Color Me Dead: Henry Park, #1

CHAPTER ONE

S o, seriously, you’re going to some dude’s house in Henry Park, sight unseen, so you can draw for him? And I thought I was the risk-taker, said my brother, Mitch. Our car was stuffed with boxes, computers, clothes, and a beagle named Luigi, who was presently breathing on my neck.

Mitch shared my hazel eyes and unruly brown hair. On him, the curl was just enough to be handsome. My hair had the same texture but hung in brown waves to my shoulders. Mitch and I left Henry Park, Colorado, when I was fifteen years old and Mitch was ten. Our parents divorced, and my mother took the two of us to Denver to be near my grandparents. I remembered so much about the little town nestled in the mountains. Henry Park had two income streams: tourism and the beautiful Lake Henry.

"This is not a risk. I have the chance to work for Clarence Bradford. You know, the guy who writes those Adventure Kid books."

I remember those. Mom used to read them to me. He reached back and petted the dog, who was slobbering all over the window. And you’re okay with taking Luigi?

I guess. Would you mind telling me what got you kicked out this time?

I’d rather not.

If you’re going to be my babysitting job, I think I deserve to know. My brother had been attending college for six years and was still in pursuit of his undergrad degree. His major was always a mystery to me, unless of course there is a major in wine, women, and song. If beer pong could be a career path, my brother would have his doctorate by now.

Fine. He gave in. There was this fight. It was at a bar. They’re thinking of pressing charges, and I’m still in for the damages.

How much?

A couple hundred, but I swear to you I didn’t start it.

Tell it to the judge.

I did, and she made me move in with you. I had to wonder which one of us my mother intended to punish, Mitch or me.

Mitch pulled out his phone and activated the mapping function. Here, let me put in his address. We’ll look at this dude’s house.

I fished the piece of paper I had written the address on out of my pocket and handed it to Mitch. When he hit satellite on the map, a house set back from the road came into view. It was nearly hidden by the giant trees surrounding it.

Nice, Mitch held it up for me to see. A two-story red brick home peeked out from a heavily wooded area. The map showed it to be situated just outside town on Lake Henry. Looks legit, but it could still be just an address the killer gave you.

Stop. I’m taking an illustration job, and that’s all.

That’s probably what the last artist said before the guy buried him in the woods.

I nudged his shoulder with mine. Shut up.

We pulled up to a stoplight and watched as a young family crossed the street, their ice cream cones dripping onto the sidewalk. The shadow of the mountains behind us seemed a perfect fit for the colorful storefronts. I relaxed as a group of senior citizens followed the family with the ice cream. If you drove down Main Street in July, you could buy Colorado T-shirts, fudge that would melt on your tongue, and an authentic cowboy hat made in Taiwan. After a day in town, a family could camp at the lake and swim in the chilly water. At night you could see a million stars, something I was sad to have missed in my urban life. Once September hit, the tourists wandered off, the snow started falling, and the real town of Henry Park came alive.

The cold water ran through my clothes, my hair was floating behind me, my hand grasped at the mud, and it was quiet, so quiet, except for the sound of footsteps—walking away. I was dead.

A horn honked from behind me.

Come on, Gabby, you’re holding up traffic, Mitch scolded as he waved and smiled at the car behind us. You zoned out there for a minute.

Sorry. I took a breath. This was a part of myself I didn’t reveal to others. I saw snippets of things that were about to happen but didn’t feel comfortable telling anyone else about it—not even Mitch. Start telling people you see things and they begin to think you’re crazy. Most of the time, the things that came to me were inconsequential. Lost keys, a brush with an annoying person, an important phone call, these were all things that benefited me. It was like I had an angel on my shoulder. Seeing this woman’s dead hand in the water was different. For the first time, I felt afraid.

Being an artist, I tended to notice small details—the shaft of light from the window, the shading on the furniture, a touch of red on a shirt collar. Other people might not see these things, but to me, they were as evident as a sign on the Las Vegas strip.

Are you still smoking? Because if you need a cigarette … Mitch asked.

Of course not, I lied. Didn’t Mother tell you I quit? The truth was I still craved a smoke every hour of every day, but I wasn’t ready to reveal that to him.

She told me, but I wasn’t sure I believed her.

I kicked the habit. It just takes discipline.

Mitch started tapping on his forehead and repeating, I will not get into bar fights. I will not get into bar fights.

My mother, a hospital administrator in Denver, had dumped Mitch off on me hoping that I could help him adjust to the real world. She thought I was the kid who had it together. I didn’t contradict her, just felt guilty later as I opened a pack of cigarettes and tried to figure out what bills not to pay that month. I was far from perfect.

