by Faver, JD
Max tried to keep her spirits up as she reflected on her situation. In her one-man show, she was being represented by a man. Merrick was doing a good job of playing the part. Willa was everywhere at once, meeting and greeting people, interacting with the press and making sure anyone interested in a purchase had the opportunity to reach for their checkbooks. And Jon still thought her name was Millie.
In an hour or so this evening would be over and she could work on her strategy to make things right with Jon. Maybe he’d understand and forgive her for her duplicity.
Maybe not.
She wandered back to the buffet table and helped herself to more lobster. She ladled a tiny spoonful of caviar onto a cracker and popped it into her mouth.
“So, you’re the one involved with Jon now.” Cherise had come up behind her.
Max turned to face her adversary. “Jon and I are seeing each other.” A shiver ran down her spine as she felt the full impact of Cherise’s venom.
Cherise made a scornful noise. “Enjoy it while you can, sweetie. It won’t last long. Jon’s a real player and he’ll never be content with any one woman.”
Max swallowed the food in her mouth and forced her lips to take a sip of champagne before speaking. “I understand that you and Jon used to date.”
Cherise turned on her and hissed, “We’re still together, you little fool. Jon and I will always be an item. We’re the same, he and I. We speak the same language.”
Max tasted bile at the back of her throat. “I see.”
Cherise gave her one last contemptuous glare and turned away.
Max pressed her lips together in a firm line to keep the tears from flowing. She took another bite of lobster, but it tasted like sawdust.
“Come on. Come with me.” Willa grabbed her by the shoulders and led her to stand with Merrick and Jon for more photographs. “This guy is from New York,” she said. “Some friend of Jon’s.”
Willa arranged Merrick and Max with Jon by her side and tucked herself under Merrick’s other arm. Max took a few deep breaths and smiled for the camera. Willa seemed to be doing all the talking. Who would dare interrupt such a monologue?
Willa led the critic to the huge slashed painting and talked nonstop as he made comments like ‘astounding’ and ‘genius’. He took a few notes and photographs, shook hands all around and departed.
Max wondered how Jon could know such a wide variety of people when her little world was so self-contained. She watched him interact with the roomful of well-dressed A-list people. Everyone seemed to know and like him. She thought he was the handsomest man in the room, if you didn’t count Merrick.
“Hey, babe!” Sherman sauntered into the gallery and folded Max into a bear hug. A few art patrons looked at Sherman’s dreads, sandals and brightly colored tee shirt.
“Oh, Sherman,” Max said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said. “Show me your show.”
Max and Sherman walked around the room arm in arm. Sherman commented about the paintings and the way they were hung.
“What happened here?” He stopped in his tracks in front of the slashed painting.
Max reminded him about Cherise’s behavior and her own actions to produce the results hanging before them.
“It looks so different, like you meant to have it this way. You made lemonade out of lemons. The painting looks great, but didn’t I tell you that Cherise Gilman is a complete bitch.”
“More than you know,” Max said. “If I was more secure about my future, I wouldn’t have let Jon hold the show here. Didn’t it turn out well anyway?”
“It’s very high tone, for sure, babe.”
Max took Sherman to the buffet for refreshments. A little ripple of fear played around her spine. She was living on the edge because, at any moment, Sherman might call her by her name and someone could overhear. The idea that the whole thing could unravel made Max feel giddy, or perhaps it was the champagne. She would have to face Jon after the show and she didn’t know if she could keep from blurting out Cherise’s accusations.
A sudden uproar broke into the pleasant hum of voices and clinking of glassware. A loud thump against the wall isolated the commotion as coming from Cherise’s office.
Sherman looked at Max and shrugged, reaching for another lobster canapé.
Voices were yelling and something crashed against the wall. The door burst open and Jon and Merrick spilled out onto the gallery floor, grappling and punching each other. Willa followed close behind.
“Stop! Both of you. Stop this instant!” Willa looked at Max. “Do something. Stop them.”
Jon took a shot to the chin and rebounded to hurl Merrick into the buffet table. The table collapsed under his weight, food sliding to the floor.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” Willa wailed.
“Jon! Merrick!” Max yelled, turning from one to the other. “What are you doing?”
Both Jon and Merrick drew back a fist as the sound of sirens split the air.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Flashing lights swirled a red and blue pattern on the walls, giving Max’s artwork a new dimension. She turned around full circle, dizzily gaining a different perspective of her work. She felt lightheaded, but the giddy sensation could not all be blamed on the champagne.
She heard a rush of activity near the front entrance and, suddenly, the gallery was packed with uniformed policemen.
The guests craned their necks, straining to witness the disturbance. Several patrons screamed and drew back.
Sherman wrapped protective arms around Max as though shielding her.
