Graven Images

by Jane Waterhouse

  The music was too loud. I had to keep myself from moving in time to the beat. Mr. Ponytail and the Amazon lady huddled on the platform, conferring. She reached down to her belt and drew something up to her lips. A walkie-talkie. I had a sudden vision of Blackmoor sitting in some dark, paneled room, with a Persian cat on his lap, waiting for the signal from his beautiful-but-lethal henchperson. “She’s here, boss.”

  I forced myself to concentrate on the room. Twin winding staircases provided access to galleries above, where, I assumed, there were additional workspaces. Roberto had said to make myself at home. I decided to take him up on the invitation. I sauntered toward the closest set of steps, half-expecting alarms to go off, angry voices to yell, “Excuse me, you can’t go up there!”

  But I heard nothing.

  The upstairs gallery had been divided into several garage-doored storage rooms. I pulled an old-fashioned counterweight sash. The metal shutter flew up with a clatter. Before my eyes adjusted to the light, I moved inside, immediately tripping on a body.

  The floor was littered with them. Torsos. Limbs. Feet. I’d stumbled into a junkyard of hollow plaster casts. Or, at least—I reminded myself—they appeared to be hollow. Just by looking, a person wouldn’t have guessed that Lady Sitting was a sarcophagus for a human hand. Or that Woman at a Mirror contained a severed head.

  I kept moving.

  In one corner of the room, something had been draped with a muslin shroud. I pulled off the cloth, carefully. A young boy lay on the floor, mangled and bloody, his neck crooked, part of his face caved in from being beaten to a pulp. A scream bottled up in my throat, but no sound came out—luckily, for me, because it was at that moment I noticed the small brass plaque.

  “Gang War, Dane Blackmoor, 1991.”

  My heart had just about regulated itself when, from high up on a wooden shelf, something fast and white lunged at me.

  Thwap-thwap-thwap.

  I toppled into the pile of stiff hands and unyielding breasts, triggering an avalanche of body parts. They jabbed and poked, assaulting my nostrils with a dusty, medicinal-smelling smell. I fought to get out from under them.

  “Hihowareya, hihowareya!” The cockatoo whistled past, with a flap of wings.

  “Stay away,” I warned the bird.

  A pair of strong arms, one under my shoulder, one behind my waist, lifted me up, setting me back on my feet. Even with hair hanging in my face, and my eyes stinging from the pungent chemical smell, I could clearly see Blackmoor, with the big white bird on his shoulder. They were cocking their heads, giving me the old sideways once-over.

  “When are you going to learn that we don’t bite?” he asked softly.

  Blackmoor crouched, Indian style, on the platform, surrounded by a circle of people who seemed to be hanging on his every word. Only the cockatoo affected disinterest. Perched on the rung of a ladder, it pared its pointy toenails with a sharp, probing beak.

  “It has to be at more of an angle.” He rubbed his hand over the floor, erasing some blue chalk markings. “And tell Kyra I’ll need her early,” he said to his sidekick with the clipboard. “Where are we with the clothing?”

  “I’ve put together a couple of different looks you can choose from, Dane,” a voice piped up. I zoned in on the speaker, a doughy-faced woman with rhinestone-clustered glasses edging up at the sides like sly smiles. She was wearing an orange smock over leopard-print stretchpants that managed to be both too tight and too loose at the same time. If that’s who’s in charge of wardrobe, I thought, I pity poor Kyra, whomever she might be.

  “Which mirror are we going with, Dane?” This from a gaunt man in his early thirties who hung slightly back from the others.

  Blackmoor shrugged off the question. “Let’s see them both.” He strode from the platform, stopping when he saw me.

  “In case you’re wondering,” he said to the others, “this is Ms. Quinn. She writes books about murderers, and she’s come here to find out all about me.” He smiled without showing any teeth. “Make of that what you will.”

  I looked down the line of mostly hostile faces, keeping my voice friendly, but firm. “For the next few days, I’ll be hanging around the studio, watching how things run, asking a few questions,” I told them. “We could start with some introductions.”

