Graven Images

by Jane Waterhouse

  “That’s your job,” I said. “I won’t stand in the way of it.”

  “You bet your life you won’t,” Diana hissed, sweeping the nearest tables with her icy peripherals before continuing. “So let’s get this straight right off the bat.

  “I’m no Nick Shawde, who’ll sit around shooting the bull with you. You won’t find me discussing the fine points of this case just because I like to hear myself talk. You want something from my office, sit and watch, or work for it like the rest of us.” She leaned forward in her seat. “It’s no secret that I advised Dane against this book. I don’t see the point—what? To make you and your agent richer than you already are, and have half of America thinking they know who done it, just because they saw it on Geraldo?”

  Diana let out a harsh little laugh. “Look,” she said, “I have no idea what kind of hold you have over Dane. But whatever it is, you’re crazy if you think I’m going to sit back and let you destroy him for the sake of one of your hot little bestsellers.” She groped for the pen that was in a small tray.

  “He’s my client, so keep your distance.” She scribbled her signature on the bill. “I don’t care what kind of suicidal impulses you bring out in him. I’m gonna save his ass whether he wants it saved or not.”

  As usual, I’d won points by staying quiet. Diana Gold had made the mistake every seasoned attorney seeks to avoid—she’d said too much. She’d given me a glimpse into her own weaknesses, and that was never smart. It didn’t matter what demons drove her—ambition, power, lust, even love. Once the question was posed, Dane Blackmoor was the only answer.

  She threw the pen down, pushing her chair out so suddenly the poor waiter was caught with his gloved hands in his proverbial pants. “Have another, on me, if you’d like,” Gold said, managing a curt smile. Then, tossing her straight, honey-colored hair back, she strutted her nigh-unto-perfect posterior out of the room, leaving a wake of half-dazed old men, their conversation frozen for a fluttered heartbeat.

  I was on my way to the ladies’ room when I saw him, seated in a wingback chair in one of the scores of fake little living room areas around the great clubby room. He was talking to another man whose back was to me. For one crazy moment, I thought I could keep right on walking.

  “Garner?”

  “Hello, Dudley.”

  He kissed me lightly on each cheek, European style. “Of course, you know my associate, Trace,” he said, with an expansive sweep of his hands toward his companion, who was now on his feet.

  Trace pumped my hand. “Of course, of course,” each of us politely keeping up our end to the masquerade of having been one jolly little threesome at some point in the past. How long has it been, Father dear? I thought. Six, seven years?

  “Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up,” Dudley’s associate was saying, rather nervously.

  I wondered if Trace was his first name or his last, finally settling on a simple, “Good seeing you again.”

  “You too.” He shook Dudley’s hand. Perspiration had broken out on his top lip. I couldn’t tell whether he was sweating because my discomfort was catching or whether it was simply a part of the job description as one of The Great Man Quinn’s associates.

  Dudley watched him go. “One of the new partners,” he said, his lips curled in distaste.

  I suddenly thought of Geoffrey Nash, pale and wasted, barely able to speak through the pain of the cancer, which had started in the liver and spread throughout his body. “At least it’s not AIDS,” he’d croaked. And we’d laughed, me holding his ghost of a hand. Had it really been only two years ago?

  Dudley sat back in the wing chair. “Do you have a moment?” He motioned to the sofa as though it were his own, with that way he had of suggesting he owned the whole frigging club, the whole frigging world, for that matter.

  “Sure.” I perched on the edge of the cushion. You will note, I am not settling in.

  “So,” he began softly, “what have you been doing with yourself, Garner?” I stared at him, trying to find a shred of tenderness in that perfectly ridiculous question he always insisted on asking. He didn’t wait for a reply. “You’re looking well.” He cast a look at my pleated skirt. “Very…gamine.” The word, and his perfect French pronunciation of it, made me suddenly furious.

  I’m a writer now, Dudley, haven’t you heard? I know what all your fancy vocabulary means. Don’t expect me to go running off for my Webster’s. I said, “You look tired,” without a shred of kindness.

