A/N: I've wanted to write something in the 'Murder, She Wrote' vein for a long time. I'm a big fan of the program because of its time-tested, inexhaustible formula and Angela Lansbury's extraordinary performances. All I had to do was choose an older female 'Daria' character to fill a role similar to Jessica Fletcher's. For that, she must: (1) be a creative person plausibly well known for her work, (2) be well-traveled enough to go around solving mysteries, and (3) be attractive, funny, and interesting to develop. I immediately settled on Jane and Trent's mother Amanda.
Our first chapter is inspired by the MSW episode Murder Takes the Bus. Parts of this are also similar to an earlier story of mine, The Man Next Door. DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fan fiction. I do not own 'Daria' or 'Murder, She Wrote', or any of the characters therein. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
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MURDER, SHE ETCHED
** Prologue **
August 2000 (shortly after the events of 'Is It Fall Yet?')
It was only supposed to be a butterfly.
Amanda Lane stood back with an uncommonly grim expression and pondered the fate of her latest piece.
"If you try to hold a butterfly in your hands, it will die," she often said to her children. "You have to let it go. And if it comes back to you, it was truly yours; and if it doesn't, it never really was."
Yes. That was her mistake. She'd tried to squeeze and confine the clay, to force it into that ever elusive shape. She failed to follow her own advice at first. Only when she gave up, allowed her mind to drift and the clay to mold itself, had it finally become something. And what it became deeply confused her.
From her workbench in the basement rose a vague shape of a man laying supine, behind him the shape of a woman cradling his head in the crook of one arm. Asleep? There were no details yet, no facial expressions, and perhaps there never would be. Yet the woman's position could also be seen as predatory, and she held an object in her other hand that looked very much like a knife.
Amanda shivered slightly at the thought. Lately, more and more of her sculptures were coming out like this one. Certain television shows had sparked an interest in crime and forensics, and the vivid murder mystery novels of J.B. Fletcher had helped her to visualize, but that only partly explained the new theme. Images of death and sorrow had been creeping into the back of her mind and influencing her work for months.
She gazed uncertainly around the cluttered basement. Home, she thought to herself. You are home.
It was still a strange concept to her. Until now, home had been wherever her husband Vincent was off to or her own inspiration beckoned. But memories of the unexpected Lane "reunion" last year had preyed on her mind until she could stand it no longer. Her children needed her - if they would have her. If there was anything she could do to make up for the past.
If she wasn't too late.
She had always been an artist by trade, but sometimes her whole life felt like one big mystery she was trying to solve. She was already fifty years old. If there was an answer, she wanted to find it before her time ran out. Mortality. Loss. A point of no return. Perhaps that was what inspired her now.
Amanda checked the clock. It was after midnight. Time for dinner.
She looked at the piece for a long time before going upstairs.
Ω
Ω
EPISODE I : Paper Plate Homicide
**Chapter One: Suffer for Your Art**
Ashfield was an unincorporated town in eastern Pennsylvania, notable for its proximity to Blue Mountain and Lizard Creek as well as the Ashfield Community for the Arts, a popular artists' colony in the region. The colony itself consisted of several ramshackle buildings thrown up in a wooded clearing with little restraint or direction. At first glance it could be rather charming, an impression that was usually dashed as soon as one met some of its guests.
For her part, Jane Lane didn't care if she never saw the place again. A slender, angular girl with short dark hair and a red shirt over gray shorts and black leggings, the painter had been ready to leave three weeks ago. She had stayed until the end of the term, as she told her best friend, out of "some kind of dumb-ass notion about seeing this through." Now that the Summer of Self-Love was over at last, she could go home and tell Daria all the gory details of how arrogant the other artists were and what a disappointment it had been.
One in particular had just spotted her as she left her dorm and was walking over to say goodbye. She was an attractive brunette in her early twenties with a black tank top and slacks.
"Hello, Alison," Jane tried to be civil, but her friendship with this woman had cooled off quite a bit since a certain incident three weeks ago. It was a long story that Jane intended to share with Daria and no one else.
"Hey, Jane. You're heading home, too? Well, I'll see you if I see you. And try not to take everything so seriously, okay?"
"I'll keep that in mind. Try not to liquor up any more teenagers in your room, okay?"