  Blackmoor barreled through the niceties. “Elizabeth Rice.” The leggy Juliet. “Richard Lewan.” The thin man. “Lucy Moon.” The leopard lady. “And I believe you’ve met Roberto.” Mr. Ponytail.

  Elizabeth Rice extended her hand. Like Roberto, her shake was all style, no substance. “If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask.” Under these lights, I could make out the first signs of creping on her neck, and more lines around her eyes. She wasn’t quite the ingenue she’d masqueraded as at the museum gala. Elizabeth Rice had been around the block a couple of times. In the rain. During humid weather.

  Blackmoor touched my arm. “I’ll speak with you in my office now.” He turned and walked briskly through the studio. Everyone watched as I made the decision to follow.

  It was a very public surrender.

  TWO

  By the time I reached Blackmoor’s office, he was already comfortably seated behind his desk. To achieve the unique ambience, his interior decorator had apparently pillaged several old European churches. Leaded glass windows varicolored the sunlight. Religious antiquities were being used for mundane uses—an open-armed statue of a saint held a stack of Architectural Digests; an ornately carved, canopied baptismal font was filled with bottles of Evian water.

  Blackmoor looked up as though surprised to see me. “Oh, there you are.” I took a seat without being asked. “Tell me,” he said. “How’s Dudley?”

  “Fine.” I wasn’t about to admit to him that I didn’t know. That I hadn’t a clue as to how, or even where, my father was.

  “And your daughter—Temple, isn’t it?” Blackmoor smiled. It made me nervous, those same lips that could smile that smile, forming my daughter’s name. “I like the name,” he said. “It’s very Faulknerian.”

  “Look, this isn’t a social call.”

  “No, I guess it isn’t.” He picked up a lump of clay and began pressing it in his palm. “I was somewhat surprised when your young man called.” The way he said your young man insinuated Jack was something more than my assistant. Or maybe I was overly sensitive on that point. “I didn’t know whether you’d want to take on another book so soon. I found it flattering.”

  “Don’t,” I said bluntly. “I decided to do this because it fits in, logistically. I can do most of the work from home.”

  I didn’t tell him the other reason. That Jeff Turner had left me with a bad taste in my mouth. If I’d sat home, plagued by unanswered questions, haunted by the specter of the Holy Ghost, I’d have gone crazy. A book about Dane Blackmoor presented no moral dilemmas. He was guilty. I knew it, and he knew I knew it. It would be my swan song—a perfect circle, beginning with Dulcie and Dudley, and ending with him.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions.” He pointed a loaded finger at me as if to say, Shoot. I did. “When did Torie Wood start working here?”

  Blackmoor leaned back in his seat. “The detectives wanted to know that, too. I explained to them that I couldn’t say, exactly.

  “Originally, I believe Roberto brought her around. He’d met her somewhere, at a club in Manhattan, I think, and she started showing up at the studio. One day I asked to wrap her. She had a good head. Strong bone structure.” He kept working with the clay, glancing up only occasionally. “Later I discovered she had a knack for sculpture.”

  “So you put her on staff?”

  “Yes, but only in the office, for odd jobs. I wasn’t interested in creating a clone of myself. I wanted her to stay on the sidelines so she could develop at her own pace.” His fingers had fashioned the lump of clay into a small figure. Suddenly he squashed it flat. “And that was that.”

  “Torie modeled for both Lady Sitting and Woman at a Mirror,”
I said. “Do you remember anything unusual about those two sittings?”

  “You mean like whether I severed her head?” He glared at me. “No. I think I’d recall if that had happened.”

  “But shortly afterward she disappeared?”

  “Yes.” He’d started to massage the clay again, thoughtfully.

  “And you didn’t think her dropping out of sight was unusual? That it might be worth mentioning to the police?”

  Blackmoor sighed. “People come and go out of this studio all the time.”

  “But you said Torie was special,” I reminded him.

  He threw down the clay. It landed with an angry whomp on the desk. “She was a free spirit. If you’re suggesting I should have suspected she’d been chopped up into small pieces, I’m sorry”—the wolf grin again, intent and dangerous—“maybe I’m not that imaginative.”

