Love, Art, and Murder – Mystery Romance

“Because life isn’t clear.” Hex tied his black-and-white strands into a big ponytail. “It’s polluted and murky.”

She rolled her eyes, but kept her face slanted enough so Hex didn’t catch it. “How can someone who lives in a castle with a huge moat full of koi surrounding it see life in such a sad way?”

“Life is not how I see it. Life simply is what it is. I just represent it the best way I can.”

“I respectfully disagree.” Elle moved on to a watercolor of a gray woman with bushy red hair like our mother. The woman yanked at those bright crimson strands with her fingers and screamed at a pile of dead bodies in front of her. Grandma and I hated this one, so for once Hex didn’t reveal it to the world, yet hung the piece in his studio for only a select few to see.

“Why do you disagree?” Hex leaned his head to the side.

“I don’t see life as so dark. There’s good and bad times. It’s what we choose to see that determines our life.”

“That’s a shocker.”

“Why?” She turned to him.

“What about your very public, dysfunctional relationship with Michael, Mr. Bright Light himself?”

She returned her attention to the works in front of her. Tension creased the edges of her eyes. Her lips transformed from a sweet grin to a straight line that wrapped tightly across her face. “I don’t see how my relationship with Michael reflects on our conversation.”

“There are rumors that Michael threw his Archangel in the trash for others to find and use as they want. I like to think of myself as a finder of treasure and gold in the dumpster of life. If I’m such a dark viewer and I spotted something inspiring in you, then what does that mean about your life?”

Hmmm. I was wondering why Michael would release her from the contract. Now I know. It ran deeper than art.

Anyone in the art world could recognize that face. If I hadn’t been so busy with a dead girl and cops on my mind, I would’ve realized who she was. In each of Michael’s paintings, those pouting lips craved to be sucked on and kissed. Her eyes whispered promise of pleasure between cool sheets on a hot night. Her pale skin looked so soft I’d been afraid to shake her hand and damage those delicate fingers. And that hair. Even in a bun, it made my length rise for a few seconds, before I calmed myself down. Michael painted a whole series on just those strands—long luxurious ones, blanketing her taut body in mystery and sensuality so much that any average man would long to cut it off, just to see what lay beneath and sadly to avoid the competition of so many men dreaming of running their fingers through it.

I moved deeper in the shadows so I could get a view of Elle’s facial response without her catching me watching her again. Earlier was absurd. For one second, I slipped my gaze to her plump behind as any normal man would do when walking behind an attractive woman. She caught me and held no shame or disgust on her face, just a matter-of-fact response as she turned back around.

Just another pervert looking at my butt, I bet she thought. She must be used to people staring at her all the time.

“Are you going to answer the question?” Hex pushed the topic some more.

“I don’t have an answer for you.” She walked through a path of two carved banyan trees. They connected to each other by the branches, so that the top appeared more like a wooden bridge of leaves than linked trees. Hex never admitted what the piece meant, but I knew the carving depicted our relationship as brothers and even our whole family.

Hex and I had those same bonded banyans tattooed all over our backs, two black trees standing next to each other, a strangling growth of roots built upwards from the soil and bridging out to others while the branches matured toward the ground. Like most banyans, the host tree that started it all was close to death and uncertain of its future.

Those thoughts of the crumbling host tree brought me back to the problem of the dead girl.

Did she kill this girl? Dear God. I hope not. I can’t take anymore. It must’ve been someone else. It had to be.

The dead girl had been one of the many models for Hex. She’d just completed the poses he needed and was due to leave the property tomorrow.

And instead, someone killed her.

“Besides, life is truly not at the forefront for me,” Hex continued. “Death is my muse. It’s what inspires me.”

Months before all of this, I told him that inviting lots of people to our castle would be dangerous. He said I worried too much. Grandma got between us and threw her special cowrie shells onto the ground. A gray film glazed over her eyes. Hex thought it was some funky trick Grandma knew to make her magic appear real. I wasn’t so sure. He didn’t believe in her religion. I just didn’t discount it. Regardless, Grandma peered at those shells with murky eyes and prophesized that girls would die over and over again. When I discovered the body this morning, she tossed me that knowing look, the one that screamed, “I told you, boy. I told you, and now the blood is on your hands.”