Groundwork for Murder

www.marilynbaron.com

Chapter One

The Wild Thing in the Bushes

Alexandra Newborn hurried past what her husband Mark called the Great Wall of China, an imposing oak cabinet that housed her grandmother’s fine bone china, her own Christmas pattern, and her latest purchase—a set of designer labeled dinnerware from her favorite department store—Blossom’s, which they were still paying for. According to Mark, she was single-handedly trying to jumpstart the U.S. economy.

Blossom’s was Alex’s Cheers. Everybody there knew her name. They called her in advance to notify her of sales. She was a premier customer. An ultimate insider. She was entitled to unlimited complimentary gift wrap and free local delivery as well as other special store services. The salespeople there appreciated her. She even got a birthday card from Stephen, the domestics specialist, and she was on a first-name basis with Scott, the general manager. She was trying her best to wean herself away from her shopping addiction, but her shopping habit was a hard one to break.

Alex’s gaze skipped over the clutter—the half-squeezed tubes of paint, the bills and junk mail littering the kitchen countertops, and the clothes and purses the twins had haphazardly scattered around the living room. One day she was going to get organized.

Rabbit droppings left a Hansel and Gretel trail across the worn green carpet from the girls’ had-to-have pet, Joplin, who was now Alex’s responsibility when Ella and Emory were away at college—a responsibility she didn’t mind. Joplin was much more than a pet. She was a companion that helped Alex get through the lonely days while the girls were away. Alex reached down to stroke Joplin’s soft, dappled fur. The animal’s unusual coloring made her look more like a cow than a rabbit.

On her way to the door, Alex picked up a pair of black flats and hurled them into the pile of shoes in the foyer that overflowed the wicker basket she had purchased to house them—more shoes than any good end-of-season shoe sale. One day she was going to repatriate those shoes to the proper closets or donate them to charity. Okay, so she wasn’t exactly Suzy Homemaker. But in Alex’s mind, being a good mother meant spending quality time with her kids, not just picking up after them. She was proud of how the girls had turned out. And she was proud of her work as an artist, even if her husband didn’t appreciate her talent.

She smoothed her hands over the top of Mt. Laundrymore, the carefully folded and stacked tower of laundry, stored under the staircase, which was waiting to be distributed. Now that the girls were home for spring break, the pile had grown exponentially.

Frowning, her eyes rested on the unfinished, unframed canvases leaning against the wall; there was no time to complete them and no space left to hang them. Space was at a definite premium in the Newborn household.

So was civility.

The clutter barely bothered Alex anymore, registering only as a subconscious blip, but it set Mark’s nerves on edge. What grated on her nerves was that Mark didn’t seem capable of putting a dirty dish in the dishwasher, clearing the table, changing a roll of toilet paper, or even removing his clothes from the laundry pile after she had carefully folded them. Chores were not in her husband’s job description.

Alex liked order, especially on the canvas, but clutter was just part of the never-ending circus of chaos she had to contend with every day. And most of the mess was hers. Painting was a messy business. Lately, the clutter seemed to be painting her into a corner. She wondered what it might be like to seek refuge in one of her landscapes, varnish over it, and vanish forever.

Alex opened the door to the garage just in time to wave goodbye to Mark as he backed down the driveway in his sporty new red convertible—a fortieth birthday present to himself.

She walked to the flower bed by the mailbox and picked up the newspaper on the pavement. The neighborhood was silent, except for the background chatter of birds. She couldn’t see a soul on the street. The sun peeked through a wispy stack of clouds against an otherwise clear French-blue sky. The light was just right. It was going to be a beautiful day, a great morning to set up her easel and canvas on the deck and paint her backyard landscape.

As she returned to the house, a noise shifted her attention toward the azaleas near the front door. It sounded like a trickle of water. Then it grew louder, like a distant waterfall. Had she forgotten to turn off the hose? Irresponsible behavior, since the upscale golf development in Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida, a stylish beach community east of Jacksonville, was under severe watering restrictions. Mark certainly hadn’t left the hose on. Like the inside, the outside of the house was not Mark’s jurisdiction. Mark was more concerned with his personal space.