  “I am tired,” Dudley Quinn III admitted. His honesty made my heart drop.

  “Are you in town for long?” I asked.

  “To stay, I hope,” he answered. “Of course, you knew I sold the place in Portugal.” No, actually. The little birdie carrying that piece of news must have expired on his way across the Atlantic. Three men walked by with wide-load briefcases in their hands. They called to Dudley, in hushed clubby tones, and the old charming grin broke out on his face, melting the years away.

  When he returned his attention to me, he said, “I hear you’re working on a book about our friend Mr. Blackmoor.”

  A jumble of paranoic thoughts flooded my head. How had he heard? Who told him? Had Cilda been spying for him all this time? Then I remembered. It had been in the papers. “Yes,” I said.

  Dudley looked amused. “Well. You must surely let me know when that one comes out.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  A roaming White Glove came over, dipping his head next to Dudley’s. “Would you care for anything, darling?”

  “No, thank you. I just drank a pot of tea and my back teeth are floating.” I knew that would embarrass him.

  Dudley dismissed the waiter with a nod. There was a long pause. “How is my granddaughter?”

  “Fine,” I replied, making no move to open my wallet.

  “You must give her my best.” Not I’d like to see her someday, or Might I drop by sometime? but, You must give her my best. For the millionth time I wondered where he kept it hidden. The best part of him.

  “I will,” I said, holding out a hand in defense of more kiss-kiss. I didn’t think I could stand one more show of phony, forced affection. “It was good seeing you.”

  “Yes,” Dudley said. He looked puzzled, suddenly, in the way that old people do when they’re abruptly roused from sleep.

  Out of nowhere a thought flew into my mind, that maybe it would have all been so different if I’d turned out to be Diana Gold. I had a mental picture of Dudley, beaming with pride as I made my way toward him, a vision in celery green with a screw-’em-all, confident look in my eye.

  “Perhaps we could—” he was saying.

  “Yes.” I nodded, blinking away tears. Then I turned and fled, without saying goodbye.

  SIX

  As I rounded the curve, Elizabeth Rice appeared in the pale moons of my headlights. Dressed in a dove-gray running suit, her hair caught up in a cap, she blended into the gray of early morning. If she hadn’t waved, I might’ve taken her for just another fanatical jogger, instead of a fanatical jogger I actually knew. I considered backing up and offering her a ride, but decided she’d probably turn me down. Rice looked like the type who’d want to limp along in the frigid dawn until her nylon jacket and tights were soaked through in places where I myself had never sweated.

  I pulled into a space in the parking area behind the Mill. Roberto was standing outside, cheerleading two hefty men as they hoisted a lacquered table on their backs. I checked my watch. Six forty-five. Evidently Blackmoor had gotten into the mood early today.

  The young man threw his head down on my shoulder. “First, he wants the round mirror, then he wants the square. So is it my fault the props for one don’t work for the other? Why is it my fault?”

  I felt unequipped to answer this. “Where can I get a cup of coffee?”

  “There’s a setup in the kitchen,” Roberto said. “Help yourself.” Then, casting a panicked eye toward the grappling furniture movers, he wailed, “Slowly! Slowly! Use your g
entle hands, please, boys!” I left him to his second or third nervous breakdown of the morning.

  Inside the studio things were happening, fast and furious. At first glance, it was a verse from a happy children’s song—this is the way we go to work so early in the morning—but as I got closer, I realized I hadn’t seen this many red-rimmed eyes since Max scheduled one of my book-signings in a drug rehab center. I was walking toward the kitchen, when a voice shouted, “Watch out!” An electrical cord swung down from the lighting grid, coming to rest a few feet from my head.

  “Sorry about that,” the technician on the ladder apologized.

  I kept moving, past a Hispanic muscleman who was capturing the goings-on with a hand-held camera. Roberto had said some producer was shooting a documentary on Blackmoor. Two large video projection screens had been erected on either side of the stage area, where Lucy Moon roamed, a staplegun poised in one hand. Today’s fashion statement was an angora sweater set in basic black and a pair of droopy neon-green stirrup pants.