Alison folded her arms. "I told you that was just a misunderstanding. Besides, it's your word against mine. Mine and Daniel's, that is. I'm sure he'd back me up if necessary."
Jane regarded her with distaste.
"No hard feelings, Jane," Alison continued. "But I do what I have to to get ahead. Like him or not, Daniel's one of the most respected artists around here, and if I want to have a little fun with him, it's my business."
"Did someone mention my name?" An unctuous man in his thirties with bleached, slicked-back hair, a dark goatee, and baggy white clothes strolled up to them and put his arm around Alison's waist. The first two buttons of his shirt were left undone, no doubt to show off his chest hair. "Wow. Not one, but two beautiful students. I must be in heaven. You're Jane, right? Amanda Lane's kid?"
"Yeah," Jane said reluctantly. Running into Daniel Dotson again did nothing to improve her mood; nor did talking about her mother, for that matter.
"Now that's an artist! Her old commune-mate founded this colony, you know. I saw her variety exhibit on the ruins of Angkor Wat, and those sculptures of crime scenes she put out this summer were really something. Nothing quite as searing or provocative as when I unveiled my own little masterpiece 'Paper Plate Genocide', but still not bad for a hippie."
"I'm sure she'd be flattered," Jane said coldly. As if Dotson was even half the artist her mother was. He had been showing off his so-called masterpiece in every class he taught. It was three spears stuck through a bunch of paper plates. Even worse was how everyone else in those classes hailed it as a great work of art and fawned over his alleged talent. Rumor had it that he slept with almost every female artist at Ashfield and got away with it because, as one of the other students put it, "genius does have its prerogatives."
"I've heard enough art talk for now. Eyes on me, darling," Alison kissed him lasciviously. "I'll see you on the bus."
"You're taking the bus back to Jersey? What happened to your hot rod?" Jane asked with a tinge of sarcasm.
"I'm afraid it just disappeared from the parking lot two days ago. Looks like I'll have to report it stolen."
Jane tried to sound sincere. "Gee. That's too bad."
He shrugged. "I try to look on the bright side. The brakes were failing anyway. That car's just like my inspiration: it never stops, honey." He gave her a cheesy wink.
"Don't call me 'honey', Mr. Dotson," Jane said. She turned to walk away.
"She's kind of prickly for someone who only got in here because of her old lady," Dotson muttered to Alison.
Jane heard him. Maybe she should have ignored it. But her art was everything to her, and for a sleazy hack like Dotson to question her talent was more than she could take. "Excuse me? I submitted a portfolio and was accepted just like everyone else."
"I noticed. It was okay for finger-painting. But you could do a better job of respecting your superiors."
"When I meet one, I'll be sure to let them know."
Dotson's face flushed. For a moment his urbane mask slipped, and he looked like a five-year-old about to throw a tantrum. But it only lasted a split second and then was gone, replaced with a theatrical leer. "You really do have an attitude problem. I guess you're just not a good student like Alison here. Are you sure you want to make an enemy of me, Jane? You could learn a thing or two about keeping your enemies ... closer."
Now Alison was staring at him-perhaps in shock, disgust, or both-but still she said nothing.
Jane's mouth formed an "O" of dismay. Now he was hitting on her? That was too much. Jane knew she would be taking a major risk by getting on Daniel Dotson's bad side. But all the frustrations and insults she had suffered at this place suddenly welled up inside of her, and she snapped.
"Is that supposed to be some kind of sick joke?" she retorted furiously. "Or did you use up all your good lines when you were trying to screw every other female artist in the colony?"
There was an ominous silence. Even other students were staring at them now. The summer air seemed to blow 50 degrees colder.
Dotson narrowed his eyes. His voice grew quiet and menacing. "I guess you're not that serious about succeeding after all, Jane. It would be a shame if the gallery owners around here heard the same thing. Word travels fast in the art world."
"Don't you dare threaten me, you pervert. Or ... or I'll show you where to stick those damned spears of yours!" Jane picked up her bags and stormed off in the direction of the road.
When she was gone, Alison turned back to the self-proclaimed genius and shoved him irritably. "What the hell was that all about, Daniel?! Lay off. She's just a kid!"
"Hey, when I want your advice, I'll ask for it," he said. His hand lowered to her butt and gave it a hard squeeze. "And one more thing: don't forget who's giving you a free ride around here."