The steady stream of water continued to flow. Alex moved in carefully to investigate, angling her body deeply into the bushes. As she leaned down to turn off the hose at the source, something rustled in the surrounding thicket. A big something. A raccoon? Possibly a squirrel on steroids? She’d had it with those flower-eating deer. Who knew Bambi could be so destructive? Hopefully it wasn’t one of those huge feral pigs that had been plaguing the neighborhood. If it was, she needed to be armed with more than a newspaper to defend herself. She could almost detect the ominous outline of the wild thing’s shadow.

Brandishing her newspaper, Alex advanced on her prey. Jolted by a sudden flash of movement, she dropped the paper and froze. The breath caught in her throat. Her heart thudded madly in her chest just like Joplin’s did whenever the rabbit encountered a stranger. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out, as she spied the man, a creature of sorts, shirtless, pants unzipped, relieving himself on the wall of her house.

Oh, my God, Alex gasped.

Startled, the intruder jumped, spinning to face her as he shouted out his apologies in rapid fire bursts of Italian.

"Mi dispiace, he repeated. I’m sorry. I’m sorry." The man’s sunburned cheeks colored as he closed his briefs and hurriedly zipped up his dirty blue jeans. But it was too late. She couldn’t unsee his naked image.

Panicked, Alex whirled around and covered her eyes but couldn’t get the sight of the man’s bare chest and his grip on what had looked like the nozzle of a bulging garden hose, but obviously wasn’t, out of her mind. Or the unmistakable stench of fresh urine.

I apologize. I was—

There was no need for a further explanation of what the man was doing. Giving a name to it would have made things infinitely worse. Alex inched back in retreat when what she really wanted to do was rush into the house, lock the door behind her, and call the police. Something stopped her. She ventured a nervous look back at the man. Following her instincts, she stood her ground.

The man looked guilty. He also looked positively humiliated, and for a moment, Alex chastised herself for putting that look on his face. Perhaps she had been unnecessarily harsh. Maybe she was rushing to judgment.

But these days, you had to be cautious. There had been a rash of break-ins in the neighborhood recently. Someone had stolen a set of golf clubs from a garage across the street. And an intruder had grabbed a priceless heirloom diamond ring and necklace from an elderly woman two blocks over.

An unemployed lawn man had just been convicted in the brutal assault of a wheelchair-bound woman in the next subdivision. Did this man have murder on his mind? She may have just interrupted another burglary in progress, moments before the perpetrator prepared to smash the glass in her front window. A sinister-looking steel tool, an edger, rested against the brick wall.

"What are you doing in there? Alex whispered hoarsely, clenching her shaking hands. I mean, besides the obvious. Who are you?"

Inside, her girls were sound asleep, snug in their beds, unaware of the possible danger lurking outside their door. Her husband was gone, and this man had surely just seen him leave. She was the grownup here. It was her responsibility to protect her family. She didn’t have a cell phone with her or she would have dialed 911. But this man didn’t know that.

I’m going to report— she threatened, temporarily immobilized.

Don’t call the police, the man pleaded. I’m with Reed’s Yard Service, and I need this job.

Alex wondered if urinating was part of his job description. Ponte Vedra Beach was in the middle of a drought, but this was ridiculous. Next, she supposed he was going to try to tell her this was some kind of new irrigation technique.

Now that she’d somewhat recovered her composure, she remembered seeing the lawn man around the yard, but she hadn’t really noticed him. Lean but muscular, unshaven, with long, dark hair, she’d dismissed him as one of a number of nondescript yard people, itinerant painters, and day laborers, mostly immigrants, who serviced houses in her upscale neighborhood.

As an artist, Alex’s website portrayed her mission as painting the beauty of light on everyday things in nature that other people walk by and never notice. That’s just what she had done to this unfortunate-looking lawn man. She’d looked at him but not really looked at him. Looked through him, looked around him, looked every which way but at him. And she realized she was still staring at the man rudely.

Then fear got the better of her. She had to get to her girls. If she ran now she could make it to the door before he made his next move—if there was a next move. Her eyes signaled her intentions before her legs could move.

The man grabbed her hand.

Let go! Alex shrieked.

Alexandra, wait.

Startled, Alex twisted painfully in the man’s solid grip as she gave him a closer look.

Do I know you?

