Murder in Pastel

by Josh Lanyon

  This was a new perspective on my mother. I would have liked to know more, but was it my business? Not hardly.

  I finished buttoning my shirt. “Did I use to walk in my sleep?”

  Dr. Hicks did look at me then. “When you were small. You outgrew it. Why? Has it started again?”

  “Is that possible?” I was startled.

  “I suppose it is. Do you have reason to—?”

  “No. Not at all. I was surprised to hear that I ever had.”

  “It’s not so unusual in children. It isn’t dangerous, although Cosmo worried about you taking a tumble down those stairs to the beach. He used to hang a bell on your bedroom door.”

  “You’re kidding.” It didn’t sound like Cosmo; he had always leaned toward the survival-of-the-fittest philosophy. I thought it over. “Why would someone sleepwalk?”

  “There are different theories. Somnambulism isn’t necessarily a sign of psychological distress, not in children. Even an adult can have an isolated episode of sleepwalking because of unusual stress. But if it’s a recurring event it could be something more serious, the side effect of certain drugs perhaps.”

  “What about nightmares?”

  “What about them?”

  Now I had Dr. Hicks’ full frowning attention.

  “What could be the cause of having the same recurring nightmare?”

  “A psychological disturbance perhaps. Are we discussing nightmares or night terrors?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A nightmare is a bad dream. The patient generally wakes up frightened but alert. He remembers what happened in the dream. A night terror is more like a panic attack. The patient wakes up confused and terrified. He might remember nothing more than a single, vivid image. He might not remember anything. Again, it’s not so unusual in children.”

  “But in adults?”

  Dr. Hicks asked bluntly, “Is there something you want to tell me, Kyle?”

  “No. No, it’s for a book I’m working on.”

  Dr. Hicks subjected me to a microscopic gaze. “Sit down, Kyle.”

  I sat down. Folded up actually. That grave tone petrifies me. Always has.

  “I’m scheduling you for a full series of tests at St. Andrew’s next week.”

  “Why?” My mouth was so dry the words felt like crumbles.

  “Because you haven’t had a complete physical in a couple of years.”

  “Is my heart worse?”

  Did he hesitate before answering? “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. I am going to adjust your prescription.”

  “If there’s nothing wrong, why the change in my meds?”

  “There’s nothing unusual about that. We’ve adjusted your prescription before. You’ve been under some strain. Had a couple of flutters this past week. Better to be safe than sorry.”

  “Right.”

  His thin mouth quirked briefly. “No need to look like that. Your blood pressure is good, heart rate normal. No need to panic.”

  I nodded. Heart illness isn’t static. You’re either getting better or getting worse.

  Doctor Hicks added dryly, “And if the nightmares persist, let me know. We can prescribe for those too.”

  The next four days were uneventful. Life seemed to be settling back into the ruts.

  Adam chased off a reporter from the Steeple Hill Gazette and endured two visits from Sheriff Rankin, all observed by me mowing my lawn. He made no move to contact me. I made no move toward him either, but I developed a sudden passion for yard work.

  One evening while I was pruning my rose bushes I watched him on his verandah, drinking a bottle of wine, staring out at the trees; staring through the trees, I was sure, to the graveyard where Brett slept in the shadow of the stone angel’s sword.

  Now and then I caught a snatch of Miles Davis’ Live-Evil on the wind off the sea. Safe behind my clipping shears, I watched and told myself that the distance I had erected between us was for Adam’s protection; that the sheriff could never understand our relationship. That seemed reasonable, since I didn’t understand it myself.

  * * * * *

  On Monday I drove to St. Andrew’s Hospital in the neighboring township of Kelsburgh to spend the morning and most of the afternoon being weighed and measured, x-rayed and scanned. I ran a couple of theoretical miles under the unimpressed gaze of a technician. They must train nurses and technicians like secret agents; you have to go code blue before they start looking interested.

