Drawn To Death

By Patti Larsen

The edge of the heavy metal frame warmed in the palms of my hands as I supported my end, my best friend and fellow artist, Pickle Pickford, grunting as he lifted the opposite side free from the bed of the jacked-up black truck parked at the rear of the gallery.

“Careful, please.” I’d only rarely seen my other friend, Dark Mood, in any state of agitation, their typically calm and quiet nature one of the things I adored about them. So, to witness their anxious concern over the massive painting Pickle and I eased out of the truck bed, their icy blue eyes wide and shining white in contrast to the black liner, mascara and shadow creating an almost bulging effect, their pale cheeks ashen under the layers of ivory powder, full lips pulled into a black slash of a line over a grimace of worry that had me actually near giggles at Dark’s obvious nervousness.

I didn’t find their discomfort amusing, I promise. It was more so the fact the normally stoic and withdrawn, if always kind and caring, artist and owner of the warehouse collective where I lived and painted was showing, for the first time since I’d met them, actual nerves.

When Phoebe’s friend, Dark Mood, is invited to show at a prestigious gallery, she happily assists with a bit of good luck to ensure her anxious companion succeeds. The only trouble is, Phoebe’s resulting bad luck leads her to uncover yet another dead body and puts her front and center in the murder investigation. All while juggling her uncomfortable relationship with Officer Cooper Hudson and the odd darkness lingering around the gallery’s owner Phoebe can’t seem to identify...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patti Larsen
• Release date: Aug 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781989925256

Patti Larsen

About me, huh? Well, my official bio reads like this: Patti Larsen is a multiple award-winning author with a passion for the voices in her head. But that sounds so freaking formal, doesn’t it? I’m a storyteller who hears character's demands so loudly I have to write them down. I love the idea of sports even though sports hate me. I’ve dabbled in everything from improv theater to film making and writing TV shows, singing in an all girl band to running my own hair salon.But always, always, writing books calls me home.I’ve had my sights set on world literary domination for a while now. Which means getting my books out there, to you, my darling readers. It’s the coolest thing ever, this job of mine, being able to tell stories I love, only to see them all shiny and happy in your hands... thank you for reading.As for the rest of it, I’m short (permanent), slightly round (changeable) and blonde (for ever and ever). I love to talk one on one about the deepest topics and can’t seem to stop seeing the big picture. I happily live on Prince Edward Island, Canada, home to Anne of Green Gables and the most beautiful red beaches in the world, with my pug overlord and overlady, six lazy cats and Gypsy Vanner gelding, Fynn.

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Drawn To Death

Phoebe Monday Paranormal Cozies #3

Patti Larsen

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Patti Larsen 2021

Find more at www.pattilarsen.com/home

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Chapter One

The edge of the heavy metal frame warmed in the palms of my hands as I supported my end, my best friend and fellow artist, Pickle Pickford, grunting as he lifted the opposite side free from the bed of the jacked-up black truck parked at the rear of the gallery.

Careful, please. I’d only rarely seen my other friend, Dark Mood, in any state of agitation, their typically calm and quiet nature one of the things I adored about them. So, to witness their anxious concern over the massive painting Pickle and I eased out of the truck bed, their icy blue eyes wide and shining white in contrast to the black liner, mascara and shadow creating an almost bulging effect, their pale cheeks ashen under the layers of ivory powder, full lips pulled into a black slash of a line over a grimace of worry that had me actually near giggles at Dark’s obvious nervousness.

I didn’t find their discomfort amusing, I promise. It was more so the fact the normally stoic and withdrawn, if always kind and caring, artist and owner of the warehouse collective where I lived and painted were showing, for the first time since I’d met them, actual nerves.

Since this was their first major invitation to participate in a mainstream show, I understood completely, though it was still funny to see Dark in such a state.

Pickle paused as he hopped down to ground level, the weight of the frame and painting it encased now balanced between us. Not so much heavy as it was awkward, since the multi-media image wasn’t so much a painting, per se, as it was a built-out expression of Dark’s angst and artistry, the jutting pieces of spiraling souls they’d built on the surface of the canvas a 3D struggle to escape the confines of the piece always giving me shivers in its realistic portrayal of trapped people fighting to free themselves from the interior of the bleak and fiery work.

