Color Her Dead: A Scarlet Blush Mystery

By Lindsay Lovinger

Artist, art instructor, and art gallery owner Scarlet Blush finds a dead body near the old freight train tracks. The police believe they have the killer in custody, but Scarlet thinks their prisoner is being framed.

Scarlet is on the move for the truth, following a spectrum of clues and colorful suspects, with the help of her employee and good friend, Amber OMalley.

Scarlet mixes up a red-hot palette full of romance with one of the boys in blue, Ambers uncle Aidan.

Scarlet makes a bold move to try to paint her suspects into a corner. But then someone tries to take her out of the picture permanently.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524501174

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I found Dolores Handley’s dead body about thirty feet from where I paint, every Thursday, near the edge of town at the end of the old freight train tracks. Before I found her remains, I had set up my easel and paints, ready to immortalize the late October burgundy, orange and goldenrod leaves, displayed on their branches like carefully crafted floral arrangements. My mind had not yet been clouded with images of murder, becoming entangled in a vicious web of deceit, or of my colorful sanctuary turned into a hideous blood red stain.

I was about to touch paintbrush to paint to canvas, when I heard the loud BANG! I had painted near the edge of town in Marwell Montana for over five years. My spot was around sixty miles from the wildlife that made a home in Grover’s Mountain. The only sounds I’d ever heard at my sanctuary were the occasional chirp of a sparrow, the fluttering of its wings, or the soft whooshing sound of water coming from the lake behind the trees. Since the old freight train, nicknamed as Chuggin’ Gal by its conductor, stopped running over ten years ago, no one ever came to this part of town. So now I was nervous, and I sought out the comforting voice of my best friend, Amber O’Malley.

Amber, I just heard a loud noise and I’m going to see where it came from, and what it was. Can you stay on the line with me?

Of course, but don’t you think you should drive over? You’re kind of vulnerable on foot.

No, Amber. I’m already on my way.

Well what kind of sound was it? Can you describe it?

A big BANG!

Were you painting at your usual place?

Yes, but the sound seemed like it was in the distance heading back toward town.

Scarlet, maybe some kid was shooting off a firecracker.

It’s brisk as an energy drink out here. This whipping wind could rip off Superman’s cape. I don’t think even an ignoramus would rely on where a firecracker would end up in this wind.

Scarlet, I think you should call the police!

Not yet. I’m about twenty feet up the tracks, now. Please just hang on the line with me a little longer.

Okay, but just say the word, and I’ll call Uncle Aidan.

If I see anything odd or hear another BANG, I’ll call your uncle, Detective Aidan O’Malley, myself. Or, I’ll run back to my car. But remember I always have my Mace. Wait, I think I see—. Yes, Amber, I think that’s Bert Barker’s old pickup truck. It’s about ten feet away, parked in the lot that’s on the left side of the tracks. You know his old truck always backfires. That must have been the sound I heard. I’m okay, now. I’m just going to go over and say hello to Bert, and then I’ll get back to my painting. Thanks for staying on the line with me; that sound really spooked me!

Come on, Scarlet. No thanks needed. Just call me back later, and tell Bert hello for me.

I walked toward Bert’s truck, calling out his name, and waving my hands to get his attention. There was no mistaking his pickup relic: a patchwork of rust and red. I was almost there, when his truck peeled off out of sight. I told myself that Bert must not have seen me. But I was curious since Bert knew the location where I painted on Thursdays. So why didn’t he come over to see me? And why did he park so far away? Did he, or did he not see me? I decided I’d ask him, later. My easel and paints were calling.

A sudden gust of wind unwrapped the wool scarf I had carelessly placed around my neck. It blew off to the right side of the tracks, right past a horizontal Dolores Handley. Or, at least I thought it was Dolores: Chanel designer suit, Truly Red nail polish, red high heel pumps and sunlit blonde hair. I called out to Dolores, but she didn’t respond. I ran to her, and that’s when I saw her eyelids were swollen over her eyes, and the rest of her face was covered in dirt and late October debris. Then, I saw the blood. Dolores’ favorite color was red, but not this shade. I checked her neck and wrist for a pulse. I didn’t feel anything.

Where was the blood coming from?