As we drove through the busiest section of town, I remembered so many of the buildings. The Saloon was still there, filled with tourists in the peak of summer traffic. They walked with their cameras around their necks and their children running ahead of them. Taking a breath of the mountain air, I was rewarded with a whiff of fudge from Rocky Mountain Sweets. I had my first kiss outside that store. It was tender and sweet. Tim Hudson, a gangly teenage boy with a crooked smile and a twinkle in his eye, had been my first love. He’d probably moved away by now.

Even though the candy store was still there, some things had changed. There was a gourmet restaurant named Hummingbirds where El Diablo, the Mexican restaurant, used to operate, and the old newsstand was now some kind of bookstore. At the edge of Main Street a McDonald’s and Starbucks had moved into our business district, effectively ruining that Old West feeling.

How long will this take? Mitch asked as we drove to my first meeting with Clarence Bradford.

Not too long. Are you sure that dog of yours will behave?

I told you, Luigi is a tactically trained dog. He obeys commands and everything.

From my observations, Luigi was a stinky, lazy, junk food-addicted beagle who seemed to think the couch was his own personal doggie bed.

As we drove out of the tourist area, we came to the neighborhoods of the people who lived in Henry Park year-round . The streets were familiar, but I wasn’t completely sure where everything was.

Mitch turned back. Any women up here?

I’m sure you’ll find your fill of store clerks and saloon girls. My brother always seemed to find someone to ask out wherever he was. I didn’t know if he just loved women in general or if he was searching for someone special. In any case, it was a revolving door of girls with him.

When we were only a few miles from our destination, Mitch yawned. He’d come in late last night and still looked a bit hungover. Let’s stop at a little store or something so I can use the bathroom before we get to the big house. I had to laugh at his choice of words. It wasn’t like we were going to prison, but one thing Mitch had was a flair for the dramatic.

We pulled into O’Henry’s Convenience Store just a few miles down the road from our destination. The faded siding on the front sported the classic red-and-white Coca-Cola sign with a dripping bottle of Coke enticing thirsty customers. After leaving a window cracked for Luigi, Mitch hurried inside while I filled up the car with the gas. I decided to pick up a candy bar before we got to Clarence Bradford’s house. It wouldn’t do for me to be sitting there with my stomach grumbling.

A couple of boys in their late teens came out of the store, and one of them pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jeans pocket. They ripped open the fresh pack and lit up. I so wished I was the one inhaling that nicotine. I hadn’t had a cigarette for hours, and I wanted one so bad I felt like my eyes were crossing. After pumping gas, I wondered if I could buy some cigarettes while Mitch was in the restroom. He had all the bad habits in the world. I should just tell him about my one vice. Still, though, how long would it be before it got back to my mother? If I were to be my brother’s keeper, I should at least look like the grown-up in the room.

I noticed a tall man standing out in the parking lot watching the road. His light-brown hair was sheared short, and he wore a brown plaid shirt tucked into dark jeans. Our eyes met for a second, but then he looked away. He must have had a flat tire, or maybe he was meeting someone.

Just then a car pulled off from the road, and a man emerged and shook hands with the tall stranger. I entered O’Henry’s and eyed the men’s room. Mitch was still in there. I opened my mouth to direct an elderly gentleman with a potbelly, who was working behind the counter, to grab me a pack of cigarettes. I was already dreaming of the moment I could steal time to smoke one of those beauties.

Mitch stepped out of the men’s room. I was busted. I’d have to sneak back later. I put my hand on his shoulder. I’m getting a candy bar. Would you like one? It’s on me.

Mitch grinned at my suggestion. He loved to eat. It was the tried-and-true way to get him off track. Absolutely.

CHAPTER TWO

We pulled into the driveway of a home nestled into the banks of Lake Henry. The overhanging roof, a dark silver color, provided ample shade on the front porch. As if guarding the home against the outside world, stone pillars stood on either side of the door. I parked my car on the circular drive that made its way through the deep, green lawn. Clarence Bradford’s home was well-kept, and the square corners and functional design reflected a sense of order. The light played between the two pillars, creating stripes on the slats of the porch. Built up on the mountainside, the house almost looked like a natural part of the landscape.

Standing on the porch was a man I recognized from his book covers: Clarence Bradford. He was still quite handsome for his age, and his outfit—a forest-green button-down shirt, blue jeans, and hiking boots—told me every day was casual Friday. His silvery hair augmented his healthy tan.

You made it. He took in my cotton flowered tunic, my favorite pair of jeans, and the high tops I was wearing and said, You are young.

Maybe the high tops were a little much, but they were my favorite shoes. Even in my late twenties, I still hadn’t shed this style of footwear left over from my teens. Maybe it was the artist in me not conforming to uncomfortable heels that made my knees wobble. Clarence stood next to a tray set with a pitcher of tea and glasses. You made good time. I was just on a break and decided you might be near and need some iced tea.

Luigi leaped out of the car first and ran like a maniac around the yard.

