Cutwork

by Monica Ferris

  Shelly slipped over a few feet so she could look at him in profile. He was attractive in a homely way. His nose was strong and only a little too big. His chin, under the goatee, was square—and double, which might explain the hairy cover he’d grown over it. His hair seemed to be thinning at the crown; when he tilted his head, the tied-back part was lifted and showed how carefully he’d combed it to disguise the thinning area. She smiled at herself when she realized she found this sign of vanity touching.

  Shelly didn’t believe in love at first sight—not true love. On the other hand, she’d experienced that powerful, unexpected, inexplicable attraction to a member of the opposite sex twice before—she’d married the first one—and so she recognized it when it happened again now. Ian Masterson, a big, masterful-looking man, was not at all her type. Nevertheless, he radiated some variety of sex appeal, charm, charisma, or whatever-it-was that brightened her eye and rattled her heart.

  Ian continued, “A few years ago, Robbie got sick—muscle aches, vomiting, temperature. He thought it was flu, and went to bed; but when it didn’t get better, his wife sent him to his urgent care clinic—and they put him in the hospital. A blood test had come up positive for hepatitis C.”

  Shelly said, “So they’re the ones who made the mistake.”

  Ian shook his head. “No. They did a liver biopsy, and found some very early signs of cirrhosis. They asked him if he drank, which he did, but he lied about how much, so they concluded the cirrhosis was from the hepatitis.”

  “Anyway, drinking doesn’t give you hepatitis,” said Betsy.

  Ian smiled at her. “No, it doesn’t. But they asked him about his sex life and drug use, because unprotected sex and dirty needles are the two most common ways of getting the disease. He said he hadn’t messed around on his wife, and the only people who stuck syringes into him were doctors and nurses.”

  Shelly asked, cocking her head pertly, “So did he have it or didn’t he?”

  Ian said, “The virus was there. The blood tests showed that.”

  Betsy asked, “Did they learn where he got it?”

  “It turned out he’d had a blood transfusion back in the late eighties after he ran into someone’s elbow during a touch football game and ruptured his spleen. Back then they didn’t test donated blood for it.”

  “I never heard of a disease that has an incubation period that long,” said Shelly. “Well, except maybe AIDS.”

  “Hepatitis is another one, it seems.”

  Betsy said, “And so they told him he was dying. Are you saying this was a motive for murder?”

  “No, I’m just telling you how he came to be at the art fair, instead of writing ad copy.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “What happened was, they told him he had a year to live, maybe two if he took care of himself. They got the symptoms under control, gave him some medicine that made him damn sick, and released him.”

  “How long ago was this?” asked Betsy.

  “Three years.”

  “Well, hey, didn’t he ask about a new liver?” asked Shelly.

  “Hepatitis C lives in your whole system, so all that would happen was that the new liver would be infected, too—and much faster, because of the immune-suppressing drugs he’d have to take.”

  “You seem to know a lot about all this,” remarked Betsy, and Shelly managed to drag her attention away from Ian to Betsy. Normally, Betsy had the quiet, helpful demeanor proper to a small business owner, but now there was an edge to her pleasant alto voice, and a keen look in her light blue eyes. Shelly was thrilled to get this glimpse of the sleuth she knew resided in her friend and employer. And Ian was supplying the clue! She returned her attention to Ian.

  Who, oblivious, was nodding. “We had some deep conversations, Robbie and I. But he didn’t die. It turns out that whatever made him sick wasn’t hepatitis C. They think maybe it was what he thought he had in the first place: flu.”

  “They had faulty equipment for testing,” guessed Shelly, wanting him to look at her.

  “No, he really had the disease, he was just one of those people who carry it around without getting sick from it.”

  “But you said there was liver damage,” said Betsy.

  “Yes,” nodded Ian. “I told you, he lied about his drinking. I mean, I’m a party animal from way back, but he put whiskey into his morning coffee, and thought a four-martini lunch was for folks on the wagon. He stopped when he got the diagnosis, of course. Spent three weeks at a clinic drying out, but never went to an AA meeting. Said he didn’t need them to motivate him to stay dry, he had a powerful motive already.” His tone became more emphatic. “But he did quit his job. He told his wife that if he was dying, he was going to spend what time he had left doing what he always wanted to.”

