Silhouettes Chapter 10

I hope this chapter clears a little more up on the subject of whether Irene died or not. We'll also be returning to the murder mystery. This is far longer than chapter nine. Enjoy!

-XXX-

Dad meets me at the train station on Friday afternoon. I hug him, then allow my case to be taken and packed into the trunk. He shows remarkable restraint; my father has a tendency to get a little emotional when I return home after trips or semesters away. No questions are asked until I am home, seated comfortably in the parlor, and nibbling on a ham sandwich.

"What is the word, Vi?"

"Well," I reply, wiping my lips on a napkin delicately. "Paying for uni won't be so tough now."

It's a half-joke, because my scholarships ensured that university bills wouldn't be too terrible anyways. But Dad isn't amused. If anything, he deflates slightly. I realize what he's after. A more solemn tone enters my voice.

"It was an accident, Dad. She was on vacation in the East. A car accident." I say quietly.

I don't know why I lie. Why I don't say that she was in the Middle East, that it was a rough area, and that she was purposefully captured by a terrorist cell. I don't explain that she was recognized for her involvement in government intelligence. Her particular demise – beheading – is left untold. I don't explain that there was no accident, there was an execution.

And I certainly do not mention her business venturing following her retirement from the music world.

Perhaps it is because I can still see a quiver of love in the way he holds his hands when thinking of her. He doesn't care about any inheritance, and legacy. Dad simply wants to know what became of his wife.

"I can take you to her, sometime," I offer awkwardly. "When we're in town. It's…a nice spot. Nice headstone."

He lets out a long breath. Then he smiles. It's a little watery. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be nice, Vi."

My heart aching, I hug my Dad. It is brief, but heavy. He squeezes a little too tight.

-XXX-

The next day I walk to Ben's with Hugo. My dog is positively energized. According to Dad, he'd been quite depressed when I left Thursday, thinking I was off to university again. Hugo is one of my guilts. I hated to leave him alone with Dad for the year. The thought of crossing an entire ocean and leaving him behind makes me ache. I've had him since I was twelve.

Today he bounds beside me, tongue lolling and tail wagging. When we stop before Ben's door. I scratch behind his ears, stroking the silky brownness. He leans heavily against me. His entire body jitters with happiness. Yes, I'll definitely miss Hugo.

The door swings opens abruptly. Someone was getting impatient. Ben hangs from the frame, looking slightly irritated. His brow furrows upon seeing me. But nothing is said, and he moved to let me pass.

Overall the cottage is a little out of sorts – books and papers tossed about, and so on. There aren't nearly enough dishes in the sink, leading me to suspect that he's not been eating. I choose not to remark. Ben follows me, rather than returning to his desk (or bed, he's in a bathrobe, so it's difficult to discern where, exactly, he was previously occupying). We sit, him in the armchair, me in the loveseat. Hugo paces for a moment before settling against the loveseat. One of Ben's long-fingered hands reaches down to scratch the lab behind the ears. Hugo closes his eyes lazily and leans into the upholstery, making pleased noises. Ben is clearly hitting a sweet spot.

"Miss me?"

He's occupied with his phone, and grunts. "You left?"

I suppress a smile. "Yes. For a few days. You must've been preoccupied."

"You're always here, you've practically become a fixture. I scarcely notice when you come and go."

"It's good to know I am appreciated."

Ben smirks into his phone. Then –

"Are you going to put the kettle on?"

-XXX—

No questions pass between us about the death of my mother, the circumstances under which Ben may or may not have known her, what I encountered in London, or any other affairs in relation to her. Part of me wonders if he's simply fielding any questions I might have about his knowledge of her. I do not mind in the least. For the time being I simply allow myself the luxury of assuming he saw her in concert, or knew the friends of a friend. From here, we can move forward. We can get on with our acquaintance without the mystery (well, the mysteries that weren't already apparent – things like his past and interest in local murders I can live with).

I'm perfectly okay with this arrangement of selective mention. That is, until Ben all but drags me to the police station.

-XXX-

A few days later I'm just past the gate when Ben practically flies from the house. He's dressed in a smart suit jacket with blue shit, no tie, and pressed trousers. Eyes very alert, he barks, "Your car!"

"Excuse me?"

"I need your car. I need to go to the police station."