Will he run off? I asked.

Mitch scowled. I told you. Luigi is the product of discipline and training. He’ll let off a little steam and then be back to his guard-dog status. From the wild look in Luigi’s eyes as he tried to bounce off a pine tree, I doubted his strict training included that.

Trying to put Luigi out of my thoughts, I gave an awkward little wave to my new employer. Hi. I’m Gabby and this is my brother, Mitch.

My brother walked over and plopped into a chair, grabbed an icy glass, and kicked off his flip-flops. Excellent, Mr. Bradford.

Please, call me Clarence.

Clarence then, he said, downing the tea in almost one gulp. Nothing like a hangover to make you thirsty.

I took a seat in the third chair. The smell of pine trees was so intense around me that it gave me the giddy feeling of Christmas. You have a beautiful home, Clarence.

"Yes, it’s where I get all of my inspiration. But, of course, growing up around here you already knew how beautiful it was. If I had to write the Adventure Kid books in the city, I don’t think they’d be any good. Can’t exactly have my little adventurers taking the subway to get to their next escapade." He refilled Mitch’s glass.

Working here, I paused to look around at the towering trees and listen to the birdsong emanating from them, sounds like paradise. I work in coffee shops a lot myself.

Ugh, what a terrible thing. I don’t know how people concentrate in those places, he said in disgust.

Earbuds, I answered.

Excuse me? Obviously, Clarence Bradford had no need to block out sound and pump in music.

I pulled my earbuds out of my pocket. These things.

Oh, yes. I see young people wearing them all the time. It’s like they have to have an extension cord wherever they go. Seems kind of ridiculous-looking to me.

You’re so right, Clarence, Mitch said. What I hate is hearing people’s phone conversations in the store. Do they even know how stupid they look having a heart-to-heart in the middle of the hemorrhoid creams?

Clarence’s laugh boomed from his chest as he slapped his knee. I can see you’re going to make this summer interesting, Mitch.

Mitch makes every summer interesting, I added. We’re renting a house on the other side of the lake, so it will be easy for me to come to work over here.

That’s good. Would you like to see where we’ll be working?

I followed Clarence Bradford to what I thought would be a book-lined study, complete with the smell of cherry tobacco and a roaring fire. Instead, he took me to a room at the back of the house almost entirely encased in windows. There were blinds built into the double panes of glass. Clarence Bradford’s study wasn’t an office at all. It was an air-conditioned room on the lake.

This is beautiful, I said, spinning around. I don’t know how you get any work done here.

Oh, but that’s the secret to writing outdoor adventure books for kids. I write them practically outdoors, with the modern conveniences of air conditioning and Internet. It’s my oasis.

What a fantastic idea. The wall facing the windows was lined floor to ceiling with books. As an artist, I appreciated just how much there was to see from Clarence Bradford’s view of Lake Henry.

Do the people going by in their boats watch you? I mean, do you feel like you don’t have any privacy here?

Tinted windows. I can see them, but they can’t see me. Wouldn’t have it any other way.

The view was stunning, and I also made a mental note that whenever I needed a cigarette, I shouldn’t smoke it within view of this office if I wanted to keep it a secret. As I looked across the lake, the wavy line of the shore caught my eye. It looked like something I had seen before. I stepped closer to the glass.

Are you a bird-watcher? Clarence asked.

Uh, no. I just thought I saw something familiar.

Is your house visible from here?

No. We’re too far away, and our house is on the other side of the road.

I glanced back at the shoreline. My shoulders began to feel cold, and I held onto my arms. The vision was trying to come in again. I must be close to whatever it was that was causing the woman with the cold hand to invade my senses.

I must have the air conditioning up too high in here. You’re shivering, he said, his eyes never leaving mine.

No, I’m fine. Really.

Of course … he said but then asked once more, You’re sure you’re alright, now.

Yes. I turned my back to the window. This is my first children’s book, so I’m sure I have a lot to learn, I confessed, changing the subject.

We’ll figure it out. I believe creativity only works when you let it flow. Change your mind here and there.

I had to agree. I had been a rebel in my art classes, choosing to take what they taught me and bending it to the way I saw things. They might hold the paintbrush, but I held the picture in my head. Getting it from there to the paper was never a process that happened the same way twice. There was no cookie-cutter approach to producing what I imagined.

"We also run a bookstore in town where my work is, of course, always the main feature. I have a manager for that. We do good business in the summer. People bring their kids to see the home of the Adventure Kids Books, and we happily accept cash or credit cards."

Wow, so you’re all set up.

"When you become an international author loved by millions of children, the paperwork can be overwhelming. Especially when you find yourself out there all alone without a New York publisher backing you up. When I first started back in the seventies, the publisher did all of the promotional work. I just sat back and wrote books. It’s not like that today. Now I have