Murders and Metaphors by Amanda Flower

Author:Amanda Flower
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crooked Lane Books

Chapter Eighteen

If Belinda’s death was related to her sisters, then I needed to talk to each of the other sisters, and I planned to start with youngest. I called my grandmother and told her what I was up to. “Do you know where Adele’s studio is?” I asked.

“It’s on Sparrow Street,” Grandma Daisy said.

I told my grandmother that I would be back to the shop as soon as I could and ended the called.

Adele’s studio was an old Cape Cod home that probably dated all the way back to the same period as Charming Books. I knocked on the door, but as I did, the door fell open.

“Hello?” I called into the place.

The house retained its original architecture on the outside, but on the inside the former home had clearly been altered. Many of the walls had been blown out to make one large great room that was brightly lit with large windows and sunlight. Every color of paint in the rainbow was spattered on the floor and walls. I hoped that Adele wasn’t renting the work space, because there was no way she was getting her deposit back.

“Ahhh!” A scream came from the back corner of the room, which was hidden from the rest of the place by a paint-spattered Chinese screen.

“Hello? Are you hurt?”

“Ahhhh!” the scream came again.

Maybe talking to Adele wasn’t necessary, or maybe I could come back later when she wasn’t screaming her head off.

“Hey, who’s there?” a voice asked, perfectly calm and composed. A small woman popped out from behind the Chinese screen. She wore a pair of earbuds, and even from where I was standing by the front door, I could hear the pounding heavy metal she was listening to.

The last time I had seen Adele, she had been ten and blonde. She wasn’t either of those anymore. Her hair was jet-black and fell all the way down her back. She wore a black beret on her head, and it was tilted at a jaunty angle. Both her hair and her hat were splatted with red, yellow, green, and purple paint. So were her clothes, which were also black, or at least they had been. She was the girl all in black that I had seen at the book signing, which meant that she had been there the night her oldest sister died.

“Who are you?” Adele asked.

I shouldn’t have been surprised that Adele didn’t recognize me. “I’m Violet Waverly. I’m friends with Lacey.”

She nodded. “Why are you here?”

It was a very good question and one I should have expected her to ask. I didn’t have a good answer, so I settled on the truth. “I wanted to talk to you about Belinda.”

“No,” she said, and disappeared behind the Chinese screen again.

I stood there for a second, unsure what to do.

“Ahh!” she cried from behind the screen again. Her cry made me move, and I peeked around the side of the screen.

She stood in front of a six-by-six canvas that had a lovely view of the Riverwalk in the village.

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