Strawberry Tattoo

by Lauren Henderson

  “Having fun?”

  “Sure.” She grinned at me. “I sent him off to the hotel today, though. Sort of felt I needed my own space for a while.”

  “Very mature.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “So what’s this news you were all excited about?”

  “Shit, yeah. I forgot.” Kim sat up straighter and put her tea mug down. “You know we went to the cop shop yesterday? Well, Lex did. They kept him there for ages, it was really dull. Anyway, you’ll never guess what they told him.”

  She paused for dramatic effect. I shook my head dutifully.

  “That guy Don who was killed? Apparently he knew who killed Kate, or who trashed the gallery, or both, and he was blackmailing whoever it was.”

  “How do they know?”

  “He rented a room off this friend of his, and he was late coming up with the rent. So he told this guy he was coming into money, to keep him sweet, and they got drunk together and Don let that much slip.”

  “If the police told Lex that, they must be on a big fishing expedition,” I said. “They don’t have much else to go on and they’re trying to stir stuff up.” I sipped my tea. “Knowing Don, I have to say that it makes sense.” I thought back, remembering Don’s air of mocking the world, the way he had so easily got under Suzanne’s skin. Not to mention my own. Don was the kind of person who liked working out what made others tick, knowing their secrets. “I can easily see him as a blackmailer. He must have been at the gallery, late in the evening, painting, and heard whoever it was come in to do the graffiti.”

  “Shit, everyone’s a painter in this town,” Kim said with a sigh. “Filmmaker, designer, writer, painter. All of us wannabes. Then there are the model/actress/whatevers. I call ’em the gaping MAWs.”

  “Pretty good,” I said appreciatively.

  “Hey, bitch, I can still turn a phrase.”

  We grinned at each other.

  “But it’s really tough,” she went on. “Packed onto this tiny island with everyone else trying at least as hard as you to make it… Jesus, sometimes I wonder why I bother.”

  “Well, if your stepmother managed it with those industrial-effluent paintings of hers, then you can, too.”

  “My stepmother screwed her way up the ladder,” Kim said bitterly. “You know that story, right? And when she’d got where she wanted she stole my dad away from us and rotted out his brains. It’s incredible how one person can change another that much. Most of the time he’s not even himself any more. He’s like her zombie. God, I hate that bitch.”

  She blew out her breath. “Whoah, time to change the subject! Bitter and twisted alert! Why didn’t you drop into the bar last night? I was expecting you.”

  “Damn!” A sudden flash of memory hit me. I looked at Kim, deciding that I had to tell her, if no one else, about what I had been doing last night. If Mel did turn nasty—if she already had—I couldn’t leave Kim in the dark about the situation; she was the person most likely to get hurt. Apart from Mel herself.

  In a few words I sketched it in. Kim took the information more calmly than I had been expecting.

  “Shit happens, you know?” she said. “People send each other crazy. Sounds pretty minor league for this town.”

  “Still, keep an eye out, eh? She’s not all there at the moment,” I warned.

  “OK. Poor thing. Lex hasn’t mentioned her to me at all.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t, would he?” I said reasonably. “He’s not going to start telling you about all his one-night stands in the last few months.”

  “No, I meant with her turning up here for the show. He might have warned me there was something. I mean, he wouldn’t know she was stalking him, but if she’s been making all these phone calls he must guess something’s up.”

  “You know men,” I said. “Bury their heads in the sand and then complain when it gets in their eyes.”

  “That is so fucking true.”

  “So what’s up with Lex?” I asked pruriently. “I mean, is it serious?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m just having fun at the moment. I don’t think I’m ready to start seeing someone seriously. I got hurt a while back and I’m still recovering.”

  I wondered if she meant Leo.

  “And anyway,” she said with a wicked smile, “I mean, Lex is good in bed, but he’s not that good. I mean, he’s not stalker good.”

  We started giggling. This was the old Kim, in spades. The more we hung out together, the more she was coming back. I listened happily as she expanded on her theme.