  I’d brought a copy of Greenwich Time with me, and once more I tried to understand who my father was from other people’s reminiscences while taped up to the machine that counted out my heartbeats.

  Joel quoted Cosmo on the subject of “Feelings.”

  Experience taught me it’s a hell of a lot more important to have two colors in correct composition than to have a vast confusion of emotional exuberance in the guise of ecstatic fullness or poetical revelation—both overrated qualities in art. For myself, I would rather be intellectually correct than emotionally fulfilled. That’s true of my art and all other aspects of my life.

  I’d read Joel’s bio of Cosmo when it first came out, but it seemed to me now that I had missed all the stuff between the lines. Or had not known what I was looking for. While Joel did infer he and my father had been closer than friends, there was no mention of Cosmo’s relationship with Micky, or with any woman besides my mother. Joel surmised that Cosmo had a Madonna fixation on his small-town sweetheart, but that his true nature had lain elsewhere. It was stupid to find this irritating. For all I knew, Joel was right. I have no memories of my parents together.

  Nearly every quote of Cosmo’s related to his work.

  I’m only interested in the exercise of painting. Of technique and composition. I have no wish to express emotion or personal life; I prefer to have no personal life.

  Joel rambled on and on about painting, art theory and the art scene in the ’50s. (Oh, the Dilemma of Being Modern!) He rambled even more about Joel. But how much was Joel and how much was a pose? I read into Joel’s narrative an ambivalence I had not perceived before. References to Cosmo’s boozing, fighting and fornicating struck me now as bitchy in tone. I suspected Joel’s feelings for his legendary chum were a love-hate mix. The memoir ended with Cosmo’s return to Steeple Hill and marriage. Not Joel’s idea of Happily Ever After.

  * * * * *

  It was around ten o’clock that same night when Jenny showed up at my door.

  “Can I stay here tonight, Kyle?” She was white and tense, but calm.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jenny.”

  “I’m leaving Vince.”

  That threw me but I said, “I don’t need more trouble with Vince.”

  Her eyes welled with tears. She said, “I don’t have any place else to go, Kyle. Please let me stay.” One tear spilled over and trickled down her cheek.

  Well hell. I should have sent her to Micky or given her money for a hotel. I pushed open the screen and said, “Only for tonight, Jen.”

  She came inside lugging a bulging, flowered tote bag.

  “I need a drink,” she said.

  I was thinking warm milk. Maybe the last of the dusty Ovaltine. Jen added, “Something strong.”

  Adam had finished off the brandy and I had never known Jen to drink beer. I decanted a bottle of red wine and brought her a glass. She downed it in three gulps, giggled and pointed at me.

  “I like it when you do that. Raise one eyebrow. It’s cute.” She handed her glass to me.

  “You’re scaring the hell out of me, Jen.”

  She laughed again, unsteadily. “That makes two of us. Kyle, I think Vince might have killed Brett.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “He’s changed. He’s different.”

  “That doesn’t mean he killed Brett.” I had to ask. “Does he still think he’s gay?”

  “No.”

  “Just a phase, huh? Why do you think he killed Brett?”
r />   “Could I have another glass of wine?”

  I didn’t have to ply her with alcohol, she was willing to ply herself. I poured her another glass.

  “Talk to me, Jenny.”

  She swallowed a mouthful of wine in a gulp, and said, “He’s changed, Kyle. From the time we moved here. We quit our jobs. Well, mine wasn’t much of a career, but Vince’s was. We moved here year round so Vince could paint, and it’s been a disaster. We’re broke. I don’t care, but Vince can’t handle it. All he thinks about is money.”

  “Why doesn’t he go back to his ad agency?”

  “Because that would mean failure. He can’t accept another failure.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Then he found Virgin in Pastel. It was like a miracle.”

  “You found the painting, Jen.”

  She shrugged. “Same difference.”

  “You really are too good for him.”

