Karin Slaughter - Like A Charm

'But not for long,' he murmured.

Another vacant-eyed 'Hmmm?'

He smiled and patted her hand. 'Nothing, my dear. I'm glad you like the bracelet.'

Wednesday, August 12

Abby lifted the crimson-coated brush, in her mind seeing the paint move from the bristles to the canvas. No, not quite right. She lowered the brush and studied the picture. The red would be too harsh. Too expected. She needed something more surprising there. She laid the brush aside. Tomorrow she'd be better able to concentrate on finding the right shade. Tonight… She smiled. Well, tonight she had other things on her mind.

She moved the painting to the locked room in the back, then picked up the canvas propped against the wall and placed it on the now-vacant easel. She looked at the half-finished seascape. No room for surprises there. Blue sea, blue sky, white and grey rocks. Assembly-line art. This was what her talent was reduced to, putting her name on schlock while her true work was shipped out of the country and sold under a false name so Gregory didn't find out. Seascapes made money. Money made Gregory happy. So Abby painted seascapes, seascapes, and more seascapes, with the occasional crumbling barn thrown in for variety.

She glanced at the clock. Soon, very soon.

She lifted the brush to clean it, then stopped, and stared at the painting. As if of its own accord, her hand moved to the canvas and the bristles streaked red across the surf. Too much red. She daubed the tip in the white and brushed it lightly through the red, thinning and spreading it until it became a pink clot on the wave. The surf tinted with blood. A small smile played on Abby's lips. Then she took a fresh brush and blotted out the red with indigo.

As she painted, a blob of blue fell on her arm. She swiped at it absently, then stopped, seeing the blue swirl against her pale skin. It looked like a Maori tattoo. She dabbed her finger in the paint and accentuated the resemblance. There. Cheaper than henna, less permanent than ink. As she laughed, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror across the room and grinned.

Any minute now she'd hear the key turn in the back lock. And then… A rush of heat started in her belly and plunged down. She looked at her reflection again, gaze dropping to the twin dots pressing hard against the front of her sundress. She rolled her shoulders and sighed as the fabric brushed her nipples. Still looking in the mirror, she unzipped her dress and let it fall. She grinned at her reflection. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Her eyes went to the blue tattoo on her forearm. An unexpected burst of colour. She turned to the easel, lifted the paint brush and grazed it lightly across one hardened nipple. She sighed, then tickled the brush hairs around the aureole of her other nipple.

Another dip of paint, ochre this time. She stroked lines down her torso, shivering at the cool touch of the paint against her skin. Next the red, on her stomach, drawing lazy circles and zigzags. She parted her legs, lowered the brush and swirled it across her inner thigh. As she painted lower, she let the end of the brush dart between her legs, prodding like an uncertain lover's finger, hesitant yet eager. Each time it made contact, she caught her breath and glanced at her expression in the mirror. She forced herself to finish her work, painting the other thigh to match the first, letting the brush tip probe her only when it came in contact naturally. Then, when she finished, she took the brush and turned it around, so her hand wielded the plastic tip instead of the paint-soaked bristle. She spread her legs and used the tip to tickle the hard nub within.

The back door clicked open. Abby grinned and lifted the brush, painting one last stroke of red from her crotch to her breasts. A bustle of motion in the doorway, silence, then a sharp intake of breath.

Abby looked up, and flourished a hand at her painted body.

'What do you think?' she said. 'A work of art?'

'A masterpiece.'

Friday, August 14

Gregory switched the cellphone to his other ear and took his keys from the ignition.

'Yes, that's right, a room on the west side. Not the east side. There was construction on the east side last time and it kept me up all night.' He paused. 'Good. Hold on, there's more. I want extra towels. Your house-cleaning staff never leave enough towels.'

The hotel clerk assured him everything would meet his satisfaction. It wouldn't, though. Gregory would make sure of that. He'd find something to pester them about at the front desk, raise a little fuss, just enough so that when the police asked the clerk whether she remembered Gregory, she'd roll her eyes and say 'Oh, yes, I remember him'.

Once he'd finished here, he'd stop by Deanna's cottage and make sure everything was ready. He chuckled. Deanna was ready, that was certain. Ready, willing and chomping at the bit. She wanted to be free of Abby almost as much as he did. Last night when he'd gone by to finalize the plans, he'd barely made it through the door before she'd pounced and given him a taste of what life would be like post-Abby. He felt himself harden at the memory. A remarkable woman, Deanna was. He only hoped everything went well tonight. It would be a shame to lose her.

Last night she'd suggested – not for the first time – that she join him at the hotel, so she could corroborate his alibi. He'd gently reminded her that this wasn't a wise idea. When the police dug into his personal life, he knew they'd find he had a history of infidelity, but there was no sense doing their homework for them. Or so he'd told Deanna. The truth was that Gregory didn't want anyone seeing them together tonight. Better to leave her behind… in close proximity to his about-to-be-murdered wife.

Not that he had any intention of offering up Deanna as a scapegoat. But, well, if things went bad, it always helped to have a plan B. Deanna had bought the weapons and the tools, so it would be easy enough to steer the police in her direction. If the need arose, he had a speech all prepared, the heart-rending confession of an unfaithful husband who had realized he still loved his wife and told his mistress it was over, then made the tragic mistake of leaving on a business trip to Halifax that same day, never dreaming his scorned lover might wreak her revenge while he was gone. He'd practised his lines in front of the mirror until he could choke up on cue.

He pushed open the door to the gallery. A muted laugh tinkled out, followed by a deep chuckle that grated down Gregory's spine. He paused, holding the door half shut so the greeting bell wouldn't alert Abby and Zack. The murmur of their voices floated out from the back room. Zack laughed again. Gregory eased the door open, trying to slide in before it opened wide enough to set off the bell. He was halfway through when it chimed.

The voices in the back room stopped suddenly. Zack peeked around the corner, saw who it was, then said something to Abby, too low for Gregory to hear. The intern backed out of the studio.

'Ab? I'll grab coffee on my way back, OK?'

Abby appeared from the back room, carrying a wrapped canvas, and beamed a smile at Zack. 'Perfect. Thanks.'

As Zack strode out the front door, he slid a half-smirk Gregory's way, as if being allowed to play errand boy for Abby was some great honour Gregory could only dream of. Art student, my ass. The kid looked as if he should be riding the waves, not painting them. Not that Gregory cared. If Abby wanted to play teacher with California 's Picasso, she was welcome to him. He only hoped the kid wouldn't cause trouble later.

'I sold the new Martin's Point oil,' Abby said, laying the canvas on the counter. 'Got the asking price, too. A couple from Chicago. Once they heard the exchange rate, they didn't care to dicker.'

'Good, good. I just stopped by to make sure everything was OK before I left for my meeting.'