Trophies

by J. Gunnar Grey

  Her words drew me short in disbelief. "A bad one?"

  "I've known Edith forever, even if we did look like a Great Dane and a Chihuahua." Prissy closed her jacket and folded her arms beneath her breasts as if suddenly cold, then sank into the chair behind the desk, the only chair in the office. "You know, I never heard a hard word from her. No matter how temperamental the artist, how unreasonable a collector, how ugly a drunk — she never lost her temper." Prissy stopped and met my eyes. She seemed to have gained ten years in the space of a breath and for the first time, she looked her age. "The night she was killed, I overheard her yell at Sidnë at the top of her lungs that she would never sponsor her in a show again."

  No air moved in the little office; not a paper flickered. I just couldn't fathom it. Aunt Edith dying over floor space in an art show seemed so trivial. Perhaps all that stuff we found in the garret — the ugly scenarios of blackmail and murder — perhaps none of it meant anything at all. Perhaps the murderer right now fussed over her canvases in the showroom. Blood pounded in my ears, a slow steady tympani, and the office was stifling.

  "Charles? Charles!" Prissy rose, knocked the papers off the corner of the desk, grabbed my arm, and guided me down. "I'm sorry. I suppose I should have padded that news."

  "I'm all right." I held onto the rim of the desk, the hard edge cutting into the palms of my hands. Sensing texture, the Army shrink had told me, sometimes kept the mental demons at bay. "I just can't imagine that, that's all."

  She slouched back into her chair. "So what do I do with this?"

  I stared at her.

  "I mean, do I tell the police?"

  "Are you crazy or am I? Of course you—"

  She shook her head hard. "A scandal at the wrong point in an artist's career, and it's over. If the police even hold her on suspicion, she could be finished. And Sidnë's just about ready to break out — well, you saw her work, what she can do with faces."

  I didn't need to think it over. "An argument isn't enough of a reason to hold a person. The police would need to have real evidence before they could do that."

  "But if it even leaks out—"

  "—then I'll sponsor her for as long as it takes to re-establish her career. But Prissy, I have to know."

  She smiled and the years fell away. "You'd do that, would you?"

  I managed a bit of a smile in return. "I suppose I can afford it now."

  "Suppose you can." She kicked the papers on the floor beneath the desk. "Damn bills. Come on, at least meet the woman first. You might prefer to eat those words."

  We returned to the showroom the short way, through her pristine show office, which had nary a paper nor computer in sight. We rounded a display of Sidnë's canvases and ran smack into Jacob, Patricia's brother. Prissy and I jumped; he didn't.

  "Business over?" His clipped tenor sounded rough, as if he didn't use it often enough. He wore black jeans and a charcoal Polo shirt, like an artiste wanna-be who hung out in refined atmospheres, hoping to be discovered by a powerful patron. The elegant twins had ragged him for as long as I could remember and if he'd not yet found himself, they had to take some of the responsibility.

  "Hello, Jacob." I held out my hand.

  His smile, both charming and lopsided, didn't seem to match what little expression escaped his black, pupil-less eyes, although I supposed that wasn't his fault. He glanced down, clasped my hand, slapped my shoulder, and started to walk away, toward the ladies and Sherlock, who stood near the gem carvings.

  But it was an unanticipated opportunity to clear up at least one of the mysteries from the garret. Quickly I excused myself from Prissy. "A moment, Jacob."

  He turned. His eyebrows were so light, matching his blond hair, they were nearly invisible on his pale skin, and I was only aware he raised them by the movement of his facial muscles. He seemed so utterly unlike anyone else with the name of Ellandun that I warmed to him; like the twins and Patty, he'd maintained his individuality while upholding the family name, the task I'd never accomplished. "Something wrong?" he asked.

  "Not wrong, no. Just curious."

  We stood in the open area where the buffet tables had been the previous night, with Sidnë's big panel beside us. Prissy had withdrawn, and Patty and Sherlock were still pointing at the gem carvings although his glance regularly darted in my direction. Lindsay stood beside them without talking, her mouth curled and her expression bored. It was as private a location as we were going to find without borrowing one of Prissy's offices.

