Chapter 21
Wednesday evening,
on a street south of Central Avenue
Savannah and Edward left the house in her Mini with Rooney snuggled in his crate in the cargo area. “You know we’re going to have to get a bigger crate, don’t you?” Savannah said as she glanced in her rearview mirror.
“He’s large for a puppy.” Edward looked back as well.
“The bigger issue is that the current crate is the largest that will fit in the Mini. We’re going to need a doggy car seat.”
Edward pulled out his phone. “There are car seats for dogs?” He googled and turned his head to look at the back seat. “Brilliant! I’m putting one on order.” He punched in the information. Then his phone pinged. “Great! It will be here on Friday. He’s growing so fast this has got to be the last time we put him in a crate.” He turned around again. “Right, Rooney?”
Rooney looked at Edward, whined for a moment, then tucked his head down between his huge paws. Even so he somehow managed to keep those betrayed puppy eyes on Edward.
“So why are we doing this at night?” asked Edward. “It would be a thousand times easier in the daytime.”
Savannah expelled a deep, frustrated sigh. “I know it would. But with running both the shop and the studio, Amanda at hospice and Jacob not well enough to run either place, I’m out of options. If we don’t do it now, I’ll have to wait until Sunday. That’s too long to wait.” She patted Edward on his thigh. “You’re my buddy on this adventure.”
“It’s lucky that Wednesday night is a bit slow. Samuel has been coming up to speed quickly, but I need to get back so I can teach him how to do the closing. I think I’m going to offer him a permanent job. He’s a good sous chef and I’m sure it would simplify his life to have one full-time job with benefits rather than three part-time ones.”
They pulled into an alley that the SHINE organizer told Savannah was the entry-level wall for beginning graffiti artists. Although technically the images could be considered defacing public property, the arts council had encouraged the SPPD to turn a blind eye. It was a chaotic jumble of images dimly lit by a street light.
They parked, got Rooney out on his leash, and Edward held him in close control. Savannah used a flashlight to illuminate the images. She scanned them carefully, looking for Nicole’s signature bubble-gum pink with black paint in a triangle.
“Look!” Savannah pointed her flashlight to a lower section of the wall. “The color palette is right.” She held the light steady on the image.
The letters were a typical bubble-gum-balloon font with a thick black outline. Next to the last E was a little triangle with the stylized initials NB inside.
Savannah took a picture with her phone. “That’s it, all right. It matches the little triangle image we found in her locker.”
Rooney stiffened, then produced a low, rumbling growl. A small hooded figure dressed from head to toe in black was standing next to the wall. She pulled back the hood to reveal a shock of purple crew-cut hair.
“This wall is almost full. All the good spots are gone, but since I’m short, I take the low stuff anyway.” The voice was soft but raspy, as if recovering from a screaming match.
Rooney stopped growling as soon as the artist began to speak.
“Do you mind if we watch?” asked Savannah.
There was a hesitation. “That would actually be helpful. I’m not very good yet, but I’m hoping to apply for one of the SHINE murals next year, and part of the event is to watch the paint-slingers work their magic. I need to get used to people watching me. So far, no one has been interested.”
“Thanks. My name is Savannah.” She waved a hand. “This is my fiancé, Edward.” She bent to ruffle Rooney behind the ears. “And this amazing puppy is Rooney.”
Rooney yipped and tentatively moved toward the artist.
“I’m Morgan. Who is this big hulk of adorableness?” Morgan slid the backpack to the ground and bent to give Rooney an experienced scratching behind his floppy ears. Rooney replied by licking a great wet path all down Morgan’s face.
“Say hello to Rooney, the one-hundred-twenty-pound face-washing machine.” Savannah hooked a finger under Rooney’s collar. “Let the artist be.” Rooney sat.
“Do you have a plan, or do you just wing it?” Edward stepped closer to the backpack.
“Normally, I just paint whatever comes to mind. But tonight, I’m trying out a new image, so I’m painting with a plan.” Morgan unzipped the backpack and pulled out an index card and handed it to Edward.
“Wow. That’s good.” Edward showed the card to Savannah, who lit it with her flashlight. It was a colored pencil sketch of a realistic flamingo in flight.
