Free Draw (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 2) Read Online Free Page B

slightly beyond that. Charles, she said, had told her to call the sheriff.
    “God, I thought the least he could do was call, or help me call. I was, of course, totally unnerved. He didn’t get out of bed at all until the sheriff’s men were coming up to see me. I was alone, all that time. It must have been at least fifteen minutes.”
    Now we were getting to the important part. “About your identification of the man, the one you saw running. Are you absolutely sure it was Artie Perrine’s nephew Alan?” Alan had already admitted he had been down there, but maybe someone else had been there, too.
    “Oh, yes,” she insisted. “It was he.” She said “It was he” as though she were very much aware that she was speaking correctly.
    Occasionally, throughout our conversation, she had tossed in a touch of what sounded like an English accent. I figured she was probably from a small town in Indiana. Maybe Ohio. I was having a hard time lasting through this session with her. Part of the increasing, sandpapery irritation I was feeling came from the confusing signals I was getting from her. They kept leaping out of her skin, sexual signals of some kind. But they didn’t quite hit me, if I was, indeed, the target. She just seemed to pop open every now and again like a full seed pod, shooting off in all directions. I got up from the loveseat and strolled around the room, wondering what it would feel like if one of the seeds hit me by accident. Carlota, meanwhile, was making her way, a little clumsily, back toward the decanter. I shook my head when she waved the thing at me.
    “Yes,” she was repeating, “I’m sure it was he. I’m sorry if this has created difficulty for Mr. Perrine, but the boy shouldn’t have lied to the police.” I agreed with her. I was standing in front of the artfully arranged exhibit of paintings, wondering if she’d seen anything down there besides Alan and the body, wondering if she would have noticed anything else if there’d been something else to see. How early had she started drinking?
    “I see you’re enjoying our artwork,” she said.
    “Oh, yes. Very good. I can’t make out the signature.”
    “Nona Delvecchio.” She said the name as if it had special significance. I’ve been to a few art shows here and there, and I don’t think I’m a complete moron when it comes to painting, but I’d never heard of the woman.
    “Local?”
    “Very.” She flashed a crooked smile. “She lives here with me.” Carlota pointed at the portrait near the piano. “That’s a self-portrait.”
    I took another look. Dark hair, full lips, angry eyes. “Has she had many shows?” I was just making conversation while I thought about what else I could ask this woman, but she wasn’t pleased with the question.
    “Not many. It isn’t easy, you know, to get recognition.”
    “I understand that,” I said reassuringly. “Was she here when you found the body?”
    “No. As I said, I was alone. Nona was at work. She’s here now, but she’s painting.” She waved vaguely toward a door in the living room wall. “In her studio.”
    “Who plays the piano?”
    “I do.” She warmed up again.
    “That’s wonderful,” I said. “Professionally?”
    Another wrong move. I was trying to keep her on my side, but paying occupations seemed to be a sore point with her. The room had chilled again.
    “I teach. But primarily I am a filmmaker.”
    I nodded. “It isn’t easy to get recognition.”
    She lifted her chin. She was still standing near the decanter and stretched out an arm to pull a magazine off the bookshelf. She waved it at me.
    “But I’m about to get some,” she said. “In this.”
    I walked over to look at what she was holding. It was a slick little item called
The Marin Journal of the Arts.
A monthly. I cocked my head inquiringly.
    “They are going to print a review of my films. In fact, the critic is stopping in to see me later this afternoon.”
    I was impressed. “Where are they