  "Did you have any financial dealings with Aunt Edith?" I remembered to lower my voice below the level that felt appropriate; there'd been too much trouble lately from being overheard. And I didn't want to alienate Jacob, even if the twins were proven right and he had been found in a gully behind the house.

  He drew back slightly, eyes widening and sharpening. I hurried to explain.

  "I'm sorry. I know it's an indiscreet question. But I am her heir and I've been going through her old records—"

  Jacob started nodding before I finished. "Twice, yes. She made me two loans, the first to purchase my flat and the second to start my business. Both have been paid and we're square now. Don't bother looking for a contract; she was so trustworthy we did business on a handshake. But I've kept records if you want to see them."

  That had been Caren's first guess when we found those papers in the garret and I should have believed it at once: it was by far the most logical of all the insane possibilities we'd thrown about. I breathed a sigh of relief. I'd tell Patty and she could relax, too.

  "Thanks, Jacob. I was fairly certain it was something like that. But without a contract, well, I felt I should ask."

  "Not a problem. Get your world back together and we'll do the pub sometime, all right?"

  It was a handsome offer and at that insecure moment much appreciated. I clasped his hand again and watched as he joined the ladies and Sherlock. I couldn't help but notice Patty's hesitant smile and again I felt a bit sorry for Jacob; it wasn't his fault he'd been left behind by aliens or something.

  Prissy reappeared beside me. She took my arm and turned me toward Sidnë's big canvas, We Could Have Danced All Night. When she spoke, her voice was pitched so low I could barely hear her. "What do you think of those faces?"

  "I'd take any of them home." So long as Caren wasn't there. Hey, I hadn't made any commitment yet. "If she used her girlfriends as models, I'll pay for numbers."

  "Yes, you beast, but what do you think of them?"

  I paused. Again, Prissy wasn't smiling. "It's outstanding work. Am I missing something? Art isn't my specialty."

  She sighed and stepped away. "No, you're right. It is outstanding work. Now, come on. I want you to meet Sidnë."

  Behind the panel and across the room, the front door closed. Prissy circled me and stepped out into the entry area. I followed her. But all we saw was the security officer locking the bolt on the new door.

  "Jaime, who was that?" Prissy called.

  "Sidnë, Miss Carr."

  I ran for the door; the security guard, even if he was a temporary replacement for the one who'd been shot, had the sense to open it before I got there. But a cab flashed past before I quite made it and neither the driver nor the female passenger in the back glanced in my direction.

  Archive Ten

  fifteen years earlier

  When I first arrived in Cambridge, Uncle Hubert showed me all around the house, or so I thought. Because I never saw anything like a ladder or trapdoor leading up, it took me two years to realize there might be some secret place — an attic or garret — beneath those seemingly innocent eaves. But as soon as the thought struck me, the need for exploration took over. Whatever was up there, I wanted to see it.

  I made a hunt of it, surreptitiously searching the two spare bedrooms on the upper level for some means of ascent. But several days of dodging Aunt Edith and Uncle Hubert while examining the walls and ceilings throughout the house gave me no clues, and discouragement began raising its ugl
y mug.

  There was only one place left to look. Just the thought of sneaking into their suite and searching it made me squirm deep inside. After all, they had never invited me in there. It seemed a violation of our treaty for me to invade their privacy; never by word or glance had they attempted to invade mine. Neither would enter my room without knocking and receiving express permission, and I could leave anything — corpses, stolen bullion, State secrets — lying around the house and be certain it wouldn't be touched.

  But at that age, my curiosity was stronger than my morality. When the opportunity arose, I snatched it.

  Said opportunity was an award ceremony among the history staff at the college, with accompanying whispers that Uncle Hubert was on the receiving end thereof. I despised dress-up events at that age — they reminded me too much of tedious dinners and teas in Wiltshire, where I must be present or shame the family despite the ennui — so I received permission to remain at home and finish schoolwork. Needless to say, that task wasn't at the head of my to-do list.

  The crowd returned at eleven, minus Uncle Hubert.

