Painted Truth

by Lise McClendon

  I nodded, following his stare. The real one.”

  THE NEXT FOUR hours were a blur of policemen, detectives, park rangers, blue-suited FBI men who drove in from Riverton to take over the investigation because it took place inside a national park, questions, questions, and more questions. For a couple hours they set me up outside under a tree, assigned a Deputy Michaels to me, and kept a rotating crew of cops asking the same questions over and over. After that, Michaels drove me back to Jackson to the police station in the back of city hall, where he fed me stale turkey sandwiches and burned coffee. I told them everything.

  I SAT ON the linen-covered sofa, head in my hands. Fatigue and bad coffee had my head buzzing. Carl had picked me up at city hall about two and something was bugging me. It nestled deep in my psyche, a buzz that I was both trying to ignore and trying to recognize.

  The toilet flushed and Carl emerged from the bathroom. He had been quiet, moody, since picking me up. I knew he was pissed I had gone out to Tantro’s alone. I didn’t want to talk about it. There was no other way.

  “Alix, have you seen a biker around? All dressed in black?”

  I tried to remember. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, he’s parked out front, sitting on his Harley. Come take a look.”

  We went to the bedroom window. Across from the gallery a big motorcycle was parked at a slant. The rider was dressed in biking leathers with studs down the legs of the chaps. He faced away from us, toward the empty square, his black helmet still on.

  “Do you recognize him?” I asked.

  “Hard to tell. But I know this is the third time I’ve seen him.” Carl squinted as if trying to read the tiny license plate.

  He went into the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator, pulling out a beer. He grabbed a box of saltines and stuffed several in his mouth, washing them down with beer. If there was a message he was trying to send me, I wasn’t getting it. My head pounded. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Ray, lying in his own blood. A biker didn’t even register. The vision bounced off my brain that was too full of other shit. The stinking mess of the human race that produced people who killed each other.

  “So,” Carl said. Disgust in his voice, irritation.

  A pack of Eden’s cigarettes, crushed, lay on the coffee table. I picked it up, sitting back on the sofa. It was empty. My hand opened slowly, letting the package fall to the floor. Carl’s word lingered in the air.

  “You have something to say?”

  Carl frowned. “Yeah. This is turning out to be some great vacation.”

  “Am I responsible for your vacation pleasure?”

  Carl laughed harshly. “I’d be in deep trouble then.” He stuffed a couple more saltines in his mouth.

  “You want some cheese for those? It’s in the fridge.” I was getting the feeling he wanted me to make him something to eat. I had no energy to even lift my hand to flick away a fly buzzing around my ear.

  “I don’t want any damn cheese,” he grumbled, swigging his beer.

  “Well, what do you want? What can I do for you?”

  “Goddamn it, Alix.” He sighed, putting his hands on the counter and staring hard at me. “You don’t get it, do you? This is serious shit. You just can’t keep your nose out of things, can you?”

  I stared back at him, meeting his challenge. “So go home, then. I didn’t ask you to come. Go back to work. Go kayaking, spin around in the waves. Do whatever you damn well please. Nobody’s stopping you. Just don’t tell me how to live my life.”

  How had I ever thought him sensitive? He was no different from any of them, just another big, dumb cop. I had my fill today. I went to the window, suddenly trembling. I felt hollow. I wanted him to leave. Carl Mendez was another person in my life I had let down. There was Paolo, and Martin. I thought of Eden again, how miserably I had performed as a friend, how she had fooled me. How would she react to Tantro’s second death?

  Carl moved behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him picking up his clothes, putting them in the duffle. Good, he was leaving.

  “Where will you go?” I swallowed hard.

  “Got a week left of vacation. No reason to go back anyway.”

  “Meaning?” I faced him now as he put his jacket over his shoulder. He was wearing baggy shorts again, and sandals, his face clouded.

  “Meaning I quit the department.”

  I stared at him. “You quit? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He looked away. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why I quit—it doesn’t matter. I just got tired of it. Burned out on hippie crime. The pettiness, the endlessness. We never make a dent.” He shifted his bag. “Well, it’s been real.” He

  opened the apartment door, pausing as if I might stop him. Then he was gone.

