False Colors, page 19
part #1 of Jeff Shott Mystery Series
I laughed. “With Bruce, it’s sometimes hard to tell whether to be flattered or insulted.”
She nodded. “All the while he’s appraising me, he’s also checking out my landscape paintings, which are hanging all over the apartment. He asked if he could take a couple of them and show them to a gallery owner he knew. I figured this was his way of trying to make me feel better.”
The gallery owner, of course, was Brian, who was delighted with what he saw. These new paintings had a raw, primal potency that he couldn’t resist.
“So Brian asks to meet me, and I’m terrified. I mean, I love to paint, but I can’t explain what I do. The paintings aren’t me, if you know what I mean.”
“I understand,” I said. “You’re lovely and refined, but your style appears untutored and somewhat unkempt.”
She studied me for a moment and then smiled shyly. “I’m not so sure about the first part, but I like your description of my work.”
The upshot was that Bruce did some thinking and suggested to her that Trish Vernon was not going to be the correct image for someone who painted this way. Her background didn’t fit. So he came up with the persona of Betsy Washington.
“When I met Brian in that costume, he was forced to keep some distance from me. I felt sorry for him, and I tried very hard not to laugh. But it was much easier to talk about my work in that disguise. After a couple of more meetings, we made the financial arrangements that you know about. And by then, it was too late to reveal my real self. And Betsy has done very well.”
“So who would want to kill Brian?” I asked. “His car didn’t explode by itself.”
“Everybody who knows him loves him.”
“There’s got to be someone who doesn’t,” I said. “If I could just figure it out.”
“But there are lots of people who had problems with Guillermo,” she said. “Your girlfriend.”
“A woman with a child?” I asked.
“Point taken,” she said.
But I was curious enough to ask, “Why Nora?”
“Guillermo got her fired from her first critic job because she didn’t get excited about some artist they were featuring. She said the work was crap, but in different words. The show bombed, and he decided it was her fault.”
“Do you think she’s capable of killing someone?”
“Rumor has it you know her far better than most of us; what’s your opinion?”
I had to admit I was biased. “I date only good women. I marry only problem women,” I said. “So, at this time, I don’t think it was Nora.”
“Do you know for sure?”
“No, but I’m not sure of Gillian, either. I’ll have to keep an open mind.”
“Why not just figure it’s Marlene?” she said. “She and Damien have been in each other’s pants forever, and everybody knows it. She’s smart, and she’s strong enough. Did you ever take a look at her arms?”
I had, but I’d also been too busy observing her other parts to pay that much attention. My original favorite was Marlene. Then she’d hired me, which seemed to rule her out.
“She isn’t full of herself; she has an idea of her own limitations. She seems like a little girl who’s happily lost in the clothing store with an unlimited budget. But people who are charming, and even naïve, kill other people all the time,” I said. “I’m worried about you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“No, you can’t, not if your assailant is faster, bigger, or more well-armed than you are and you’re totally surprised. Think about Guillermo.”
That sobered her. She asked what I thought she should do. As we walked to her car, I told her to leave town immediately and not to tell anyone where she was going.
“And that includes Gillian,” I said. “Disappear for a week. Go somewhere you’ll enjoy.” I gave her my cell number. “Call me when you get wherever it is, just so I know you’re alive and well. And don’t forget to tell Betsy to bathe.”
The last sound I heard was her laughter. I watched until her car was out of sight. There was no one following her.
45
When I rejoined the group in the vast living room, Nora was in animated discussion with Brian and Peter Kaplow in one corner. Brian was shaking his head, occasionally looking over to the opposite side of the room where Damien was gesticulating angrily to Ben Dickerson and Nat Ross. Marlene was sitting a few feet away, her legs crossed and her silver sandals dangling from her toes. She looked upset.
I walked over to her. “What’s going on? I thought they’d all smoked the peace pipe.”
She sighed heavily. “Brian told Damien to come up with a workable figure for contract renegotiation. He got everyone together with Nat and Ben, and they had a big discussion. Nat and Ben put together what they said was a fair contract.”
“Why are they discussing it here?”
“This was Peter’s idea, and Ben agreed. He said informal discussions are usually better before formal when the people know each other pretty well. So Damien asked if I could throw a party. Lots of people, informal, relaxed. Familiar surroundings.” She looked up at me miserably. “Why is this so hard?”
“Money is a touchy subject. Most people are reluctant to part with it. People who don’t have it want more, and people who have it don’t want any less.”
She nodded. “Don’t I know it. I’m a former have not. I’m afraid that Damien’s temper is going to get in his way. I don’t think he understands what being featured in a gallery means.”
“But you do.”
“Yes, I do.” She uncrossed her legs and stood up. Brian had told her she was much more capable than she gave herself credit for being. She had just come to terms with that statement.
“So maybe you should explain it to him,” I said. “Because he’ll listen to you. He won’t listen to Brian.”
But at that moment, Peter’s thin face contorted with anger, and he shouted at Brian, “I’m tired of this shit! None of us, me, Damien, Scotty, nobody, are gonna do any more work until we settle,” and he stormed out the front door, leaving a shocked silence in his wake.