  "Where is he?" I asked. I did want to see the award.

  Aunt Edith shrugged off her emerald-green silk cape and left it on the hook in the hall, her smile and brilliant eyes brightening the vestibule more than the overhead bulb. "Still celebrating. He'll join us later."

  She swept into the parlor, Aunt Viola behind her. Uncle Preston clapped my shoulder in passing. I held the door open for Jacob as well, although at that point in time I wasn't certain I liked him all that much. He gave me his dark-eyed glance but said nothing. I closed the front door and bolted it, wishing again that my summer buddy, Patricia, had come in Jacob's stead. If she had, she might have stayed in with me and we would have found something to giggle over, and then I wouldn't have spent two hours sweating over that garret door's bloody lock. But Patricia and the twins were visiting my family in Wiltshire for some reason I could not comprehend, I was stuck with Jacob, and we hadn't yet discovered anything we both found entertaining.

  I joined the others in the parlor as Aunt Edith kicked off her high-heels and curled her legs about her on the sofa. Instead of her usual practical clothing, she wore black silk with green trimming the same shade as her cape, and it draped off her shoulders and spilled about her on the white sofa just as the scent of the blood-red roses in the silver vase spilled about the room. Aunt Viola, in a tweed suit cut city style rather than country, looked dowdy beside her, and Jacob faded right into the background; I hadn't even noticed what he wore. I could hear clinking and rattling in the kitchen; Uncle Preston made a mean cup of tea, and I felt myself smile.

  "Now, Charles," Aunt Edith said, "your lessons are done?"

  "Yes, Aunt Edith."

  Her smile matched mine. "So why do you look guilty?"

  Of course, my all-too-readable face gave me dead away. I took a moment to think and inhaled the roses' intoxicating scent for inspiration.

  I wasn't about to tell her I'd rummaged their private suite, that I saw the slinky nightgown draped across their bed, the bottle of champagne in the small fridge, the fluted glasses and corkscrew on their bedside table. Nor was I willing to mention that I discovered the hidden nook where a flight of stairs led up to the secret door. And I would have taken a bullet before I admitted I hadn't been able to pick that lock despite a two-hour, determined onslaught that nearly reduced me to a tantrum of frustration. After Aunt Edith's lessons with my little toolkit, this was the first lock I'd come across that stopped me. The front door's bolt, the local tea shoppe, the businesses around Harvard Square, even the electronic security system on the local library hadn't slowed me much. I never stole anything with Uncle Hubert's honest example always before me, and I was never caught, but I learned a lot about being a sneak.

  Before I could dredge up an answer, the telephone rang. Aunt Edith leaned forward in a swirl of black silk and snatched up the cordless from beneath the roses. "Hunter residence."

  The call, of course, brought the bantering to a halt, and I was grateful for the additional time to think. But all color drained from Aunt Edith's face like blood from a stone until even her green eyes seemed colorless. She stared into space as if the room no longer existed and her fingers squeezed the receiver.

  Aunt Viola reached across and laid a hand on her arm. "Edith?"

  Aunt Edith handed her the telephone without a sideward glance. I didn't look, either. I couldn't look away. The shock spread from Aunt Edith in waves and washed over me where I stood. Even the cut roses seemed to tremble. My fingers tingled with the sudden cold and I could feel my heart beating like a drum throughout my body.

  Aunt Viola hung up the receiver and yelled toward the kitchen. "Preston!" Her hand ran up Aunt Edith's arm and rested on her shoulder. Aunt Edith, as before, seemed oblivious.

  "My dear?"

  I sensed Uncle Preston enter the parlor but didn't look at him, either. I stared at Aunt Edith and waited for the blow to fall. Somehow, I knew what was coming before Aunt Viola spoke.

  "That was the dean. Hubert's dead."

  Aunt Edith moved, only her head and eyes, very slowly. She looked about the forgotten parlor until our gazes crossed. Then she froze again. That wild, uncanny something rose into her expression as she uncoiled from the sofa. Without needing to speak, we met halfway. Her arms wrapped about me, pulled me close, held my head against her own. Her hands were cold, too, and our thudding heartbeats meshed into a jungle rhythm that engulfed the civilized parlor.

