“Well, as to your complaint, I can still be decent at this hour, but if you feel the need to be indecent, don’t let me stop you.”
“I didn’t . . . that’s not what I . . . grrrr. Just come in,” she snips, standing to one side of the opening. When I walk past her, I inhale her clean, floral smell. It’s definitely lilac, but there’s a darker, muskier undertone that takes it from innocent to seductive. I can’t imagine a scent more perfectly suiting a woman, suiting this woman, with her brisk mood swings and complete inability to hide what she’s feeling. She’s hot and cold, fire and ice, sexy and wholesome. She couldn’t be any more different than me if she tried, and I find it oddly refreshing. For the most part, people are predictable, but not this woman. I get the feeling she’s anything but predictable.
I wait for her to shut the door and I follow Muse into a cozy living room. The palate of the room is surprisingly bland with its dark hardwoods and grayish furniture, but it makes her use (and obvious love) of color that much more noticeable. From the bold red throw pillows to the various sizes and shapes of vibrant paintings scattered all over her walls, I’d wager that Muse has bled all over this room, right from the bottom of her soul.
I cross to a fireplace that apparently hasn’t worked in some time. The cool cavern of its interior is clean and holds a couple dozen ivory candles rather than wood. But that’s not what draws me. It’s the painting that rests above it, propped on the mantel to lean against the wall.
The piece depicts a tree, one simple tree, but it’s the way the branches list to one side and hang downward that catches my eye. When I look closer, I see that pale yellow raindrops trickle from the dark leaves like tears, falling into puddles on the ground. Those shallow pools reflect a half-full moon suspended in a midnight sky. The image, while stunning in its use of contrasting color and shadow, is poignant and somehow tragic.
I turn to find Muse watching me. She doesn’t look angry anymore; she looks . . . nervous.
“What’s the matter? Afraid I’ll see too much?”
She raises her chin and tries to act nonchalant. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Do you still feel this way?”
“What way?”
“The way you felt when you painted that?” I ask, nodding toward the mantel.
Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open for a tenth of a second before she snaps it shut. “How . . . how did you know that I . . . ?”
“I’m observant.”
“But . . .” She glances at the canvas behind my head as if searching for what gave the artist away. What she probably can’t see, what probably no artist can see, is that she is all over that painting. All over it and all in it.
“Do you?” I prompt, returning to my question.
Her eyes flick back to mine and she shrugs with one shoulder, her toes digging rhythmically into the plush pile of the area rug. “Sometimes.” Her voice is quiet. Small. She looks quickly away from my eyes.
“What made you feel that way?”
“I miss the people I love.” Her eyes make their way back to mine, a ghost of a frown floating across her forehead. “Doesn’t everyone?”
It’s my turn to shrug. “I guess if you have people you love.” Before she can say anything else, I get down to brass tacks. “So, tell me about this man you’re hoping to find.”
She takes a deep breath. Sighs. “His name is Denton Allen Harper. He lives in Treeborn, South Carolina.”
“Job?”
“He’s retired from the military. He consults for some private security firm now and then, but . . .”
“What is his relationship to you?” Her lips thin. She doesn’t want me to ask personal questions. And that only makes me want to ask them even more. “Look, if you want me to find the guy, you need to be honest with me.” When she still hesitates, I add, “It’s not like I’m a cop or anything, if he’s into something illegal.”
“It’s not that. He’s not a criminal, for God’s sake!” she defends. “He’s a good man.”
“You sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure. He—he’s my father.”
I nod. “How long has it been since you’ve talked to him?”
“A month. A month ago Friday.”
“Just a month? I take it that’s unusual.”
“Yes. We have a . . . routine, sort of. We talk once a month, like clockwork.”
“A month ago Friday. Obviously you’ve tried calling over the last five days.” She nods. “You’ve tried his friends, associates, people who might know where he is?”