by Alan Russell
In Cheever’s too many hours of solitude he had consumed books of all sorts and remembered one story of a man overwhelmed by a woman’s beauty. The man had invited her to his garden where he had said, “Come, I want my roses to see you.” Cheever didn’t remember the author, which was unusual for him. Maybe his memory was finally getting fuzzy. But he wished he could be that clever with Rachel. He wanted to take her out to the deck and point to her roses and say, “Come, I want the roses to see you.”
It was madness to think like that. She had money and class and lots of certificates that said how educated she was, that said “call me doctor.” The only thing they had in common was their loneliness. That wasn’t exactly the foundation for a long-term relationship. What would happen when they tired of showing each other their scars?
Cheever had his cell phone on vibrate mode. He answered its tickle. The display identified the caller as Keith Aubell.
“You left a message on my machine,” Aubell said. “Something about my art.”
“Yes,” Cheever said. “I’m one of the detectives working the Bonnie Gill investigation.”
“Oh.” Aubell’s disappointment was evident, the hoped-for potential customer vanishing.
“Mr. Aubell,” Cheever said, “one of your paintings suffered damage during the commission of a crime. We’ve impounded that painting.”
“What damage?” Aubell wanted to know.
Cheever’s answer gave a new and grisly meaning to flesh tones. “Blood splatters.”
Aubell didn’t have to ask him what crime. His silence spoke for him. “I’m hoping you can meet with me at the gallery today at four thirty,” Cheever said. “There are some questions I’d like to ask you.”
“Four thirty,” repeated Aubell, sounding as if he was working through his shock. “Today. Okay.”
Cheever hung up the phone and then walked across the kitchen to Rachel’s refrigerator. It wasn’t a Sears floor model. The refrigerator was built into the wall, a recessed stainless steel design usually only found in the kitchens of upscale restaurants. It was as pretty as a picture until you opened it. What was inside looked very healthy and very unappealing. He found brewer’s yeast, whole grains, fruits and vegetables, wheat germ, soy products, tofu, dark breads, and juices that looked like they had more pulp than liquid. Cheever finally selected an imported sparkling water. The only imported water he usually drank came from the Colorado River via his pipes. Sometimes he remembered to use a cup.
He drank from the bottle, finished it, and put it on the counter. When he reentered the family room Rachel was still talking with Helen, even if it looked as if she were talking to herself. He didn’t feel too guilty about interrupting the conversation.
“Duty calls,” Cheever said.
“Thank you for all your help,” Rachel said.
“How about if I drop by later and see how things are? I can bring some takeout. Chinese, Mexican, you name it.”
“I can make dinner,” she said.
He had seen her refrigerator. “Not necessary. Just tell me what you like.”
“I love vegetarian chow mein. Or the Buddha’s platter of fresh vegetables. Or even the shrimp moo goo gai pan.”
Rachel said the last as if owning up to some serious confession. He nodded, her preferences remembered, and started to leave only to be stopped by another voice.
“Cerberus,” Helen whispered. A ghost’s murmur.
Helen still wasn’t looking at them, still wasn’t there, but something must have registered with her to announce that name. Cheever and Rachel exchanged glances. She motioned for him to be silent, and they waited to see if Helen had anything else to say. After a minute of silence Rachel began to question Helen, but was unable to coax any more words out of her.
The failure didn’t appear to bother the therapist. She turned to Cheever and offered an explanation for the one word: “Helen has worked to accept more and more responsibility over her life. Taking care of Cerberus has been one of her own litmus tests. I think she’s asking us for help.”
Love me, love my dog. “Does opening your home extend to becoming a kennel?” he asked.
“If it comes to that, yes. But I believe Helen’s condition will be short-lived.”
“So we just need somebody,” Cheever said, “to walk and feed the dog in the meantime.”
There weren’t too many choices for that “somebody.” Cheever reluctantly reached for Helen’s purse and dug out her keys.
“I’ll try and be back by seven,” he said, “that is, if Cerberus doesn’t kill me.”
“Thank you,” said Rachel.
He was probably imagining it, but Cheever thought he saw Helen nod her head slightly as if to second that voicing of gratitude.
THE BAY WAS quite different close up, though there was something to be said for that distant view from Rachel’s deck. From afar the water had looked pristine, but near the shore you could see the oil slicks, plastic, and debris floating insolently atop the water, and smell the brine and rot lingering like a bad conscience. But what couldn’t be seen or felt from a distance was the vigor of the bay, the vitality that occurs when nautical and human currents mix together. Given a choice, Cheever liked the closer view, warts and all.
There was only one witness to Helen’s breakdown still at the Maritime Museum, a docent. Sam Winans was costumed in an old-time sailor’s cap, or at least someone’s idea of one. His hat reminded Cheever of a Shriner’s fez.