  THE APARTMENT WAS quiet. Also a disaster area. It was the first time in over a week I had it to myself, and I couldn’t stand it. Without the energy to clean it up the way my Norwegian grandma Olava would have, I did what any self-respecting single girl would do. Took a shower, washed my hair, put on a yellow linen shirt and blue slacks, shut the door, and went to work.

  Paolo had hung the three Tantro paintings on the main gallery wall so that they could be seen from the sidewalk. He had even made gallery cards with their titles and “NFS”: Not For Sale. The kind of thing that drove passionate collectors mad. A group of tourists twelve strong was flocked in front of them when I came down.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Paolo said, the words more acid than his tone. I ignored him and headed into my cubicle office, wondering what the hell I was doing here. Paolo followed me. He was dressed for his upbeat mood: hot pink polo shirt, cream slacks, shiny black riding boots.

  “You don’t look so hot,” he said. “That nose still bothering you?”

  I touched it gently. My nose was still enlarged over the bridge. Carl was probably right about getting it straightened. But right now I had more important concerns. “Leave my nose out of this.”

  “Right, sheesh. Don’t bite off my tongue. You had a couple calls. One from Frye. You ever finish that appraisal for him, from the fire?”

  “Not yet.” I had no intention of finishing it now. That wasn’t why Frye called anyway. Eden had a hand in the fire. She would never collect her insurance.

  “Also the cousin called. Wally Fortney. He’s the one with the goods, eh?” Paolo grinned like a wolf. I shrugged. “Whassa matter? You should be creamin’ your drawers over those Tantros.” He glanced out into the gallery from the doorway as the bell tinkled. A shapely woman, dressed in expensive clothes and lots of jewelry, stepped in. “Look at the casabas on that one.” He whistled discreetly through his teeth.

  I felt so tired suddenly. Eden’s foul conspiracy, Carl’s departure, Ray Tantro’s second murder. They weighed on me. I hoped Paolo would leave me alone without bringing up Martin Ditolla. That was one I could do without today.

  The bell rang on the gallery door again. “Oh, shit. It’s that asshole Laughlin,” Paolo whispered through his plastered smile. “Hiya, Jake,” he called out, waving.

  I turned toward the doorway to see the two men shaking hands. We had been doing our best to avoid showing Jacob Laughlin’s art for the last six years. His bugling elk, charging bears, and frisky raccoons, some of them exquisitely wrought, were not our cup of tea. We all have our tastes, and the taste of Laughlin’s art was sour to us. Then there was his personality.

  “Paulie, you old SOB,” Laughlin said, smiling. His kinky brown hair stuck up off his scalp, untamed. He was the only person I knew who got away with “Paulie.”

  Paolo stretched his lips. Some would call it a smile. “How’s it goin’, man?”

  “Heard you had some Tantros in. I had to come see for myself.” Jacob kept his eyes off them, small gray eyes sunk into his fleshy face. He dropped his big, soft hands into the pockets of baggy khakis that crumpled around his ankles.

  “Right over there.” Paolo waved his h
and toward the milling crowd.

  Laughlin looked quickly, then back at Paolo. I sat with my arms crossed, one foot bouncing, watching him. Silently I dared him to acknowledge my existence.

  “Pretty neat, locking on to those pieces right before the poor guy gets plugged,” Laughlin said, in his crude but accurate way.

  “Plugged?” Paolo frowned.

  “You know, lead poisoning?” Laughlin said, pointing a plump finger at Paolo’s chest for emphasis. “Bang, bang, you’re dead?”

  “He died last week. In the fire.”

  Jacob’s belly laugh filled the small office. “You didn’t hear? He took it in the chest at his studio this morning. Somebody else was in that fire. Mighty suspish.”

  Paolo squinted at me, confused.

  “Ray Tantro was found shot this morning,” I said, leaving out the detail that I had found him. “Jake’s right. Somebody else died in the fire.”

  Paolo still looked confused, shook his head, and stared out into the gallery. He excused himself to see to the customers, leaving me alone with Jake Laughlin. I would see that Paolo paid later for this favor.