  I walked over to a case displaying miniature models, maquettes for larger pieces, and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. I had a smudge of plaster dust on the tip of my nose. What a charge this arrogant prick must be getting out of me.

  “I’m going to be your shadow for the next three weeks,” I told him. “I’ll cover the legal proceedings, from arraignment right on through to sentencing. If it goes that far.”

  “I’m expected before the judge tomorrow,” he said softly.

  “I know. I spoke with Diana Gold.”

  “She seems to think they will set bail.” For the first time I thought I heard the tiniest trickle of fear wash over his characteristic ennui.

  “It usually goes that way,” I said, “when the person’s in the public eye.”

  “If not”—he lapsed back into a mocking tone—“will you come visit me in jail?”

  “You can count on it,” I told him.

  “I’ve arranged it so you can take over the guest quarters.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I replied. “I’ll be commuting every day.”

  “The offer stands, if you change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Well then,” he said. “I guess from here on out I’m at your mercy, Garner Quinn.” You got that right, I thought. Blackmoor stood. “I’m starting a new piece on Thursday, if they don’t lock me up. So, unless you have any other questions…”

  He stopped me at the door. “You know, a long time ago, I told you to call when you knew what you wanted from me. All these years I’ve been curious”—his voice faltered—“but I think I’ve finally figured it out. You want to nail my ass,” he said, “don’t you, Garnish?”

  THREE

  It was after seven when I pulled the Volvo through the gate, but lights were still on in the office.

  “Early day,” Jack observed.

  I plopped myself down on the chair opposite his desk. “It was only a rehearsal. To get the hang of things.”

  “So how were things hanging?”

  “It’s obvious he killed her. The only question is whether he acted alone. There are some real characters working in that place.” I stifled a yawn. “What’s new on the home front?”

  He opened a file folder and slid a picture toward me. “Show and tell.”

  “Torie?”

  I scanned the snapshot. Two kids. The boy was darkly handsome, with skin the color of a brown M&M, the tawny kind. A girl sat on his lap, holding an open bottle of beer. Her hair was tinted purple, rather like the skin of an eggplant. It was slicked back in a style that would have been ugly had it not been for her almond eyes, high cheekbones, and straight nose—the good bone structure that had attracted Dane Blackmoor. “Who’s the guy?”

  “Victor Pearce.” Jack checked his notes. “British. Calls himself a performance artist. Torie hooked up with him when she touched down in the big city.

  “Supposedly he did a lot of drugs,” he continued. “According to the people I talked with, he knocked Torie around on a regular basis.”

  I looked down at the picture of the young couple again. Sloe-eyed with liquor, with drugs, with lust, their attractive faces appeared blurry and unusually soft. “Was he enough of a sicko to have sliced her?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately, Victor went back to London right after Torie started hanging around with Blackmoor.” I felt relieved.

  He pushed some 8x10s in my direction—Torie’s head encased in its polyurethaned mask, plasticized like some obscene driver’s license. My God, I thought, she’s only a little older than Temple.

  “I know,” Jack said. I wondered if I’d spoken aloud, or whether he’d been struck by it, too. He pulled the pictures back like playing cards. “The parents are from Scarsdale. Upper-upper-middle-class home.” He stared down at the glossies. “Pretty high price to pay for getting out of the ’burbs, if you ask me.”

  “Well, you sure ran circles around me today,” I said.

  “That’s not all.” He was chomping at the bit, obviously pleased with himself. Somehow I liked it better when he was just answering the phones.

  He leaned across the desk. “I spoke with one of Torie’s girlfriends. She had nothing but good things to say about Dane Blackmoor. Said Torie told her she was really happy at the studio. Blackmoor was very good to her.”

  “I bet.”

  “For what it’s worth,” Jack said, “she didn’t think they were lovers. Right before Torie disappeared, she called, all excited. Said Blackmoor was going to pay for her to go to art school, that he believed in her talent—”

  “Yeah, right.”

  He shuffled a few index cards. “This is a direct quote. Torie told the girl that Dane Blackmoor was like a father to her.”