I blink. "What? Why? Did you have a break in?"

Exasperated, he tosses his hands. "Do you see any evidence of a break in? No, now give me your car, Viola!"

"I am not going to just hand my car over to you." I cross my arms. "I'll go with you."

This doesn't seem to displease him, so we're off. Thankfully, Dad is in the office, so it's no trouble to slip in for my keys. Ben wants to drive, but I insist. The ride is nearly fifteen minutes. Ben is silent the entire time, refusing to give me any explanations. We park and he's out before I've even turned the ignition off. Weary already, I follow.

At the receptionist's desk, he speaks swiftly, disregarding the fact that the woman is on the telephone. "I need to speak with Sergeant Waverly. It's urgent."

Behind the Plexiglas , the woman's eyes are wide. "I can't – he's in interrogation."

"Then get him out of it."

"No, sir, I -"

Ben spin and starts down the hall, apparently intent on finding the sergeant himself. With an apologetic look to the receptionist, I follow. We stop before one door. Ben listens for a moment, then bursts in.

With the swing of the door comes the sight of two officers – one I assume to be Waverly – and Tyson. Tyson, the night cook from the pub. The cook with the famous Shepard's pie. I'm shocked. Why is Tyson being questioned?

"Mr. Holly?" The bulkier man, who I assume to be the sergeant, rises first. "What are you doing here? We're in the middle of an interrogation."

"You've got the wrong man," Ben says shortly. He nods to Tyson. "It's not the cook, it's the barman. The cook was visiting his mother. You'll find the receipt for a gin and tonic in Ms. McLarney's purse, probably the outer pocket. She caught his eye there. Tyson here didn't even see her, his mother had just had a heart attack, he was preoccupied in the back. Distracted enough to burn himself up the arm." Ben points to a shiny scar on Tyson's right hand. "You'll find records at the clinic of treatment for that. A cook with twenty-seven years of experience doesn't just burn himself. Check the bartender."

Everyone in the room is gaping from shock. After a beat, Waverly begins spluttering.

"But – how – you said it was someone from the Cross and Down!"

"I said it was someone, yes," Ben snaps. "But I didn't say it was the cook. The knife used was from a ceramic collection that Mr. Tyson favors, but he's not the only one with access to them. Bring in Eddie Salvers."

At that, Ben turns on his heels and stalks from the room. I awkwardly follow after waving to Tyson. Ben's long strides mean I am practically jogging to keep up with him. All the way outside his face is impassive. I fear he is angry. When he holds his hands out for keys, I pass them over without a word.

I stare as we slide into the vehicle. Once the door shuts, Ben breaks out into something like a smile. Only more…smirky. His hands fist the wheel. "Nearly there," he savors.

I wait till we're on the road to start asking. "What…was that? What did it have to do with the McLarney case? Were they questioning Tyson? What do you have to do with it?"

"Which would you prefer I ask first?" he asks dryly. I cast him a "oh-just-get-on-with-it" look. Smiling slightly, Ben say, "Susan McLarney was stabbed seven times last May by Eddie Salver after they met in the pub. He followed her to the beach after he left the pub. He had several of the kitchen's knives with him because the sharpener at the pub was broken, they were waiting for a replacement to ship, and he had volunteered to take them home to sharpen – the hostess told me as much when I started asking about the butchering and the different cuts of meat. They're very proud of their meat at the Cross and Down. On the night of the murder, Eddie Salvers was working the bar. He started 'coming on' to the youbg Ms. McLarney. She initially returned the affections, then, for whatever reason, rejected his advances later in the evening when they went for a moonlight stroll along the shore. I'm guessing she might have found the knives, perhaps while they were using his pack as a pillow, something like that to set her off. In a rage, your bartender struck out. Susan grabbed on of the knives for defense. He wrestled it away from her and…."

Ben drifts off, leaving the proceedings to my imagination. "He knew that hiding the knife in the sand or the ocean would be futile, so he left the girl on the beach, and took the knife home. He cleaned it, and it's being used in the kitchen to this day."

My mouth is agape. "How…do you know that, Ben?"

"Deduction," he answers smoothly.

"But…but you…some of those things….how long have you been doing this? Investigating Susan's death?"

His eyes narrow. "A while."

