The Nasty Business of a Bodyguard by Elijah Douresseau (top books of all time TXT) 📕

“We’re not investigating anyone,” I said. “Right now we just want to know if they know anything relevant to the case. These interviews are all friendly. We want them to speak freely.”

“Well, yeah,” Landon said. “But Knapp replaced McQuaid.”

I laughed. “I forgot you were involved in all of that.”

He flipped on the camera and turned it on his face. “Now we’re on our way to Michael Knapp’s house to interview a dancer named Chloe. Michael Knapp is the head of the Performing Arts League. He’s only been there a few months, because we found out that the last head of the performing arts league was a lying, stealing, sack of shit scumbag. So, we all helped put her behind bars. Now, he’s had this dancer staying with him, and there’s been a murder. So, we’re going to talk to her, see what she knows.”

He turned the camera on me, and I smiled and winked at it from behind the wheel.

“No comment,” I said.

“Eh,” he shrugged and filmed out the window. “B-roll footage anyway.”

The GPS led us down a long country road with cows and horses, and long white fences. We finally arrived at a picturesque log cabin. The house rose on stilts about two or three feet off the ground. In a reddish orange tint, the logs matched the natural landscape, and the green roof blended in perfectly with the rising pine trees that surrounded it. The lamplight coming out from the windows looked like warm bursts of fire, and the wraparound porch practically begged visitors to stay for a long, leisurely cup of coffee.

“That is beautiful,” Landon commented from behind the lens. I was going to have to get used to him not necessarily directing his comments to me.

We walked up the floral lined steps to the porch where Chloe was already sitting. She sat on a green outdoor couch with a mug and a journal.

“Hello,” she smiled slightly and stood as soon as she saw us.

Chloe was tall, and so slender it was almost disconcerting. She moved with slow calculated moves, perfect posture, and grace. She had long, light blond hair pulled into a tight ponytail, and she wore gray Victoria’s Secret sweatpants, and an oversized pink tank top layered over a red sports bra. She had black no-show athletic socks without shoes. Her eyes were light blue, but they looked puffy and strained, as if she had been crying.

“Hi, Chloe,” I said and offered my hand. “I’m Henry Irving.”

She smiled politely. “Good to meet you. Chloe Ostreander.”

“And this is Landon Verhelst,” I said. “He’s filming all of our interviews. Is that okay?”

“I guess,” she shrugged.

“How have you been doing, Chloe?” I asked genuinely. “This has got to be difficult.”

She stiffened and then looked sad. “I’ve never hurt like this in my life. It’s like a cloud that follows me, all day, every day. I live with a physical feeling of a lump in my heart.”

She clutched her fist to the center of her chest. “It’s right there. I can feel it, right here--the heartache. And, everything and anything can make me cry. I’m emotional all the time. I mean, it was something stupid yesterday. My phone company lost my payment somehow, and so I had to call them and straighten it out. Normal, right? Not that big of a deal. But, I found myself yelling, and calling that poor phone rep every name in the book, and… I-I’m not that kind of person. I don’t do that.”

I listened and tried to remember that this poor girl was away from home, staying with strangers, and had just lost her lover to a cold blooded murder that had not yet been solved.

“This is a difficult experience for anyone to go through,” I said. “Do you have a therapist back home you can call?”

She shrugged. “The police gave me a number to a counselor. I met with her once. Nice lady, gave me some good tips.”

“Chloe,” I said. “How long did you know Beowulf?”

She drew a deep breath and looked furtively at the camera.

“You can look at me, if the camera is distracting,” I said.

She smiled awkwardly and then turned back to me. “I met Beyo when I was still in high school. I was pretty rebellious, into a lot of things, and he saved me. I had a rough childhood, and he was the first person I ever met that showed me unconditional love.”

She started to cry and then wiped her eyes and looked apologetically at the camera.

“I had been classically trained as a ballerina,” she said, “and he had done a lot of acting and martial arts. So, he said he was thinking of starting a performance group.”

I shifted in my seat. I didn’t want the whole history of Ghoti. I just wanted a relationship premise, and to establish basic trust, and then get to the night of the murder. Besides, given her emotional state, I didn’t know how long she could last.

“You helped found the group, then?” I prodded.

“Yes,” she said.

“And how many years ago was that?” I asked.

“Six,” she said.

“What can you tell me about the night of the incident?” I asked.

She was quiet, and then all the words came tumbling out. “It had to have been that crazy paint lady.”

“Judith Klein, the feminist protester?” I clarified.

“Is that her name?” she asked. “She was going around throwing paint on all of us. She had these green buckets and threw paint everywhere telling us to be clothed. It was the worst experience of my life. I was getting ready to go out, and all of a sudden, I heard screaming, and I turned, and the next thing I knew, this wall of green paint comes hurling at me, and I’m covered in it.