A reclusive but renown artist, Anthony D’Scarpio, has died unexpectedly in Charleston. Police determine the cause of death to be accidental—poisoning by his toxic oil paints. But Becca Campbell, who knew D’Scarpio decades before, is not so sure. Even as she attended the artist’s memorial service, Becca suspected foul play. Were her suspicions and the stones she began to overturn well founded? Or simply an escape from her own boredom?

That’s what I’m cooking up in my latest writing endeavor, an as-of-yet-unnamed “cozy mystery.” It’s been a challenge to learn to put together clues, red herrings, and suspects–and I’m only partly convinced I can get all the threads to come together at the end! That said, I hope to complete the first draft by the end of the year (2024).

Here’s a sample:

The phone call with Neil was a dead end. D’Scarpio never mentioned a stolen painting. In fact, he and the artist had never had any kind of conversation about art theft.

Becca quietly rebuked herself for getting cocky after Jack’s snarky comment. She’d been so sure the stolen painting theory had legs. “Forget I asked,” she said.

Neil’s curiosity, though, was apparently piqued. “Is there something you know that you’re not telling me?” he asked. “Because this question about D’Scarpio is from left field. Last I heard, the autopsy was complete, the health department sent a warning to local artists about toxic paint, and the estate was settled. Yet somehow, in your mind, none of those things spell closure.”

Another put-down about her interest in the case? Becca’s shoulders slumped. So rather than explain the truth, she quickly fabricated an “alternative” story. “Well, it’s just that I’m talking to my Picture Lady class next week about the theft of the Mona Lisa.” She took a breath, fleshing the lie out in her mind. “And…if D’Scarpio had one of his paintings stolen, wouldn’t that be a cool local tie-in I could talk about?”

The truth was, Becca didn’t want Neil involved. While there was certainly nothing between them now—their romantic relationship was long over—Becca apparently cared a little too much about what he thought of her. She worried he might think her a little nutty.

Jack was a different story. He had been along from the beginning, from the memorial service to her first inkling that something was amiss. Nor had he ever met D’Scarpio. There was no history. For him, it was just entertainment.

But was it really just entertainment for Jack? She didn’t know and didn’t want to think about that. She straightened her back and returned to the present and Neil.

For now, he seemed satisfied with the Mona Lisa story. They said their polite goodbyes.

Becca had hoped the call would lead somewhere. But sometimes you needed to respect a dead end for what it was. She sighed. Rest in peace.

For a while, she drummed her fingers on the granite, staring off into space. Then she had a thought.

There was one more stone to overturn before she would totally give up on this lead. Maybe Heath knew something Neil didn’t. A painting could have been stolen from the gallery. In which case, Heath would definitely know. Or it could have been stolen from the storage unit. In which case, D’Scarpio may have tapped Heath to help get the painting back. Even if Heath and D’Scarpio weren’t friendly in their later years, a stolen painting likely would have affected both, enough to have a conversation. 

Phoning Heath? No way. She wanted to sound casual about this. Just an idle thought. So a text would be better. Then, if she got a nibble, she could follow up with an actual phone call.

Hi, Heath. Hope you and Rita Mae are well. Hey, random question: Were any of D’Scarpio’s paintings ever stolen or missing?

She stopped typing a moment to think. Probably she should give the same Picture Lady excuse for the inquiry she’d given Neil, so she added a line about the Mona Lisa, then hit Send.

The response came seconds later.

Nope. Tell your students instead about the local art professor who cracked the case on the stolen equestrian works from the Bellefield Plantation near Clemson.

Huh. That was it. No greetings, no pleasantries. To his credit, though, Heath had tried to be helpful. Which was actually very kind. Whatever D’Scarpio held against him, Heath might actually be a nice guy. She put that thought aside for another day.

Now what? Ruminating on her dead ends would neither be productive nor good for her mental health. So Becca threw her phone into her purse, hopped over her flour-dusting boobie trap, and went out the door.

