Hurricane House (28 page)

When I arrived at my street, my stomach lurched from the pain in my neck and head. To stop the aching, I swallowed two Tylenol with a sip of bottled water.

Onyx saw me and barked. He was standing at the side-window looking out.

At Sean’s place, the shutters had been drawn, as if he were gone. Good. He did say he left his doors open.

Chapter Fifty-seven

W
hen I opened the door to my townhouse, an excited Onyx welcomed me by jumping up and barking. I sat on the floor with my legs stretched out, an invitation for him to plop beside me and lick the cut on my hand. “I’m exhausted, Onyx. I almost got two people killed today, including me.”

Onyx barked and dashed out the open front door. He peed and pooped on a broken lawn timber. I dutifully cleaned up the poop then called him back inside for fresh water and dog chow.

He drank the water, but didn’t eat the food. Instead, he walked to the French doors, leading to the back patio. I walked outback with him and saw Sean’s French doors, standing wide open. Did the wind blow the doors open?

Curious, I stuck my head through the doors and listened. I didn’t hear anything except a ticking wall clock.

Onyx shot me a warning glance. I pressed a finger to my mouth. “Shhhhh.”

He followed quietly as I tiptoed through Sean’s living room. In Sean’s downstairs bathroom, I saw a toothbrush and snatched it, wrapped it in toilet paper then walked into the kitchen where two sacks of canned goods stood on the center Island. Beside the sacks, I saw blood. Oh, no.

While I wiped up some of the blood with a paper towel to take with me, Onyx barked and startled me. Thinking he knew something I didn’t, I dashed back inside unit five to place the evidence from Sean’s place inside a plastic bag.

Afterwards, I sat for a moment, dreading what I had to do next: find out where Geneva had written that note. Geneva couldn’t tell me. She was unconscious when I found her at Red River.

Wishing I could find another alternative, I picked up the note with a piece of the plastic bottle that Onyx had scattered everywhere. Though I knew Keith wouldn’t approve. He’d made that clear. He’d threatened to put me in jail if I withheld evidence from him, but jail or no, I felt the urgency to act. A killer, who needed to be stopped, was out there.

If I waited for Keith, it might be too late. So far, there were no definitive clues on how Roxanne and Tara died. No evidence as to what happened to Sandra.

I grabbed Onyx’s collar. “Okay, Onyx, take me to where you found this bottle and note.”

Onyx barked, as if to answer and we walked to the end of Blue Heron Way where he took his dear sweet time, sniffing everything. I began to think this dog didn’t have a clue what I wanted him to do, but I walked patiently with him, because I didn’t think I had a choice.

Eventually, he turned onto Turtle Cove and headed toward the Dolphin Mansion. I hated going near that place, and I didn’t like the way the crystal burned my chest, obviously warning me.

“Are you sure this is right, Onyx?”

As if he knew what he was doing, Onyx, in an excited frenzy, ran around the wall of the mansion and led me to a bunker-like hole, large enough to sleep in. He climbed through, and I followed him.

Inside the wall, I searched for a way to enter the castle. There were no knobs on the heavy wooden doors, no apparent lock and when I pushed on the doors, they wouldn’t budge.

I didn’t see a way to get inside, until Onyx led me to a tubular thing that looked like an enclosed fire escape. I’d seen similar things like this in old school houses.

When I stuck my head inside, it looked dark, steep and scary. “Are you sure this is right, Onyx?”

He barked as if to answer yes.

I then got on my hands and knees and began the treacherous climb. Slippery and after a few feet of climbing, I swooshed back down. It took me several failed attempts before I learned how to grip the sides and stabilize my body.

Eventually, I managed to climb to the top of the tube, but I saw no way to enter the mansion. The fire escape was sealed off by a round door. I knocked on the door with the gun handle but barely made a dent.

Next, I got on my back, gripped the sides of the tube, then kicked and kicked until the door cracked and popped open. Down below, Onyx barked, whined and scratched, as if he wanted to join me. He’d scamper up a few feet then slide back down. “Good God, Onyx, what’s your problem?”

