Cutwork

by Monica Ferris

  The last third of the shelf was taken up by the little caricatures. The nearly finished caricature of a plumber as a sleepy possum in overalls, with its tail around a plumber’s helper, was cute and would certainly sell. And too bad there were only two of the attorney with the briefcase and the face of a weasel; Robbie had said he usually sold three or four of those a day.

  In a cardboard box on the floor were a half-dozen finished and half-finished caricatures, all of them snapped in half—Robbie broke the ones he wasn’t satisfied with. These weren’t salable; Ian picked out two and put them in his pocket to keep for himself.

  He searched the room thoroughly, opening the file cabinet drawers and even peeling the flexible cap off a five-gallon steel drum behind the work bench. He found it about half full of pale gray clay, the kind that hardens only when baked. On top he could recognize a fox’s head, a powerfully muscled lion’s shoulder, leg and broad paw set into the hindquarters of the fleeing antelope—apparently Robbie had meant at first for the lion to get his dinner. The rest all seemed to have blended down into unidentifiable hunks.

  He was handling the fox’s mask when Skye came back, face clean and spikes combed out of her hair—they had gotten bent when he held her during her weeping.

  “If you tell me I look about twelve years old, I’ll never speak to you again,” she said. So he didn’t.

  “This can’t be everything of your father’s,” he said.

  “Sure it is.” She looked around. “He’s been selling quite a few, and I’m pretty sure this is all that he had left last time I saw him. No, wait, the snapping turtle is gone. He must’ve sold it on Saturday.” She looked along the shelves quickly. “Oh, and he sold the cringing wolf, too. I never thought anyone would buy that, I mean, it had its tail between its legs and its head kind of twisted sideways and its tongue stuck out, like the wolf at the bottom of the pack does to the alpha wolf, ick. I told him people want their wolves howling or biting, but he liked it, and I guess someone else did, too.”

  “Is that all that’s gone? How about the little caricatures?”

  She went to look at them. “The German shepherd soldier is gone, and the turtle house painter, and the pig police officer—he sells a lot of those, he can practically carve them with his eyes closed now—I mean . . .” She took a calming breath. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, he did a caricature of me as a peacock setting fire to my tail with a blowtorch,” he said. “I found a broken practice piece, but not the finished one.”

  “That’s because I have it.” She was wearing those outsize jeans the kids liked, and her arm disappeared up to the elbow as she leaned sideways to reach into a pocket. It was a basswood carving not quite three inches tall. “It’s so like you, Ian, proud and sometimes careless.”

  “I am never careless,” he asserted, taking it from her. “I’m just not as much of a craftsman as some. I thought you only had two of your father’s pieces.”

  She shrugged. “Okay, if you count these cartoon ones, I have three. Or four. Does it matter all that much?”

  “When I am supposed to convince your mother there is enough of your father’s oeuvres to hold a proper show and/or auction, then every piece counts.”

  “Well, you can have the peacock if you insist. And we forgot to bring in the two big ones. Want me to go get them?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  He went back out to his Miata in the parking lot. It was far and away the best-looking car there. Poor Robbie had really come down in the world. Ian remembered the big house and the SUV and Lincoln Town Car—Robbie had been driving a second-hand Kia, which wasn’t here, he noted; and even it was nicer than most of the other cars around this apartment building.

  He sighed, opened his trunk, and got out the two wood carvings. One was of two stallions fighting, a fiery and exciting piece, if a bit clichéd. The other was of a little hairy dog leaping in the air with a ball growing out of one side of his face. The dog, he knew, was “Spanky,” who had been a much-loved tyrant in the McFey household back when the children were in grade school. Spanky had been one of Robbie’s first efforts to put his figures into action poses. The anatomy was peculiar and the ball a mistake, but even in that early piece the vigor was remarkable, and according to Skye, Spanky used to snap sideways at the ball just as depicted. Ian had every intention of buying the Spanky carving and giving it to Skye. It meant too much to her to let it go into strangers’ hands.

  He went back into the building and down the echoing hall to Robbie’s apartment.

