Free Storm at Marshbay by Clara Wimberly

Don’t be such a prude, Isabella. Come on, we’re almost there.”
    Moments later, she brushed aside a large flowery shrub and behind it was a door with a round brass circle that she pulled. The door opened with a creak. A coolness emanated from the room along with the pungent smell of straw and dust.
    “James told you this?” I asked.
    “Of course, he did,” she said. “We have no secrets from one another.”
    “Does Ian know?”
    “I’m sure he’s heard the rumor. But of course that isn’t something James is going to confess to his brother. Nor would I. That would make for a rather messy living situation, don’t you think?”
    I must say I was stunned by her blasé attitude about the entire matter. I tried not to think about it as she held the door open for me to come inside.
    Edna left the door ajar and then found a lantern and lit it. There were rows of windows on both of the outside walls, dusty now and obscuring the light. I imagined if the door to the courtyard were open, the area would be flooded with light. Edna made it obvious she’d been here before as she strode to the middle of the room and pulled a long, looped chain. Two large skylights above us opened with much creaking and clanging. 
    A large area was revealed, with part of the floor covered in Spanish tile and the other part dirt and straw. That part contained a large stall where Marguerite must have brought in horses to use as models for her work.
    Edna seemed very familiar with the room and not at all ill at ease that we had more or less forced our way in.
    I was not so comfortable; remembering here was where Marguerite died. But, of course, this was also where she spent so much of her time creating. I’d seen some of her sculptures in the gardens and courtyard and her passion and talent were obvious in her work. Her pieces, some finished some not, lined the walls and her tools lay on a large table. This made me see her as a real, live person. Her presence was definitely still in this studio. For me it was a powerful and moving moment.
    Suddenly I smelled a beautiful, exotic perfume that made chills race over my skin. “Do you smell perfume?” I asked.
    She shrugged her shoulders. “Yes, I often smell her perfume when I come here.”
    “Her? You mean Marguerite?”
    “Of course.” She frowned at me. “Who else would I mean? Marguerite hardly allowed anyone in here when she was working. Not even Ian. But perhaps that had more to do with her secrets than with her privacy about her work.”
    I don’t know why her words bothered me so much. She was so casual about it. There was a tone to her voice when she spoke of Marguerite that I couldn’t quite figure out. Dislike? Jealousy? A shiver ran down my spine.
    “She was murdered right over there,” Edna pointed. “Near the horse’s stall.”
    “Murdered?”
    “Oh, do forgive me. The appropriate Fitzgerald story is that it was an unfortunate accident.  Beautiful sculptress killed by the magnificent horse she adored. Tragic, isn’t it?”
    “Yes,” I whispered. “It is.”
    Edna paced back and forth, almost dancing. She seemed so different here—  hard and cold. And something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
    “I think we should go,” I said. “It’s cold in here.”
    “Did Ian tell you he was a suspect?” she asked, making no move to leave.
    “Yes, he did.”
    She smiled. “Ah.” Placing he hands on her hips, she smirked at me. “Warned you did he?”
    “Really, Edna…”
    “He has a violent temper you know. Runs in the family. That quick, violent Irish temper. His father had it too they say. In fact he’s just like his father. Aggressive and masculine— not at all like my sweet, sensitive James.”
    I turned to go. “I don’t care to hear any more of this.”
    She grabbed my arm, pulling me around to face her, blue eyes sparkling with anger. 
    “Of course, you don’t want to hear it. No one wants to hear anything bad about the handsome, charming