Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures)

by Davis, Nageeba

  With that, I hung up, promising to meet her for lunch after my appointment with the lawyer.

  Hawthorne was scribbling something on a yellow legal pad when I arrived. He looked up at the sound of my light tapping. Every bit the gentleman, he stood and walked to the door, clasping my hand warmly and gesturing towards the chairs facing Elizabeth’s desk. He peeked quickly into the hallway before firmly shutting the door.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve already been attacked by the enemy.”

  Hawthorne sat down behind the desk and put on his glasses. “I assume you are speaking of Cassandra or Preston—or God forbid, both of them together?”

  “Just Cassie. She came barreling into my house this morning and left with her nose out of joint.”

  “May I ask why she was ‘barreling’ into your house?”

  I lifted my shoulders nonchalantly. “She and Preston had this idea that maybe I could hand them the entire estate and in return they’d give me a large sum of money and relieve me of my position.”

  Hawthorne pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and peered at me. “It seems they are utilizing the ‘divide and conquer’ strategy. I had a very similar discussion with Preston, which is why I want to comply with Elizabeth’s wishes as soon as possible.” He frowned. “I am rather suspicious about Cassandra’s timing, though. She managed to learn of our meeting and to talk with you in very short order.”

  “She eavesdropped. She heard you talking to me and hurried over to my place like a scared rabbit.”

  “Lovely children, aren’t they?” he murmured. Sorting papers on his desk, he pulled out a file and flipped it open. “Well, let’s move on, shall we?”

  Several signatures later I was the official fiduciary. Elizabeth’s wish was my command. I knew less than nothing about my new duties, but there was no doubt Elizabeth had been well aware of that fact. If she was willing to take a chance on me, then I was willing to give it a try. I stood up to leave when I noticed the picture lying against the wall behind the desk. From where I was standing, I could see bold splashes of color, a modernistic landscape. Curious, I rounded the desk and skirted past Hawthorne, who was busy organizing papers for me to take home. Squatting down, I admired the sweeping brush strokes, the bright, almost neon hues. Conical-shaped trees stretched to the sky. Fields of flowers and tall grass were represented with vivid dabs of color. And right down the center, a long dirt trail wiggled through the fields, up and over a small incline, disappearing into the forest. I recognized the trail right away. It was the one I hiked behind my house. And there in the corner, written in large loopy letters, was Elizabeth’s signature. This was the picture I’d stumbled over the other night. This was the picture she left me in the will.

  Then whose picture was propped against my wall at home?

  I backed up and bumped into the attorney’s chair. “Excuse me, Mr. Hawthorne.”

  “Ah, I see you’ve found Elizabeth’s gift to you.” He sighed. “She had such a distinctive style, don’t you agree?”

  I did agree, but I wasn’t convinced that Hawthorne was referring to just her painting talent. “I should have recognized her work right away, even though it’s the first piece that I’ve seen.” I smiled. “It certainly matches her personality. Those colors, the boldness of the stroke, it practically screams ‘Elizabeth’!”

  “Absolutely.” His eyes gently grazed my face. “You remind me of her, Maggie. You’ve got the same strength, the same determination. She wanted you to have the picture. Please feel free to take it with you and enjoy it.”

  I nodded, unable to speak. I dropped the pages he handed me into my purse. Lifting the painting, I carried it down the hallway and out the front door, nervously expecting Cassie or Preston to suddenly pounce at any moment. Even though it was legally mine, I wasn’t sure how to explain the fact that this was the second painting I’d taken. Of course, it was a legitimate mistake. It was dark that night and I was in a bit of a hurry. But I didn’t think Preston would believe me for a second.