  “I mean, you have to be pretty damn hot to get stalked after just one night of luuurve. You have to be all that. Why, you have to be goddamn—”

  “Finger lickin’ good!” I chorused with her as we fell about laughing. It was another of our old catchphrases.

  Kim was putting a tape into the stereo. The first chords of our favourite songs filled the air: the Pointer Sisters with “Slow Hand.” And soon our caterwauls were flooding out through the open window into the East Village.

  “If I want it ALL NIGHT—” Kim sang, pointing at me.

  “He says ALL RIGHT!” I yodelled back, the two of us sounding even more crap than early Bananarama. Probably Kim would put on early Bana-narama next—Robert de Niro, talking Italian…. There was no way Kim and I could embarrass each other. That was the glory of it. We had already done our worst to each other and survived.

  That turned out to be an exaggeration. But some things are impossible to predict. Even for Miss Marple crossed with weedkiller.

  My first New York gallery opening should have been one of the best nights of my life. So of course it was an anticlimax, like seeing the Statue of Liberty. Oh right, tick that one off the list, and is there a bar anywhere round here? The best nights of your life sneak up on you when you’re not expecting them and take you completely by surprise, on the day you put on your oldest, tattiest pair of underpants.

  I should have known better. I did know better. Openings are always hard work. You get to be the centre of attention, but the payoff is having endless ghastly tedious conversations with people you’ll never see again while fixing a bright smile on your face. I try, but after a while I lose it completely, go over to the bad side, get pissed and turn raucous. Which, ironically, is probably what the buyers prefer—some yBa bad behaviour to spice up the purchase. If there is one.

  At least in a group show the burden gets spread. And you can always push off and talk to one of your fellow artists, rather than hanging round the bar alone, waiting to have the next buyer or journalist produced to be serviced with a few soundbites. Unfortunately, the camaraderie among the yBa posse had been eroded since our merry encounter in Old Street. Only Lex and Rob had arrived so far. Mel had left a message to say she’d be a little late. Carol, while annoyed by this, in the way of a teacher checking everyone was on time for the school outing, put it down to Mel’s having problems deciding what to wear.

  “It’s easier for men, isn’t it?” she said to me and Suzanne. “It took me twenty years to decide what suited me, what would do for work, and combine the two.”

  “Carol’s black suits are famous,” Suzanne told me. “She never wears anything else.” She herself was statuesque in a white knit dress which was totally unfashionable and suited her perfectly. Round her neck was her usual strand of pearls and her white-blond hair was swept back and up, adding inches to her height.

  “They’re so easy,” Carol said cheerfully. “Jil Sander is my heroine. Cost a fortune and worth every penny. I hope Mel’s here soon, though,” she said sharply. I was taken aback by this swift change of tone. Carol could switch moods faster than a Morse code operator could send an SOS. “Maybe I’ll just go and ring the hotel to hurry her up.”

  “Carol never, ever loses sight of what’s happening to business, even when you’re having a chat with her,” Suzanne said as the former clicked away. “She can separate out the two halves of her brain.”

  “Like playin
g games of chess simultaneously,” I suggested. “No, like playing a game of chess and having a conversation about which colour lipstick suits you best.”

  “Exactly. She’s pretty amazing. I’ve learnt a whole lot from her.”

  “How come you’re not an assistant yourself?” I asked. “If that’s not being nosy. I mean, instead of working on the archives.”

  “Two reasons,” Suzanne said. “One, I get paid a decent wage for what I do. With the assistants it’s more love than money. And”—she smiled at me—“love’s fine, but I prefer money in the end. Besides, I don’t have a great eye. I can’t spot trends or know what will sell. It’s a real gift and I don’t have it. But Kate did.”

  Her voice had lowered on the last few words. She looked round assessingly.

  “OK,” she said. “No one within earshot.”

  “You’re pretty smooth,” I said admiringly.

  “I’m the queen of social conversation. So.” She gave me a very serious look. “When do we do it?”

  “Not for a while yet. Wait till the evening’s in full swing, even winding down. I’ve got to do the whole public relations bit. After all, it is my opening.”

