Dixie and Kitally stared each other down until Dixie finally gave in and turned away.
Kitally took hold of Betty’s elbow and ushered her back to her room, leaving a trail of urine for Dixie to clean up.
“Are you OK?” Kitally asked, her voice low.
“Never been better. I really did have to go.”
He stretched out the tarp he’d dragged from the garage and then rolled Gillian’s body onto it until she was faceup. He then took a breath and plunked his hands on his hips. She was deadweight, and she was heavy.
He looked around. So much blood had seeped into the cracks and crevices of the stone floor. “Look at this mess you’ve made, Gillian. Everything was going perfectly until you came along and complicated matters. Are you happy? Huh?”
He kicked her in the side. It felt good, so he did it again.
She just looked at him with that blank, lifeless stare of hers.
Dead or alive—it didn’t matter. She looked the same. He’d never once seen any fire in her eyes. Even when she was dying, she’d shown all the animation of a carp.
The nosy bitch had gotten what she deserved. He hated her more than he’d ever hated anyone. For a while there, Gillian had a small semblance of control over him, and he hadn’t liked it one bit.
A knock on the door jolted him. His heart rate soared.
Judging by the silhouette, it was a small boy. It was the neighbor, Landon. The boy used his hands to cup both sides of his face as he tried to see through the decorative glass.
“Go away, kid,” he said in a loud voice. “I’m busy.”
“What are you doing? Are you having a party in there?”
With a sigh, he walked over to the door, unlocked the dead bolt and padlock, then opened the door just an inch or two so he could see the expression on the boy’s face, see if the kid knew too much. “Why do you ask?”
“I heard some loud noises. And then just now I heard you talking to someone.”
“I had my music on really loud before. And after that you must have heard me singing to myself.” Nosy kid.
“Oh. Are you painting another picture?”
“Not at the moment.”
Landon pointed at his chest. “You’ve got some red paint on your shirt.”
“Oh, well, would you look at that. You’re right. I do.” He thought about inviting the kid inside and finishing him off, but he had enough on his plate as it was. In any event, his mother chose that moment to call her son back home. “Your mom’s calling you. You better skedaddle.”
“Skedaddle?”
Get lost, kid. “It means hurry home.”
“Oh.” The kid turned and ran a few feet before he turned around and said, “I’ll see you later, sir.”
He shut the door and locked it. He had work to do. And he didn’t have much time if he planned to be at the gallery in time for the showing.
Lizzy pulled up in front of her sister’s house, turned off the engine, and sat there for a moment in the quiet. The last time she was here, Cathy and Richard had been fighting. Had her sister really left him?
It was time to find out.
She climbed out of the car and was halfway up the walkway when the door opened. Brittany stood there with a grin on her face.
Seeing her niece gave her a burst of energy.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Brittany said. “I feel as if I haven’t seen you in years.”
Lizzy took Brittany into her arms, and for the first time in the longest while, she felt a bit of life creep into her. “I’ve missed you so much,” Lizzy said close to her ear.
“I’ve missed you more.”
Taking a step back, Lizzy took a good look at her. She reached for her hair, let the silky strands brush through her fingers. “Your hair is getting so long. You look so grown-up.”
“I’ve been so worried about you, Lizzy.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I should have come sooner or at least called. Is everything OK?”
“Everything is good. Dad and Mom are getting divorced. They don’t belong together, but you already know that.”
Lizzy said nothing.
“And don’t worry about not coming around lately. I know you’re sad. I just don’t want you to ever feel like you’re all alone.”
Lizzy swallowed a lump in her throat.
Brittany glanced around. “Mom had to go to work today, but if you want to come in for a bit first—”
“No, I’m good. Are you ready to go?”
Brittany grabbed her things, and it wasn’t long before they were on the freeway, heading for Midtown.
“So,” Lizzy said, “I heard that you started art classes. How’s that going?”
“I love it. We have more than one instructor teaching the class. The teachers are inspiring, and the students are talented. I can’t believe I was accepted.”
For the next twenty minutes, they chatted, catching up on Brittany’s life. Lizzy enjoyed listening to the sound of her voice. It was like hearing a song she’d forgotten she loved.
It wasn’t easy finding a parking spot since many streets had been closed off from traffic, but they managed. The crowds were thick and the music was loud, a different musician on every other street corner. The first gallery they visited was the Phoenix Art Gallery. The art was interesting, and they had fun exploring. Lizzy noticed one particular painting where a magistrate in ancient Rome was carrying a bundle of rods with a projecting axe blade. “Look at that,” Lizzy said. “A fasces.”
“Good job,” Brittany said. “I just took a test on symbols in art. A fasces is commonly used as a symbol of power.”
“I knew it represented power, but I had no idea it was used in art.”
“Yep,” Brittany said.
This tidbit of information got Lizzy’s mind working overtime. “What are some other symbols?”
“Oh, gosh, there are lots of them. For instance, a book could symbolize learning or transmitting knowledge. A clock might symbolize the passing of time.”
Lizzy couldn’t help but wonder if the objects being left on the Sacramento Strangler’s victims could have anything to do with art. “What about a piece of coral?”
“Definitely. The red of coral often represents the blood of Christ. Since when are you so interested in art and symbolism?”
“It has to do with a case I’m working on.”
As they moved through the gallery, Brittany examined the artwork and paintings at close range while Lizzy examined each painting for something more. The idea that a piece of red coral could represent the blood of anyone hit an investigative nerve. They were on to something here. Her niece stopped and pointed at one particular painting and said, “See the distaff, the wooden tool right here?”
“What does it mean?” Lizzy asked.
“The distaff could represent the domestic role of women,” Brittany explained. “And this picture over here has a mirror lying on the bedside table. The mirror often signifies truth or vanity.”
It felt as if every molecule in her body were tingling as Lizzy followed her niece along, listening intently as she talked.
“The cool thing about symbols is they can evoke powerful emotions without the beholder even realizing it.”
“Really? That’s amazing,” Lizzy said. “So, what about a wreath of red roses around a young man’s head?”
Brittany took a moment to ponder before she said, “I don’t know if that’s a common symbol in art, but are you talking about Picasso’s Boy with a Pipe?”
“I don’t know. What does it look like?”
Brittany pulled out her phone, clicked away, and then showed her an image of a boy with a garland of roses around his head. “It’s oil on canvas,” Brittany explained. “It’s actually a painting of a local boy who used to visit Picasso’s studio. The painting went for one hundred million dollars at auction in 2004.”