I waved goodbye to him and entered a smelly room with a porthole window, showing the rosy glow of the waning sunset. All around me, I saw paintings, scattered on the floor and against the walls. They looked like eerie abstracts, Munch’s worse nightmare. No pictures of dolphins, certainly not Cerretta’s work.
In the corner of the room, I saw a fourteen-foot, modern-looking, white enclosure with a padlock. Was this Geneva’s prison?

Shivering from fear, I rushed toward the fire escape to get out of there and alert someone about this place, but in my frantic attempt to leave, I bumped into a life-size sculpture of a ballerina. The dancer’s right leg was extended. Her arms formed a semi-circle over her head. She looked alive, but she smelled like death. The proud stance of this ballerina reminded me of the Statue of Liberty. Who created this sculpture? Would Paula know?

I punched in her number, but voice mail answered. “Paula, Maeva. I need your help. I need to ask you an important question about the castle on turtle cove where Ceretta Potter used to live? Who owns it now?”

Chapter Fifty-eight

I
heard footsteps behind me. “I do, Maeva.” The voice sounded familiar, yet strange and as I turned to see who owned the voice, I faced a blinding flashlight. “Do you like her?” The person behind the voice spotlighted the sculpture. “She’s my creation.”

The light then flashed back to me. “You’re blinding me.” I jumped behind the ballerina to get a good look at the man holding the light.

“You didn’t answer my question. Do you like her?” “Yes, very lifelike. Did you make this? If so, you’re very talented, but could you please get that light out of my eyes.” “What are you doing here, Maeva?”

My voice cracked, “Would you believe I’m an art lover?” “Did you hear about this?”

“No...but I knew about Ceretta Potter’s dolphin art... and...and I was walking this way, so.” “How did you get in?”

I nodded at the fire escape. “I came in through there, the fire escape.”

Onyx barked and barked. I hoped he’d find a way to climb up.

“That’s not a fire escape.” He flashed the light at the broken lid. “Not good.”

“You don’t really own this place, do you? You’re teasing, right?” If he owned it, that would mean he knew about the white enclosure where I was certain Geneva had been held.

“Yes, I own it.” He spotlighted the statue again, and I got a look at him.

“Oh, come on, Victor.” He didn’t act like the polished Victor I knew. His hair stood up, as if he’d been pulling on it. “You don’t really own this place, do you?”

“I definitely do.”

I didn’t want to believe him. “When did you buy it?”

“Soon after I moved here. When I saw this house, I knew it was perfect for what I had in mind. I’m an artist as you can see.” He spotlighted the dancer.

I was grateful for the reprieve, even though the ghost of his light imprinted my vision, preventing me from seeing him clearly.

“Soon the whole world will see my ballerina when she goes on exhibition.”

My instincts told me to humor him. “I can envision this sculpture in the Louvre or New York’s Metropolitan.”

“I hate New York, but I might agree to let her visit for a short time.”

“New York’s a nice place, but as they say, you wouldn’t want to live there,” My voice cracked. I crossed my legs to keep from wetting my pants. My palms and underarms poured cold sweat. My heart hammered like Tchaikovsky’s Russian dance, allegro tempo.

I thought about my sister. What would she advise me to do?

Victor was acting crazy. He’d freaked out, obviously. “I remember you said you loved art. Didn’t you tell me that? Just yesterday, as a matter of fact. You said you loved to draw, but your father discouraged you. What a shame.”

“Can you believe that shit? He called me a sissy—me, and then he made me do horrible things which I can’t talk about.”

I closed my eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t pity me. I hate it when people pity me.”

I scanned the room, looking for the best exit. I couldn’t go back the way I came in. Victor was too close to the fire escape. Maybe I could run to the door behind him, but if he tried to stop me, I needed to defend myself.

I reached for the Magnum in my waist pouch. I didn’t want to shoot Victor. I’d never shot anyone before, and I doubted I could kill someone I knew. Also, Victor might be innocent. I still suspected Sean. “I don’t pity you, Victor. I admire you. The whole world will admire you when they see this lovely statue. How long did it take you to make her?”

