did in the town square last year? Those life-sized wire figures that seemed to be staring at you no matter where you stood? Gave me the creeps.”
“The town council nearly had a fit,” Jenna recalled. “But when they tried to have it removed, half the town protested. Said it was meaningful art that made people think.”
“And the other half said it was disturbing and inappropriate for public display,” Jake added. “That seems to be Ellington’s specialty—dividing public opinion.”
After they turned onto a country road, trees grew denser, closing in on either side of them. “Have you ever gotten a good read on him?” Jenna asked.
Jake shook his head. “Not really. He’s always seemed.
.. elsewhere. Like he’s having a different conversation than the one you think you’re having with him.
” He slowed the car as they approached a rusted mailbox leaning at an angle by the roadside.
“The few times I’ve had to respond to complaints about his more public installations, I’ve left feeling like he somehow got more information out of me than I did out of him. ”
“That’s exactly it,” Jenna agreed. “He answers questions without answering them.”
Jake turned the car onto a gravel driveway partially reclaimed by weeds and wild grass. “Well, let’s see what the yarn-buying artist has to say about Derek Sullivan’s murder.”
“It’s like entering another world,” she murmured as Jake guided the car down the rutted driveway. Ahead, barely visible through the trees, stood the weathered silhouette of Ellington’s Victorian home, its gables and turrets jutting against the autumn sky like something from a fairy tale gone wrong.
When they reached the yard, they found no manicured lawn or careful landscaping, just nature reclaiming territory and bizarre sculptures erupting from the tall grass like metallic growths.
Human-shaped figures twisted in impossible postures, their hollow eyes seeming to track Jenna as she stepped from the car.
“Welcoming committee,” Jake muttered.
A narrow path wound through the artistic minefield, barely visible among the overgrown grass. Jenna led the way, unable to shake the sensation of being watched from all sides. A breeze stirred the tall grass, making the metal figures seem to shift and sway.
The porch steps creaked beneath their weight, the wood weathered but surprisingly sturdy. On the front door was an ornate brass knocker. Jenna rapped it three times, the sound echoing through the house beyond.
No response came. She tried again, louder this time, then called out, “Mr. Ellington? Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins. We’d like to speak with you.”
Still no response. Jenna tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. She pushed the door open a few inches, the hinges protesting with a drawn-out whine.
“Sheriff’s Department,” she announced as they stepped across the threshold. “Mr. Ellington?”
The interior of the house assaulted her senses—a chaotic jumble of art materials, half-finished projects, and completed works that defied categorization. Sculptures of wire and clay occupied corners and tabletops, their forms suggesting human anatomy distorted beyond recognition.
From the ceiling hung mobiles made of found objects—spoons, keys, fragments of mirrors that caught and scattered what little light penetrated the interior. The effect was disorienting, like moving through a funhouse designed by someone with a warped sense of reality.
“Mr. Ellington?” Jake called again.
A distant sound of rhythmic clicking answered—not a response to their call, but a mechanical noise coming from somewhere beyond the kitchen.
Jenna followed the sound. A back door stood ajar, offering a glimpse of an overgrown yard and, at its edge, a weathered garden shed that had been expanded with mismatched additions.
“The studio,” Jenna said.
They crossed the weedy expanse between house and studio. The clicking grew louder—a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm that Jenna recognized as the sound of a loom in operation. The studio door was fully open, revealing a space that managed to be even more chaotic than the house.
David Ellington hunched over a large wooden loom, his lanky frame swaying slightly as his hands worked the shuttle back and forth. Strands of yarn—some of it red, but interspersed with other colors—stretched before him in complex patterns.
He didn’t look up as they entered, though the floorboards creaked beneath their weight.
“Mr. Ellington,” Jenna said clearly. “Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins.”
For nearly a full minute, he continued working as if they weren’t there, never breaking his rhythm. The shuttle clacked against the frame of the loom, the only sound in the studio. Jenna exchanged a glance with Jake, who raised his eyebrows in a silent question. She shook her head slightly—wait.
Finally, Ellington’s hands stilled. He turned slowly, his face transforming through a series of expressions too rapid to fully register—annoyance melting into curiosity, then settling into something like amusement.
Behind thick glasses, his eyes appeared magnified and unnaturally bright, darting between Jenna and Jake with unsettling intensity.
“Sheriff,” he said, his voice unexpectedly melodic. “And Deputy. What an unusual surprise. Have you come to commission a piece? The department could use something to brighten those dismal walls.”