  “Now, do I have everything?”

  “Well,” she said grudgingly and went again into her pocket. There was plenty of room in there; Ian half expected her to bring out a life-size crow. But the fourth piece was another caricature, of a boy as a gawky giraffe in jeans and sweatshirt, with big, gentle eyes and a thick book labeled MATH. “He’s not as pencil-necked as he was when Pop did this, and he’s toughened up, too.”

  “Who is it supposed to be?”

  “Coy,” she said, surprised he didn’t recognize him.

  “I was Robbie’s friend and yours, not your family’s,” he reminded her. “I don’t think I’ve talked with Coyne more than twice.”

  “Oh, yeah. And this was done when Coy was twelve.”

  “Now I want you to look at every piece here and tell me what else is missing.”

  But she didn’t think anything else was. They searched the rest of the apartment, which was relatively clean and furnished in Motel Six style. Ian could not have lived in this place for more than two days; he could have welded a couch with more style than what slumped against that wall. There were no other carvings, though on the wall over the graceless couch were three neatly framed pencil sketches, one of Robbie, one of France Avenue in Edina during their annual art fair, and one of the wood carving of Spanky. All were very competent, any flaws overcome by the passion of the artist for the subjects. Ian spent a few minutes looking at them—each was signed Skye, the letters twisted to form a little cloud.

  “What are we looking for?” Skye complained impatiently, coming back from the bathroom. “I mean, is it one of those cartoon pieces or something bigger?”

  “I don’t know,” Ian said. “Maybe we do have it all. I just want to make sure.”

  “I don’t see how we could’ve missed anything. Is there enough to do a show with?”

  He hesitated, then decided on candor. “There would be, if all the pieces were as extraordinary as the lion. But one marvelous piece doesn’t make a show. I think we should see if a Minnesota gallery would handle them for us, or if they could join an auction of outdoor art. We could place a couple of ads and, if we’re lucky, might easily realize twenty or twenty-five thousand dollars, perhaps more.”

  Her eyes shone. “That’s pretty good, isn’t it? You’re being so good, helping me with this. Do you really think we can get twenty-five thousand dollars? Wouldn’t that be great? Pop would be so proud!”

  “That much?” said Pam McFey thoughtfully. “Really, I had no idea. He’s been selling things at those silly street fairs, where things aren’t generally that expensive. No wonder he wasn’t making a decent living, if he was asking those kind of prices at a street fair.”

  “As you possibly know,” said Ian, throwing a repressive glance at Skye, who immediately put both hands over her mouth to show she would keep still, “he wasn’t asking those kind of prices. We can, because he’s gone and won’t be doing any more work. And because some of his work is much better then he knew. I tried to tell him, and I’ve been working to arrange a show for him at my gallery. He was in the process of selecting some of his work to send them to look at. I have no doubt they would have accepted him, and worked with him to get the recognition he richly deserved. Who knows how far it might have gone? That’s why this whole thing is a tragedy.”

  “I had no idea,” Pam repeated. Her hand went to her throat, where the slim fingers gently touched a necklace of carved amber beads that looked too heavy for he
r slender neck.

  “And although Marvin Gardens would not be interested in representing so few pieces from a deceased artist, I hope you will allow me to look into getting them into an art auction, or perhaps another gallery willing to take on such a sadly limited number of pieces.”

  “You think you can do that?”

  “I’m sure I can make some kind of arrangement that will get you much more money than an estate sale would bring.”

  “What about the other things in his apartment? Clothes and furniture?”

  “I’m no expert on that sort of thing, but I don’t think there’s anything else valuable in there. There might be a market for his newer tools, if we can attract the attention of other wood carvers. Certainly they would want the band saw, and probably the unused wood.”

  “Should they be included in an auction, then?”

  “It depends on the kind of auction. Will you let me see what I can find out?”

  “Thank you.” Pam smiled just a little bit, and thawed enough to say, “You really are being very kind.”