Don’t bump it. Dark’s normally confident self-possession was nowhere to be found and I could only be grateful I hadn’t had need to tap into my power lately. It meant, at least, my luck was nominal and normal without interference, though I had to admit even my regular, everyday setting wasn’t always on the positive side of advantage. Still, I was fairly certain we’d manage without damaging Dark’s pride and joy, though from the lingering anxiety on their face they were sure they had made a terrible choice trusting the two of us to assist in the move from Lofty Aspirations to the Caesar Gallery.

Deep breath, Dark, Pickle told them in his cheerful voice, winking his green feather lashes so the impossibly long and extravagant embellishments stroked his prominent cheekbones, my friend blowing back his freshly dyed green bangs with a hearty exhale. It’ll all work out. Though, he said with a faint grumble showing up when I slowly backed toward the open door leading to the rear of the gallery, balancing Liberation Reborn as carefully as I could, they could have given you a bit more time, right? The show’s tonight, for pity’s sake.

Last minute asks to join big shows with this kind of talent don’t come along every day, Pickle. Dark’s chastisement was so out of character and delivered with such grim and growling aggression, even they stopped and shook their head, apology replacing the worry that had dominated since I’d agreed to help just an hour ago. I’m sorry, they said. I’m just…

Nervous, Pickle tossed his head, winked again with a giant grin, bracing the painting’s frame against the green denim of his overalls, a bright frog flashing a wave from over the top of the bib he’d left dangling from one loose strap. We get it. But you, my darling Dark Mood, have zilcho to be worried about. He flashed me a smile. Right, Phoebe?

I nodded instantly, our forward (well, my backward, but you get the point) motion carrying on in slow and careful steps until I felt my heel hit the slight raise of the doorway’s threshold, sunlight giving way to the dimmer interior of the gallery’s back hallway. Absolutely, I gushed, and with little provocation, honestly. Everyone’s going to lose their minds over your work, Dark. And no, I wasn’t stroking their ego. I loved their creations, the massive and often eerily realistic multi-dimensional expressions of Dark’s innermost thoughts equally creepy and oddly liberating while offering hope despite the content. How they managed it, I had no idea, and my awe for their talent had me as excited for this show as they were nervous. I’m so happy you’re finally getting the recognition you deserve.

Dark just shrugged, and while I understood it, lived it myself, I hated that they doubted their art.

We’ll see, they said.

Dark! And that ended our private conversation, a young woman hurrying toward us, her short, brown hair in a clipped pixie that suited her round cheeks and pointed chin, the scattering of deep freckles across her nose and down her jawline starkly appealing. I smiled and nodded politely while wishing she’d hurry as she hugged Dark, tall enough to do so without my big friend having to bend but slim where Dark was broad-shouldered, almost delicate in comparison in her thin brown dress, Dark’s Goth kilt and black leather jacket, studded black boots and blunt black bob the total opposite to the woman who embraced them. Not that it seemed to matter to the newcomer, her smile, while rather sad, felt genuine enough, one of her small, slim hands sliding down Dark’s arm to take theirs. Thank you so much for doing this, she said, lovely alto a bit husky as she nodded and smiled back to both myself and Pickle. Naomi Caesar, she said. That would make her the gallery owner.

Phoebe Monday, I said, unable to shake her hand, Pickle introducing himself, too, before Naomi smiled up at Dark again, that sadness in her lingering.

When I had the last-minute cancelation, I knew I had to call you. I can’t wait to see this hung. She gestured at the work we held between us. This way. Pickle gave me a little push with a grin, getting me moving again, while my aching hands begged me to hurry.

Despite the growing weight (or so it seemed) of the art piece and my sudden concern I might not be up to the task after all (please, don’t let me ruin this chance for Dark by dropping their favorite work), I sighed a deep exhale of relief when Naomi stopped us not too far inside the main gallery space, pointing to an empty stretch of wall.

The frame holder made a faint ringing sound as the metal settled on the concrete floor, my cramped and unhappy hands begging me to shake them out, which I did as quickly and privately as I could, not wanting Dark to see my discomfort. They had enough to worry about. Not that I should have even considered they’d pay any attention, as they backed off with Naomi to talk about the space in question, Pickle bumping hips with me and waggling his eyebrows, making a funny face that had me giggling.

