An Illustrated Death by Judi Culbertson Read Free Book Online Page A

“It’s no big mystery. Regan lives upstate in Columbia County. She’s an artist, that’s all.”
    “I don’t know why they included her in the show,” Claude complained. “Her work is nowhere near as good as Dad’s.”
    “She’s an Erikson. And she’s gotten good press and sales.”
    “At least she’s not staying at the house,” Lynn said as if to pacify her husband.
    I was dying to know why everyone hated her.
    G RETCHEN SERVED A homemade blueberry cobbler and ice cream, of which Puck and Rosa had seconds, then we pushed back our chairs to leave.
    Rosa, who had been silent for the meal, suddenly said to me, “I’m an artist too.”
    “Really?”
    “Would you like to see?” Today she was wearing a loose-fitting blue shirt the same color as Nate Erikson’s smock in the painting.
    “Sure.”
    “No, you don’t.” Claude looked up from checking the pens in his pocket. “She paints on china. ”
    “That’s okay.”
    Wrong answer. He angrily jammed his chair into the table, and bent his head to whisper something to Lynn. She nodded gravely and gave me a quick look.
    Was Rosa that bad an artist? Even if her painting on china was a sentimental horror, her amateurism hardly tarnished the reputation of the Erikson family.
    Lynn joined us on the side of the house. “Can I come too?” she asked Rosa in her let’s-be-friends way.
    “No! You’re not invited.” Rosa grabbed my arm as if we were in the middle of a kindergarten brawl and pulled me down the hill toward the second white chalet.
    I looked back and saw Lynn watching, but she didn’t try to follow us.
    As we got closer to Rosa’s chalet, I saw that the lawn was filled with outdoor furniture and rusted barbecues. A squadron of chipped dwarfs and a skunk protected Snow White. It was my worst nightmare of a yard sale, the kind I would drive past before anything could catch my eye. The books at such sales were rarely worth it.
    I inched my way up the porch steps sideways, between flower urns. Rosa pushed the door back as far as she could. “Do you think things have feelings?”
    “You mean like, if you put a chair out in the trash, it would feel rejected?” I asked.
    “Yes! You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve had to rescue.” Suddenly her words were spilling out, as if she had found an ally. “Look at this.” She touched the back of her hand to a carved wooden étagère crammed with porcelain miniatures. Since the shelves were mirrored behind, the effect was dizzying. “Someone was giving this away on Craigslist. They wouldn’t even take money for it.”
    I noticed that a few of the carved pieces were missing and the mirror in back was cracked in several places.
    At the end of the hall was the kitchen, which she had turned into an art studio. Dozens of delicate bottles were lined up in color order, and stacks of white plates had a table all to themselves. The table blocked the back door. I could smell turpentine and other solvents, and noticed a kiln on the counter beside the stove. Whatever she made, she was serious about her work. The pressure to be creative in this family had to be enormous and even if Rosa painted the usual things on plates, flowers and Christmas decorations, I gave her credit for trying.
    “I do the master design and the manufacturer copies it. Unless I’m selling it by itself as an original to a gallery.”
    Can’t blame her for dreaming.
    “This is my latest series.” Her voice was shy. “It’s called ‘Feeding the Hungry.’ ”
    Touching my arm as lightly as a whisper, she brought me to the back of the kitchen to where a series of dinner plates were displayed on a harvest table. But instead of cornucopias of fruits and vegetables, this was another kind of raw food. Even though they were black images on a white background, there was something too real about the hamburger meat twisted into brains and the bumpy skin on chicken breasts. The meats were accompanied by potatoes still in their jackets, and