  “Not at all.” And as a reward for those words of praise, Ian gave her the two little Doberman caricatures. “I don’t think we need to let anyone see these,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, and her fist closed so quickly over them he knew she had seen them before. The look she gave him was startlingly fierce, and it was only in retrospect that he realized she was angry because he had seen them.

  14

  Sunday morning, Betsy went to the ten-thirty service at Trinity. She usually went to the first service at eight, having gotten back into her old habit of rising early, but was hoping to meet someone at the second.

  It wasn’t Father John Rettger, who was celebrant at both services. Short and white-haired, Father John was his usual careful self this morning—if he wasn’t careful, he tended to wander unannounced into a nonstandard communion service or start forgiving the congregation their sins before they admitted they had done things they ought not to have done and not done things they had ought. His sermon was lucid and learned, the congregation attentive—well, an ear-pulling contest broke out among three preteen boys, but their mother quelled it with a look and a couple of gestures. The hymns selected were comfortable; the small choir leading them was excellent. Besides the music—the first service was conducted in a sad silence—the other major difference at the second service was that the Lord’s Prayer was the modern-language version, which Betsy didn’t realize but went along reciting the traditional one and wondering vaguely why she couldn’t stay in chorus. The whole thing was over in about eighty minutes.

  The reason Betsy didn’t realize she was reciting the wrong prayer was the same reason she could not have told anyone anything about the music or the sermon one minute after the Dismissal. Because she, from her place near the back, had seen Jill sitting close to the front and fixed her attention on her, trying to find a way of drawing her attention without waving or making a noise. Lars wasn’t with her; if he wasn’t on duty, he was over at Saint Elwin’s Lutheran.

  Jill paused to talk to someone in the aisle before coming out, so Betsy went out into the big hall that the church backed into, turned, and waited. When she saw Jill, she raised her hand tentatively. But Jill saw her and changed directions to come to her.

  “Have brunch with me?” asked Betsy.

  “All right,” said Jill.

  “I’m buying, so you choose where.”

  “Waterfront Café,” said Jill promptly. “And we’re going dutch.” They walked down the hill to Water Street and turned toward the lake. It was already a blazing-hot day, with only the faintest hint of a cooling breeze coming off the water.

  There had been a rumor that the Waterfront Café was being sold to an Asian couple who wanted to turn it into a sushi bar. True or not, the town broke into laughter at the idea, so the owner, who really had wanted to retire, went back to frying eggs and making a very mild hamburger stew he called “chili.”

  “Two eggs over easy, bacon, whole wheat toast, coffee, large orange juice,” ordered Jill, who had the metabolism of a weight lifter.

  “English muffin, small grapefruit juice, tea,” ordered Betsy, who didn’t. But her ears perked up at the request for bacon; the Waterfront Café’s serving of bacon was three strips, and Betsy thought perhaps she could acquire one.

  When their orders came, Jill said, “So what’s up?”

  “What do you mean, what’s up? You’re getting married this week! Aren’t you excited? Or nervous?”

  “Not really,” said Jill, cutting into her eggs with a fork.

  “Well, you’re the only woman on earth who wouldn’t be. Or is there some kind of problem? Jill, are you sure this is what you want to do? I mean, if this is about the no-fraternization rule, couldn’t you just get engaged? Wouldn’t that solve the problem?”

  “Yes, it would. But I’m worried they might change the rules again on us. I’m very sure about Lars being the right one for me. We’ve talked about getting married before; I was the one putting it off because I couldn’t work patrol if I was pregnant. Now I’m a desk jockey, so that’s all right. Besides, this Thursday thing isn’t like really getting married. It won’t be the real thing until we get Father John to bless us in church.”

  Betsy stared at her. “You don’t mean this is some kind of fake marriage!”

  “No, of course not. So far as the state of Minnesota is concerned, we’ll be married. But I won’t feel married until I walk down the aisle at Trinity.”

  Betsy didn’t want to offend Jill by blurting out what she was thinking, so she busied herself with her muffin for a few moments until she could figure out how to edge her way into the topic. “Does Lars know about this?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does he think about it?”

