Intimate Relations by Rebecca Forster (most popular ebook readers TXT) 📕

about the people he spoke with was the lack of curiosity about the murder. No, that wasn't it. It was the lack of horror or sorrow. So far, the news of what happened was taken in stride. Perhaps it was because they didn't know the artist well and the victim not at all. Or maybe these people lived on a fringe where everything was art, even death.

Taking a deep breath, Finn swung his head toward the gated entrance. He looked the other way toward the interior of the compound, and that's when he saw the unmistakable green of grass. It was a jarring sight in this sea of concrete.  He made his way around the building to a small park that separated two of the living areas. In the center of the park was a man-made mountain of chicken wire baskets, doors, sheets of plywood, paintings, clothing hanging off any number of structures, a child's tricycle, and a toilet.

"Taking or leaving?"

Finn swung his head. Standing beside him was a mere mite of a woman. Her face was wizened by wrinkles and crevices, but there was a sparkle in her eyes and a whimsy in her blue-tipped short hair that spoke of a young spirit.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Oh, love the accent. Very subtle, but so nice," she said. "Are you visiting Gunther? He's the only Irish we got around here."

Finn shook his head.

"No, and I'm afraid it's been a while since I was in my home village. Hard to lose the accent when you get off the boat already a young man."

"Don't try. Very sexy." She looked back at the pile of stuff, and put her fists to her tiny hips. "You haven't got anything to leave, so I suppose you're taking. Can I help you look?"

"I was doing neither," Finn said. "I was contemplating whether this is art or not?"

"You can't tell?" When she saw Finn flush, she put a hand on his arm. "Don't worry about it. Half of all art is crap, but don't tell the people who make it. You never want to hurt an artist's feelings. They crumble, poor things."

She gave a nod toward the mountain.

"This is our shopping mall. If someone moves out of their place, or doesn't want something, or they don't like one of their paintings it all ends up here. Free to take something, free to leave something."

"Recycling at its finest," Finn said.

"Pretty much." She put out her hand. "My name is Mitzie. Not many of the folks around here make enough to buy new things. Even if they did, it's a lot more fun to shop this way. Want to see what I got?"

"Lead the way," Finn said.

Mitzie took him to her loft, a fine unit with a window of its own. The furniture was new. The place was spotlessly clean, and something wonderful was cooking in the oven. Finn looked upward toward an open loft.

"My loom is up there. I make some good pin money doing fabric art. I enjoy the heck out of myself, but I'm not dependent on it. Want coffee?"

"I won't turn it down."

"Excellent." She talked as she took down the cups and poured the brew. "I'm a little unique around here. I've got money, so I don't have to hustle. I'm also Grandma Moses. I don't find that a particularly attractive handle, but a lot of these kids don't have family. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy to think I serve a purpose."

"Do tell."

Finn took the steaming mug, and sat on the sofa. Mitzie crossed her legs, sank onto a large floor pillow, and wrapped both her tiny hands around her mug.

"My husband died two years ago. He was a big time lawyer. Good guy. Indulged my artsy-fartsy ways for forty years. When he was gone, the big house, the charity lunches..." She pulled up her shoulder. "I don't know. It wasn't the same anymore, so I came here. I didn't really leave it all behind, though. I brought Frank with me. Sometimes I can hear him telling me that I'm doing beautiful work. He was that kind of guy."

"Sure, a good man is hard to find. Having one for forty-years is lovely."

"It was." Mitzie fell silent for a moment, but her reflection didn't last long. "So, that's what I picked up in the heap."

She pointed to a painting of a nude woman with a screw through her stomach. It filled the wall on which it hung.

"And what is it that spoke to you exactly?" Finn asked. Mitzie rewarded him with a full throated laugh.

"I needed something big for that wall, and that was the only thing available. I'd love to know which of my neighbors painted it."

Finn smiled, grateful that they were not going to be in for a discussion of women's rights, art, or philosophy.

"So, have you found out anything about what happened last night?" Mitzie said.

"Missus?"

"Oh, come on, this is a small place. By now everyone knows you're a cop, and we all know about the murder. Very exciting."

"You wouldn't know it from those I've spoken with. They seem to take it all in stride," Finn said.

"That's their way. If they aren't the one dead, then a murder is only a matter of interest and not concern," she said. "I, on the other hand, love nothing more than a good mystery. Are there any beans you can spill?"

"I'm afraid not," Finn set his mug aside and rested his arms on his knees. "We've just begun to look into the matter. Do you know the artist in the tall building. The one—"

"Who makes the sex dolls." Mitzie finished for him. "Of course I know the Cucas. Enver does beautiful work, but the credit should go to Emi. She's the one who builds them. Their structure is so delicate, so realistic. Enver's art wouldn't be half as impressive without the foundation."

"Then you know them well?"

"I know Emi better than Enver, and that isn't saying much. They're very old country. If I had to guess, I'd say