Lizzy could hardly contain her excitement. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Maybe it was a long shot, but right now it seemed more than possible that the Sacramento Strangler could be involved in the art world.
After visiting the Phoenix Art Gallery, and then checking out some handmade jewelry being sold by local vendors on the sidewalk, they stopped in Ginger Elizabeth’s for some gourmet chocolates. Some of the other galleries they visited were devoted to photography. Although, after learning so much about symbolism in art, it was hard to concentrate on anything but the killer running loose in the area, Lizzy did her best to focus on her niece and their time together.
Their last stop before they headed off for dinner was the largest gallery they had been to so far. While Brittany admired two extraordinary Peter Max paintings, Lizzy found herself mesmerized by a contemporary picture of a woman stretched out on a raft, the fingers on her left hand brushing against clear blue water. Everything about the picture seemed to express a feeling of relaxation, and it might have done just that if not for the eyes. The eyes spoke volumes—enormous and round and frozen in terror. The woman on the raft was anything but tranquil. She was—
“That’s intense,” Brittany said as she stepped close to her side.
“I would say so.”
“Brittany,” a male voice called out, “so happy to see you here. And exploring one of my paintings, no less.”
The voice was familiar. Lizzy turned to see who was talking.
“And you,” he said, wagging a finger at Lizzy. “Don’t we know each other?”
“This is my aunt, Lizzy Gardner.”
He snapped his fingers. “Of course.”
“Lizzy, this is Jake Polly. He taught one of the classes I was telling you about.”
Lizzy looked at him sideways. “You put up the poster in our window. This is your painting?”
“It certainly is. What do you think?”
Lizzy’s gaze fell on his hands, where she saw deep scratches that disappeared beneath the sleeves of his shirt.
“I don’t know anything about art,” Lizzy told him, “but your painting is definitely interesting. There’s so much going on, and yet it’s the woman’s eyes that draw me in.”
“I agree,” Brittany said.
“Is this lady on the raft supposed to be relaxing, or is she scared?”
“She’s having the time of her life,” he said. “She’s in heaven.”
“I’m not seeing that.”
Brittany touched Lizzy’s shoulder, trying to stop Lizzy from embarrassing her, no doubt. “I don’t think he wants us to critique his work, Aunt Lizzy.”
Lizzy didn’t pay her any mind. “Do you have models you work with, Jake, or did you use a photograph?”
“It’s OK,” he told Brittany. “I believe everyone should make up their own mind about art. The Lady on the Raft could be telling a story or making a statement. But none of that matters. It’s all about how it makes you feel, Lizzy.”
They spoke for some time about how he’d gone about painting the picture before them. No, he’d used neither a model nor a photograph, conjuring the woman out of whole cloth—“Except for the eyes,” he said, his own eyes gleaming. Lizzy never lost her feeling that there was something very odd about the man, and yet he was kind enough to answer her questions, and he seemed genuinely interested in explaining things to her.
“Well,” Lizzy said at last, “it’s certainly a powerful piece.”
“Well, art is powerful. Isn’t that right, Brittany?”
“Definitely,” Brittany answered. “There’s nothing like the emotion I feel when I look at paintings I love.”
Jake Polly beamed at her, then turned to Lizzy. “She’s very bright,” he said. “It’s all about what you feel inside here.” He put a hand over his heart. “The beauty of artwork is that it can challenge preconceived ideas.”
“I didn’t realize looking at a painting could be so thought-provoking.”
“Well, maybe not a still life. A bowl of lemons might not have a deeper meaning.” He winked at Brittany. “But who am I to say?”
“You do amazing work,” Brittany told him, blushing.
“Nice of you to say.” He looked at his watch. “Time has gotten the best of me. I need to meet up with friends. But first I must thank you, Lizzy Gardner, for letting me put the flyer in your window.”
She nodded, but she couldn’t help it—she didn’t like the man and didn’t appreciate the way he ogled Brittany.
“See you in class,” he told Brittany before sauntering away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Olimpia Padula turned on the bathwater and then went to the bedroom, where she sat on the edge of the bed and removed her heels and stockings. She had worked a ten-hour shift today, and her feet were throbbing. She massaged the arches of both feet and then removed the rest of her clothes before heading back into the bathroom.
She adjusted the temperature of the water as the tub filled, then readied her towel and made sure she had everything she needed for a long, hot bath. Soaking in the tub was better than enjoying a glass of wine while watching the sunset. It was her favorite thing to do.
She rushed back into the bedroom when she realized she’d forgotten her mask that she liked to put over her eyes. She turned the radio on, something soothing, a little classic soul. Last, she added some lavender oil to the water. She shut the faucet off and then dipped her toes in first. Perfect.
After settling fully into the tub, she slid her mask over her eyes and laid her head back on the bath pillow. Her only thought was how lucky she was to have found a full-time job. In three months’ time she would have full benefits. Life was turning around for her. She was going to be all right.
A noise in the other room lifted her out of her thoughts. She slid her mask up to her forehead. “Is anyone there?”
Wayne Bennett stepped into view. He stood within the door frame, his expression grim. “I told you not to talk to anyone. Did you think I was kidding?”
How the hell did he get inside her apartment? Nobody had a key but her. “I think you should leave,” she told him, unwilling to stand up while she was unclothed. He’d seen it all, but he wasn’t going to get another free show. When he failed to listen to her demands, panic set in. “Get out of here right now, or I will scream.”
“I don’t think you should do that,” he said as he stepped closer. “Do you know what I think you should do?”
Bewildered, she shook her head.
“I think you should die.” He knelt swiftly beside the tub and, his big hands covering her face, shoved her under the water and held her down. She thought she could fight him, but he was too strong, and he was right . . . she was gonna die.
After dropping Brittany off, Lizzy made a call to Jessica.
“Hey,” Jessica said when she answered, “what’s going on?”
“Are you in the middle of something?”
“Just packing and getting ready to fly back to California.”
“I wanted to call and see if you found anything on Zachary Tucker, the name I gave you after talking to Kathryn Church.”
“If you have time,” Jessica told her, “I’ll grab my notes and tell you what I’ve found.”
“I’ve got time. I’m driving home, and you’re on speaker.”
When Jessica came back on the line, she said, “This is what I know so far. Zachary H. Tucker was born to Phil and Patty Tucker on September 20, 1977, and his little sister drowned in July of 1985. There is nothing that even hints at the possibility that Zachary was responsible for his sister’s death. Besides, he was eight years old at the time.”