  “Not much. Nor do I, when it comes to that. But at least we can date again.”

  Betsy still wanted to jump up and shout, “You can’t do this to Lars!” Instead she grabbed her mug and took a mouthful of tea. It was far too hot; she hastily grabbed her water glass to suck up a piece of ice. It cooled her temper as well as her tongue. Around the ice she said, “He’s a stronger man than I am, Gunga Din.”

  Jill laughed.

  Betsy said, “When the blessing part happens, um, may I still be your maid of honor?”

  Jill nodded. “Yes, of course.” She ate more egg.

  Betsy said, “May I?” and reached across the little table with her fork to lift up a slice of crisp bacon. “So meanwhile, as your almost-maid-of-honor, or is a divorcee a matron of honor? It doesn’t matter, whichever, what do you want me to do?”

  “Come to the Elks Club overlooking beautiful Lake Minnetonka at two P.M. on Thursday.”

  “Nothing else? No shower? No organizing the brides-maids?”

  “No. No shower, and you’re the only attendant I want.”

  Betsy took a small bite of the bacon, savoring its rich, salty flavor. “All right. What shall I wear?”

  Jill considered this while she put a dab of preserves on her toast. “Something kind of dressy. I’m wearing a new pastel silk suit.”

  “What color? So I don’t clash.”

  “It’s kind of an ice blue. Well, an ice blue-green, if you can imagine that.”

  Amazingly, Betsy could. “I saw a suit that color at Cynthia Rae’s.” Which was a specialty store right up Water Street.

  Jill nodded. “That’s where I got it.”

  “But you don’t take extra-large dresses!”

  “Sometimes I do. I’m tall and my shoulders are broad, so I’m hard to fit. I saw that suit in the window and I went in, and the smallest size she carries fit me just right.” Jill smiled. “Sometimes it’s fun to buy from the other end of the rack.”

  “Okay, I’ll go look again at that suit in her window and find something that complements it.”

  “You don’t have to buy something special.”

  “But I want to! This is a special occasion! I want it to
look as if we put some thought into it! What else are you wearing?”

  “Okay, then, I found a little white hat with a stiff little veil, and I’m wearing white shoes.”

  “White accessories, right. Except I don’t think I’ll wear a hat, unless you think I should.”

  Jill shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Betsy shook her head at Jill, who looked back calmly. Jill had a trick of absorbing anything thrust at her—whether anger, distrust, amusement, or as now, bafflement—and giving nothing back, disarming the emotion. But Betsy knew about the trick and held on to her feelings.

  She said, “It’s the police chief, isn’t it? You’re mad at him.”

  “No, he’s not the one who wanted the policy set. In fact, he laughed when I told him what I wanted to do. He thinks it’s a great joke on the people who like to set hard-and-fast rules.”

  “But I thought cops liked hard-and-fast rules.”

  “Have you ever talked your way out of a speeding ticket?”

  “Sure, a couple of times, why? Oh. Yes, I see. But you really are going to marry Lars in church pretty soon? It would be too cruel to make him wait, you know. He’s been very patient with you.”

  “I know.” This was said quietly, but there was weight behind it. “It will definitely happen, and before too long. But this was too good a chance to pass up, so I had to take it. Lars understands, really he does.” She ate more egg and asked, “How are things going with the McFey murder?”

  “I’m stuck,” said Betsy, glad Jill had brought it up, so she didn’t have to. “Is there some way you can help me? Within the guidelines of the department, I mean.”

  Jill smiled. “Probably. You still think Mickey Sinclair didn’t do it?”

  “No. Well, maybe not. I thought I had a really good alternate suspect, but the motive I thought he had isn’t there anymore.”

  “Who was your suspect?” Jill picked up a slice of bacon with her fingers and ate it in three bites.

  “Ian Masterson. He’s an artist who was helping McFey raise his standing by getting him into a gallery in Santa Fe. He also gave McFey sixty-five thousand dollars in return for being made beneficiary of McFey’s hundred-thousand-dollar insurance policy. McFey was supposed to be dying, did you know that?”