Damien looked distressed. He stood up and walked over to Brian and Nora. I joined them, and so did Marlene.
“What happened?” asked Damien with annoyance.
“Peter’s terms are ridiculous. He wants a seventy-five percent payout and a retroactive payout for past work. I told him he was way off-base.”
“You have to compromise somewhere, Brian,” Damien insisted.
“I do, and I will,” Brian said, “but you have to find a reality basis. I run a business. I don’t live in fantasyland the way you artists do.”
“That was a cheap shot, Brian,” Damien said, the hurt evident in his voice. “I expected more from you. So come up with an equitable idea, but do it fast. Call Nat or Ben by Wednesday. Otherwise, I’m with Peter, and we’ll make sure nobody delivers anything to you until we have a new contract.”
He walked over to Scotty, who was now talking quietly to a small group of admiring patrons, and tugged on his arm. “Come on, Scotty, let’s get out of here. We’ve got calls to make.”
Scotty shrugged, but he acquiesced. “Sorry, everybody,” he said with his pixie-like gleam, “but we geniuses have to stick together.”
Marlene walked purposefully over to them. Maybe she could calm Damien. “You know you’re overreacting.”
“You’re new at this, Marlene,” he replied. “But now you’re half the problem. So you come up with half a good idea and give it to him.
“Come on, Scotty, Billy, Molly, let’s go.” They also reluctantly said goodbye to their companions and followed Damien out the door.
46
Conversation around the room resumed in a desultory manner, with several patrons shaking their heads in consternation.
Brian, Marlene, and I converged upon each other. Nat Ross and Ben Dickerson got up and joined our tight circle.
“I’m sorry, Brian,” said Ben, sweat evident under his arms despite the coolness of the room. He and Nat would be getting a percentage of the raises of their clients. “I didn’t expect Peter to go off on you like that.”
“Me either,” Brian said. “I expected that kind of display from Damien. He was remarkably well behaved considering what I’ve seen from him in the past.”
“I know them both pretty well,” said Marlene. “I’ll talk to them about it tomorrow or the next day. They just need some time to cool off.”
I said my farewells to her and Brian and walked over to Nora, who was talking to an attractive and well-dressed couple who looked to be in their late fifties. He had a full mane of silver hair. She had let her hair go naturally to gray. He had his arm protectively around his wife’s shoulders. They looked comfortable together.
Nora excused herself without introducing me.
“How did your interview go?” I asked.
“Don’t ever let anyone tell you that all artists are geniuses,” she said.
“What did he tell you?”
“He was able to explain why he got his tattoos and that his favorite beer is Dos Equis. His art is a foreign concept to him. He said something about some things being heavy and other things being light. If it weren’t for his girlfriend, he’d be living in the streets.”
“Which one is she?”
“Remember the heavyset young woman with a buzz cut sitting next to Bishop?”
“Glasses? Big shoulders?”
“That was Molly Malone, his significant other.”
I remarked that she had just walked out.
“I know. She represents him, so she’s in on the contract talks. She says she merely interprets his ideas. After listening to him talk, it’s hard to believe he’s smart enough to even control his own breathing.”
“Maybe he’s an idiot-savant.”
“Definitely the idiot part,” she said. “Anyway, listening to her, which I did, it’s evident that she’s the brains of the operation. She dreams up the sculptures. He’s the ‘tote that barge, lift that bale’ guy, and she hates being photographed, so he gets the fame. But she set him up as a corporation, and she owns half of everything he makes.”
Nora asked what had transpired in my hush-hush meeting. I knew the question would come up, and I didn’t want to reveal that I had learned things about her life that she wanted kept private. I also didn’t want to lie to her. For one of the few times in my life, I did not have a ready response.
She looked at me expectantly, with a half-smile, waiting for my answer. There was such invitation in that look. I just wanted to grab her to me and send my tongue on a reconnaissance mission to find her tonsils.
But this just wasn’t the place for that. I tried a delaying tactic in order to put my thoughts in order.
“Are you hungry? I didn’t eat anything, and I’m starved.”
“Suddenly you’re not talking to me?” she asked. I could the hurt in her voice.
“Let’s get out of here,” I urged. “We’ll talk on our way.”
As we walked to the car, we didn’t make any attempt to touch each other. We drove in uncomfortable silence for a while, each waiting for the other to break the stalemate. The tension between us was tangible, and the feeling gnawed at me. She was angry; her anger was causing me to have agita, and our shared emotional turmoil was heating up the atmosphere. I felt like I was once again riding in the claustrophobic carriage of my marriage. I gritted my teeth. Her breathing was audible. I suddenly became aware that I was panting.
“You sound like a dog,” she said, saying something.
I should have said, “Woof,” or something equally inane, which might or might not have lowered the tension level. But I didn’t try because I was upset with her. So instead, typical man from Mars that I am, I went on the attack. “Why didn’t you tell me about you and Damien?”
“Is that what this is? You’re jealous? You think I was a virgin until I met you? What did you think, that I adopted Lily?” Her volume had risen with each question.
