Gabriel's Gate

It was going to be a scorcher.  Not quite seven in the morning and the heat with its accompanying humidity was climbing to uncomfortable levels.  The thermometer showed a temperature of seventy-eight this early in the day.  Yesterday had been hot today would be hotter.  No one cared to remember a July this miserable.

Julia McGregor left the cool interior of the home she tended for Vincent Di Angelis and headed toward the studio.  Vincent was a wonderful artist, but today he was pushing his housekeeper’s patience.  Last night, Vincent had refused to come up to the house for dinner and worked through the night.  Enough was enough!  Truth be told, he was no spring chicken, neither was Julia.  Long days and nights took a toll on them both.

Julia made her way toward the studio located at the back of Vincent’s considerable estate; she noted the lack of a cool breeze, which usually came off Lake Michigan.  The estate, well tended, looked a tad wilted from six steady days of high heat.  The small gazebo Vincent had built with his own hands shimmered in the distance; the climbing roses looked worse for wear.

Julia tried the studio door and was relieved when it swung open.  Peering into the large room, she noted great globs of a red substance spattered about the floors, on the windows, and on easels holding other works of art, scattered about the spacious and well-lit room.  It covered his brushes and palettes.  Julia thought it paint.  How odd, she thought, Vincent was fastidious where his tools were concerned.  This mess was completely out of character.

Of Vincent himself, there was no sign.

“Vincent?” Julia’s voice echoed eerily throughout the studio.

“Vincent!  Where are you?”

Entering the studio, a sickening odor assailed her nostrils.  Cloying sweet but earthy.  It reminded her of the old slaughter yards.  Fear started gnawing in her belly.

“Vincent!  Dammit!  Answer me!”