 

It was a long but satisfying day. What had started as a lazy morning poring over Yahoo News at the Coffee Garden, had continued until after dark. She had leapfrogged from one activity to another as whimsy hit her—some shopping, a pedicure, a long visit to the International African American Museum, and dinner at the bar at Magnolia’s. Becca was proud of herself. Twenty years ago, she wouldn’t have been able to imagine spending a day like this alone, content and without a self-conscious moment.

That night, when the Uber stopped in front of her home, it was just after seven. Only a few more weeks until Daylight Saving Time and it wouldn’t get dark so early. Becca picked her way carefully in the dark to the front door, afraid of tripping on the brick path. If only she’d turned on the porch light before leaving. But then, she’d had no intention of staying out all day.

Once inside, Becca flipped on the foyer light and tentatively surveyed the scene. No footprints in the flour. The lamp had turned on automatically, as it should. Nothing was disturbed in the room.

Becca relaxed, tossed her purse onto the hall table, and went to the kitchen to pull a Tupperware container from the freezer. Dessert was the reward for an ambitious day. She popped open the microwave to warm one of her signature chocolate chip cookies. The crash of breaking pottery startled her.

Becca froze. Clearly, the noise had come from the patio.

She assessed the situation without moving a muscle. She knew the French doors were locked, having made a point to lock them before going out.

She scanned the kitchen, then grabbed a butcher knife from the block on the counter. She moved toward the patio doors. It was pitch black out there and brightly lit in the kitchen. Becca slowly reached for the light switches and flicked. One to illuminate the patio. The other to turn off the kitchen light.

She gasped.

There was no one on the patio, that was clear. But someone had been there. Spray-painted across the brick wall was a message that made her heart drop. The words BACK OFF glared at her in large, dripping black letters.

 A large terracotta pot had toppled and broken. That was the sound she’d heard. The small palm it had contained lay on the flagstones. Spilled dirt was everywhere. Whoever did this must have used the pot as an assist, first when climbing down over the eight-foot brick wall and again fleeing when surprised by Becca’s return. Becca’s heart pounded, the knife in her hand shaking. She stepped further back into the kitchen shadows.

BACK OFF. BACK OFF. She ran the words over and over in her head, trying to make sense of this message. It wasn’t exactly threatening. Yet it was. The only thing it could mean would have to be about D’Scarpio. Her questions about D’Scarpio’s death.

She reached tentatively for the door handles to confirm they were locked, then grabbed her phone. There really wasn’t anyone besides Jack she could turn to in this city. So she dialed.

“Pick up, pick up….” Becca whispered as the dull sound of rings droned on and on. Damn. Finally, she hung up.

Then Becca remembered the cameras. Hopefully, the one positioned to capture the kitchen and patio would reveal whoever was responsible, have it make sense. Then she could go to the police with something incriminating.

Becca worked her way through the kitchen, turning on the overhead light, the under-counter lights, and a small lamp in the desk area. Whoever had been outside was long gone.

She took a seat at the counter and opened the security camera app on her phone. Of course, it took several minutes of frantic clicking around to find the footage she was looking for. Tech never came easy, and tonight’s nerves didn’t help.

Finally, she got the hang of the timestamps and rewound the video to where she could see herself entering the kitchen. Then she set the playback on half-speed, leaning into her phone to make out any movement in the patio. Yes, there it was—a figure along the back wall. Spraying the paint. But there wasn’t much more to go on. The person’s build looked like it was a man, but he never turned towards the camera. He was head-to-toe in black, a sweatshirt fully zipped and hood drawn tight. She observed him freeze as Becca went to the microwave on the other side of the frame. Then he scrambled onto the terracotta pot and over the wall.

Becca put the phone down to think. She pulled open a drawer, rifling through the miscellaneous office supplies until her hand felt the stack of business cards bound with a rubber band. She sat herself back down, snapped off the rubber band, and leafed through the cards. Stephanie Butler’s was here someplace. She remembered adding it after the sushi dinner when she’d met Jack’s friends.

She glanced at the time. It was after business hours—what were the chances Stephanie would pick up? Becca dialed the mobile number anyway. The phone rang and rang. Becca braced to leave a message. She wanted to be as clear as possible.

