Free 1 Portrait of a Gossip by Melanie Jackson

would learn their secret and the
killer would murder again to keep it. They needed to find out who killed the
gossip and let a jury sort out if it was justified.
    “I’m not usually a fan of the ‘he just needed killing’
defense,” Juliet muttered to the Great Dane after she watched Mickey pull away
in his truck. Erik was enthused about the cookie and quite ready to be friends.
Juliet was obliged to wipe her hand on her paint rag to rid it of slobber. “There
are too many people that it would apply to, don’t you think?”
    Erik panted agreement.
    “I need to go. It’s going to rain this afternoon,” she said
and ventured to pet the dog on the head. Erik seemed to like that as much as
his cookie. “I’ll see you the next time I’m in town. I may not have a cookie
though. I hope that’s okay.”

 
 

Chapter 8

 
    Juliet found herself humming as she drove home, part of
Harrison Peters’ opera that she had overheard him rehearsing on electric piano.
The urge for song left her as soon as the fort wall appeared. Once the wall had been the demarcation line between the potentially
dangerous outside and the safe inside. It wasn’t true any longer.
Chances were good that the greatest danger to her peace and happiness was
waiting inside the compound, the murderer nearby, somewhere in the shade of the
redwood trees.
    She pulled into their small parking lot and shut off the
engine. Robbie Sykes was back and had opened the community room which was
unusually full of people for that time of day. Hans was there and with his
disturbed hair and tropical print shirt, the carver looked a bit like one of
the more exotic chickens roaming around town.
    Her neighbors had overflowed the community room and moved
out to the benches nearest the lot. Juliet wanted to speak to Hans and Jake
Holmes both, since they were able-bodied men and capable—physically—of moving
Harvey’s body, but not with Carrie emoting in that pestilent voice. How easily
she stepped into the starring role. Narcissistic, neurotic—
    Juliet stopped and examined that waspish thought. She wasn’t
jealous of Carrie Simmons, was she? She didn’t crave the spotlight. No, she was
far happier and for more able to observe what was happening from the quiet
corner of the room. She was Jane Eyre, not Emma Peel. And they were, as
artists, all craving some kind of recognition. Carrie would never get it for
her art, which was popular but anonymous. She was filling the need another way.
She should strive for compassion. Or at least patience.
    Calm again, Juliet looked over the others unemotionally.
Poor anemic Rose appeared to have been living off fingernails and valium for
the last two days, and Jake’s wife, Jillian, was looking like she had the flu.
Though possibly it was her husband’s hand-rolled cigarettes and not the death
of a neighbor that was making her appear so ill as she
studied the tips of her shoes and ignored the hubbub around her. No one spoke
to her, possibly because they couldn’t think what to say to a shadow.
    Someone had told Juliet that Jillian had been born in
Mexico. Maybe a vacation with friends and family south of the border would put
some color back in her face. A thoughtful husband would take her, but Jake did
not strike Juliet as someone who was greatly concerned with the well-being of
others. But what did she know really? And did she want to know anything? Life
was so much easier when one kept some reserve.
    Still, shouldn’t she know something after seven months? It
occurred to Juliet how little she truly knew her neighbors. It was the NSA all
over again. She had defined these people by their vocations and not considered
all the other things they might have pursued in their life. She didn’t know the
date of anyone’s birthday, couldn’t even say if any of them had children.
    And she had been very careful not to let anyone know about
her past. She didn’t have people in for coffee or barbecues, hadn’t exchanged Christmas