  As I stepped outside, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong and it had nothing to do with Elizabeth’s grandkids. Walking as fast as I could without breaking into a jog, I cut across the Boyer driveway and a large expanse of green grass until I reached the evergreens and scrub oaks that ran the length between the two properties. I followed a narrow path through the bushes, no easy feat given how dense and intertwined the branches were, but Elizabeth had done this a million times on her way to visit me. Weaving in and out, I clutched the painting close to me. Branches snagged my shirt, but a few moments later, I was safe and free. I stepped out of the maze into my yard. I was tempted to throw my arms in the air and dance a little victory jig, but I wasn’t about to drop the picture now. Besides, I’d look ridiculous. I have absolutely no rhythm when it comes to that sort of thing.

  I hurried through the front door and down the hallway into my bedroom. The picture I had taken the other night was still leaning against the wall. Its sad, somber message resonated. I set Elizabeth’s portrait on my bed and returned to look at the first painting. I crouched down and studied the colors, the lines, the brush strokes, even the lack of a signature, wondering why I couldn’t shake this feeling of doom.

  Then it came to me.

  Chapter Twelve

  “What are you doing here? I told you before, I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  The pinched face peered through the crack in the door. The stringy hair, the dark roots and the lousy manners hadn’t changed, but I wasn’t backing off this time. “I need to talk to you, Ms. Burns, and I’m not leaving until I do.”

  Her eyes darted back and forth like a caged animal. “Then you’ll be spending the night on the front steps because I’m not letting you in.” She started to push the door shut.

  “You’re a talented artist, Ms. Burns.”

  She stopped pushing and looked at me, her gaze nervous and unsteady.

  “I’m sure Elizabeth told you that. Am I right?” Lindsay Burns looked over my shoulder. She checked up and down the street. “Look, you need to leave. It isn’t safe for you. Or me.”

  I must have looked skeptical or stubborn or both, because she quickly added, “I’ll meet you at Waterford Park. Go out of the complex and take a left. The park is about a mile and a half down the road on the left. There’s a lake. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

  “I’m coming back if you don’t show.” She nodded and shut the door. Following her directions, I found the park easily. It was set off from the road, but you could see the lake shimmering in the sunlight like a sheet of glass. I parked the car in the small parking lot, grabbed my sweatshirt from the back seat, tied it around my waist, and began strolling toward the lake. As I came closer, things began to look familiar—the grass, the water, the ducks paddling with orange feet. Then I saw the green bench, tilted and half-hidden in the tall cattails. This was the scene in the first picture I had taken from Elizabeth’s office.

  I turned at the sound of crunching gravel. Lindsay Burns walked toward me, her head bowed. A shapeless dress hung from her thin shoulders and a pair of old, untied tennis shoes slapped against her heels like the rubber thongs I wore to the beach. She passed me without saying a word, stepping through the high grass as it clung to the hem of her dress. I followed her through the field and around the lake until she reached the bench and sat down on the far side, leaving room for me. We sat there in silence, listening to the ducks and the birds flapping their wings as they flew off.

  “Elizabeth was the first person to ever tell me I could paint.”

  “She told you the truth.” I turned and glanced at her profile. It was all lines and sharp angles, from the high cheekbones to the jutting chin. Her forehead was flat and even, her nose a straight smooth plane. I imagined her face as a study of geometric designs, one figure intersecting the other, one continuous flow of interlocking corners, until you reached her mouth. Soft and full, her lips were the stuff of romantic novels. Stuck in the m
iddle of vectors, points and perpendicular lines, her mouth seemed oddly misplaced.

  Chewing on her bottom lip, she lifted her shoulders. “She was nice enough to say so, anyway.”

  “Elizabeth never said anything just to be nice. If she said it, she meant it.”

  She turned slightly. “How do you know about me or my art?”

  “It wasn’t hard really, it came to me in a flash.” I explained about the mix-up in paintings, leaving out the stolen appointment book where I’d found her name. “When I went back to my house and studied the picture, it was obviously your work.” Distrust and confusion clouded her eyes. “I probably would have realized it sooner, except I assumed the painting I had taken off Elizabeth’s wall was her work. Once I saw her signature on the second picture, all the pieces came together.”

  “I still don’t understand. I never sign my pictures. How would you know—?”

