Page 12 of Jasmine Street Blues

“But nice try,” Mac said in what he hoped was a supportive voice. “It would be a good idea if Colt worked that way, but he doesn’t. All we can do is police the old fashioned way.”

“Got it, Chief.” Zach backed away, said goodnight, and rejoined his friends at a small table several feet away. The kid looked defeated, dejected.

When the band took the stage again, Mac nodded to a busy Tuck and headed for the door. The rain was still coming down, but he couldn’t stay here all night. Might as well go home and try to get some sleep.

On the way he might drive by Loran’s house, just to check on her. Would her lights be on? Would she be alone?

Was she the sweet, shy woman she seemed to be?

His instincts still insisted she had big, bad secrets.

* * *

If there were no chores keeping Loran busy on a Monday, she sometimes went to her studio to work. Paint, paperwork, cleaning. She was closed to the public, but there was always something to be done. She couldn’t work at home, not when she had dead people needling her to paint their faces, so she painted flowers and landscapes in her studio, which was was set up in the back half of the pink house. With big windows on two sides, the natural light was fantastic, perfect for her work.

No one was allowed in her home studio, not ever, but here, in this public space where anyone might look in, she was disciplined. Here she was able to shut out the people, the dead, who crept into her brain and insisted that their portrait be painted.

As long as she gave them their time after hours they allowed her to have peace here. If not, she would’ve gone completely looney years ago.

In the early days, before she’d understood what was going on, she’d put those portraits up for sale. They were simply the product of an artist’s rare inspiration mixed with imagination. She couldn’t say where the faces came from, couldn’t explain why it happened, on occasion. A few of the portraits had sold; they’d become popular in her own small Tennessee town.

Until a woman walked into her shop and saw a portrait of her husband. Her dead husband, though at the time she hadn’t realized he was deceased. She thought he’d run away from home, leaving her behind. She believed he’d deserted her. In the portrait her husband wore the same shirt and jeans he’d had on when he’d walked out of the house.

The accusations that followed were brutal. At first the woman thought Loran had been having an affair with her husband, that he was hidden away somewhere with his young, artist lover. When his body had been discovered in a wooded area outside town, weeks after the initial confrontation, more questions had been fired at her. From the police, this time, even though it was clear the man had died in a one-car accident. They found no evidence of foul play, and still they looked at her as if she must’ve had something to do with the man’s death.

Dating a cop, even once, was a bad idea.

There had been nothing to connect her to the dead man, nothing but the portrait. No one could explain that away, though they’d tried. The people who came into her studio after that weren’t looking to purchase art, they came to stare at the artist. They came to investigate and accuse.

Loran wanted a quiet life. She definitely didn’t like curious strangers at her door, asking probing questions. In her small town she’d been easy to find. Word was out. Something spooky was up with Loran Raine. So she’d packed up and moved to a bigger town in Florida, hoping she’d blend in, get lost, be invisible. She’d changed her look and used a different last name when she could. As long as she wasn’t required to show her ID, she could get away with that. She’d actually lived in her old van for a few weeks, before she’d found a small room to rent.

That had worked for a while, until she’d relaxed and started dating a nice guy she’d run into in a small cafe not far from her ratty hotel. One that accepted cash and didn’t ask questions. How many times had she spoken to him there before they started having lunch together? Just a few.

Loran had left the hotel behind and moved into Henry’s apartment. Everything had been beautiful, for a while. She’d begun to think of a normal life, a man to call her own, love, maybe even children, one day. Talk about living in a fantasy world!

She’d ruined it all by painting a portrait of Henry’s mother, a woman Loran had never met. Mom had been dead two years, the victim of a mugging that had turned into a murder. Henry had wandered into her home studio one night, where the sight of his mother’s portrait had shocked him.

Loran couldn’t explain it away, but she tried. Coincidence. Maybe she’d seen a photo lying around. Was there a photo on his social media? Maybe she’d seen it and the image had planted itself in her brain. Nothing worked. He’d never looked at her the same way again.

Then the accusations started. Henry was certain Loran knew something about his mother’s death. It was the only explanation that made sense to him. He’d even accused her of being involved. Of stalking him, of targeting him in his favorite restaurant. Nothing else made sense to him. After all, in the picture his mother wore the clothes she’d been wearing when she’d been killed. How else could she know?

So she’d run. She always ran.

Similar scenarios happened again, and then again, though she put all thoughts of romance out of her mind, after Henry. Loran basically became a hermit. She didn’t get close to anyone; it was too dangerous. She never displayed the portraits for sale. She did her best to hide them, but she couldn’t make herself destroy the painted faces that were sometimes sad, sometimes horrified, and other times at peace. She hid them as best she could, in her van, in her home — wherever that might be at the time. She might go for months without being compelled to paint one of the portraits, and now and then she’d think the curse had ended. It had not.

No matter how hard she tried to hide it, her secret was always discovered.

She painted dead people. Quite a few of the subjects had never been identified, but many of those who had been had died violently. Murder, drowning, a car wreck on a narrow road, a fall down the stairs. When she was discovered and had to come up with an explanation, she did her best. She’d seen a picture online and the face must’ve been in the back of her head. They’d passed on a busy street, or had lunch in the same cafe. Most accepted her feeble explanations, but all too often they did not.

Acceptance was easier than the alternative.

The loud knock made her jump. Thank goodness her paintbrush hadn’t been touching the canvas at the time. No one came to the back! The business was closed on Monday, and the mail would be held until tomorrow. There was no reason for anyone to bang on the back door.

Unless she’d been found. She’d just been thinking of Henry; he’d almost found her once before. Maybe twice. Loran almost dropped to her knees. Her life had been quiet lately, but there was a reason she kept such a low profile. There were people in the world who knew her secret and were determined to grill her, to accuse her, to dig for answers she didn’t have.

Another knock, then Olive’s voice through the door. “Her van is here. Let’s try around front.”

Loran rushed to the door and swung it open on Olive and Anna, who’d just started to walk around the building. “Sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I was painting, lost in the zone.”