Cheshire Girl

Ch. 21

                I felt a teensy bit better once I was out.  Thankfully, my eyes didn't look puffy.  I told myself that it was just a few more hours of playing pretend in front of Mom, and then I could get serious when I went to bed.

                Maybe acting was my calling.  Mom didn't see anything wrong with me.  She told me about her day, and I told her about mine—the abridged version.  She said she was going to need Todd (or Ricardo, in her case) Friday and Saturday since she had a publisher's meeting in the city those days, so I had to find another mode of transportation to school.

                I was a little annoyed, but… I was keeping stuff from her, so I told her I had no problem with her taking the car.

*

When it was time to retire to our rooms before bed, I got some homework out of the way.  I put my damp shoes and jacket (because of my wet hair) in the dryer.  I wanted to pour over the diary once more—in case I missed something—but Charlie had it, of course.

                She left me a few messages, asking about how the project meeting went.  Not wanting to relive it, I told her she'd hear it from me tomorrow morning.  I was picking her up a few minutes early so I could get that out of the way.

                I lied on my bed for an hour.  I didn't cry, so maybe I was done with that part, and it seemed a good spacing out calmed me down some.

                Mom called out her goodnight to me, and then I remembered the painting.

                I bolted up and out.  I tiptoed past Mom's room, but with the heater running everywhere, it wasn't necessary.  I also turned on all the lights, and I hoped it wouldn't show on the electric bill.  I just wasn't going to enjoy being alone in the dark anytime soon.

                I found the painting, and it still gave me chills.  This was definitely a faceless Beatrice.  I gingerly took it down.  Nothing on the back of the frame, so I carefully started pulling it out, but I didn't have to take out the whole painting.  On the top right corner, in fancy handwriting, was the following:

                Happy Birthday, Beatrice.  Charlotte showed me a picture she took of you with her new camera, so I thought I would give you one with color.  Thanks for being a great friend and supporting us both.  Love, Ian Walker

Wow.  Ian painted?  I slipped the painting back in the frame and stared at it.  I'd never seen anyone paint something this good before, but I could see the brush strokes, where he might've just dabbed and then where he might've slashed and went crazy.  Ian put a lot of work and detail into this.  I almost felt tears well up, but only because this was a very beautiful gesture.

                The lights went out, souring the moment I let myself get emotional on purpose.

                Not again.

                I turned around and found Beatrice.  She was the only source of light in the room, however dim.  I wasn't as scared this time, but seeing her didn't feel good.  In fact, she made me mad.

                "What do you want?" I hissed.  "You almost got me killed today."

                I still couldn't see her face, and she still wore the dress and boots.  She pointed at the painting.

                "What about it?"

                She suddenly flickered forward, making me step back into the wall.  Beatrice pointed at the right corner of the painting, where Ian's signature was.  She was so close.  She looked solid.

                I reached out.  She watched my hand move closer… and then go straight through her shoulder.  It was unbelievably cold.  "Do you know where the pages are?"

                Beatrice nodded, pointed at the same spot on the painting, and then rushed at me, enveloping me with freezing cold.

                Not this house.

                The lights were back on when I opened my eyes (because, could you keep your eyes open if someone's forehead was about to smack into yours?).  Everything in the room looked normal, except for me and the old painting of Beatrice against the wall behind me.

                So… was Beatrice going to pop up every time I got something wrong? 

                I was wrong about the number of pages missing… and then I almost drowned.  

                I was wrong about the painting holding the missing pages… and she pops up.

                As helpful as she thought she was, I would prefer if Beatrice would butt out for a while.  Nonetheless, I couldn't help but appreciate the push in the right direction.  The thirteen pages were not in this house.  At least I somewhat knew they were all together.

                Only one possible location came to mind.

                Pool clue: Walker

                Next clue: not my house.

                So… were the pages in the Walkers' house?  In Ethan's house?

                Then my earlier assumption was right.  Ian had kept the thirteen pages, somewhere in his house.  I went out on a limb and assumed that the current Walkers still lived there, and that included Ethan, obviously.

                I also went ahead and assumed that Ethan—or his parents—had no idea about the pages.  I was sure those pages identified the real killer.  If it was Ian… well, I assumed he would've wanted them hidden (if so, why did he keep them?).  If it wasn't Ian… again, why did he keep them?  And if it wasn't Ian Walker identified as the murderer in those pages, then why did the Walker family hide that?  They could've cleared his name.  Then, it had to be that they didn't know about the pages.

                What would've been wonderful to know was what happened after the body was found.  My mind kept jumping to the idea it was Charlotte… so, for now, that was what I was going to be assuming when I thought of the victim.  What had she been killed with?  Who found the body?  Why was Charlotte in Beatrice's house in the first place?  Where were Beatrice and/or her parents at the time?  Where was Ian?  Who was Charlotte with last?

                All these unanswered questions started giving me a headache.  I just wanted to go to bed.  One thing was definitely certain.

                A detective I did not want to be.

****************

This is my first time trying to write a mystery.  I'm not sure how I'm faring.  I'm trying to make it as complicated as possible, but solvable by the end.  I just don't know if I'm smart enough.  I'm taking a Criminal Justice class, and so those last questions were some most profilers use when identifying a victim and his/her killer.  The class is for profiling serial killers (fun, right?), so I'm trying to use what I learn for this story.

                I think I'll actually get around to reading a Sherlock Holmes novel once my reading schedule is free.  I'm reading stuff for school and on Wattpad, and then whatever time I have I devote to writing.  Stressful college stuff, ugh….  How is your day do far?