  I interrupted her. “The first day I was here, when you opened the door to me, I caught a glimpse of your living room. There were a bunch of plastic toys tucked in a corner and a big-wheel tricycle in the middle of the floor.” I paused a moment before continuing. “And then, before you shut the door, I saw the paintings on the wall. They jumped out at me because of the distinct contrast between the bright toys and the dark colors in the paintings. It was your art I saw hanging on the walls, right?”

  She didn’t answer me. A cool breeze tickled the lake, wrinkling its smooth face. “Your style, the tone, even the mood of your pictures, is very distinctive. That is your signature.” We continued to look out over the water as clouds floated in front of the sun and the air became rapidly cooler. Colorado’s mountain ranges bred finicky, unstable weather. I untied the sweatshirt at my waist and offered it to her, knowing the thin cotton of her dress was no match for the cold. She shook her head, clenched her hands together, and stared straight ahead.

  “So what is it you want?” she asked, almost defiantly, as though I was out to get her somehow.

  “Look, I’m sure it’s not easy for you to trust me,” I admitted. Given the clusters of faded bruises marking her face, I doubted she trusted anybody. “I lied about being Elizabeth’s secretary. I was a good friend of hers. Her neighbor, actually. Her body was found in my yard.”

  Lindsay Burns spun around and stared at me, her eyes widened in shock. “How did she die?”

  “The police told me she was hit on the back of the head with a heavy object and then carried to my septic tank and dumped.”

  “Oh, my God.” She covered her mouth as tears sprang to her eyes. “The paper said there was a murder but—“

  I touched her arm. “Lindsay? Is it okay if I call you by your first name?” She nodded and I went on. “The police are trying to keep back as much information as possible. I’m not sure why, maybe because of copycat killers or things like that. Even though I identified her body, they haven’t been any more forthcoming with me,” I said, thinking of Villari. “I don’t have any more specifics than what I just told you.”

  Lindsay wiped her eyes on the back of her arm. Then, abruptly, she stood. “I’m sorry about Mrs. Boyer. She was very nice to me. But she’s gone now and I don’t know what you expect or want from me.” She walked away.

  I put one hand over my eyebrows to block the sun as I watched her move to the edge of the lake. She stood on the bank, the water lapping against her feet. For a moment I thought my hunch had been wrong. Maybe there was nothing more to the relationship between Elizabeth and Lindsay than a common interest in art. It wouldn’t be the first time I had jumped to conclusions and fired rapidly before getting all the information. But then I noticed her arms. They were wound tightly around her waist as though she hurt inside and was shielding herself from the pain. Going on instinct, I followed her.

  “Why did Elizabeth come to see you?” I asked softly, now standing beside her.

  She shook her head, lifting her face upward to the weakening sun. Then she turned around and faced me. “You’re Maggie Kean.” She smiled at the confusion on my face. “Elizabeth told me about you. I knew who you were the first time you came to see me. You were exactly as she described. I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

  “Warn me?”

  She ignored my question and turned back to the lake. “Elizabeth described you once. She told me that I’d recognize you anywhere, even without being introduced. She said you were a perfect candidate for a fashion makeover.” Lindsay bent down and grabbed a small flat pebble. She drew her arm back and snapped it forward, sending the rock skipping lightly across the water.

  “Sounds like her,” I murmured. “She was always complaining about my style or lack of style. Actually, her complaints weren’t confined to my clothing. Elizabeth managed to zero in on a whole bunch of weaknesses she felt needed to be addressed. It wasn’t until after she died that I realized how much I had come to depend on her.”

  Lindsay didn’t respond. She just stood still; staring out over the lake as though the answers she sought would rise up out of the water like a white swan and soar through the air. She was an odd combination of pride and fear, stubbornness and docility. It was easy to imagine her facing down the Loch Ness monster with one scathing look, but it was just as easy to imagine her cringing and whimpering in its shadow.