“Which one of you is Jon Claude Donnell?” The man asking strode to the center of the gallery and surveyed the crowd slowly. He wore a suit with a gold shield clipped on his belt. His demeanor was grave.
Jon and Merrick released each other.
Jon raised his hand. “I am.” He straightened his clothing and ran his fingers through his hair.
Merrick pulled his jacket down before examining his scraped knuckles. Willa rushed to his side and he held out his arm to her.
“Mr. Donnell,” the detective said. “We’re taking you in for questioning in regard to a series of burglaries that took place earlier this evening.”
Max held her breath. What could Jon possibly have to do with burglaries?
Jon looked as puzzled as she felt. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “I don’t know anything about any burglaries.”
“We have your partners in custody.” He motioned for an officer to place Jon in handcuffs.
Max gasped, wide-eyed as a policeman restrained her beloved Jon’s wrists behind his back.
Jon caught her expression. “Millie, I don’t know what’s going on. I promise you that I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Millie?” Sherman spoke up. “What are you talking about, man? This is Max Foster, the artist. She painted all these great canvasses.” He gestured to the paintings adorning the walls. “You’re totally whacked, man.”
Max tasted bile in the back of her throat. She couldn’t breathe, let alone speak.
Cherise pointed to Merrick. “No, this is Max Foster, the artist. I’m the gallery owner and I know the artist personally.”
Willa rolled her eyes. “Oh, puh-leeze!”
“Millie, what’s going on?” Jon asked. “Tell them who you are.”
Everyone in the gallery turned to her.
She waved her fingers and took a deep breath. “My name is Max Foster...I’m the artist.”
Jon stared at her, his expression hard to read.
Cherise pointed a long, manicured finger at her. “If you’re Max Foster, then, who’s this man?” She swung around to point at Merrick.”
“That’s my brother, Merrick Foster.” Max’s voice sounded small in the silence that followed.
“Sounds like some kind of conspiracy going on here,” the detective said. “Take these two in, as well. We’ll sort it all out downtown.”
>
Max felt faint, as though her knees would buckle at any moment. A uniformed officer approached her, brandishing a pair of handcuffs.
Merrick turned to Willa. “Take my extra key and go to my house. I need you to take care of Blondie for me.”
She stared at him, open-mouthed. “You’re being arrested and all you’re worried about is your dog?”
Merrick smiled at her. “Don’t worry about me. Everything will be okay.” He dropped a kiss on Willa’s lips and turned to the officer.
“Hello Merrick.” Shel Carney snapped handcuffs around his wrists. “I was wondering why you never called me back.” She flicked her gaze over Willa.
Max started to giggle.
The room was spinning around like a carousel and the flashing lights were making her dizzy. She’d thought of so many ways to tell Jon that she was the real Max Foster, but she hadn’t imagined it would come out this way.
The news photographer flashed her picture as the handcuffs were fastened around her wrists.
~*~
Willa drove to Merrick’s house and parked in the driveway. She sat staring into space with her hands gripping the Jetta’s tiny steering wheel. She felt drained, physically, spiritually and emotionally. She was an empty shell.
She’d worked her tail off to promote Max’s art and had thought this night would end in triumph. Instead she’d seen the man she loved led away in handcuffs along with her best friend, who appeared to be in a daze.
Willa couldn’t believe the show had ended on such a sour note. Jon had been loaded into one squad car and Max and Merrick into another. The ever optimistic Merrick had no concerns for himself, only for Max.
He had a tiny cut by his eye from the fight with Jon. She still couldn’t figure out why Jon had burst into the office in the first place? It was certainly none of his business if Merrick had pulled her into a quiet place for a quick kiss and a grope.
The whole night had been going at such a frenzied pace. She was on her feet from the moment they’d arrived until she climbed into her Jetta. Willa talked to every potential client for Max’s paintings. She’d kept her eye on Max and Merrick and when someone appeared to be too interested in either of them, Willa had jumped to their aid.
When the photographers arrived, she had orchestrated the photos so that the correct names would be listed but, if Max decided not to level with Jon, the mistake could easily be overlooked as being the photographer’s error. She’d dictated the stories to both art critics and handed them a carefully prepared press release. Tomorrow, she would read about it in the Sunday papers.
Exhausted, Willa climbed out of the car and unlocked the front door of Merrick’s house.
A throaty growl greeted her as she pushed the door open.
A helpless whimper escaped her throat. Great! The only way this evening could get any better. I get to die of dog bites. “Here Blondie,” she called. “Nice doggie.”
Blondie stood guarding the entry, barring Willa from penetrating Merrick’s sacred domain.
“Hey, girl,” Willa said. “You know me. I’ve been here before.” She held out her hand.
Blondie lowered her head and growled again.
“Don’t be mean to me, Blondie. I’ve had a really bad night.” Willa squatted down and held out her hand. “C’mon girl. Your daddy cooked us both a steak last night and then he took me to his bed and bonked me like crazy.”
