City of Dark Corners by Jon Talton (novels to read .txt) 📗

where students sketch and paint the human form. She’s so beautiful. She was a natural. A model has to be patient, hold a pose.”

She walked over to a large piece of furniture containing flat file trays, thumbed down to drawer three, and pulled out a canvas.

“Hold it at the edges,” she said.

It was a watercolor showing a blonde on a chair draped with a white sheet. Her shoulders were bare and a long nude leg stretched out behind her. Even with her face in profile, it was unmistakably Carrie. This was the first time I had seen her alive in color, the fair skin, golden hair, vivid blue eyes, and magnetic smile. Alive, at least, through the eyes of an artist.

“This is her,” she said. “Carrie is a perfect model, because she can sit for an hour at a time while the students work.”

I couldn’t make out the scrawl at the bottom. “Who painted this?”

“Tom Albert. He’s a junior, also plays football. He’s got talent. Unfortunately, he also has an attitude.”

“Is he in love with Carrie?”

She adjusted her smock and smiled. “Every boy on this campus is in love with Carrie.”

I handed it back. “What is she like?”

“Very confident.” She gently touched her hair, making sure it was in place. “I only had her for two semesters. I haven’t seen her this year.”

“What about this?” I showed her Victoria’s photograph of the sketch in the dirt of the murder scene, my original motive for coming here.

She ran finger across it.

“Where did you find this?”

“At the scene of a murder.”

She drew in a breath. “Oh, my.”

“Any help you could give me would be appreciated.”

She strode over to a bookshelf and pulled out a folio, carried it to her desk, and paged through it, licking her index finger as she went.

“It looks like this.” She swiveled the folio so I could see the image.

I said, “It looks exactly like that.”

“It’s a ‘veve’ symbol,” she said. “Voodoo. I’m not an expert, but I believe it symbolizes Baron Samedi, ruler of the graveyard and death.”

So much for kids playing around.

“I went to college at Tulane, in New Orleans,” she said. “One saw a lot of voodoo art in Louisiana. I came here for my asthma. I do hope this isn’t connected to Carrie.”

“Unfortunately, it is.”

And Frenchy Navarre was from Louisiana.

* * *

Back near the Old Main, four young mugs wearing Bulldog football jackets were admiring my Ford a little too intimately, one sitting in the driver’s seat, a cigarette between his teeth.

He eyed me with a smirk. “Hey, Pops, how about you hand over the keys so I can give this baby a spin?”

I reached in and grabbed his earlobe. Hard. He let out a squeal as I dragged him out by his ear, tripped him, and watched as he and the nail tumbled to the concrete.

“How about you get out of my car?”

“Owww, son of a bitch! You can’t do that!” He got up but kept his distance. “We’re gonna be teachers. We’re the future.”

“Maybe the future in prison, kid.” I slapped Carrie Dell’s photo on the hood.

“Do you know her?”

After a few sullen moments, the boys looked.

“Yeah, what about it? You a cop?” This came from a broad-shouldered kid with dark hair. I let his imagination answer the question as much as I wanted to let my blackjack do the talking.

“Her name’s Carrie. Carrie Dell. She’s T-Bone’s girlfriend.” He nodded toward the lug I had dragged out of my car.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his earlobe. “Cute dish.”

“Until she broke up with him last semester,” said one of his friends.

His features reddened. “She didn’t break up with me.”

“As much as I’d like to hear about your romantic life, I don’t have time.” I showed the photo around. “When was the last time you saw this girl?”

“Last semester,” one shrugged.

“How about you?” I looked at T-Bone.

He gathered up his wounded manhood and squared his shoulders. “Before Christmas break. She hasn’t been back in school since.”

“Why not? Did you call her to check?”

“Nah.” He got his smirk back. “Easy come, easy go. Lots of fish in the sea. What’s the inside tattle, cop?”

“You tell me? I’m a curious guy. Like what’s with the T-Bone bit?”

He grabbed his crotch. “That’s what the girls call me.”

His friends laughed.

“Such BS,” one said. “He works part-time at the stockyards, in the slaughterhouse.”

The suspect list grew again. The kid had motive with the breakup, and means with his slaughterhouse skills.

“So, what’s your real name?”

He reluctantly gave it—Tom Albert—along with his address in Phoenix.

“You were in art class.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“I liked your painting of Carrie,” I said. The angry ruddy tone of his face drained away. “Now scram before I get more curious.”

They slowly sauntered away, as if the whole encounter had been their idea.

When they had gone, Pamela approached me without her friends.

“Nice touch, handling those pills, Mister Private Dick.”

I smiled. “You can call me Gene. What’s up, Pamela?”

She smiled. “You like my name. I can tell by the way you say it.”

“I do. It’s a rare and lovely name.” There was plenty more to appreciate as she sat on a concrete bench with “Philomathian” engraved into the back. In addition to her large green eyes and lush auburn-red hair, she was pleasingly small-breasted under a tight wool sweater. Below a plaid wool skirt and above two-tone high-heeled lace-up oxfords, her ankles and calves were beautifully sculpted. I joined her.

“The name means ‘all honey,’” she said, hiking her skirt above her knees to get sun despite the cold.

“Not just sugar and spice, huh?”

She batted her eyes in a practiced move. “It’s a more common name in England. I’m Pamela Sue, if you must know.”

“I like it even more, Pamela Sue. Now, are we here to flirt, or did you want to tell me something?”

She hesitated, looked around to make sure we were alone.

“Flirting is nice,” she said. “But it’s about Carrie. Have you got a cig?”

I pulled out two and lit both, handing her one. She took a long drag.