  “Elizabeth never came to see me, Maggie.” She said my name with a bit of a question behind it, as though wondering if I really meant for her to call me by it. And then she looked at me with a look so wistful and sad that I suddenly realized I was not looking at pride or fear or any of those things I had thought I’d seen before. I was looking at loneliness. Sheer loneliness in all its shapes and sizes.

  “How did you meet her?”

  “I went to see her.”

  “You went to see Elizabeth? But why?”

  “Because of my children. Because I was desperate.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She unwrapped her arms and rubbed her palms up and down both sides of her dress. With her skinny arms and legs, she reminded me of the stick figures I had drawn in kindergarten. I was tempted to drag Lindsay over to Villari’s parents’ house and beg Mamacita to put some meat on her bones.

  “Walk with me?”

  I nodded and we began walking around the perimeter of the lake, staying close enough for her to pick up a rock now and then and pitch it across the water.

  “My mother died ten years ago, when I was twenty. It was very painful, and I guess I lost my balance or sense of where I was going. So I dropped out of college with no real place to go or any idea of what to do next.” She glanced at me, clearly expecting a negative reaction. But I was the last person to judge someone’s response to grief. My own mother’s death had taught me that much.

  “My mom died when I was young,” I told her. “It changed my life.”

  She was quiet for a few moments and then started talking. I kept silent to give her the time and room to establish her own pace.

  “I know it sounds strange—I mean, I was on my own and I really didn’t depend on my mother for anything anymore, but—” She trailed off for a moment before clearing her throat and continuing. “But her death completely unhinged me. I was an only child and my father...well, I never knew him. As long as I can remember, it was my mother and myself, just the two of us. And that was okay with me. We loved each other. We had enough money. We were never rich, but we weren’t starving or out on the streets or anything like that. Mom and I had a lot of fun together. And I know it sounds odd, but I was never really curious about my father. My life was fine and I didn’t see any reason to complicate it looking for a man who had never cared enough to stick around in the first place.”

  We made our way through the tall grass, the cool air fanning our faces.

  “Anyway... Mom and I took care of each other and things went along fine until I turned eighteen and I graduated from high school.” She bent down and picked up a long thin branch that had fallen to the ground. “Mom really wanted me to go to
college. Insisted on it, actually. I didn’t care one way or the other, but Mom was determined that I would have more choices in life than she did. She wanted me to be in charge of my life and she was positive that an education would give me that chance. Of course, I really had mixed feelings about going away. I mean, the idea of complete freedom was heady, like it is for any teenager, and I was your typical teenager, ready to go off and drink beer and all that stuff, but I felt terrible about leaving my mother alone. For too many years, we were all each other had.” She turned and smiled at me. “I guess you weren’t really expecting an autobiography, were you?”

  “Trust me, Lindsay. No one can draw out an answer longer than I can,” I reassured her. “Believe me, compared to my rambling style, you’re practically mute.”

  Her smiled deepened. “Elizabeth said you had a great sense of humor.”

  “That’s nice to know considering her rather nasty comments about my lack of fashion sense,” I replied dryly. “She never did appreciate the work it took to maintain this casual, nonchalant style.”

  “Maggie, don’t take offense,” she said, laughing, “but I doubt you spend more than twenty minutes putting that look together. And if you do, then something is terribly wrong.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” I replied. And then I laughed with her. “It used to drive Elizabeth nuts. She’d come waltzing into my studio wearing Chanel’s latest and stand over me, impatiently tapping her foot like a metronome, demanding to know why I insisted on looking like a starving artist.”

  “That sounds just like her.” She pushed her hair out of her face and tilted it to the waning sun. “She reminded me of my mother. Not so much physically—Elizabeth was a more attractive woman. But emotionally. She had that same capacity to just up and love someone without weighing the consequences.”

  It was true. Elizabeth had an astounding capacity to love. Maybe Lindsay was right, though. Maybe Elizabeth’s capacity wasn’t any greater than anyone else’s; maybe she just wasn’t afraid to use it.