  “Carve wood,” said Shelly.

  “And sell his work.” He asked Betsy, “Did you see any of it?”

  “I saw slides. That lion was wonderful.” Her voice was sincere.

  Ian’s head came up. “It’s a masterpiece!” he declared, than looked sadly at the floor. “And the hand that wrought it is stilled forever.” He cheered up a bit—he’s like an actor, Shelly noted, or at least someone with a sense of drama. “Of course, now it, and all his other remaining work, should increase in value. There isn’t going to be any more of it.”

  Shelly said, “I guess I should have bought that raccoon when I had the chance, huh?”

  Ian turned to her. “What raccoon?” he asked, and again she felt the power of his interest.

  “The one with the crayfish in its front paws, he was kind of standing on his hind legs—but oh, it doesn’t matter; I couldn’t afford it then, so I certainly couldn’t now.”

  “Crayfish?” he asked, apparently drawing a blank.

  She came out from behind the desk, gesturing the size of the piece with both hands, holding them about nine inches apart. “I liked it, I liked it even more than the lion. The way it looked as if it were turning toward something that suddenly caught its attention, about to drop the crayfish because it was so distracted. You almost turned around to see what it was looking at.”

  He smiled at her. “How very perceptive of you!” he said warmly. “Yes, his talent for capturing emotion in animals was remarkable, but he had the even more remarkable ability to make the work live in a world bigger than itself. Do you draw or paint?”

  Shelly looked down so she wouldn’t see the disappointment in his face when she said, “No, I just do cross-stitch.”

  Ian looked around the shop, at the models on the walls. “Don’t say ‘just.’ Some of this stuff is wonderful. It’s made from patterns, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Shelly.

  “Well, did you draw any of them?”

  “No.”

  Betsy said, “But sometimes you take parts of several patterns and combine them to make a piece that’s all your own.”

  “Well, yes, I do.”

  “That’s very artistic, and completely in the spirit of this age, to combine parts of the work of others to make something entirely your own.” Ian was again warmly approving, and Shelly smiled her gratitude at Betsy.

  Betsy asked, “Were there two raccoons among his pieces?”

  Shelly said, “I only saw the one.”

  Ian said, “I didn’t even know about the one.” He asked Betsy, “Is there anything else you want to know?”

  “What do you know about Mr. McFey’s family?”

  “Not a whole lot. I think I might have met them twice. Except his daughter Skye, I saw her perhaps a dozen times—he’d bring her along once in a while to dinner, and he liked having her in his workshop. She was quiet and serious, and showed early promise as an artist herself. Did some interesting things in pencil. She was a lot like him, actually, even when she was just a little kid. Intense, funny, hardworking. She’s in high school now. There’s a boy about four years older than she is, his name is Coyne. One of those kids with a scientific mind. A real s
obersides, but with a temper if he feels pushed. This is all from Robbie, of course, but he said Coyne was angry because Robbie refused to go back into advertising, back to making good money. I offered to pay the boy’s college tuition, but Robbie turned me down.”

  “I should think it was his wife who would be angry.”

  Ian nodded. “Very likely. But I don’t know for sure, I think I met her exactly once.”

  “But you saw Robbie often.”

  He held out and wobbled his bandaged hand. “Off and on. We’d meet almost every day for five days or a week, then not see each other for months. One of us would get into artist mode and disappear.”

  “You mean, go out of town?” asked Shelly. “Like to art shows?”

  “No, more like going to the back of a big, dark cave to have a deep conversation with your muse. When you come out, you stand blinking at the sunlight, or surprised at the snow, and wondering what’s been going on. I think I was probably among the last Americans to hear about the twin towers in New York coming down, because I was working on a piece during that time. The muse had me by the throat, and when that happens, it’s like the only real thing in the world is the piece I’m working on.”