  In the background, like a singer who can't quite be heard over the music, Aunt Viola's voice droned on. "The dean wanted to call for a cab, but he insisted on walking. When he crossed Craigie Street, he was struck by a hit-and-run driver. He was dead before the ambulance arrived."

  I felt Uncle Preston's hand on my shoulder and knew his other hand rested on hers. It was like trying to comfort two statues.

  Her arms tightened around me and her entire body trembled. I'm certain my own reciprocated. At the time I thought it was grief, because that was what I felt. But the guilt that accompanied my grief was almost as overwhelming.

  I avoided the garret from that day forth. It finally left my thoughts alone, but when it vanished from my waking moments it invaded my nights. Sometimes the dream centered on someone — I never could see who through deep dreamy shadows — picking that damned lock, entering the garret, and finding me inside with all my belongings and family and especially Uncle Hubert. Said someone would then take whoever and whatever he wanted while I, screaming, was helpless to stop him.

  At other times it was I who picked the lock and swung the door open, only to find Aunt Edith in the empty garret alone, staring at me with the cold and calculating eyes of my father or, later, the contemptuous open stare of the spotter. That dream bothered me more than the other and left me shivering and wide awake, staring into the grey morning and afraid to sleep again.

  Many evenings, my last action before retiring was to stare at the Langstrom family portrait. I could look at that photograph by the hour, and every time I examined it I found something I hadn't noticed before, such as the jaunty angle at which Langstrom's father held his egghead, or the tiny pearl brooches the girls wore, just like their mother's. But it wasn't more than two years after Uncle Hubert's death that I began to feel shame over the theft of that photo and hid it away in my sock drawer.

  So as a teenager I stared at that photo and dreamed those dreams, attempting to lock away and protect myself from external onslaughts.

  And still, I didn't cry.

  Chapter Fifteen

  current time

  On the steps of the gallery, Sherlock stopped me with a touch. He waited, eyes hooded, until the door closed and the bolt clicked behind us. "We should do a re-enactment while we're here and make sure we understand what happened. Can you handle that?"

  I huffed. I'd handled everything so far. "Don't see why not."

  He considered that, and I could see he didn't quite believe me. But
before I got my dander up, he nodded. "Ooo-kay." He nodded down and right, toward the little hidden corner between the stairs and the plate glass window. "She was found there, huh?"

  I pointed. "Right there, with her head toward the wall and her feet slanting out toward the street. Her legs were bent, her eyes were open, her hair was coming loose, and one shoe had fallen off. It lay there."

  "Do you know where her car was parked?"

  "No, I don't. Patty?"

  Patty and Lindsay had reached the Camaro and stood watching us. Lindsay already leaned against the fender. Patty's expression was wary, so I knew she'd heard us. Perhaps she didn't want to think about it, but I needed answers and didn't trust Brother Perfect Wingate to find them. I tilted my head and raised my eyebrows, daring her to be difficult. Reluctantly, she jerked a thumb at the Toyota in the next spot. I'd walked past Aunt Edith's BMW that morning without even seeing it.

  "There. Okay." Sherlock clattered down the stairs and strode to the Toyota, just beyond the plate glass window. The line of parallel-parked cars echoed the flow of traffic, with the passenger's side toward the gallery, the driver's to the street. He peered both ways along the block, then up. The streetlight that had been shot out was only two cars away. Its absence would cloak the sidewalk in darkness.

  "The outer light of the gallery would have been on," I said.

  He stared at it. The fixture was above my head, on the side of the stairs away from the window, its blue-white halogen bulb intended to light the wheelchair ramp and steps rather than the sidewalk so near a streetlamp.

  "And the window would have been lit, too."

  Behind the barred glass, a line of Trés' charcoals snickered and glared at passers-by, like captive specimens in a human zoo. I shivered, forced myself to look away, and caught Sherlock watching me. My jaw tightened. I'd told him I could get through this, and I would. I had to — I needed answers for all Aunt Edith's questions. But I couldn't let Sherlock see any of my oddities, either.