During my marriage I would have just shrugged, trying to ward off an argument. However, a couple of healthy relationships since then had taught me that defense is not the game to play when you care about the other person. I attacked right back.
“I thought that I meant enough for you to tell me about your past. I’ve made no secret of mine. My hesitation back there was because I’d found out something about you that I thought you wanted to keep a secret, and I didn’t know how to bring it up. I was worried that I’d upset you.”
She started to cry, but she was still shouting. “You didn’t upset me. But you yelled at me. You’re not supposed to yell at me. I’m supposed to yell at you. You’re supposed to comfort me.”
I was no longer on the offensive. I was back on defense and extremely confused.
“You were yelling at me,” I ventured tentatively, “so I yelled back at you.”
“You yelled louder,” she said, sniffling. I put my hand on hers. She batted it away. “You’re supposed to let me yell and then explain your side reasonably. I never heard you yell before. I thought you were in love with me.”
That four-letter word had not come up between us, but I understood her statement. It was her way of hinting that she had strong feelings for me and that she was under the impression from all my previous words and actions that I harbored similar feelings for her.
I took a breath before jumping in. I took another one. Close my eyes, hold my nose, leap into the pool. “I am in love with you,” I said. “And that’s why I yelled at you. During my marriage I never argued. My parents used to argue all the time. Very loudly. It upset me as a kid. So I thought that the ideal marriage would never have arguments. Shows you what I know. Fifty years later, they’re still married. I was divorced after ten.”
“So that’s why you yelled at me?”
“Yes, that’s why. I realized that arguing, some yelling allowed, means you care enough about the other person to make a fuss.”
“Couldn’t you just tell me that you love me quietly?”
We were on the corner of Jog Road and Yamato, just passing Spanish River High School. The amber middle eye of the blinking traffic light caught mine and hinted that it was time to talk to Nora face to face. The Regency Court shopping center entrance was on Yamato. I made a right and headed for the TooJays deli in the middle of the outdoor mall.
“Can I tell you over lunch? I’m starved.”
“You can yell it out to the lunch crowd if you feel like.”
While we were eating, I told her about my discussion with Trish. “She gave me permission to spill the beans to you. With one proviso.”
“I have to keep it a secret?” she asked.
“On the contrary, you get to tell the secret. But you have to do it immediately. Her life may depend on it.”
She looked stunned and pleased at the same time. She promised to give a sympathetic slant to the story. “And besides, she’s a great artist. Even better, Trish is bright, beautiful, and articulate. She’ll do great on the talk shows. I owe you for this one.”
I assured her, with a leer, that I’d collect.
“Make sure you do,” she said.
I asked her what she thought of Peter, Scotty, and Damien’s dramatic exit.
“I don’t know Peter and Scotty at all. I do know that Damien postures a lot. It’s part of his personality. By the way, I couldn’t have married him. Marlene’s taking him back was one of the best things that ever happened to me. He knew I was pregnant. He offered to pay for the abortion. I told him to screw himself. Marlene came back, so he didn’t have to. And that’s our story. And yes, I modeled for him a few times. I looked pretty good back then.”
I assured her she looked pretty good now, too.
47
The following day, Marty moved to Atlanta. Two days later, as I was having dinner chez Nora and Lily, Lily said, “Daddy promised he’d come home every weekend.”
But the following evening, as we were eating dinner together once again, Marty called to say that he couldn’t come that weekend because he had an invitation to play golf with the CEO of a company that his company had been considering buying and he couldn’t get out of it. But next weekend, definitely. Had Marty been in town, Nora and I would have gone out to dinner and Lily would have been able to spend the evening with her daddy, whom she adored.
“It’s not that I don’t like you, Jeff, I really do, but you’re not the same as my daddy.” She explained this to me with that wonderful gravity that little kids have. They realize that we grownups are not too smart but that if they explain things slowly and carefully, with lots of wide-eyed, open-mouthed checks to see if we’re listening, they figure we have a fighting chance of understanding. These explanations are always aided by open-armed, palms-up gestures.
“My daddy has a very low voice” – and she demonstrated by trying to take her little voice down an octave – “like this.” Then she resumed normal tone. “But you have a normal voice, like other people’s daddies. And Daddy always hugs me.”
“Jeff would be happy to give you a hug,” Nora said with understanding of her daughter’s plight in her voice.
“Yes, I would,” I said, kneeling down next to Lily and putting my arms out. She came out of her chair and hugged me. She put her little head on my shoulder, and I lightly stroked her soft bronze tresses. She gave me a quick peck on the neck and indicated that I should release her.
“It’s not the same,” she pronounced, getting back into her seat. “Daddy smells different.”
“I showered, today, honest,” I pleaded to both of them. Nora snorted.
“You smell nice, Jeff, but you don’t smell like daddy,” Lily pouted.
“Marty smells like Right Guard. You smell like Old Spice,” Nora explained.
“As long as I don’t smell like an old gym locker. I think Lily is trying to tell us she misses Marty. I miss him, too,” I said as I gathered up the plates and brought them to the sink. Manually pre-wash before using the dishwasher, as my mother always told me.