“We’re here about Derek Sullivan,” Jenna said, watching Ellington’s face carefully for any reaction.
His expression remained unchanged. “Who?”
He kept twisting strands of yarn together even as he spoke. The casual manipulation of fibers made Jenna’s skin prickle.
“Derek Sullivan,” Jake repeated. “He was found murdered early this morning.”
“Murdered, you say?” Ellington blinked owlishly behind his glasses. “And do you consider this death some kind of loss?”
“Wouldn’t you?” Jake asked sharply.
“How would I know? I don’t believe I ever met the man. But perhaps he’s … or was, forgettable.”
“Where were you between 1:30 and 3:30 this morning, Mr. Ellington?” Jenna asked.
“Here, I suppose.” His gaze drifted to the ceiling, where dusty cobwebs clung to exposed beams. “Or perhaps in the house. I often lose track of time when I’m working. The hours between midnight and dawn are particularly conducive to creativity, don’t you find?”
“Do you have anyone who can verify that?” Jake asked.
Ellington laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a storm. “Only my muses, Deputy, and they’re notoriously unreliable witnesses.” He rose suddenly, moving to a nearby table cluttered with spools of yarn. “I’ve been working on something quite special lately. A community tapestry of sorts.”
“We’ve heard,” Jenna said, following him with her eyes. “You purchased a large amount of red yarn last week.”
“Did I?” He paused, head tilting. “Yes, yes I did. Cleaned out a whole lot of poor Mrs. Henderson’s entire stock. She was quite put out until I explained the scope of my vision. A textile representation of the collective unconscious of Trentville. Every thread a thought, every knot a secret.”
“That’s an interesting concept,” Jenna said carefully. “Do the colors have symbolic meanings in your work?”
“Colors are just frequencies of light, Sheriff. The symbolism comes later, after the work decides what it wants to be.” He picked up a spool of crimson yarn, rolling it between his palms. “I haven’t thought that far along yet. The piece is still... becoming.”
“What about red specifically?” Jenna pressed. “Does it represent something to you?”
“Red?” He considered the yarn as if seeing it for the first time. “I suppose it might represent passion or some other intense feeling. Blood, perhaps. Life force.” His eyes found hers again, unnervingly direct. “What does it represent to you, Sheriff?”
Jenna didn’t answer, instead moving toward the loom to examine the work in progress.
What she saw was a chaotic pattern of red interwoven with strands of black, blue, and purple—nothing recognizable, yet disturbing in its intensity.
Her gaze shifted to the baskets of yarn arranged near the loom, particularly the reds.
She didn’t think that the shades and textures quite matched the sample Jake had shown her at the station—the evidence strand was deeper in color, with a slight sheen that Ellington’s yarn lacked. She couldn’t be certain without a direct comparison, but the difference seemed significant.
“Mr. Ellington, would it be possible for us to take a small sample of your red yarn?” she asked. “For comparison purposes?”
His face brightened unexpectedly. “Of course! In fact, take several. I have many varieties.” He moved with sudden energy, gathering different spools of red yarn from around the studio and presenting them to her like precious gifts.
“This one has a touch of mohair for texture. This one is pure merino, very soft. And this one—” he held up a deep crimson strand, “—is a specialty dye, quite expensive. A special order.”
Jenna accepted the samples, careful to touch only the ends. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Ellington. We appreciate your time.”
He had already turned away, returning to his loom as if they were no longer present. The rhythmic clacking resumed, filling the studio as Jenna and Jake exchanged glances and quietly made their exit.
Outside, walking back toward their car, Jenna waited until they were well out of earshot before speaking. “None of the yarn he gave us identical to what was found at the scene.”
“But would someone who just committed murder immediately start a project using the same material he left at the crime scene?” Jake countered.
“True, but his alibi is essentially non-existent. What do you think?”
Jake shook his head. “Hard to say. He’s exactly as strange as everyone claims, but is he killer-strange or just artist-strange?”
They reached the car in silence, that question unanswered. As Jake started the car and put it into motion, the strange sculptures in Ellington’s yard watched their departure with hollow eyes.
Jenna watched the rearview mirror until the odd sculptures disappeared from view.
She ran her thumb across the yarn samples in her pocket, thinking about the two men they’d interviewed today—Ellington’s unsettling intensity…
Dixon’s calculated indifference. Neither felt right, but neither felt entirely wrong either.
One thing was clear: they’d only scratched the surface of this case. The only thing Jenna felt certain of was that this investigation had only just begun.