Alex focused on his face, which was vaguely familiar, and tried hard to bury the image of the rest of the man’s body, which, although she’d only been exposed to a flash of flesh, was oddly disturbing. And when she did, she got another shock.

"P-Professore Anselmo?"

The man released her hand and came out from behind the shelter of the bushes, smiled shyly, and nodded.

Although she hadn’t recognized his accent earlier, there was no mistaking his identity. But the last time she’d seen him, his smile had been almost smug and his mouth busy doing more than smiling. She’d buried the recollection of their last encounter so deep even she wasn’t clear about the details of just how far they’d gone and how far she had been prepared to go.

It was hard to reconcile the man of her dreams with this nasty-looking person standing in front of her. Professore Dominick Anselmo had been her college art teacher, her inspiration, her secret crush, until he’d been exposed for improper behavior with his graduate assistant and expelled from the university. The scandal had rocked the Art and Architecture Department and blasted a rift in Alex’s personal world.

"Professore? she repeated, her jittery voice rising a level. What are you doing here?" All the old feelings came flooding back. She had often daydreamed about Nick Anselmo, mostly while she painted. To see him here, literally in the flesh, was a shock in more ways than one.

I’m your lawn man.

Is this some kind of a joke?

It’s no joke.

I don’t understand. What happened to you?

Life. This accompanied by a slight European shrug.

Nick Anselmo had been larger than life in presence and in reputation. He was a world-renowned artist whose paintings hung in all the best galleries and museums, and in private collections across the world. After he was fired, he had literally fallen off the face of the earth. And now he wasn’t painting landscapes, he was planting them.

What I meant was…why are you working at Reed’s?

The same reason everyone works. To make money.

Alex frowned. Artists, real artists, artists the caliber of a Dominick Anselmo, didn’t take odd jobs for money. They painted because they had a fire in their souls. That’s what Professore Anselmo had taught her. And now the very same professor was admitting he was a sellout. He was taking this starving-artist routine a little too far.

You’re a great painter. What could you possibly be thinking, wasting your talent as a lawn man?

I have my reasons.

Alex stared at him again, studying the man he had become. He had certainly changed dramatically. He was still ruggedly handsome, his face all perfect planes and angles, but it was lost in a beard that was untrimmed and ragged. Just like the rest of him.

Although he was well preserved and fit for his age—he must be at least fifty—he looked like a common street vagrant, someone you’d pass in an alleyway and turn away from, in disgust or for fear that some of what he was might contaminate you. His clothes were rumpled. He had definitely slept in them, most likely in her bushes. His eyes were still the same blue she remembered, but they had lost much of their flash and fire.

Her Professore—he’d insisted that his students use the Italian pronunciation—would never have apologized to anyone. He had been brash and sexy and wickedly funny. This man’s spirit was broken. He appeared haggard and gaunt and, well, infinitely sad.

She was dying to ask about Samantha Bennett, anxious to solve the mystery of his disappearance from the art scene and their sudden departure from the university.

Alex had been fiercely jealous of the graduate assistant her Professore had allegedly slept with—and later, rumor had it, married.

What have you been doing all these years since you left the university? Alex asked.

Getting by.

Do you still paint?

I’ve been known to paint the occasional house.

That’s not what I meant. At least he hadn’t lost his sense of humor.

Nick raised his head and fixed her with his compelling eyes. Her usually glib Professore was having difficulty speaking. She detected his emotions were close to the surface.

The answer is no, not since Sam— he said, hesitating. Even if I did want to paint, I don’t have a place. I’ve been drifting. I’ve got a nice spot now at the homeless shelter in Jacksonville. It keeps me off the streets.

It was inconceivable that such a proud man and celebrated artist as Professore Anselmo had no place to go and no one to come home to.

What were you going to say about Samantha? Alex asked.

He pursed his lips, pointedly ignoring her question.

Maybe he sensed the pity in her eyes because he started to turn away, then looked back at her.

"Still tenderhearted, I see, bella. That soft spot could get you into all kinds of trouble. I’m grateful to have this part-time job with Reed’s, so you don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine."

But you’re homeless.

Right now, the simpler life suits me. No ties. No demands. I come and go as I please. Where I live is not important. The things I once valued are meaningless. The life I used to live is over. It wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Well, I’d better get going on your lawn before it gets too hot. Sorry about this. It won’t happen again.