  “How did you find out, Jake?”

  He propped his ass on the edge of my desk, covering a good portion. His eyes gleamed. “I have a few friends in high places. I heard you were there.” I tried to look busy with the mess on my desk. “Some coincidence.”

  I glanced at him, not liking the tone of his voice. How could I get rid of him? He was settling in.

  “You and Ray knew each other, didn’t you? Somewhere back in your golden youth?” I asked, leaning back in my chair again.

  Jacob tried to look chagrined. “Yes, old art school buddies, we were.”

  “I guess this makes you top banana again,” I said. Jake’s eyebrows twitched. “You must be glad Ray’s out of the way at last.”

  He looked properly insulted. “I considered Ray my friend.”

  “That’s not what I heard. The word was you were bad-mouthing his show all over town. A little professional jealousy, Jake?”

  “Our work was very different. I don’t know anyone who made a comparison between us.”

  “Even you?”

  “In art school we were friends. Rivals maybe a little, yes, but friends. Great talents can’t help but be rivals.”

  Great talent? Jake Laughlin? “Did you see him a lot here in Jackson?”

  “Uh—yes, we did get together a couple of times for a drink. Talked about the art world, our work. He had nothing but nice things to say about my work. He was very happy for my success. And vice versa, of course.”

  I nodded, trying to look him in the eye as he stared out the door, folding his arms across his large chest. Nice try. With Ray dead, Jake could say anything.

  “What happened to him during those dark years? Do you know?”

  Jake squirmed on the desk and stood up. His face was beaded with sweat. “We never discussed those years. I always assumed, well, you know.” He shrugged and looked out the door at the paintings.

  “No. I don’t know.”

  “Drugs. Booze. The usual culprits. It’s not something I was going to pry into. I’m not that kind of a friend,” he said.

  “But you had drinks together. He was drinking still.”

  Jacob nodded sorrowfully. “I wish I could say otherwise, Alix, dear. But some people are just destined for tragedy.”

  “Well, I’ll see you at the funeral,” I said, trying to sound final, then wondered if there would be a second service. What was his mother thinking now? Would she grieve all over again or just shrug her shoulders, baffled by life and death?

  “Of course.” Jake tapped two fleshy fingers on the desktop in parting. In the gallery he wrapped a huge arm around Paolo’s shoulders and began a long-winded diatribe about Ray Tantro’s paintings that cleared the gallery in three minutes flat.

  IN THE NEXT two hours I made phone calls, including one to Wally Fortney. His wife Dixie answered. Wally wasn’t home, but she’d give him the message. She didn’t bring up the shooting, so neither did I.

  I returned a call to a dealer in Santa Fe, a friend. She had shown some Tantros in the late ‘70s. Her father owned the gallery then, she had worked there summers in college. She remembered her father saying that Tantro’s work had gone to hell and that everyone thought he was washed up. But the paintings still sold well, riding the coattails of his reputation.

  It wasn’t much help, but somehow the sound of my friend’s voice on the phone was reassuring. I had to explain the newest wrinkle in the Ray Tantro story, his second death. The more I tried to explain it, the more I wondered who died in that fire— and why. If Ray had planned the scam to paint his own pictures after he was declared dead, then who had killed him? It made no sense.

  I had to put it out of my mind. A calmness built through the afternoon from the familiar routine, familiar surroundings, from tying up the loose ends of my desk, of business, from explaining the gorgeous lushness of Tantro’s paintings to admirers. It was good to feel good, to feel needed, productive. Grandma Olava would have been proud.

  I was looking out the window at six, hoping for a glimpse of Carl’s green El Dorado wandering aimlessly through the streets. Part of me hoped he was still around and hadn’t taken off for parts unknown or done something stupid like kayaking the Snake by himself. I couldn’t forgive myself if something happened to him. The other part of me was happy to be left alone, to have one less person to please. But I hadn’t pleased Carl. I couldn’t even remember trying. The night we wasted, lying side by side in misery, too wrapped up in our own heartaches to reach out for the other.