"And the police, they just listen to you? Just like that?"

"Why should they not?"

I cannot answer this. Shaking my head, I bite my lip. "The police just don't take advice of random guys. Ben. Who are you?"

At this, Ben sighs. "You've seen me work, Viola, surely you can believe that I could figure out who murder a girl on a beach two years ago."

"Yes, I don't doubt you. I can't. But, Ben, why do the police believe you?"

For a moment, my companion is silent. Very quietly, he says, "They know I'm right. That's why they believe me."

It's not a true answer. But I let it slide, and focus on the road ahead. Grey sky, barren road, clumpy villages. Basically, my life.

-XXX-

"I would not have fancied you for a gardener."

With a small shriek, I jolt at the sound of a clipped voice near my right ear – much, much too near. I fall against a pair of legs standing directly behind me. Craning to look back and up, Ben's upside-down face greets me, amusement stretching his lips. A hand is offered, and I am hauled up, spun in the process so that I am facing him, chests bumping in the motion. My face suddenly feels rather hot.

"You frightened me," I huff. I tuck my hair behind my ears, feeling self-conscious.

"Obviously," he drawls. Brushing my scold aside, he regards my flowerbeds. "This must be a relatively new task to you."

He's saying this, I assume, because he's never seen any evidence of garden maintenance on me, or in the beds. But I am swift to prove him wrong.

"No. I've just started for the year. Dad has been caring for them while I am away." I turn from him – still feeling a little awkward to have been rubbing up against his pecs - to cup one plump bloom, a Don Juan rose of a vivid red. It's wilting in the heat. I'm surprised it's lasted this far into summer anyways. My pruning shears tucked into my back pocket, I stoop. "But I normally do all the weeding and pruning and whatnot. I missed it this year, though. It's not the proper season for pruning, but this –" I indicate a few dead twigs. "—is unsightly."

Ben does not respond, but watches me clip the twigs for several moments. I struggle with one particularly thick piece for several seconds before pulling it free, then I look back to my garden's intruder.

"Why are you here?" I wince at my own blunt words. But Ben won't, I think, take them as rude. He might notice that they're a little to the point, but it's his own style, anyways.

A brow is raised with magnificent elegance. "I was out walking. Saw a stooping figure in the Carters's garden. Assumed it could only be you, the lady of the house. And I thought I might drop in. After all, you do it me all the time."

He's certainly right about that.

"Well, you're lucky Dad isn't home," I grumble. Ben has a nack for making me feel particularly…examined.

"I don't know what kind of grudge you think your father has against me, Viola, but I am tempted to believe it is entire of your own mind's making. He has no reason to dislike me."

On this subject I stay silent (partially because he is right, but it isn't him I fear upsetting Dad, it's me meeting with him. In theory my father has no issue with Ben. Just with me spending time with Ben), half-sighing as I stand. To my surprise, Ben offers a hand.

"Do you want to come inside?"

"Yes."

I lead him in through the back, disregarding boots and pruners in the mudroom, tossing gloves on the breakfast bar once we reach the kitchen. Once safely indoors, Ben takes a stool at our island. Though he doesn't openly show it, I know he is intently examining everything in our kitchen. I leave him at it and turn to the stove. Without inquiring after his want of tea, I fill the kettle and set it upon the stove, then turn back to my guest.

"I'm going to run up for a quick wash, okay?"

He nods, currently occupied with a scan of our toaster. I dash up stairs and return when the kettle emits it's high-pitched wail. Ben is, of course, ignoring it, so I remove the thing from the kettle and fill the pot. While we wait for it to brew, I offer to take Ben on a short tour. "Because if I don't you'll probably poke around anyways." He smirks slightly, just furthering my point.

We tour the office, the mudroom, downstairs bath, foyer, and finally the parlor. At each place, Ben does a solid scan of the perimeter, eyes occasionally alighting on a particular object, lips tugging into a smile. It's odd – he seems to draw information from the weirdest stuff. Door hinges, scuffs on molding, shoes placement, trinkets, etc. I don't question, nor do I speak much except to say, "This is the mudroom. We do laundry back here," and so on.

It's in the parlor that he finds something of real interest. Our piano forte. Running his fingers along the key case, he lets his gaze linger upon the slightly-dusty surface.