Blondie sat down and whined softly.
“Now he’s in trouble and he sent me here to take care of you, so you better let me in.” Willa stood up, took a deep breath and stepped inside.
~*~
The police car smelled of urine and vomit and some sort of bleach solution. A heavy wire mesh separated the front seat from the rear. Shel Carney rode up front on the passenger side wearing a satisfied smirk.
Merrick shifted his weight, taking some pressure off his wrists, shackled behind him. His cheek throbbed where Jon had landed his punch. He glanced at Max. At least they’d handcuffed her wrists in front. She’d finally quit giggling and now stared out the window with tears rolling down her cheeks. Her eyes looked vacant, like a victim of a terrible disaster.
“Don’t cry, Max,” he said.
She sniffled and turned away from the window, her eyes focusing on him. “How much trouble are we in?” She shivered. “I didn’t know it was against the law to lie...and I only lied about being Max Foster to Jon.” At the mention of his name she burst into a fresh bout of tears.
Merrick wished he could comfort her but his hands were restrained. “Max, I don’t know what this is all about, but I’d suggest you keep your mouth shut until we figure out what’s going on.”
She looked at him plaintively. “But I have nothing left to hide.”
“Max, listen to me.” Merrick leaned close so that only she could hear. “Something’s going on with your boyfriend Jon, and we’re not a part of it. Don’t get us involved.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Max said.
“The police came to arrest Jon. He’s done something illegal, not us.”
“I don’t believe that,” she said. “Jon wouldn’t do anything wrong.”
“Like he didn’t attack me without cause at the gallery?”
Her tear stained face showed disbelief. “What happened?”
“Willa and I ducked into Cherise’s office. Jon burst in and started ranting at me and then he punched me.”
She closed her eyes, shaking her head adamantly. “That doesn’t sound like Jon,” she said. “He’s a complete gentleman.”
“Max, I’m not crazy. He attacked me with no warning.”
~*~
Jon was taken to an interrogation room. He’d caught a glimpse of the woman he’d slept with the previous night being unloaded from a squad car. She’d stared at him from a distance, her large expressive eyes haunted, by what he didn’t know.
Baby, what did you do to land us in here?
The detective had said they had his partners in custody. Who is he talking about? Millie? Max?
All of the mysterious allusions Millie had made about being a bad person came flooding in on him. She kept insisting that he didn’t know her. Maybe she was a part of a criminal gang. After all, her father was a drug dealer and her mother, a prostitute. No wonder she’d fallen into a life of crime. But, why was she claiming to be Max Foster, the artist?
The officer released one of Jon’s wrists from the handcuffs and attached it to a ring welded to the arm of the metal chair.
Jon gazed at the restraint in disbelief. “This really isn’t necessary.”
“Standard protocol, sir,” the young officer said.
“Could you tell me the whereabouts of the young woman who was transported in the other squad car?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. Detective Obermann will be in to interrogate you shortly.” The officer left him alone in the sterile room.
Jon’s stomach was tied in knots. He imagined a number of possible scenarios, each worse than the last. He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. An hour had ticked by since he’d been brought in. What are they waiting for? What are they doing to Millie?
Of course, he’d stand by her. No matter what kind of trouble she was in. He’d hire the best lawyers; spare no expense in her defense.
Jon’s fear was mingled with anger. He should be with her now. He should be able to comfort her and assure her that he wouldn’t abandon her.
After he’d waited and stewed for a considerable length of time, the door finally opened and the detective who’d arrested him entered with another man.
“It’s about time,” he said. “What’s going on? Why am I being detained?”
The shorter of the two men seated himself at the table across from Jon. He glanced up from the paperwork in his hand to meet Jon’s gaze. Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, the man’s eyes were tired beyond mere fatigue. His eyes had seen too much. “Mr. Donnell, I’m Detective Obermann. Detective Wise here is your arresting officer. I un
derstand that you were responsible for setting up the art show. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it was my idea.” Jon looked from one man to the other. “I wanted to showcase the paintings of a young local artist.”
“And you were the one who made up the guest list?”
“Yes,” Jon said. “I personally invited clients of the firm I own. Cherise Gilman, the gallery owner, sent out invitations to her clientele as well. Why do you ask?”
Detective Obermann’s world-weary eyes assessed him. “Mr. Donnell, several of the people on your guest list were the victims of a series of well orchestrated burglaries tonight. These thieves knew the homeowners would be out because they had your guest list in hand.” Obermann huffed out a terse sigh. “I’m trying to decide if you’re an accomplice or if you were simply their dupe.”
“Dupe?” An explosion of anger flared inside Jon. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Do you admit to knowing a Mr. Dean Alonso and Mr. Dennis Alonso?” Detective Obermann took off his glasses and stared at Jon without expression.