  Bing-bing-bing shot Lucy’s staplegun.

  “Excuse me.” I heard a timid male voice. “Could I get by?” Richard Lewan stood behind me, carrying two large boxes.

  “Can I help?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind. They go over there.” He tipped his head toward the stage. I took one of the boxes, surprised when it weighed next to nothing.

  “Thank you,” Richard said gratefully. He had a sickly pallor, like women a hundred years ago who wore their corsets too tight.

  As we reached the dais, music started—Bonnie Raitt, belting out a ballad across the wide-open space. People were moving a little faster now, heying and hi-ing each other in surprised voices, as if they had only just become aware of the presence of other living bodies. A steady main line of coffee had apparently kicked in, trip-switching the room with a pleasant little caffeine buzz.

  I set the cardboard box down, next to Richard’s. The Abbott and Costello moving team I’d seen outside were presently attempting to attach a rectangular mirror to a lacquered dressing table. Roberto danced around them, covering his eyes, while Lucy Moon circled slowly, her stapler in the ready position. I hoped, for their sakes, the movers didn’t drop anything.

  “Ms. Quinn?”

  I turned. “I’m Garner.”

  “Garner,” the girl repeated. “Oh, this is so cool! I’ve read all your books.” She held out her hand. She had a nice, firm grip. “I’m Annie. Annie Houghton. Sort of everybody’s personal slave?” She had straight, ash-blond hair, and a darting lizard’s face with small, quick eyes and a thin-lipped smile. “Beth wanted me to give you this,” she said, fishing a key out of her trouser pocket. “For the guest quarters. Dane thought you might need a quiet place to write, or use the phone.”

  “Thanks.” I took the key.

  “If there’s anything you need—”

  “I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee.”

  “Come on. Hadary’s got a buffet in the kitchen.” I fell into step with her. “Have you met him? Graham Hadary? Little guy, lotsa makeup?” She rolled her eyes.

  “I think I ran into him at the gala. What does he do?”

  “That is the question,” Annie said in deep Shakespearean tones. “On paper, he’s sort of a business rep, but mainly, he does the catering. Go figger.” She pushed through the double doors. The industrial-sized kitchen was white, trimmed with gleaming metal. We poured coffee into china cups. I selected a muffin from the sumptuous buffet. Annie put three grapes on a plate.

  “God, what I wouldn’t give to be a writer,” she said. “If only it didn’t entail so much—well, you know, writing.”

  “So, are you an aspiring sculptor?” I took a sip of coffee.

  “Hardly.” Annie giggled. “I’m an actress. Which is to say, I’m out of work.”

  The little man called Hadary appeared suddenly at the table. “So good to see you again,” he told me. “A smashing evening the other night, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. I was hoping we might talk—”

  “And we will, of course. Anytime. You must let me know.” His small, quick eyes spotted something on the other side of the room, and then he was moving again, toward no one in particular.

  “Does he always swoop in and out like that?”

  “Uh-huh.” Annie popped a grape. “Just like the fucking bird.”

  I found myself relaxing, for the first time. “Did you know Torie?”

  “Yeah. I loved that girl.”

  “We all loved her.” I recognized the voice without having to turn. Elizabeth Rice sat down, freshly showered, in a cashmere sweater and skirt.

  “Oh, Annie,” she asked, almost as an afterthought, “did you find those receipts?”

  “Yeah, sure, Beth. They’re in the office.”

  “Do you think you could get them for me?” While Rice’s smile was sweet, she might as well have had the word now painted on her front teeth.

  “Nice meeting you, Garner,” Annie said, extending her hand for another forthright shake.

  “Thanks, honey,” Beth called. Then she turned to me. “I bet you’re excited.”

  “Excited?”

  “About seeing Dane. Or isn’t this your first time?” She packed as much meaning as she could into the question.

  “As a matter of fact, it is,” I said.

  She bit into a wedge of orange. “I still get chills watching. But then, you’re an artist yourself.”

  “What I do has nothing to do with art,” I said. “People commit crimes. I write about them. It’s pretty cut-and-dried.”