She glowered at him and walked away. He retrieved a flask from his pocket and took a swig from it as he watched her go.
Unbeknownst to either of them, a shapely young woman with short hair dyed silver and a skimpy black-and-charcoal ensemble crouched half-hidden behind the nearest building. She'd heard every word that was said, and the jealousy burning in her hazel eyes would have made even her most jaded colleagues take a backward step.
Ω
An ancient black van with Maryland plates coughed and lurched its way down the country roads, leaving a trail of black smoke that reached 30 feet beyond the battered rear bumper before rising into the air and becoming inseparable from a line of nasty storm clouds above the mountain.
"Betrayal ... yeah. Thrown out of the pack. Betrayal ... yeah. Stretched out on the rack," A skinny boy in his early twenties with black hair and a soul patch nodded his head rhythmically as he drove. He sang to himself in a low, throaty voice that was further distinguished by natural charisma and a smoking habit.
"Trent..."
The boy ignored the soft, airy voice next to him. "Betrayal ... betrayal, yeah. Betrayal ... "
"Trent," the second voice repeated. "Are you sure you can't do that later, honey?"
"No way, Mom. The music lives in me, you know? If I'm not singing, I'm not breathing."
"I don't mind if you practice lyrics. But, could you wait until we get there to write them down?"
Trent thoughtfully looked up from his notebook and pen and put his hands back on the wheel. Horns honked from the other side of the road as he acted just in time to keep the van on the road. Despite this jarring shift, his long-haired bandmate Jesse Moreno remained sound asleep in the back."Oh. Good idea, Mom. It's too bad you don't drive. I've been working on this song for a month. I think it's almost finished."
"That sounds wonderful. What inspired you?" Amanda Lane smiled indulgently at her fourth child. She exuded calm and serenity, floating in a sort of undefined place where women with inner and outer beauty seemed to reside indefinitely. She had long, full, honey-colored hair and pale blue eyes that could take in the entire world all at once. She was humbly dressed in a dull blue sleeveless shirt, purple drawstring pants, and a pair of worn-out moccasins. Her earrings were large and blue and shaped like teardrops, while several bangles and bracelets adorned her wrists.
While Amanda had been fairly well known as a traveling artist for several years, she was seldom recognized in public. Many dismissed her on sight as an absent-minded holdover hippie, but Amanda's talents extended further than sculpture and pottery. She noticed things. Details. Patterns. Facets. Flaws. She saw them everywhere she went. It wasn't enough to be in a certain location or use a certain medium; those were merely the initial steps. Before she went to work in Angkor Wat, Easter Island, or the Great Smoky Mountains, she must relax and take in the everything of a place. She needed to sense the change of seasons in her bones, to see the rhythm the peoples' eyes danced to when they were truly happy, to feel the weight of night when it fell. This sense of everything was what allowed her to put all the details together and assemble a truly complete work. She had never been able to describe this ability in words, nor had she applied it to non-artistic ends. But it was always there.
Amanda hoped that her daughter had felt the everything of Ashfield, whatever that may consist of, and used it to produce natural and inspired art. But that wasn't the only reason she was coming along.
She once believed motherhood was everything; she had given birth to five children, Jane being her youngest, and simply set them free to do what they would. She and her husband Vincent declared almost no rules, set almost no boundaries. Summer, Wind, and Penny had simply scattered across the hemisphere, drifting from one occupation to another. Trent and Jane were left to tend the house where maintenance was undone and bills went unpaid for months.
It had been a mistake. Amanda was five times a mother. But she had never really been a parent.
This revelation set in gradually during the past year, rendering all her excuses hollow and cutting off all her escape routes until there was only one place left to go: back to Lawndale and a house that, until now, had never been home. She meant to patch things up, literally and figuratively.
" … And then Jesse threw up on my shoes," Trent was saying. "That's what gave me the idea to rhyme 'soiled' with 'spoiled'."
He turned left onto an even smaller dirt road, where a boy on a tractor sat watching them. Less than a mile ahead lay the Ashfield Community for the Arts.
Ω
Jane ignored the stares of the other artists as she stalked back to the colony entrance. The overcast afternoon sky grew increasingly dark, as if in sympathy with her mood.
