Strong Alibi by K.C. Turner (story reading txt) 📗

The door slowly opened and Elizabeth stood there, her body drenched beneath her robe. Staring into space, her demeanor seemed bewildered and begged for solace. Her eyes slowly moved towards his as her hand remained on the doorknob. She didn’t move. He opened the screen door and walked in.

“Liz? What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

A tear fell from the corner of her eye. She didn’t speak. As he went to touch her shoulder, her body jerked in fear. He rested his hand on her upper arm. “Hey, it’s me. It’s okay.”

As her bottom lip began to quiver, it was as if the levy had broken. Tears streamed down her face and her nostrils shut off all air to them while the nightmare replayed in her head. He pulled her close and held her tight allowing her a slight release. Once she let out a good cry, she pulled away wiping her eyes ashamedly. “I’m sorry,” she said before turning away to the bathroom so she could clear her airways and wipe her face. She couldn’t bear to share it with him.

Martinez was waiting for her on the couch. Sitting down next to him, she tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry.”

“Liz, you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry for dragging you down to Mansfield for nothing.”

She shook her head. “It’s not just that. You were right about DeFranco. No sooner had we returned, he had a nice write up in the Tribune.”

He sighed and looked at her sympathetically but his eyes said, ‘I told you so.’

“Worst part is, Pam saw the ‘article’ and was going to Marilyn, like I did something wrong!” Telling him about how the rest of her day played out made it much easier to forget her dream. All she wanted to do was forget it. It was typical to dream about Steve hurting her, expected even. But putting Martinez in Steve’s shoes was on a whole other level.

“I’m sorry you had such a bad day. If it’s any consolation, mine wasn’t the greatest either,” he told her, recalling his falling out with Johnson. Although he debated whether or not he should share, he decided it was best to leave this to himself and see how it played out.

Already beginning to feel better she said, “I’m going to put some clothes on. Would you like something to drink?”

He smiled. “You gotta beer?”

Smiling back at him, she raised herself from the sofa and went to her bedroom to put on a loose white T-shirt and a pair of pink boxer shorts. He heard her clanging around in the kitchen before returning to the living room with a Corona and a glass of wine in either hand. Standing in front of him and handing him his beer, she said, “Come here. I want to show you something.” Her head tilted to the side asking him to follow her.

Taking his beer from her hand, he stood up and walked behind her to the back of the sofa. There was a door on the back wall just between the hanging mirror next to the staircase and the wall before the dining room. He always assumed it was a closet. Elizabeth looked at him and took a deep breath. Upon opening the door, it was just as Martinez imagined; a small storage space containing coats hanging on a rod extended from one end to the other and shoes and boxes and other miscellaneous items were strewn on the floor. Everything you would expect to be in a closet.

Standing in front of the doorway, Martinez took a sip of his beer and nodded his head. He wasn’t sure what to say or what she was showing him but he patiently entertained her. She stood there for a moment, as if to catch her bearings for some unexpected C.S. Lewis plot to unfold before them. Cupping a stack of hangers with both hands, she pushed them to either side of the rod and then moved a flat piece of wood panel revealing another, somewhat smaller, door. The expression on his face changed. He was now intrigued.

She turned the doorknob and pushed open the door as she flipped on the light switch on the closet wall. Walking through the door, she took a step down into the room. Turning to him, she said, “Watch your step.”

He followed her, careful not to trip over the two steps going down. His eyes scanned the room in awe. The walls and the floor were whitewashed wood with paintings artistically hung. There was a large easel placed near the corner of the room with a canvas nestling in its sleeve and covered with a white cloth. Shelves of different paints, brushes, and tiny tools he couldn’t identify hung on the wall to the side of the easel. A metal stool sat in front of it, facing a covered window, with a paint-splattered smock hanging over the seat. There were paintings sitting against the walls and propped up on the legs of a busy desk that hadn’t been dusted in years. Several unique sculptures and other artwork was scattered pleasantly throughout the room.

“Wow. What is all this?” He turned to her questionably. “Don’t tell me you’re an artist too?”

She took a sip of her wine and sighed. “Yeah, I wish.” Looking at him with a sense of bitter sweetness, she grinned. “This was my mom’s studio. I haven’t been in here since the accident. I used to love coming in here when my mom was working.”

Impressed, he asked, “She did this for a living?”

“Yeah, for quite a while. She was an art teacher for years but once my dad made partner at the firm, she started painting what inspired her. She did okay with it, she wasn’t a famous artist or anything.” She tilted her head and smiled at the memories. “It was a nice little part-time business though.”

“You’re mom seems like she was a pretty interesting individual.”

“She was.