"You've not played in a while," he remarks.

"I've not felt the need to," I tell him quietly. "I haven't felt the music."

A fellow musician, he nods without looking at me. Then, abruptly, "Will you play for me?"

Surprised for the second time today, I too touch the case. "I don't…."

"I've played for you." It's an accusation.

"But I never requested," I point out. "You've always just been happening to messing around with your violin."

He makes a disgruntled noise indicating offense. "Viola, play something."

"After tea," I hedge.

He is determined. "We'll take tea while you play."

"Ben, I'm not in the mood."

"Viola," he says in a very, very soft voice that is entirely unfamiliar, yet extremely effective in persuading me that he deserves to hear me play. The fiend uses those bright eyes, boring them into my own. "Indulge a guest."

With a sigh, I return to the kitchen. Ben does not follow. I fill beakers, a plate of cream cakes, and trek back into the parlor. I find my most honored guest has perched his gangly form on our settee. Pursing my lips, I hand him the mug and the cakes. He accepts solemnly, allows me to take a few sips of my own beverage, then nods to the piano. I begrudgingly move to the instrument, taking a seat at the bench with as much grace as I can muster – which isn't much, considering.

I warm up a little first with a few smaller songs. Then, taking an unsteady breath, I begin.

The piece I select is Chopin's Opus 28, number 15. Better known as Raindrop. It's a piece I know well. I allow my fingers to caress the keys, closing my eye as the music fills me.

It is hard to describe what goes through me when I play. The process is something vague, set apart, almost sacred. I love the feeling. It's something like a blank mind. Peaceful.

I think it makes Dad sad to hear me play. It reminds him of my mother. She played too, but she specialized in vocal music. When they lived together that's how they spent their evenings – playing and singing duets. I can't sing, so at least there is that, but he is still reminded. I used to hate playing around him. Yet he would insist, in the evenings, or on dull Sundays, that I practice as he browsed the paper, or balanced the checkbook. "Gives the room a bit of atmosphere," he would tell me. I haven't played for him since I returned for the summer. And I certainly won't be now.

Ben is right. Playing is something I could do for the rest of my life. I love music. I love the feeling I get when I become so absorbed in what I am creating. And I'm good at it. Since I was ten I've been invited to play at ladies functions, teas, or at church events. I'm not bad. I could do this for my life. Or a while, at least.

Seven minutes pass. I finally let out the final notes, then sit back. For several seconds I breath. Then I look back to Ben.

"Happy?"

He does appear pleased. "Yes." A beat. "You're rather gifted, aren't you?"

It's not really a question. I incline my head. "I'm not bad."

I move back to the settee, picking up my beaker. Ben shifts when I sink into the upholstery beside him. I sip slowly. The tea is lukewarm, but I drink nonetheless. Ben relaxes. He selects a cream cake, but then seems to pause before he takes a bite.

"Thank you."

This is said softly without inflection, yet I still manage to choke on my tea. Ben has not once thanked me. Not for tea, not for grocery delivery, driving him places, not for making sandwiches, handing him books or pen, or anything. It's something I picked up quickly, something I have accepted as simply Ben. He doesn't thank people. That's not the worst trait a person might have, so I've accepted it.

"Come again?" I choke, pounding my chest with a fist. Ben looks on with an expression of distaste.

"I said thank you," he repeats, lips twisting in a frown.

"Oh, you are…welcome."

His brows rise. "Problem?"

I clear my throat. Picking up a cream cake, I take a bite. There is a moment where he's watching me expectantly as I chew. I swallow, smiling lightly. "Nope."

"Good." He leans over after I take another bite. I stop, mid-chew, when he pushes back a few locks of my hair from my cheeks, tucking them behind my ear. A look of high concentration has overwhelmed his expression. Confused and more than a little surprise, I sit stock-still as Ben delicately places the brown-black strands back, letting his fingers linger on the shell of my ear. This happens very, very slowly.

Just as abruptly, he's retracted his hand, and has turned back to his tea. I'm left to stare, sincerely confused, but quite enjoying the heat rising in my stomach.

-XXX-

Though not a hugely long, this chapter is loaded with quite a lot of information. Sorry.

I hope everyone is having a good week! Have a good fourth, my American friends!

Questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I take and answer them all!