  She didn’t hear this. She leaned forward, saying earnestly in a little gust of Merlot breath, “But instead of things getting better, they got worse. All Vince could think about was that painting, about someone trying to take it from him. First you, then Brett.”

  “Brett?”

  “He kept thinking of all the ways to spend the money. He put money down on a new car. A Jag. Then he started worrying about all the people who would cheat him out of it.”

  The Jag or the money? All of the above or none of the above?

  “What about Brett?”

  “Brett told Vince he was keeping the painting for you. That it was really yours. That’s why Vince is so sure you have it. But that wasn’t what scared me. Vince would have given Brett that painting before.”

  “Before what?”

  “I don’t know. That’s just it. Something happened between them. Vince said he wanted to kill Brett, but he wouldn’t say why. And then Brett said he was keeping the painting, and then Brett was dead. Vince won’t talk about it.”

  I contemplated this and was reminded of something that had been niggling at the back of my mind for some days now.

  “Jenny, the night of the party that weed killer Irene loaned me went missing. Then the bottle turned up empty a few days later. Do you know if Vince might have borrowed it?”

  Vince was famous for “borrowing” stuff.

  Jenny’s hand shook as she set her wine glass down. “I took it.”

  “You? Why?”

  Her expression grew defiant; a badass Pippi Longstocking. “I was going to poison Brett.”

  I gaped at her. When I could speak, I said, “Jenny, are you insane?”

  “I didn’t do it! I was so upset I didn’t know what I was doing, but I knew that I couldn’t do that. I poured the chemicals out so I wouldn’t be tempted later.”

  She started to cry again.

  Could she be covering for Vince? But Brett had not been poisoned by the weed killer.

  It was a few minutes before I gathered my wits enough to ask, “Why do you think Vince killed Brett?”

  “Where was he that day? He said he was painting. He wasn’t painting. There was nothing wet on canvas. There was nothing new. He disappeared around lunchtime and he didn’t come back till late that night. And he already knew Brett was dead. Where was he?”

  I shook my head.

  “Where was he, Kyle?” Jenny repeated.

  * * * * *

  Jen had left for the museum by the time I got back from my swim the next day.

  I worked all morning, had a tuna salad sandwich and a cup of tea standing in the kitchen looking out toward Adam’s, then gravitated back to the computer. Work is a great refuge for emotional cowards.

  I didn’t hear the front door; that’s how engrossed I was. The tap on the study window had me starting up from my chair as though yanked from a dream. Vince peered through the glass, hands framing his face.

  I went to the front door, but did not unlatch the screen.

  “Can we talk?” he requested mildly enough.

  “I don’t know. Last time I tried, you told me to get a lawyer.”

  “I wasn’t thinking straight.” His mouth worked. “Where’s Jenny?”

  “At work.”

  “Are you—? Is she—?”

  “I have no idea what’s going on. She asked for a place to spend the night.”

  Vince nodded. Gulped again. “Can I talk to you, Kyle? Please?”

  Ah, the magic word. I undid the screen door. Vince followed me in, dropped down on the sofa, hands between his legs prayer-style.

  “I need a drink.”

  Kyle’s Bar and Grill. I went into the kitchen, poured two fresh cups of tea and brought them out to the front room. Vince stared at the tea and laughed shortly. He took a swallow and questioned, “What did Jenny tell you?”

  “Not much. She said she needed a place to stay for the night.”

  “Did she say she was leaving me?”

  The phone rang.

  I padded into the kitchen. Micky began speaking as soon as I picked up.

  “The sheriff just left.”

  “That’s always good news.”

  “He wanted to know if I was the model for Virgin in Pastel.”

  “Were you?”

  “No. Of course not. I’m a painter, not a model. What did you tell him, Kyle? Why would he think that?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Did you tell him Cosmo and I were lovers?”

  “No. Are you kidding? Why would I want that to get out?”

  “Well thanks a lot! What a thing to say to me!”

  Hypersensitivity was not normally part of Micky’s makeup. I said, “I only mean I’d be the last person to spread the word about my father’s private life.”