“Stephanie, hello. This is Becca Campbell. We met at Hokkaido Sushi – I was having dinner with Jack Wilson? I didn’t know who to talk to at the police. Anyway, you had suggested I install cameras for security in my house, which I did. Well, tonight someone scaled an eight-foot wall into my patio garden and wrote a disturbing message in spray paint on the wall. The camera captured this, but it’s very hard to see the person. I’m wondering if you might be able to advise me on whether the police might help. I live alone, and it’s very disconcerting, to say the least.” Becca took a breath, considering how to end the message. “I’d be so grateful if you could give me a call. I didn’t know where else to turn.”

She hung up. Should she go to a hotel? That seemed overkill. Eventually she’d have to return to the house. But was it safe to stay in the house alone tonight? 

The phone interrupted her thoughts. Stephanie.

“Thank-you so much for returning my call,” Becca said without bothering with a hello. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t pick up,” Stephanie said. “Didn’t recognize your number, but I listened to your message. I imagine you’re pretty shaken. I know I would be. I’m not sure I’ll be able to help, but why don’t you send me the video clip? I can take a look.”

“Um…,” Becca stammered.

Stephanie read her mind. “It’s not hard. I’ll walk you through how to do it.”

Thank goodness. Becca obediently followed Stephanie’s instructions, and by the time she hit the Share button, Becca was both proud of herself and ashamed that she hadn’t had the confidence to do something that was ultimately very easy. “Okay, I just sent it.”

“Cool. Give me a sec….”

After a few minutes, Stephanie came back on the line. “I’m afraid I can only determine one thing for sure,” she said.

Becca perked up.

“He’s left-handed.”

“Oh! I missed that. And it narrows the suspect list,” Becca said, hopeful.

“Well, yes and no. Sure, only 10% of men are left-handed. But the population of Charleston is something like 160,000, with half being men. Which means we’re left with—hold on while I do some quick math—in the neighborhood of 8,000 suspects. A pretty big lineup. And that doesn’t even count anyone who may have come from Mt. Pleasant or North Charleston or St. John’s.”

Becca sighed. “Do I have any recourse?”

Stephanie urged her to file a police report in the morning. That could help if anything happened in the future, and it may increase street patrols. She then tried to reassure Becca that the likelihood of the perpetrator returning was next to nil. “Their purpose was obviously to send a message. And they did that. Do you know what ‘Let it go’ refers to?”

“No, not really,” she said, lying only slightly.

“Well, maybe they got the wrong house. Or maybe it was a random prank. In any case, they won’t be back. You’re safe. For peace of mind, I suppose you could fortify your doors. But I wouldn’t lose sleep over it.”

Becca knew that was exactly what she would do. She thanked Stephanie, then turned on all the lights in the house, as well as the TV. She wanted to make it clear that someone was at home, on the lookout.

Then she sat and stewed for an hour. The message was not a random prank. Someone didn’t like her asking questions about D’Scarpio. That’s all the message could mean. But who wrote it?

Just as she finally gave up her brooding and stood to go upstairs, the phone rang. Jack.

“Becca! I hope it’s not too late to call, but you sounded distressed.”

“Oh Jack. What a night!” She relayed the whole story, including her conversation with Stephanie.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said, “and that you called Stephanie. You can trust her advice—she’s a real pro. But that’s gotta be rattling. Do you want me to come over?”

Becca thought about that for a moment. The prospect of his company was appealing, but she felt awkward about the thought of him spending the night. “Well, you’re kind to offer. But at my age, I guess I can be a big girl. Stephanie said it’s safe.”

“Okay, but keep the phone by the bed, and call me if you hear any noises or start to worry.”

She thanked him and hung up. Start to worry? It was a little late for that. She’d just have to buck up and power through.

As Stephanie suggested, Becca carefully wedged dining chairs under the handles of both the patio and front doors. That would at least provide some physical defense. Certainly better than her dusting of flour, which seemed silly in retrospect. She then grabbed the butcher knife and climbed the stairs for bed. It would have to be an Ambien night if she were going to get any sleep at all.