  She couldn’t argue with that.

  Over the past few days I had become increasingly convinced that I knew who had killed Kate and Don. It was just an instinct, though: I didn’t have a shred of proof. I needed an accomplice to help me get some. And Suzanne had struck me, for many reasons, as being exactly the right person to ask.

  She had jumped at the chance as soon as I explained what my idea was.

  “I knew it!” she said jubilantly. “I can’t believe you think it’s her, too! God, I’ve been so frustrated not being able to talk to anyone about this.”

  “I thought you suspected Lex,” I confessed. “When you were nasty to him at brunch.”

  Suzanne flushed slightly. “Not really. But I was a little jealous that Kate hadn’t told me he was staying with her. She could have trusted me. I guess he got the fallout from that. Still, I never actually thought it was him. I’ve been trying to dig up dirt on you-know-who.” She looked triumphant. “Guess what—she’s done this kind of thing before.”

  “Strangled people?” I said incredulously. “But surely someone would have picked up on that already?”

  Suzanne tutted at my stupidity. “Trashed paintings. I’ve been going back through the archives and I found this mention of something … so I tracked it down, I’ve been talking to a couple of people who knew her then, and both of them told me they were sure she’d done it. In confidence, though. I mean, there’s no hard evidence.”

  “That’s what we need to get.”

  “Just tell me what to do,” Suzanne said, her voice hardening. “Anything. I mean that.”

  She was a little disappointed when I explained what I had in mind. But it wasn’t hard to talk her into it.

  “Say about eight-thirty?” I suggested now. “Sound about right?”

  “OK. I’ll give you the signal as soon as I’ve done it.”

  Her eyes flickered over my shoulder. Someone was coming up behind me.

  “Hey, babe!” Two strong arms enfolded me from behind and so did one of those Nineties ozone-and-fresh-grass scents which Kim always wore nowadays. Ten years ago it was Poison, the Goth perfume of choice, rich and sweet like rotting flowers. For her sixteenth birthday I stole her a nearly-full tester from Boots; it was one of her most prized possessions.

  I wrapped my arms around hers and hugged them.

  “Suzanne, this is Kim, an old friend of mine.”

  “Hi,” Suzanne said, her high white forehead creasing. “From the Mexican restaurant, right? You’re Jon’s daughter.”

  “You got it. Are they coming, by the way? Him and Barbara? Me and my dad aren’t great at communication these days.”

  “I think so. They were certainly invited,” Suzanne said.

  “That’ll be fun.”

  “I’m going to help with the drinks table,” Suzanne said. “Good employee discipline.” She shot me a significant look and undulated away, the white knit dress slithering voluptuously as she moved.

  “It looks wonderful, Sam,” Kim said when we were alone, leaning back and looking at the mobile. We were in the main, ground-floor gallery, “Organism #1” hanging majestically in the centre of the room, dominating it effortlessly. It beat the crap out of Mel’s “Anal Mouth.”

  “Don’t you think it looks like something out of a Fifties science-fiction film?” I said. “Pod 9 From Outer Space?”

  “Totally! It’s brilliant. I’m really proud of you.” She hugged me again. “I can’t believe you’re here—showing in Barbara’s own gallery—it’s so fucking cool, like you’ve done it for both of us. Great frock, by the way,” she added more prosaically. “I love this stretch velvet.”

  “Betsey Johnson,” I confessed. “I had a splurge.”

  “Well, fuck it, you deserve it,” Kim said encouragingly.

  “‘Because I’m worth it!’” I cooed, parodying a noxious ad line.

  “Oi! Do I get a hug too?”

  Lex bounded down the stairs and crossed the room towards us.

  “Fuck Sam’s monster artwork, I want to show you mine,” he said, taking Kim’s hand.

  “I thought she was pretty familiar with it already,” I said. “F’nar, f’nar.”

  They both pulled faces at me.

  “Hang on, young lovers,” I said, as Lex started to drag her off. “I have something for you.”