Winans was around seventy, a short and heavy retired postal worker who seemed to regret not having run off to sea as a boy. Cheever led him away from the ships and asked him to walk and talk through Helen’s movements as he remembered them. Winans was delighted, had looked deliriously happy from the moment Cheever had flashed his badge and given him one of his business cards. They walked around the intersection of Ash and Market, Winans examining the boardwalk critically. At last he was satisfied.
“She dropped right here,” he said, pointing to a spot.
“Was anyone around her?”
“Not that I saw, and I was one of the first to get to her.”
“What did she say?”
“She said something about those three ships being the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, then she started to act real crazy.
“I guess she read the name Medea off of our steam yacht over there. Most of the people didn’t know what she was talking about, but then they don’t lead tours here.” Winans sounded proud of his insights.
“What did she say?”
“Talked about Medea and all her doings. Sometimes I tell those stories to groups. Course there’s a story behind the naming of our Medea. Seems the original owners—”
“What else did she say?”
Winans didn’t seem to mind having his tour interrupted. “Not much. She told ’em how Medea ordered the murder of her own brother, and how she had his body parts thrown into the sea to slow up the pursuit. Now I’ve heard that story, but it’s not one I tell to paying customers. I figure they can go find gruesome on their own time. She had everyone looking out to the bay thinking they were going to see this dismembered guy. She was on drugs, wasn’t she?”
Cheever didn’t comment, but he still managed to let the docent think he had figured out the mystery of Helen’s behavior. “Anything else stand out in your mind?”
Winans scratched under his hat. “She was really losing it at the end. She pointed to this one fellow and got all aggravated—was screaming and shaking. Said that Medea was here.”
“What did the man look like?”
Winans thought about that. “Can’t say I got a really good look of him. Everyone was watching her. And then he just sort of disappeared.”
“Can you tell me what he was wearing?”
Winans shook his head, then shrugged his shoulders. “Coat, I think.”
“How old was he?”
“Maybe forty. But I only caught a glimpse...”
“Anything else you remember about him? Height
? Weight? Something unusual?”
“She was the show,” he said. “You didn’t want to take your eyes from her.”
“What else comes to mind?”
“We were mostly just trying to calm her. She had one of those medical bracelets on. First we called her doctor’s office, then we called you guys.”
Winans bit his lip. He tried to think of something else that could help, but there didn’t seem to be anything. He rubbed Cheever’s card, looked at it, then snapped his fingers in triumph.
“Thought your name was familiar,” he said. “She mentioned you.”
“What did she say?”
Winans stretched out his moment of glory, trying to get her words just right. “She said to tell you not to stop for the body parts. She said they were just a diversion.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Keith Aubell didn’t look as if he were in mourning.
“Hey,” he said to Cheever. “I called my agent and told him what happened, and he told me that my painting had just increased in value about tenfold. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m bummed about Bonnie, but—”
“Sure,” Cheever said, cutting him short and opening the door to the gallery.
Aubell was about twenty-five, had long, curly blond hair, an earring in each ear, plum-colored and rectangularly lensed pincenez glasses that did the sixties proud, and just enough facial hair to produce an inept mustache and beard.
“I’ll get the lights,” Cheever said.
He went and turned them on, and Aubell did an owl imitation, exaggerating his blinking. “My glasses aren’t like a Hollywood thing, you know,” he said. “I’ve got this thing about light, medical thing, you know. That’s why light’s so important in my pieces. Lighting’s everything, you know.”
Cheever didn’t argue on behalf of darkness. He had just met Aubell but had already had about enough of him. “How long did you know Bonnie Gill?”
“About two years.”
“Were you friends?”
“Bonnie was a type A, you know. Not the kind of woman who was into being palsy-walsy.”
“How did you meet her?”
“An artist I know introduced us. Bonnie took a look at some of my paintings and decided to take me on.”
“Did she sell a lot of your paintings?”
“Five or six.”
“How often did you see her?”
“Every other month or so.”
“Were all of your meetings business related?”
“One way or another they were. Bonnie was always having these gatherings, spaghetti dinners and stuff. She was big on recruiting for what she called ‘artistic outreach.’ Bonnie thought if the natives started finger painting, or whatever, they’d be better off.”
“You didn’t agree?”
Aubell shrugged. “Thing is, there are lots of talented artists out there who can hardly make a living. I should know, I’m one of them. You think putting a brush in the hands of some street person is going to make a difference?”
“From what little I know, I understand the point of her program wasn’t to discover a Rembrandt or even a Grandma Moses. It was supposed to promote self-esteem.”
Aubell reluctantly nodded. “Yeah, that’s true enough, but it wasn’t like Bonnie was only being a professional do-gooder.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every year the gallery had its ‘Voices of the Street’ art show, and every year there was always lots of press and visitors. Bonnie was better than the Salvation Army at beating the drums.”
“You sound as if you didn’t approve of the project.”
“It’s not that, you know, but I wasn’t the only artist to tell Bonnie that my works all but qualified for that exhibit.”
“Were you resentful of her?”
