poor ole Denise. Vera is good folks. ’Fore she went off to jail, she was helpin’ with our protest against the Timberlite people. Knows a lot about protestin’, she does. Also knows a lot about gettin’ the goods on no-good exploiters of poor women in need of cheap housin’. That Mr. Eric Timberlite, he gonna end up in jail himself if Vera still on his case.”
“I see.” My lord, what if Denise was killed and Vera framed to get them off the land developer’s back. No wonder his wife had tried to keep me from investigating. “Was Denise involved in the protest movement as well?”
“Lord no, honey. Wouldn’t even cough up money for picket signs, but I got ’em made in the neighborhood, so we’re in good shape for the demonstration. Hope you can get Vera out in time to march with us.”
“Yes, I hope so too. Were you here the night of the murder, Mrs. Harley?”
“God bless you, no, chile. Got choir practice at the church on Thursday nights. My clients know not to come then. Doubt there was a woman a color in the house.”
She was wrong about that. “Do you know of anyone who disliked Denise?”
“Sure do. Denise was a real penny pincher, jus’ sayin’ no to everybody need money, but none of ’em be killin’ her. I give it some thought, and I figgered maybe Bad Girl. Denise tole Doctor Rosie that puttin’ a psycho in the art class like to raise the insurance rates an’ scare off clients. That Bad Girl is some mean chile, an’ she hear what Denise say ’bout her an’ come out screamin’ words no Christian woman would use, but then likely the closest that one git to God be one fallen angel name Satan.”
“What’s her real name?”
“Don’ know that. She live in a shelter over in the Haight, or sometime on the street. Gets her pills from a free clinic. Doctor Rosie say she fine if she take them meds, but I swear she don’ take ’em much. Bad Girl prob’ly be over there paintin’ murals in C buildin’ right this minute. Part of therapy, tha’s Doctor Rosie’s dumb idea. Bad Girl, she like to scare poor ole Fiona half to death, but maybe they know her real name over there. You could try.”
I thanked Mrs. Harley, who called after me, “Jus’ look for the T-shirt. It say Bad Girl front an’ back, an’ she wear it everyday.” Then I collected Bruno and made my way, reluctantly, down the stairs to 2-C, another large room like the kitchen. What a sight it was! On the far side by the bay window stood a huge grand piano, badly scarred and so heavy it caused the floor to sag. The rest of the room had large plasterboard wall sections used for mural painting, tables, easels, music stands, boxes of supplies, and a lady wearing a pink shirtwaist dress trying to encourage a group of black and Hispanic women in the art of flower painting on dishes.
I introduced myself and Bruno in a furtive whisper while I glanced around. Several of the painters looked scary. “Do you have a student called Bad Girl?” I asked. “Mrs. Harley in Women of Color mentioned her.”
Fiona Morell sighed. “She’s the one painting knives on a teacup.”
“Knives?”
“Yes, she simply has no interest in flowers or any other nice subject. Even the mural painters, who aren’t usually that fussy, become irritated when she paints knives into the hands of their figures. Those who don’t think they’re twenty-first-century Diego Riveras want to emulate gang graffiti artists. It’s very distressing to me, I must say.”
“Perhaps you could tell me her real name.”
“Well, she says it’s Martina L. King, but that’s just a lie. Dr. King believed in the peaceful principles of Ma hatma Ghandi. If you want to speak to her, I can call her over, but that’s not a guarantee she’ll come. I don’t think she likes other white people. Even when she’s taking her medication.”
“We gotta go upstairs,” said Bruno, who had been listening to the conversation and looking from Mrs. Morell to a white girl three
“I see.” My lord, what if Denise was killed and Vera framed to get them off the land developer’s back. No wonder his wife had tried to keep me from investigating. “Was Denise involved in the protest movement as well?”
“Lord no, honey. Wouldn’t even cough up money for picket signs, but I got ’em made in the neighborhood, so we’re in good shape for the demonstration. Hope you can get Vera out in time to march with us.”
“Yes, I hope so too. Were you here the night of the murder, Mrs. Harley?”
“God bless you, no, chile. Got choir practice at the church on Thursday nights. My clients know not to come then. Doubt there was a woman a color in the house.”
She was wrong about that. “Do you know of anyone who disliked Denise?”
“Sure do. Denise was a real penny pincher, jus’ sayin’ no to everybody need money, but none of ’em be killin’ her. I give it some thought, and I figgered maybe Bad Girl. Denise tole Doctor Rosie that puttin’ a psycho in the art class like to raise the insurance rates an’ scare off clients. That Bad Girl is some mean chile, an’ she hear what Denise say ’bout her an’ come out screamin’ words no Christian woman would use, but then likely the closest that one git to God be one fallen angel name Satan.”
“What’s her real name?”
“Don’ know that. She live in a shelter over in the Haight, or sometime on the street. Gets her pills from a free clinic. Doctor Rosie say she fine if she take them meds, but I swear she don’ take ’em much. Bad Girl prob’ly be over there paintin’ murals in C buildin’ right this minute. Part of therapy, tha’s Doctor Rosie’s dumb idea. Bad Girl, she like to scare poor ole Fiona half to death, but maybe they know her real name over there. You could try.”
I thanked Mrs. Harley, who called after me, “Jus’ look for the T-shirt. It say Bad Girl front an’ back, an’ she wear it everyday.” Then I collected Bruno and made my way, reluctantly, down the stairs to 2-C, another large room like the kitchen. What a sight it was! On the far side by the bay window stood a huge grand piano, badly scarred and so heavy it caused the floor to sag. The rest of the room had large plasterboard wall sections used for mural painting, tables, easels, music stands, boxes of supplies, and a lady wearing a pink shirtwaist dress trying to encourage a group of black and Hispanic women in the art of flower painting on dishes.
I introduced myself and Bruno in a furtive whisper while I glanced around. Several of the painters looked scary. “Do you have a student called Bad Girl?” I asked. “Mrs. Harley in Women of Color mentioned her.”
Fiona Morell sighed. “She’s the one painting knives on a teacup.”
“Knives?”
“Yes, she simply has no interest in flowers or any other nice subject. Even the mural painters, who aren’t usually that fussy, become irritated when she paints knives into the hands of their figures. Those who don’t think they’re twenty-first-century Diego Riveras want to emulate gang graffiti artists. It’s very distressing to me, I must say.”
“Perhaps you could tell me her real name.”
“Well, she says it’s Martina L. King, but that’s just a lie. Dr. King believed in the peaceful principles of Ma hatma Ghandi. If you want to speak to her, I can call her over, but that’s not a guarantee she’ll come. I don’t think she likes other white people. Even when she’s taking her medication.”
“We gotta go upstairs,” said Bruno, who had been listening to the conversation and looking from Mrs. Morell to a white girl three
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