She had just told off Daniel Dotson. Not exactly Salvador Dali or even Norman Rockwell, but still a semi-famous artist. It was the best feeling she'd had in a long time, and she was proud of the fact that she could stand up to him when most of the others just kowtowed. But she was also a bit scared. This man could do serious damage to her future career if he wanted to...and it wouldn't surprise her if he really was that petty. Just a rancid cherry atop the spoiled sundae that was her summer. The thought of going back to Maryland and Lawndale High didn't seem so bad after this.
She hoped Trent would be picking her up soon. Or at least while it was still light out. What had ever possessed her to come to this place, anyway? Distance, she decided. She'd been so upset with Daria for ... for ... well, the phrase sounded almost ridiculous when applied to her, but "stealing her boyfriend" was exactly what she did, and Jane hadn't relished the prospect of spending the whole summer with her after that - or worse yet, tagging along on their dates.
A telltale coughing and chugging interrupted her thoughts. Jane waved disconsolately as 'The Tank' pulled up, and wasted no time running to the van. She opened the side door and threw her bags inside, accidentally beaning Jesse in the head with one end of her duffel bag. He groaned in response, though whether he'd actually woken up was unclear.
"Oh. Sorry, Jesse. Didn't see you back there," Jane sighed as she leaned into the van. Her face was red, and the expression on it looked like something from one of her paintings. "Hey, Trent. If you don't mind, I want to get out of this place yesterday, so if you can help me grab my pictures … " She trailed off when she noticed her mother in the passenger's seat.
"Hi, Janie," Amanda said cheerfully.
"Mom. You're back from Death Valley already?"
"I wanted to see you. I'm coming home for a while."
"Hmph. We'll see how long that lasts," Jane muttered. "Well, can you help me carry the rest of my stuff from the dorm? It's that one building sort of on the right that looks like all the other buildings. I hope that helps."
If Amanda was concerned about her daughter's bad mood, she didn't show it. But when they entered the dorm to collect her artwork, she stopped short and a frown appeared on her face. Jane's paintings seemed to physically strike her. The lines were aggressive and drawn in frustrated edges or harried swirls, the color palette stark and uncompromising, and as for the subjects … well, depicting suffering people was not a new theme for Jane, but now their anguish appeared disturbingly authentic.
"Janie, what's wrong?" she asked. "What happened here?"
Jane shuffled her boots and looked away. "I … look, I don't want to talk about it. Please. Let's just go."
Amanda would rather have stayed long enough to chat with her old friend Sedona, who owned the colony. But she nodded in agreement, making a mental note to ask Jane about this later. They carried the pictures to the Tank without speaking. All that remained was to start the engine.
Unfortunately, the Tank did not cooperate.
"Hmm," Trent sounded only mildly concerned. "Hey, Janie. Got your glue gun?"
"I don't think that'll fix it this time, Trent. It's coughing worse than usual. Besides, I'm out of glue."
"Darn," Trent leaned back in the seat. "We might be stuck here for a while."
They were all wondering what to do next (except for Jesse, who remained somnolent) when a large, shiny, almost new-looking silver and red bus coasted right past them and stopped in front of the colony.
Trent looked at Jane. "Hey. Maybe not. Looks like you got lucky."
"Yeah ... lucky," Jane bit her lip.
"Too bad I didn't bring any money."
"I think I did. Hmm. Where did I put it?" Amanda searched her pockets and a few other items of clothing before finding some bills in her left moccasin. She handed a few of them to Trent. "There. If you and Jesse don't mind waiting for a tow truck, I'd like to ride back with Jane."
"Um, you don't have to … " Jane looked at her mother and then at the bus again, which several of her fellow artists were already boarding. She quickly realized that going alone would leave her with nobody to talk to, and more importantly, nobody to back her up if that sleaze Dotson bothered her again. Her mother might be a space case, but she was better than nothing. "Okay. Fine."
Amanda cast another worried glance at her as she helped carry her things. Jane didn't want to stay at the colony a minute longer than necessary, yet she was reluctant to get on the bus also. Which suggested it was not just the colony that bothered her, but someone from the colony who would be riding with them. Her senses, which had been on autopilot all day, suddenly heightened. She sensed a mystery, a tapestry of facts to identify and assemble.
Remember, she thought to herself, take in the everything.