I turned her body gently toward me. There I saw it, a hole right through that Chanel jacket and silk blouse and into her chest. So it wasn’t a backfire, it was a gunshot right through Dolores Handley’s heart.

I called Amber’s uncle, who once had assisted me when my art gallery was being robbed.

Hello, my name is Scarlet Blush. I need to speak to Detective O’Malley! This is an emergency!

This is O’Malley. Scarlet, what’s the emergency?

I just found the dead body of my painting student, Dolores Handley. I found her about thirty feet to the right up from the end of the freight train tracks.

Are you alone with the body, and how do you know the woman is dead?

I checked for a pulse, and she’s lying in a pool of blood.

As I said those chilling words out loud, I began to cry.

O’Malley continued, Scarlet, step away from her body. Did you see anything suspicious before you found her body? And how did you happen upon it in the first place?

I heard a loud BANG, so I walked up the tracks to see where it came from. I was talking to Amber the whole time. Then I saw Bert Barker’s pickup, and I figured the BANG was his truck, backfiring. I thought he saw me, but he just sped off. I turned around and that’s when my scarf blew over toward Dolores’ body.

Scarlet, I’m already on my way to you, with a few more detectives, Pete from the Forensics Department and John O’Connor, our coroner. But if you see or hear anything that’s hinky, go run to your car. We can take your statement at the station. Do you want to stay on the line with me until we get there?

No, thank you, detective. I’ve got to call Amber and let her know what’s happened!

Scarlet, you’re very brave! Detective O’Malley said with an encouraging tone. We’ll be there in under five minutes.

I hung up with the detective and furiously dialed Amber’s number.

Amber, it’s me, Scarlet. I need some of your Chai tea right now, spiked with a couple shots of Scotch.

What’s up, Scarlet?

The police are going to be here any second now!

Really? Are they going to arrest you for assault with a deadly paintbrush? Are you painting with a palette full of contraband oil paint? I’ve heard painting outside the lines is considered a serious offense. Or, were you sniffing that Turpenoid, again? Scarlet? Scarlet, are you there? Are you crying?

Yes! I just found Dolores Handley shot through the heart.

Where are you right now?

I’m about thirty feet from my easel.

Go run to your car! I’ll be there in ten minutes.

No need. Your uncle will be here any minute. I just wanted you to know what happened, and I don’t know how long I’ll be involved with the police. This is just so surreal; that poor woman murdered and lying in a pool of blood!

Murdered, Scarlet! We’ve never had a murder in our small town, Marwell. And of all people, Dolores Handley!

I know! Dolores had such a promising career as a painter, and she was like an outlet of pure energy. What maniac would want to pull her plug? I can’t fathom why she’d be out here, anyway. And I didn’t see her car, so how did she get here? She was wearing those heels she always wore. She certainly couldn’t have walked from town all the way out here in those heels. But I heard the shot. Wouldn’t I have seen a car, or at least a sign of the murderer?

Scarlet, you did see someone. And you did see a car. You saw Bert Barker sitting in his truck.

Amber, you don’t think it’s possible?

I don’t know, Scarlet. You know how Bert drinks. Maybe things just got out of hand.

"But Bert is a happy drunk, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t own a gun. He only started drinking after they forced him into retirement. He just misses being Bert, the ‘Great Freight Train Conductor.’ And Dolores Handley would never have anything to do with Bert. She and her daughter, Janet, are from New York. You know I named them the ‘Chanel Gals’—strictly NY chic. And Bert’s pure small town country so I can’t imagine any way they would have connected. No! I refuse to believe Bert had anything to do with this tragedy. Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe it wasn’t Bert’s truck. Amber, I’ve got to hang up, now. I feel very nauseous. I’ll call you when the police are finished with me."

I could still hear Amber pleading with me to stay on the line, but I felt too sick to continue speaking, so I hung up. Left alone without the voices of O’Malley or Amber, now the only sound I heard was the quick rhythmic beating of my heart. I tried Amber’s deep breathing exercises and meditation. But, I was no Amber. That new age girl could meditate in the wake of a Tsunami. My whole body tensed then intermittent tremors took over, as I realized I might not be alone.