  I closed my hand round Kim’s free one. In it was a wrap.

  “Is this what I think it is?” she said, lowering her voice a little.

  “Leo’s finest. Go with God. That’s yours, by the way. I’ve got my own.”

  “And talking of that, where’s your boyfriend?” she said, momentarily forgetting the coke in a rush of sisterly feeling. That’s what I call a true friend. “I thought he was due in today.”

  “He had to stay over in England,” I said petulantly. “He’s got a call-back for this important thing he won’t tell me about. So you’ll have to shag for the both of us. He’s promised me a fab holiday if it comes through.”

  “What if it doesn’t?”

  “Oh, he whines for months and I finally dump him out of boredom.”

  Lex pulled Kim into the next room as eagerly as a little boy determined to show her his latest mud-pie collection. I felt hot breath on my neck and turned round to see Stanley hovering behind me nervously.

  “Hi, Stanley,” I said resignedly.

  “Everything I said to you was strictly in confidence,” he said in a burst of authority.

  “Of course it was.” I tried to sound reassuring. As usual it was a dismal failure. I thought he was looking a little better tonight, though.

  “Had some good news?” I said, more by way of making conversation than anything else. I didn’t feel the need to butter Stanley up, having discounted him a long time ago as having any meaningful effect on my possible future career with Bergmann LaTouche.

  “Well, yes, I have, actually,” Stanley smirked. “I have an alibi for the time Don was killed. The evening before he was found. I had a friend to dinner and she ended up staying over.”

  The smirk was of Cheshire Cat proportions now.

  “It was you who actually found the body, wasn’t it?” he said, twisting his pudgy fingers together and looking down at them in a way that on Peter Lorre would have been indefinably menacing but, when performed by Stanley, looked more as if he were frustrated by his inability to curl them over each other properly because of the adipose deposits around each joint. “Some people might say that was rather strange.”

  It was like being attacked by a handful of enervated sea slugs.

  “No one’d say that who knew me well,” I said flippantly. “I have a knack for stumbling across bodies.”

  “What are you,” came Laurence’s voice, “Miss Marple’s punk granddaughter?”

  He and Jon Tallboy had just come
up behind us.

  “Laurence!” I said reprovingly. “Think before you speak!”

  “Casting aspersions on a maiden lady’s name. I stand corrected.” He flourished a Three Musketeers’ bow.

  “Laurence!” I exclaimed again, taking in his appearance. “Your suit! You’ve changed it!”

  “I have two,” Laurence said nonchalantly. He took my hand and kissed it, waggling his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “One for work, one for state occasions.”

  This one was darker than the other, almost charcoal, much better cut and positively clean. Laurence’s day-wear version, apart from the dandruff, was worn in some places and greasy in others. Also it was that nasty light cheap-looking grey worn by men who sell kitchen suites on hire purchase.

  “Sam! Great to see you again.” Jon Tallboy gave me a fatherly hug. “And the sculptures are amazing. It really takes me back—when I think about you and Kimmy dressing up in her little room and going out to paint the town red—or black, considering what you were wearing….”

  Would I never live this down? But I couldn’t help sharing his fond memories. I grinned back at him happily.

  “You’ve come so far, so fast,” he was saying affectionately. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Jon.” I was very touched. “Kim should start to paint again, too,” I added enthusiastically. “She was so good.”

  The predictable expression of discomfort flickered across her father’s face.

  “Mm, yes,” he said.

  “She’s here, you know. Lex and I invited her.”

  “Oh, that’s nice!” Jon said, looking as if it were anything but. On a nervous reflex, one of his long legs lifted, hovered and twisted itself behind the other one, the corduroy trouser riding up to reveal a slice of bony ankle. He looked like a confused stork.

  “So,” he said lamely, after having cleared his throat. “You’re Miss Marple’s granddaughter, or some such?”

  Clearly he was unable to talk about Kim for more than thirty seconds at a time. Any residual fondness disappeared in a moment. I found myself despising him thoroughly.

  “It’s not the first body I’ve found,” I said coldly.