  “I’m sure you’re being modest.” The conversation had obviously begun to bore her. She checked her Rolex. “Well, better get back to work.”

  “Any idea of when he’ll start?”

  “We have a few problems with the props,” she said. “At this point I’m guessing noon. Did Annie give you the key to the guest quarters?” I assured her that she had, and that I needed no assistance in finding my way. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Hadary, watching me watch Rice tippy-tap away in her red suede Chanel pumps.

  An enclosed walkway led from the Mill to the guest quarters, a self-contained unit with a view of the canal. The walls were painted a bright shade of marigold. Tangerine swags hung from the windows. There was an artfully cluttered sitting room with a bleached pine desk; a tiny kitchen; a large bath; and a bedroom, decorated with paisleys and plaids, in decidedly unfeminine colors. Mason jars held bunches of fresh flowers.

  I counted three telephones—one by the bed, one at the desk, another in the bathroom. The armoire concealed a small bar, a television, and a compact disc player. A note on the writing table said: “Let me know if you need a PC—E.R.” I picked up the phone on the desk and dialed the office. “Hi. How’s it going?”

  “I’m working my way through that list of employees,” Jack said. “Already I’ve found two no-shows.”

  “No-shows as in you haven’t been able to locate them, or no-shows as in they’ve vanished?”

  “Both listed as missing persons. Both—surprise, surprise—females under the age of eighteen.”

  “Jesus.”

  I heard the sound of papers shuffling in the background. “First girl’s Donna Fry, seventeen, originally from Spirit Lake, Idaho. Then there’s Kimberly Arnette, fifteen, Independence, Kansas.”

  I wrote the names down. “Think we can draw a line from Blackmoor’s studio to the vanishing point?”

  “It won’t be easy. They were both drifters. Runaways. The detectives I spoke with think they may have just moved on and don’t want to be found.”

  “Maybe,” I said grimly, “or maybe they’re part of a sculpture exhibit in some gallery.”

  “I’m not sure I like you being alone out there.”

  “What’s he going to do? Even if he’d like to chop me into little pieces, all this notoriety has to have cramped his style.”

  “One hopes.”

  “Listen, there’s something else I want
you to check,” I told him. “Graham Hadary. He’s Blackmoor’s business rep.”

  “Got it,” he said. “Hey, Garn, watch your back.”

  “Relax.” I laughed softly. “He goes for the younger ones.” After I hung up, I did a fast scan of the cheery little room, looking for hidden cameras, bugs, microphones. I found nothing; but the wildflowers and paisleys seemed—suddenly, impossibly—to have eyes.

  SEVEN

  Blackmoor’s study was deserted. Something on the desk caught my attention right away—a clay maquette, not more than eight inches high, of a scantily clad woman applying lipstick in front of a vanity mirror. There wasn’t much more to it than that; yet, even in miniature, the piece was oddly disturbing. The woman’s legs were splayed provocatively, her torso twisting forward, almost into the looking glass. This was vintage Blackmoor, a freeze-frame of life’s darker side, where violence was only a footfall away, somewhere behind, down an empty hall.

  The piece was called Role Play.

  I thumbed through a stack of sketches. Except for a crimson gash of lipstick across the woman’s mouth, it appeared as though this figure would remain as unpainted plaster. The better to hide something? Or did the painted fiberglass molds house secrets as well—hands and heads, shellacked to a shine—unholy relics of runaway girls?

  “There you are,” a voice said. I spun around. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” said Hadary, “but I thought you’d want to know. He’s getting ready to begin.”

  The model sat on the edge of the platform, stringing odd-looking beads and charms onto a necklace of safety pins. She was a stunning woman—part Afro-American, part Asian, with maybe one wild, drunken encounter with an Irishman thrown in somewhere for luck—but all the crossbreeding appeared to have watered down the blood. Her face was a beautiful, troubling blank.

  “Kyra, could we try you in this?” Lucy Moon held up a pair of leather bicycle shorts. The girl stepped out of her kimono. Underneath she wore only a sheer black bra and a matching bikini. She hiked the pants over her slender hips.