Taco Tuesday at your place this week. He frowned at one of his chipped fingernails, the matching green polish his favorite shade of everything. I so admired my best friend, how he’d taken a childhood bully’s nickname for him and turned it into a lifestyle he embraced, long after the bully was forgotten. He shrugged off the damage to his manicure. Need help setting up?

I shook my head, already planning the gathering, so excited to host for the first time since moving into my new place. While I’d imagined what living at the warehouse would be like, the truth of it was far more awesome than I could have ever come up with in my head. With the greenhouse indoor garden right outside my apartment window, the massive building’s interior lined with plants, trees and an actual burbling stream, I not only got to live in a thriving green space community of like-minded artists, I was on my own for the first time in my life.

At a newly minted twenty-five. Finally. Not that I didn’t love my family, I did. More than ever, as a matter of fact. But being the youngest—and unexpected fourth—child of the triunity that was the Monday family, having no actual place in the Maiden, Mother and Crone power structure, being the outsider looking in no matter how much love and attention and welcome Selene, Mom and Isolde offered up, this was the first time I actually felt like my own person.

I shifted my feet, the flicker of discomfort that under rode my happiness surfacing again as it did when I let myself think about the choice I’d made to take Dark up on their offer of the apartment in their amazing complex. While I knew my family was happy for me, it was impossible to miss their undercurrent of sadness at my decision to leave. Mom was, I think, the best at hiding it, though her continual offers of food and deliveries of my favorite meals via power showed how much my absence affected her. As for my sister, Selene’s multiple phone calls per day had dwindled finally to a single long conversation each night around midnight that often ended with her voice thick and, I had no doubt, her hiding the fact she cried when she hung up. She might have been two years older than me and the wielder of the powerful Maiden energy, but she retained an innocence I lacked that always made her feel like the younger sister despite her twenty-seven years.

As for Isolde, my grandmother’s lack of communication had me the most worried, though I knew how busy she was. Her distance and lack of familiar connection troubled me and while I tried not to let it interfere with my joy and freedom, it was that step off that had me the most distressed.

When I let it. Which wasn’t as often as perhaps I should have since they were my family and I loved them very much.

Freedom was still fresh enough that I chose selfishness.

Dark finally rejoined us, gesturing for us to follow, leaving Naomi with the first piece we’d brought in. I hung back, Pickle chattering away at our friend as I sighed and let the rest of what was bothering me surface. Because if I didn’t allow it to emerge and accept and feel it, I’d only end up lying awake all night with my head spinning and mental chatter controlling me.

Instead, I welcomed the sadness that came from the image of Cooper Hudson’s handsome face in my memory, how things had ended between us, knowing it wasn’t my fault but not able to tell him that his leap of judgment had been orchestrated by someone the young officer never should have encountered in the first place, and wouldn’t have if I hadn’t come into his life.

The fact I’d briefly dated someone outside the magical world wasn’t exactly frowned on, but it wasn’t always the best choice, considering it exposed someone without power to those who could make their lives uncomfortable. Case in point. I caught myself scowling at the ground under my feet as I stomped my way to the back of Dark’s truck for the second piece of three, thinking about Cooper and the fact my family’s position made me a target—and anyone I cared about, for that matter—to people like Jericho Richmond.

And yes, I still knew it was for the best Cooper believed that oldest son of the ruling Richmond family, accepted the word of a stranger—and a fake image of me with someone else—as proof I deceived him and led him on. Still hurt, ached deeply, that I hadn’t been able to defend myself. I longed to do so, of course, I did. It wasn’t lost on me that meant I was heartily controlled by my ego and my need to prove myself as much as I clearly cared about the young cop I’d come to adore. Both of those facts made stepping back from Cooper—keeping him safe while living with the daily struggle of wanting to both lash out at Jericho and his ridiculous posse and beg Coop to listen to the truth—the right decision.

I barely noticed when Dark directed me to grasp one end of the long, narrow sculpture encased in bubble wrap and cardboard, the image of a blade being sliced open by a human body, the dichotomy of the peeling sword’s failure under the pressure of