  Shelly nodded. “Like stitching binges. Lots of our customers go on them, I’ve done it myself—neglecting the house, turning the dogs out in the backyard instead of taking them for long walks, just so I can finish a piece.”

  Again that warm approval. “You do understand.”

  Betsy asked, “Was Rob McFey serving his muse lately?”

  “Definitely yes, until just a few months ago. When he came up for air, he called me to come see what he’d just finished. It was that lion. I saw it and I went right home and phoned Marvin Gardens in Santa Fe to say they really had to take a look at Robbie. They said on my recommendation they would, and he should send them some items. He was in the process of selecting some pieces when . . . this happened.”

  “That’s too sad,” said Shelly. “Maybe you, or maybe his family should send the pieces anyway?”

  Ian shook his head. “I don’t think there are a lot of unsold pieces, and just that one really brilliant one isn’t enough to anchor a real show. But his work should have been in a gallery, not an art fair, if only because the prices would be better. Problem is, there won’t be any more. My gallery is the kind that likes to take a new artist and publicize him, bring him in for events and get him interviews in magazines, build him up, so his pieces really escalate in price. Robbie would have been really good at that, he was photogenic and could talk a great game. But Marvin Gardens won’t consider him now, because he isn’t available for interviews.” He stood abruptly and went to look out the front window, peering around the canvases and patterns at the sunlit sidewalk. A jogger came by, unmindful of anything but the pain in his legs. Ian’s hand went to his face for a few minutes, then he sniffed lengthily and his elbow worked as he rubbed his nose.

  Shelly glanced at Betsy, whose face was sympathetic, and they waited in silence until he turned back. “It’s sad when anyone dies, of course, even some poor old sap who never had kids or made anything else worth keeping. But when it’s someone like Robbie, who would sit and study a piece of wood until it spoke to him of anger or fright or deep mourning, well, it’s just too bad. Robbie thought he was dying, which in a way was good because, like the saying goes, a sentence of death concentrates the mind wonderfully—and he really worked hard. And then he found he wasn’t dying, which was wonderful, because he then had more time to reach the height of his talent; but he’s gone now, and that’s the damnedest shame!” He drew a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. “Sorry, I pontificate. It’s one of the things that happen to people who start to get a name, they think the world is actually interested in anything they have to say.”

  Shelly said, “What kind of art did you say you do?”

  She realized instantly the insult of this question, but after a single flashing glance, he began to laugh. Shelly decided she didn’t mind asking foolish questions if they brought this infectious response. He said, “Welded art. I started out in sheet metal, then got into big-beam work, not at Don Gummer’s level, but corporations and some local governments bought my work. Then about five years ago I had this rush of inspiration and went haring off after it, so now I’m into smaller pieces again. And they’re doing pretty well, with private collectors and a couple of museums buying all I can produce.”

  Betsy said, “I’ve seen some of those steel girder things on the grounds of Minnesota Mills and Sweetwater. Are they yours?” She pushed two fingers from one hand against three from the other, forming a quintruped shape.

  He nodded proudly. “Some of them.” He made a restless gesture. “But I didn’t come in to talk about myself. I’ve taken up enough of your time, I ought to be going.”

  Shelly didn’t want him to go. She asked, “How did you get started in metal? Were you a construction worker?”

  He shook his head with a wry smile, and held up the bandaged hand. “As you can see, I’m not skilled enough to earn a welders’ union card. It started back when a friend who had a small arc welder in his home workshop let me have a go.” Ian’s eyes grew dreamy. “Even that first time, when I drew a bead along two small pieces of steel, I looked at the wavy, interlocking lines—I wasn’t very good at it and had to do two passes to make a solid weld—they were beautiful. Silvery, delicate, and yet powerful. That little welder had melted the ends of the steel, knitted them together like scar tissue, and the join was as strong as if the two parts had been cast as a single piece. Strength and beauty. That’s my art. I was hooked and I’ve been hooked ever since.”