“Oh, a lifetime. Several lifetimes.”

Crazy response, but I humored him by admiring the sculpture. “So, so perfect, she really is.”

“I’d like to know why you’re here, Maeva. Don’t play me for a fool, okay? Don’t act dumb.”

“I told you. I love art and I was curious. That’s all.” “Stop it,” he yelled. “I hate it when people lie, especially
you. Don’t lie, don’t play dumb, and don’t tease. I thought you were different, Maeva.”

“I’m not playing dumb. I’m not lying. I’m telling the truth. I was curious, and I’m interested in how you created this magnificent sculpture.” I covered my eyes with my hand. “Please, Victor, put down that flashlight. It’s blinding me, and I have a splitting headache.”

“I don’t think you’re ready to hear the whole story, are you?”

“Yes, but as I said, I have an awful headache, and that light’s making it worse.”

“Okay, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He sighed, loudly. “In the beginning, I tried to use marble. I looked for that perfect stone. You know, like Michelangelo did when the Catholic Church commissioned him to create the statue of David. Problem was, I didn’t have an assignment, a commission to do any particular piece. No one knew I was a great artist.” He lifted a fist in the air, as if he’d won a victory. “I sketched and plotted, pondered on my work for a very long time. I finally decided I wanted to sculpt the perfect body.” Victor spoke like a professor giving a lecture. “Now who has the most perfect body? What type of woman has the most perfect body?” He pointed to me, as if he were the teacher.

“A ballerina?” I answered and took a step toward the escape.

“Exactly. A-plus for you.” Victor paused, slanting his head to one shoulder then to the other, as if his neck hurt. God knows, mine did. “Problem was, Maeva, I couldn’t find the perfect piece of marble. Do you understand what I’m saying?” “I think I do.”

“I’m referring to the perfect piece of marble with the perfect body inside,” he paused and stared at me, as if waiting for me to respond.

“I understand what you’re saying.” I took another step toward the door. “Go on.”

“I worked with clay at first, but the first clay ballerina I created lacked vitality. She was far from perfect.”

“This sculpture certainly is.”

“Don’t interrupt unless I ask you a question.”

“Sorry.” I took another step toward the door. This time the floor creaked beneath my feet and Victor looked down at the floor where I stood. “You said you used clay at first, but the clay was far from perfect,” I said, smiling submissively.

Victor nodded and continued, “That’s when this brilliant idea came to me. It was a vision, actually. Do you know what I saw?”

My cell vibrated inside my waist pouch. It sounded like a buzzing bee. “No.”

Victor frowned angrily at the noise. “What was that?”

“My beeper,” I lied. I’ll turn it off. I pressed the answer button on my cell, allowing the caller to listen in. “Please continue, Victor. You were talking about your brilliant idea, and I know from looking at this ballerina your idea was brilliant and clever. Also, it was clever of you to buy this castle on Paradise Isle where another artist and sculptor, Cerretta Potter worked. I’m not an artist and not particularly creative, so I don’t know what your vision could have been. Please explain.” I took another step toward the door.

Victor nodded. “Okay, here it is: If you want to create a living, breathing, perfect sculpture, what do you do?” He held his palms out, as if waiting to receive my answer.
I thought I might throw up. My head and neck pounded. “I don’t know.” I swallowed the warm saliva in my mouth. “Get a good model to pose?”

He nodded. “In my case, I found I needed more than one model if I wanted to...what shall I say, be expedient? Of course, that’s not the right word, because I consider the word ‘expedient’ lacking in class. What’s the word I’m looking for?” He held out his hands soliciting a response.

How could I answer this question? “Uh, I don’t know. Professional? Unique, maybe, or original, perfect?”

“
All of that certainly, but in addition, I needed a perfect model to create the perfect masterpiece and regrettably, Maeva, you know and I know, there are no perfect people.” He frowned, looking sad. “So, I used several models.” He smiled at the ballerina. “Do you have any idea who my models were? I’m sure you do. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” He laughed. “You nosy little bitch. Come on, fess up, as in confession is good for the soul.” He placed his palms up, hands out.