Tips for Living

by Renee Shafransky

  The seagrasses along the edge of the inlet had transformed into giant marshmallow mounds, and they kept me hidden as I followed the shoreline. My skin stung from the cold, but I soldiered on. In a few minutes, I stopped and peered over the snowy humps. The edge of the lawn was right there. Pequod Point was no more than fifteen yards further on, all lit up and sparkling with ice crystals—a Snow Queen’s palace in a fairy tale.

  Through the glass wall I saw the bright, open-plan living room and kitchen. No one was visible inside. Abbas’s dark green BMW, coated in white, was parked in the driveway near the path that led to Hugh’s studio. But another snow-covered car sat in front of the garage—a red Ford sedan with a Dollar Rental sticker still detectable on its license plate. Shit. Someone else besides Abbas was there. Who?

  His silhouette appeared in the hallway off the living room before Tobias walked into the light. What? I thought Tobias was supposed to be on a plane back to Virginia. The snow. His flight must’ve been canceled because of the snow. As I stood freezing and trying to figure out my next move, I chastised myself: Why hadn’t I called the cheapest car-rental company first? I should’ve known Tobias was a Dollar man.

  Tobias entered the kitchen area, stopped at the marble-topped island and faced in my direction as he talked on a cell phone. I was still hidden by the wall of grass, but there was no way to reach Hugh’s studio without being seen crossing the lawn. My watch said 3:39. Still more than an hour before dark. I wrapped my arms around my chest and stuck my hands in my armpits for warmth. There was no help for my face or my toes. I began to march in place to ward off frostbite.

  “Come on, you bastard. Leave. Or at least go into another room,” I said aloud.

  It seemed like an eternity before Tobias finished his call and changed his position. He began hunting through the kitchen cabinets, but he was still too close to the windows for me to chance a move. He found a bottle of liquor, opened it and took a swig. Then another. What a hypocrite. How smugly he’d preached against his brother’s vices just a few hours before. He went to the refrigerator next and rummaged around. Then he removed . . . what was that? A log of salami. No more denying his appetites.

  What the hell was he doing now? Trying to bite the plastic shrink-wrap off the salami with his teeth. He couldn’t be that drunk yet.

  “Can’t you be bothered to get a knife, Tobias? It’s right there in the island’s center drawer.”

  The chill that went through me didn’t come from the frigid air. There were at least a dozen drawers in that kitchen. How had I known which of them held the knives? I must’ve seen Hugh or Helene take a knife out when I came here to spy. I tried to remember. Yes, that was it. Helene went into the kitchen for wine. She must’ve . . . No. Had I seen her take a knife from the drawer or not?

  Or did I search for a knife after I’d shot the two of them, so I could gouge Hugh’s painting and kill them twice?

  Abruptly, a whooshing noise sounded in the treetops. Within seconds, it became a roar. A fierce wind swept in and sent snow spiraling upward and then plunging back down. It began to blow in every direction at once, surrounding me in icy chaos. I shielded my eyes and squinted toward the house; I could barely make out Tobias through the white squall, but it looked like his back was finally turned. I prayed I was right. Ready. Set.

  Now.

  “My God, Nora. What are you doing here, dear girl? You must be frozen!”

  Incredulous, Abbas ushered me into the studio. My face burned like an acid peel when my skin hit the warmth. I checked outside as he closed the door. All clear. I’d made it past Tobias undetected.

  “I have something to show you, and I don’t have much time,” I said breathlessly.

  “Come in. Come in. Be warm.” Abbas gestured across the room to the fire crackling in a large stone hearth between two enormous windows at the rear.

  I stamped the snow from my boots, pulled off my soaking wet gloves and tried to get my bearings. Easily twice the size of the studio in New York, this looked more like a gallery. There were polished concrete floors and soaring ceilings with snow-covered skylights. A zebra-skin chaise and an Eames black leather couch furnished the sitting area near the fireplace. Picture windows on either side provided views of the snowy woods and inlet. Hugh’s self-portraits were on view everywhere. They hung on the walls, leaned against them and rested on the furniture. It felt like an egomaniac’s shrine.