“You got a gallery, the first order of business is supposed to be art. Sometimes Bonnie was too busy promoting her utopia to take care of business. But the road to hell, you know.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“The road to hell’s paved with good intentions.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, you know, Bonnie’s ReinCarnation Foundation. It started out with the people from the neighborhood, but then she brought in a bunch of downtown suits.”
“So what?”
“Beware of power lunches. Since when do art, flowers, and street people fit into any development scheme? When it comes to the poor, it’s always out with the old, in with the nouveau riche.”
“Any idea who purchased your paintings here?”
Aubell shook his head. “Privileged information, you know. Gallery owners never tell you that. They’re afraid the artists will cut out the middleman. Why?”
“I’m wondering whether the killer could have bought one of your paintings in the past and then told Bonnie he wanted another one.”
“You think Bonnie knew the killer?”
“It’s possible. Or maybe the murderer was just posing as a customer. Bonnie might have been walking to her desk to write up the sale when she was stabbed from behind. She didn’t die right away. Bonnie made it out to the garden. The murderer followed her there, carrying your painting with him.”
“Why’d he do that?” the artist asked.
“Judging from the crime scene, it was used to prevent the blood from splattering on him.”
Aubell put his glasses back on and shook his head. “That’s cold.”
“But we haven’t ruled out that there might have been some other significant factor contributing to the murderer’s selecting your painting.”
“That’s kind of a spooky thought, you know.”
“This is kind of a spooky business. Maybe you have some theory on why your painting was utilized.”
“It was probably just the right size, you know. I mean like, what do you want me to say? Keith Aubell’s art is preferred by three out of four murderers?”
“Do any strange people collect your art?”
“Yeah, most of them former girlfriends, and most I’ve given the stuff to.”
“Maybe there was something about your theme...”
“Dude picked my bubble gum piece, you know. Scenic San Diego beach. My contribution to the art world. Course my agent thinks this might be a breakthrough for me. Ghoul art sells, he says. You attach a murder or something sensational to a painting and people line up to buy. He even thinks I should splatter all my new paintings with red paint, make it my trademark.”
DR. DENTON ARRIVED at the gallery fifteen minutes late and five minutes after Keith Aubell had left. Cheever had spent his time between the interviews watching the shadows grow larger and the darkness take over. When the doctor made his appearance the shadows had almost won.
They talked on the street for half an hour, Cheever grilling the doctor on everything he had seen. Cheever positioned himself to see as Dr. Denton had, stood where the doctor had done his watching and made him describe all that had occurred over and over. When he finished with the one vantage point, Cheever took Dr. Denton through the gallery and then out to the garden and took up another. This time he stood where the murderer had slashed Bonnie Gill’s throat.
Team IV had despaired of there being any witnesses. The murder had been committed just inside the garden in an area hidden away from passing eyes. Between the sidewalk and the murder scene was a wall of stacked pottery, and behind that a row of planters. But Cheever wasn’t looking out to the street. His attention was directed to the Garden of Stone.
“Show me,” Cheever told the doctor.
“Whattya talking about, man...”
“I need you to be the woman. Stand where she stood. Walk where she walked. Say what she said.”
“Already told you everything a hundred fucking times...”
“It’s important.”
“Come on, man...”
“I need to see.”
“This is ridiculous, man...”
“It’s a matter of earning your expense
money, Doctor.”
“Awl-ready earned it.”
“If you don’t want the hundred bucks...”
“This is bullshit,” Dr. Denton said, but he made his proclamation while walking out to the Garden of Stone. He hesitated, circled an area like a male dog debating the exact watering spot, and finally positioned himself. The doctor’s chosen site was behind and to the right of the statue of Hyacinthus. On one side of him was the crying Niobe, and on the other Dryope was turning into a tree.
“Here,” he said, sullenly.
“That’s where she was standing when she started to come to life?”
None too pleased, the Doctor said, “Yeah.”
“Stay there a minute. Don’t move.”
Cheever tried to picture how everything had looked just prior to the murder. The evidence tech had removed some of the clothing from the statues as potential evidence. In his mind’s eye Cheever envisioned what the statues had been wearing and also thought about the red-haired woman in her dark trench coat. Most of the lights in the garden were directed toward the fence, leaving the Garden of Stone in a dark pocket of gray. The red-haired woman would have been further obscured by the other statues. In the absence of any close scrutiny, she could have easily been mistaken for a statue.
“Okay,” Cheever said, “come to life.”
“How many times I gots to say the same shit over and over—”
“Just do it.”
Dr. Denton wasn’t much of an actor, that, or he did his best to be bad. Like a director trying to get the scene just right, Cheever had the doctor repeat his performance half a dozen times. With each take, the actor became less enthusiastic, his gestures more wooden, and his speech, if possible, more monotone.
“Okay,” Cheever finally said. He knew what had happened, knew what the woman had said, and when she had said it, and how and where she had tried to strike at the “invisible man.”
But Cheever still had absolutely no idea what he had seen.
CHAPTER