  The gallery was empty. Tourists congregated on the sidewalks and curbs to watch the gunfight between a couple of sharp-shooting cowboys that the chamber of commerce sponsored each evening in the summer. It was a bit of a pain for me, being right on the street where it took place, having to hear the blanks and the shouting and smelling the gunpowder. Not to mention the obstruction of the boardwalk with nonbuyers. But it helped keep people in town. Right after the gunfight there was usually an increase in shoppers.

  Through the crowd, a head taller than most, Deputy Michaels pushed his way down the boardwalk. The sun still shone on the street, but the tourists under the overhang were in deep shadow, so deep I almost didn’t see the deputy in his brown uniform. I stepped back from the window, hoping he’d pass. Instead he stopped in front of our door, looked up at the name stenciled in gold on the glass, and came inside.

  “Miss Thorssen.” He tipped his brown cowboy hat, serious. Michaels stood six four and burly but with a teddy-bear quality. He had treated me gently this morning and I was grateful for that. But I never expected him to come calling.

  “Deputy,” I replied.

  “I was just passing by and …” He paused, looking around the empty gallery. I wondered where Paolo had gone. God, does he want a date?

  “And, well,” Michaels blurted, “do you have a lawyer?”

  I stared at him, my ears humming in the silence. “What?”

  “An attorney. Somebody you know?”

  Paolo came out of the John, singing a Spanish song he remembered a few of the words to, humming the rest. He was still tucking in his shirttail when he came through the office door, the toilet flushing behind him.

  I heard Paolo’s boot heels on the wood floor. “Problem, Alix?”

  Michaels took off his hat, nervous. Just like an old-fashioned suitor come to ask the father for the girl’s hand, I thought. For a big man he was shy, uncertain how others perceived him. “Just talking. Aren’t we, Miss Thorssen?”

  I nodded. “It’s all right, Deputy.” I put my hand through Paolo’s arm. “Now, what did you say?”

  Michaels looked confused. Of course I had heard him. “A lawyer, Miss Thorssen. You might think about it.”

  “Why does she need a lawyer?” Paolo extracted his arm awkwardly from my grasp and held my arm in his hand for a moment.

  “I just thought you’d want t
o know. What I heard down at the station.” He scratched his crew cut and sighed. “Of course, we’re not on the Tantro murder. That’s the FBI’s show now.”

  Paolo looked at me, puzzled. “What is he talking about?”

  Michaels stuck his hat back on his head. “The fact that you were there at the scene, Miss Thorssen. Found the body and all. The Feds been talking about that. And they found the weapon.”

  “Uno minuto. You were there?” Paolo frowned fiercely.

  I ignored the question and looked at Michaels. “The weapon?”

  “In the tall grass outside the cabin. A little twenty-two. Registered to you, Miss Thorssen.”

  “My gun?”

  Paolo frowned harder, his tanned faced creased in dismay. “You have a gun?”

  “Urn, that one my mother sent after the breakins. You remember, Pao.” He stared at me. “I’ve never even loaded it.” I looked at Deputy Michaels. His expression was sympathetic but wary. “I kept it in a kitchen drawer. I’ve never shot it or anything.”

  “Hmm,” Michaels grunted. “Well, somebody did. And left it in the grass for the G to find it right there.”

  I put my hand to my forehead, “Oh, God.”

  “What about prints from the fingers?” Paolo asked. “On the gun.”

  Michaels shook his head. “Not that I heard. But they dusted the victim’s truck and found Miss Thorssen’s prints all over it. And the house too.”

  “Well, I—I was there.” Everyone knew I was there. But I didn’t kill him. Of all the people who wanted him dead, I was the least. I wanted him alive, to speak to me, to vindicate me, to tell me secrets and magic and lies.

  “Yes, well, the lawyer, Miss Thorssen. The lawyer,” Michaels repeated, as if my mind couldn’t grasp the concept. In that moment, he was right.

  Michaels looked around the room suddenly, eyeing the paintings. “Are these his? The deceased?” He walked to the three colorful Tantro paintings that dominated the room.

  “Those are Tantros, yes,” Paolo said, an edge in his voice. He looked at me strangely. “Alix got those yesterday. She is appraising them for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In New York City.”