I heard a rustling sound coming from the woods. I prepared myself for the worst scenario. I pulled out my Mace, and pointed it, pointlessly, in every direction. What was I thinking? How would Mace take down a cunning killer with a gun? I tried to settle my nerves with some humor: my Mace, the spray and my fury signifying nothing. The next sound I heard came from my throat and burst through my mouth. My own scream nearly scared me to death. But it worked. The rustling sound I heard seemed to fade as it moved deeper back into the woods. Then I saw the caravan of bright flashing lights and the roar of sirens. Thank God, I thought, soon this nightmare will be over!

Over here, I yelled as I saw several uniformed men approaching.

The detective who arrived first on the scene introduced himself and the others.

I’m Detective O’Lonaghan, that’s Detective O’Reilly, Pete O’Meara from the Forensics Department, John O’Connor, the coroner, and I believe you’ve already met Detective O’Malley.

I thought, one thousand Marwell Montana inhabitants and more than seven hundred of them were of Irish descent. All that was missing from O’Lonaghan’s introduction to me was some Guinness, a Jig, and Celtic background music. And, yes, I sure did know Detective O’Malley.

I knew that O’Malley was no small town bumpkin and that he witnessed and solved many crime scenes when he lived and worked as a detective in Chicago. Amber told me that he came back home to Marwell to help out his elderly parents, Jim and Shannon O’Malley. And, Amber often praised her uncle.

She frequently said, Scarlet, Uncle Aidan really knows his stuff.

One evening, my alarm went off at my gallery. It woke me from a sound sleep. I called the police, and Detective O’Malley got the call. I introduced myself as Ms. Blush, and frantically expressed my fear and vulnerability. Detective O’Malley provided a logical and comforting solution to my dilemma.

Ms. Blush, lock your studio door, and don’t try and be a hero. I’ll be at your gallery within five minutes. I’ll yell for you to come downstairs as soon as I finish surveillance of the area and it’s safe. Then I’ll flash my badge. Don’t worry, Ms. Blush, you’re in good hands.

All I could get out was, It’s Scarlet, detective, Scarlet Blush.

I locked my studio door as instructed and, as promised, within five minutes I heard, Open up, Scarlet Blush. It’s Detective O’Malley.

I put on my robe hastily, and walked tentatively down the stairs.

Spotting my trepidation, O’Malley flashed his badge and said, I found the culprits; ten-year old would-be vandals who managed to break in, but were scared off by the alarm. They’re sitting in my squad car. They won’t bother you again. They’ll be servants of the law when I get through with them.

That was the end of the little minions’ life of crime, but it began a long-term flirtation between Detective O’Malley and me. Like myself, O’Malley is in his early thirties, and is single and dedicated to his work. He has ungodly hours, and so he rarely dates. But he sure can flirt!

When he was about to leave my gallery, he said, Scarlet your place is secure. But I can’t say the same for your robe.

I looked down and saw my open robe; only a see through nightie provided coverage from my naked body.

I turned as red as my name and, with humiliating speed, wrapped back inside my fleecy cocoon.

O’Malley grinned and said, Don’t sweat it, Scarlet. Let’s just call it a perk of my job.

Then he flashed those emerald eyes with golden flecks. And he removed his hat and shook his crimson and blood-orange colored hair, which was as dense as a Chia pet.

He tipped his hat, winked and said, Good night, gorgeous.

What a specimen! What a subject for a painting! O’Malley lying in my four-poster, robe open. Paint—optional.

Detective O’Reilly’s voice interrupted my steamy fantasy. Where’s the gun, Scarlet? he asked.

I realized I never saw a gun. I told O’Reilly I had no idea.

O’Reilly snapped at me, Scarlet, open your satchel and your purse and empty your coat pockets.

Did he really think I was capable of murder?

Scarlet, don’t worry, O’Malley reassured with a comforting smile. It’s standard procedure.

I dumped everything I had in my purse, dropped some clean paint rags and paintbrushes from my satchel, and pulled out the pockets of my overcoat. O’Reilly, that jerk, started to frisk me, but O’Malley stopped him. Yes I had history with O’Reilly, but it wasn’t good.

O’Malley looked at me and said, You’ve cooperated with us, Scarlet. Clearly you don’t have the gun. And O’Reilly, why the hell would Scarlet have called us if she had done the dirty deed?