That’s all you’re going to say?

What do you want me to say?

"I don’t know. I guess I want to know what happened to my brilliant professore?"

They’re not paying me to talk. I get paid to work.

The lawn man lifted his power edger from its place against her wall and walked away.

Chapter Two

It all Started with a Canvas and a Kiss

While the lawn man set about edging her property with a vengeance, no doubt trying to finish the job in record time so he could flee the scene, Alex stumbled into the house. Still shaken by the close encounter with Nick Anselmo, she needed time to collect her thoughts.

Her first instinct was to hide out in the house until he was gone. But if he wasn’t too embarrassed, then why should she be? It was her house, after all. She hadn’t done anything wrong. He had a job to do, and she had a landscape to start before the twins got up. Both girls were late sleepers, although it would be a miracle if they weren’t already awake, with all the racket the man was making with his infernal lawn equipment. Joplin was shaking and cowering in a corner under the table.

She swooped down to pick up the rabbit and cradled him in her arms.

There’s nothing to be afraid of, Joplin, Alex cooed. It’s just the lawn man making all that dreadful noise. She wondered if the rabbit knew she was lying. Nick Anselmo was anything but just the lawn man. She lowered the rabbit carefully onto the rug and moved to the staircase.

Placing her palm on the stair rail, Alex paused to listen for the sounds of doors slamming or water running in the girls’ bathroom. She heard nothing.

Purposefully, she walked out the back door to set up her paints and took out her stretched heavy linen canvas on a portable work table next to her easel. Too agitated to start a major project that day, she decided to focus on some studies of the foliage in her lushly landscaped backyard. Her short-term game plan? Ignore the lawn man and the lawnmower he rode in on.

Squeezing out bits of paint onto her palette, Alex found it increasingly difficult to focus on the task at hand as the hum of a leaf blower, moving from the front yard to the side yard, grew louder. The closer it came, the closer he came, the more her thoughts turned to Nick Anselmo and the last time she’d been alone with him.

Hard to believe it had really been twenty years. It had all started in the classroom with a canvas and a kiss.

Alex had worshipped the refined package that was Professore Anselmo, complete with his European pedigree and his charming Italian accent that brought Botticelli, Leonardo, and Michelangelo to life in lectures, as the names of the Masters of the Renaissance tripped off his honeyed tongue. She could listen to her professore for hours as he summoned visions of the red-tiled roofs of Florence and the canals that wound languidly through the island city of Venice. She could almost picture the glint and shimmer of gold and silver in shops that lined the Ponte Vecchio. Taste the flavor of rich gelato. Soak up the romance as the turquoise water lapped against the sides of the sleek gondolas on a quiet moonlit night.

Alex was nearing the end of the first semester in her senior year of college. She’d spent extra time trying to get the color right on her latest portrait, and she’d been slow packing up her paints. All the other students had left the building, yet she had lingered in the classroom. Was she encouraging her professore’s special attention? Definitely. Today was the day she was going to put her plan into action and make her move.

She’d been flirting shamelessly with Professore Anselmo all semester. Of course, so had all the other girls, who were just as smitten with him. So far, he had resisted her advances, but something in his eyes had betrayed him—a thinly disguised hunger, an awareness, a longing, an almost electric connection that passed between them whenever he was near, trapping them in a force field that held them both captive.

He treated her like she was special, like he really cared for her. He must admire her work or he wouldn’t spend so much time around her easel, offering advice, leaning in to caress her arm, her shoulder, guiding her brush from behind, standing uncomfortably close. It was probably just the European way. Professore Anselmo was very demonstrative. Always gesturing or touching. And today she was determined to touch back.

You’re really very good, Alexandra. You know that, don’t you?

How was she supposed to answer that question? If she said Yes, he’d peg her as conceited. If she said No, he might accuse her of false modesty. He could simply be testing her. She wanted to make an impression, not a mistake. She was intensely infatuated with the man. She thought she might even be in love with him. She needed him to view her not simply as his student but as a sophisticated woman who could match him passion for passion. Noncommittal had always seemed the safest way to go, but she was tired of playing it safe.

I’m glad you think so. Do you like what you see?

Very much.

On the canvas or off?

The professore hesitated, seeming to