  “I saw some metal art at the fair last weekend,” said Shelly. “Fish and birds done in stainless steel. Was that some of your early work?”

  “No, no,” said Ian with a gesture of dismissal. “I don’t do art fairs. Not that there’s anything wrong with them,” he added hastily. “Some of them, anyway. Some are more craft fairs than genuine art fairs. The Excelsior one is juried, which makes a difference, but even they have”—he gestured again—“bird houses and kites.”

  “Do you have any idea,” asked Betsy, “who might have wanted Rob McFey dead?”

  His head came back around. “Uh . . . no, of course not.”

  “Not his son? Or his wife?” she pressed.

  He looked a bit disconcerted and backed off a little. “Well, they were resentful, or so Robbie said, but that’s understandable. I mean, it’s one thing when a person is dying and wants to fulfill a lifelong dream before he goes, and another when he just doesn’t want to get back in harness after galloping free for a while.” He cocked his head as if mentally replaying those words, and gave a little nod of appreciation at his turn of phrase. Again Shelly was touched at this boyish show of self-regard.

  “So his whole family was unhappy,” prompted Betsy.

  “Well, no, not Skye. She thought the sun rose and set on her father. But Coyne, yes. I think he’ll have to drop out of Northwestern now, he can’t afford the tuition. Robbie said Coyne was angry about it, but . . .” He shrugged, possibly an echo of the shrug Robbie had given. “Robbie was in love with art, and allowing that love to guide him. And it wasn’t as if they were going to have to live in their car. His wife has an MBA, even if she hasn’t used it in a while.”

  “And there’s nothing wrong with the University of Minnesota,” said Shelly, Class of ’85.

  He bowed in her direction, his face amused. “Not at all, not at all. I went there myself, a century or two ago.”

  Shelly touched her upper lip with the edge of a forefinger to hide her smile. He really was a most attractive man.

  A few minutes after Ian Masterson left, Shelly went into the back to get more of the drawstring plastic bags the shop put merchandise into for customers. She found Betsy back there, stopped halfway through the making of a cup of tea, her spoon stirring and stirring while she looked off into the distance, perplexed about something.

&
nbsp; “What’s the matter?” asked Shelly.

  “Hmmm? Oh, I was just thinking about Mr. Masterson.”

  “Isn’t he hot?”

  Betsy turned her perplexed gaze on Shelly. “Ian Masterson is hot?”

  “Don’t you think so? Well, no, I guess not, you being so wrapped up in Morrie.” Betsy’s on-again/off-again romance with her retired police investigator was currently back on, now he was up here from his winter home in Florida.

  Betsy nodded. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “I think he’s like a big ol’ teddy bear, with that growly voice and hairy face.”

  Betsy laughed softly. “You sound really smitten!”

  Shelly smiled and touched the back of her hair. “I could be. Not that I have a prayer, really. He’s all wrapped up in his artist thing. I wish I were an artist, then I might have a chance to get to know him.”

  “Maybe it’s just as well,” said Betsy, her faraway look coming back.

  “Why? What’s the matter with him?”

  “Probably nothing. But I wonder why he came to see me.”

  Shelly felt herself growing defensive. “Irene told him to, silly! And he told you, he wants to help any way he can with your investigation into Rob McFey’s death.”

  “Yes, he told us a great deal about Robbie, didn’t he? And how his wife and son were angry with him. Yet he was surprised when I asked him who he thought might have done it.”

  “I didn’t notice that he was,” Shelly lied, but added strongly, “I suppose he might not have expected you to ask him to name names.”

  Betsy nodded. “Yes, I suppose that’s possible,” but not as if she believed it.

  “After all, he’s not a sleuth, like you are.”

  Betsy nodded. “True.”

  “Well, what possible reason could Ian Masterson have for murdering Robbie McFey? They were friends! Ian was doing Robbie a favor, getting him a chance to show his carvings in Ian’s gallery!”

  “Yes, that’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is right! And if you keep stirring like that, you’ll wear a hole in the bottom of that cup.”