  “Joel,” she said in dire tones. “I bet it was Joel.”

  “Maybe it was no one, Micky. Maybe the sheriff is investigating. It’s what we pay him for.”

  She sounded unpersuaded as she rang off, and Joel had my sympathies if he’d betrayed her confidence.

  I returned to the front room where Vince was drinking his tea. He wore such a guilty look I was sure he had been eavesdropping.

  “Vince,” I said, “I don’t know what I can tell you. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Is she coming back here tonight?”

  “No.” I hoped not. I sipped my tea, nearly dropping the cup when Vince asked, “Are you lovers?”

  “God no!”

  “Then why would she come here?”

  “We’re friends.”

  “She’s trying to make me jealous.”

  “Are you jealous?” I finished the rest of my tea and set the cup down.

  “Of you?” He laughed unpleasantly. “No way.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  Vince said nothing, simply stared at me with a fixed look.

  “Vince?”

  He started.

  “Is there something more I can do for you?”

  It seemed to take him a long time to respond.

  “You can promise to keep out of it.”

  “No problem.” I stood up too fast and had to steady myself against the sofa arm.

  I waited.

  Vince made no move to rise.

  I said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m supposed to be working.”

  Another pause.

  “What else did she tell you?”

  “Nothing. She said she needed a place to spend the night. I said okay and she went to bed. Alone.” The whole topic of Vince and Jenny’s marriage was beginning to make me sick.

  Nauseous, in fact.

  “Are you okay?” Vince inquired. “You look pale.”

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  I headed for the bathroom, brushing against an end table and sending it rocking. There was something wrong with my balance. I was dizzy, cold sweat breaking out all over my body.

  I slammed into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time. I proceeded to lose my lunch. My breakfast followed in the next spasm.<
br />
  My body was drenched; my heart thudding. Black spots floated before my eyes as I clung to the porcelain bowl. Was it my heart? Sometimes nausea accompanies an attack. I need help, I thought distantly. The next instant I hung over the bowl while my body did its best to reject every organ through my mouth.

  When that bout ended, I slid down on the cool tile, too exhausted to move or think. I listened to my heart chugging away in my ears. I wondered if I was dying, and I decided I didn’t care so long as I could lie perfectly still.

  I closed my eyes.

  * * * * *

  “No ambulance,” Joel said. “If we call an ambulance the sheriff will know, and if Kyle’s tried to kill himself—”

  “Kill himself? What are you talking about?”

  “He didn’t take this stuff by accident.”

  “We don’t know what he took—which is why we need to get him to a doctor.”

  “If it’s digitalis he didn’t overdose accidentally.”

  Adam said furiously, “He didn’t try to kill himself!”

  “He could have,” Vince said. “He fixed the tea.”

  “Why the hell would he kill himself?”

  Into the stricken silence that followed, I mumbled, “I didn’t try to kill myself.”

  Immediately there was commotion around me. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. I heard Joel saying urgently, “Kyle, what did you take?”

  I opened my eyes. I was lying on the sofa in my front room. Joel was bending over me, repeating his question.

  “Nothing.” I tried to sit up. A half dozen hands pressed me back, a chorus of voices ordered me to lie still. I said, “I’m going to throw up.”

  Fresh commotion as I was helped into a sitting position. The couch spun once, hard, wheel of fortune style. Someone thrust an empty brass planter under my nose, and I heave-hoed some more, my insides turning out, wringing themselves dry.

  Tears of aggravation and self-pity itched their way down my face and plopped into the mess in the planter.

  “It’s okay, Kyle,” Adam said kindly from somewhere above me. I recognized his beautiful hands steadying the planter. Perfect.

  “Sorry,” I got out, swiping at my cheeks. I shivered back into the sofa cushions and they tucked the blankets and water bottles around me once more. I felt cold all the way through, like I’d been buried for months. As resurrections went, mine left something to be desired.