“Thanks, but I may have bitten off more than I can chew.” Morgan took the card back and began setting up her materials to paint the image. Then out came a small portable lamp and Morgan set it up to shine on a small blank space near the bottom of the wall.
Next came a wide range of spray-paint cans and a packet of stencils cut in meaningless shapes. Some had never been used. Some were covered in multiple colors. After laying out all the cans and stencils as if it were a personal ritual, Morgan put on latex gloves and slipped on a mask.
“This is the fun part for me. I love the process of getting ready to paint. It’s my yoga.”
She first sprayed the wall with a white base. Then Morgan worked efficiently and quickly using the stencils and shaping cards to build the flamingo, layer upon layer, starting from the broadest shapes and finishing up with details that brought the image to life. Stepping back to see the effect, Morgan stopped and added a few touch-ups.
“That’s it. Now for the final step.” In a few little sprays, Morgan left a signature in the right-hand corner of the image at the very bottom of the wall.
“That’s gorgeous,” said Savannah. “I thought you said you were a beginner. This looks very practiced to me.”
Morgan shrugged and began gathering up her tools and materials and returning them to the backpack. “The more times you work with an image, the better it gets. This isn’t my first time with the flamingo.”
“I’m a little surprised. It’s a bit cliché, isn’t it?” Savannah raised her eyebrows. “Florida. Pink flamingoes can be viewed as kitschy.”
“That’s my signature image. I make sure they look like an Audubon image, not a cartoon.”
“You’ve done that, all right. It looks like it will start preening any second. Thanks for letting us watch. Before you go, I was wondering if you ever met the artist who painted that?” Savannah pointed to Nicole’s graffiti.
“Oh, sure. She was a rank beginner, but I was able to give her a few pointers. She picked up a lot of stuff from the locals. She had a job somewhere near here as a bartender.”
“Yes, I was her boss,” said Edward. “She worked for me at the Queen’s Head Pub.”
Edward thought those words sounded hollow. How could it be true that she would never come to the pub again? Nicole had been such a large part of the pub’s quirky sense of fun and comradery. How would they be able to recreate the magic her big personality inspired?
“Apparently this was her main outside interest. In fact, her only interest outside the pub. Is there anything that you could tell us about her graffiti work?”
“Not much, she was just starting.” Morgan turned away and then looked at them. “Wait a minute. She was obsessed with SNARK. Somehow, she almost always showed up when he was creating a new piece. I don’t know how she did that. Maybe he told her. I only ever ran into him by accident.”
“Do you know where we can find SNARK?” asked Savannah. “We’d like to talk to him.”
“You and about a million fans and reporters. According to social media posts, he isn’t in the area right now, but he is expected to return tomorrow. Rumor has it that he’s painting his statement piece tomorrow night before he hops onto a train to the next mural festival in Montreal.”
“Where does he stay?”
Morgan reached into the backpack for a thermos. “It varies. If it’s a new town to him, he roughs it in the local homeless camps. But he’s well-known around here, so I’ll bet he is staying with some friends who have an actual house.”
Savannah softened her voice. “Morgan, did you hear that Nicole was killed in a hit-and-run on Monday?”
Morgan’s mouth flew open, but nothing escaped. “Killed?” The backpack dropped to the ground out of Morgan’s limp, trembling hands.
Savannah stepped forward and grabbed Morgan by the arm. “Are you all right? Do you feel faint?”
Morgan jerked away from Savannah and stuttered, “N-n-n-no. I can’t b-b-believe it. I don’t have a television and I rarely hear the news.” Morgan bent down and picked up the fallen backpack.
“It wasn’t an accident,” said Savannah. “We’re trying to find out from her friends who might have wanted to harm Nicole. Was she involved in something dangerous? Do you have any information that might help us track down her killer?”
“I didn’t know her all that well, but she was a regular in the late-night crowd.”
Savannah pulled out a business card. “Could you give me a call if something occurs to you or one of your graffiti crowd?”
Morgan took the card and fingered the raised lettering. “Nicole was a kind and caring person. I’ll find out what I can and give you a call.”
In the next moment, Morgan was gone, leaving Savannah, Edward, and Rooney to stare at the delicate image of the flying flamingo.