O’Reilly grimaced at me and said, Maybe Scarlet wanted to throw us off her track.

I wanted to hit O’Reilly hard with my purse, but that made me realize I had not seen Dolores’ purse.

Detectives, Dolores’ purse is missing, I blurted. She always carried a big, bright red purse.

Suddenly I was left alone with Pete and O’Connor, watching a frenzy of detectives combing the tracks and the woods for the gun and the purse.

O’Malley called out to me, Scarlet, stay where you are. You’ll need to come to the station when we’re done here.

I yelled out, Okay, but O’Malley and the other detectives now were deep in the distance.

Pete and O’Connor attended to Dolores’ body and my thought returned to Bert Barker and his peculiar disappearance. I remembered the first time I saw Bert. I was nine years old, and he was still a freight train conductor wearing Levi overalls and a conductor’s hat. He had a rugged, weathered face, and his hands looked like alligator skin. He had one front tooth missing, but that didn’t stop him from smiling. I thought it was one of the sweetest smiles I’d ever seen. And he was the bravest man I had ever met!

Help Me, I yelled, as I was tapped on the shoulder, and I jumped around to face my attacker.

What the hell, Detective O’Lonaghan? You nearly scared me to death!

Sorry, Scarlet, O’Lonaghan apologized. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like some kind of Ninja. I just needed to tell you our search came up empty. No gun, no purse, no other personal effects. We searched over fifty feet of tracks and woods. It’s time to take the body to the station. I’ll walk you back to your car, and you can collect your painting things, but you’ll have to follow us. You need to be checked for gunpowder residue; it’s standard procedure.

I had been part of a funeral procession before, but this trip to the station felt like I was traveling to another dimension of space and time. When we arrived at the station, I watched Pete and John O’Connor carry Dolores in her black zippered death wrap to the basement morgue. Detective O’Malley opened the door of a glass enclosed interview room, pulled out my chair, and I sat and waited. Detective Price entered the room and introduced himself. He told me he would be taking my formal statement. Then he would take me downstairs to be tested for residue. He told me if everything checked out, I would be able to go home and get a good night’s sleep. A good night’s sleep? I knew there wasn’t enough wine or spirits in the whole of Marwell to make that happen!

Detective Price left the room and came back in with bottled water and a donut. Perhaps that was the upscale version of bread and water. But I was grateful for the jailhouse cliché. I sat in my chair, quietly eating the donut, waiting for my stay of execution. Then Detective Price took me downstairs to the Forensics Department. Pete checked for residue, but he found none. Detective Price escorted me back to my interview room, and I sat, nervously, awaiting my interrogation. I watched as O’Reilly walked a shaky, confused Bert Barker right by my room.

Bert yelled out, Ms. Scarlet! What are you doin’ here?

O’Reilly pulled Bert out of my sight as Price and O’Malley entered my room. My fingernails tapped in a frenzied pace until O’Malley gently placed my arms at my side. Then, the questioning began. First was O’Malley.

Scarlet, did anyone know you painted at your location every Thursday? If so, I’ll need a full list of names.

All my advanced painting students knew, detective; Dolores and Janet Handley, Tim Dublin, Jim O’Mara, Eddie Farino, Lisbeth Shaunessey, Carol McCarthy and Erin Minogue. Oh, and Bert Barker, Dick Harper and, of course, Amber. But why do you need to know about these people?

Price interjected, It’s possible that you may have been the target, Scarlet. Bert may have been walking toward you with a gun. Dolores may have been on her way over to you and saw Bert with the gun. He couldn’t afford a witness, so he might have shot her. Then it would have dawned on him that you would hear the shot and call the police. So he would have jumped back in his truck and sped off.

My body turned icy cold as I shivered, uncontrollably. I was the target? Bert was the killer? Dolores was the target? Dolores was the killer? Maybe Bert killed Dolores before she could kill me. All these thoughts, impossibly possible? Ridiculous, I thought. Dolores, pistol packing, and walking miles in those open-toe two-inch red heels to kill me? I pulled myself together and came back to reality.

Detective Price, Bert and I have been friends for years, I explained. "He was a regular fixture at my art gallery every Tuesday morning. We had tea, and I taught him bits and pieces