  I shot to my feet. “How would she know?” My voice cracked. “What would a fucking adolescent know about a man like him?”

  I saw it in his eyes. The mixture of shock and curiosity. “You got me.” He shrugged. “I was just following instructions to keep an open mind and listen to what people said, boss.”

  “I know you were,” I apologized. “How about coming over to the house for a beer?” A beer would help me to unwind. Two or three and I might just drink past my defenses.

  Jack looked surprised. “Not tonight,” he said. “I’m pretty beat.” He sounded pleased, though.

  “Some other time, then.” I offered him my hand. “Great work today.”

  He took it, and held on. “Thanks.”

  Suddenly it felt all wrong. I punched his chest with my other fist. “See ya, Jack.”

  “See you, Garner,” he said. “Soon.”

  Outside, a fine mist had begun to fall. I walked through the kitchen door shaking rain out of my hair like a dog. Cilda was at the table, warming her crooked hands around a steaming mug of hot chocolate. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was after eight, and she might or might not talk—her method of reminding me that no matter how long we’d been together, we weren’t family, we weren’t roommates, Cilda Fields was my employee, and any time after eight was her own, so she’d speak only if she felt like it, t’ank you very much.

  “Where’s Temple?”

  “Where would she be now that she got a phone in her room?” Naturally Cilda would have to get that little dig in. During the trial I’d succumbed—mostly out of the guilt of an absentee mom—to Temple’s pleas for a line of her own.

  “Everything okay here?” I asked lightly, sensitive to the fact that most weeks of the year it was “Everything okay there?” But somewhere during my careful framing of the question, Mrs. Fields had retreated behind her checked-out, locked-up, after-eight face. She looked down into her cocoa as though reading the sworls of chocolate, like tea leaves, which said, Everyting’s fine. Go to bed, Ga’ner Quinn. I got it all under control, as usual.

  I heard Temple jabbering on the phone as I passed her door. When she saw me, she said, “Gotta go,” and slapped the receiver down with a clang.

  “Who was that?”

  “Emory.”

  I said, “Oh,” trying hard to remember whether Emory was a boy or a girl.

&n
bsp; “She’s having a party on Saturday. Can I go?”

  “Sure,” I said, relieved. “I’ll drop you off so I can meet her parents.”

  “You don’t have to,” Temple said helpfully. “Emory’s brother said he’d drive.”

  “Nice try.” I grinned. “Tell him next time. Like when you’re twenty-one.”

  “Mother,” she cried in mock annoyance. “Just promise you won’t come to the door when you come pick me up. Stay in the car and beep, okay?”

  “Maybe I should wear a paper bag over my head.” I leaned back against the headboard, contentedly surveying all the teenage clutter.

  “So how was Dane Blackmoor’s studio?” Temple asked, excited.

  “It was okay.” I watched as she lugged a thick scrapbook over to the bed. “But I’d rather talk about your day.”

  “My day was boring. Take a look at this.” She shoved the book into my hands.

  I opened it, almost gasping at what I saw. Neatly glued to the first page was a Xerox copy of an old Life magazine spread on Dane Blackmoor. His face stared back at me, moody, recklessly young. Quickly, I thumbed through the rest of the album, turning page after page of newspaper clippings and magazine articles; scanning photographs of sculptures, personal interviews, and more recent reports about the hand, the head, Torie Wood, and the grand jury trial.

  “What the hell’s this supposed to be?” I demanded.

  Temple shrank at the tone of my voice. “It’s research,” she said. “I thought it might help you with the new book.”

  I swung my legs off the bed. “I have enough help, thank you.” I fought to control my emotions. “I have help coming out of my ears. I’m tripping over the help I have.”

  “So don’t use it.” She grabbed the book from me. “I’ll keep it for myself. I think Dane Blackmoor’s cool—”

  I snapped. “He’s not cool. He’s a dangerous, manipulative man who in no way should be the idol of little girls.”

  Temple stood toe to toe with me. “Well, I’m not a little girl.” She pushed past me, bounding down the stairs.

  “Temple, wait—”