  One of the paintings stood out among the others. It sat on an easel in the center of the studio, probably for evaluation by Abbas. A painting of Hugh as a satyr.

  He had a smirk on his goatlike face, and a naked erection—exaggerated, by far. Seeing it gave me the willies. I turned away quickly.

  “Hugh gave this to me as a birthday gift,” I said, opening Grace’s coat and removing the plastic bag from my waistband. My hands were still frozen and clumsy. The book slipped out of the bag and fell to the floor. I picked it up gingerly and offered it to Abbas. “I want you to sell it for me. As quickly as you can.”

  He didn’t take it. He merely stared at Carrie Fisher’s picture, confused.

  “A comic book from Star Wars?”

  “No. Much more.”

  I carried the book to Hugh’s drawing table. The same custom-made drawing table he’d used in the city. He’d kept his antique Japanese screen, too. It stood at the rear of the studio, blocking off a recessed area—probably hiding his messes. I was almost nostalgic.

  “It was a kind of joke for Hugh. Once in a while he’d use these cheap notebooks to sketch out his series, mostly in charcoal and colored crayon or pencil,” I explained, placing the book on the table. “I’ll bump your commission by ten percent if you can sell it fast. Do you think you can?”

  Abbas pursed his lips, studying me for a moment. Then he came to my side and opened the book. He examined the first drawing: my younger self sprawled naked on rumpled sheets, one hand cupping my breast, one arm thrown across my eyes. Hugh lay sleeping facedown on my left. The viewer was meant to linger on my body, soft and voluptuous like one of Pissarro’s nudes. The title, Loving Nora, was scrawled at the bottom. Abbas leafed through the rest of the nude portraits, fascinated. His expert’s eyes were doing that greedy, calculating thing. I blushed as they feasted on me.

  “He never showed me this,” he said, shaking his head.

  “According to my research, the book is worth almost half a million,” I said. “Now that he’s dead.”

  Abbas glanced up with what appeared to be a disapproving look.

  “Maybe,” he murmured, and perused the pages again. He finally set the book down. “Why are you offering me such a good deal?”

  “I know you’re busy. It’s an incentive to make this a priority. I need to sell right now.”

  “Why? You waited all this time, but now you rush, rush, rush? What is going on?”

  I glanced at the door anxiously. He was asking too many questions. I’d have to try to engage his competitive instincts.

  “Listen, if you don’t want to do this, I’ll take it to one of the auction houses.”

  “Ah, yes, the auction houses,” he said, ruefully. “Those temples of art.” Abbas crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “I think something is wrong. I think you are in trouble.”

  “My aunt is sick, Abbas. Her care is expensive.”

  “Ah. I am sorry to hear.”

  “Do we have a deal or not?”

  Abbas paused for a moment, and then tapped the book. “If you can prove you own this.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I need a bill of sale.”

  “I told you, the book was a gift.”

  “Was it listed in divorce settlement?”

  “No. Hugh gave it to me years before we divorced. For my birthday. It wasn’t part of the settlement.”

  “You have a witness? Someone who saw Hugh give it to you? They will swear to this on paper?”

  “A witness? No. He left it under my pillow, you know, in bed. What’s the prob
lem?”

  Abbas frowned.

  “I have seen this many times when an artist divorces. The wives steal. They wait. They try to sell the work years later without getting caught.”

  “Abbas. You know me.” I was stunned. “I can’t believe you’d think I’d steal this. I swear it’s mine.”

  “I’m not calling you a thief, dear girl. But you must prove this is not part of Hugh’s estate. His lawyers will be watching on a sale of this size.”

  “Wait. I have a letter. A letter Hugh wrote. He says he gave it to me.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “I don’t have it on me—”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement out a window close to the front door. A dark figure hunched against the wind and snow was heading for the studio.

  “Shit.” I looked around wildly. “Tobias is coming. Please don’t tell him I’m here.”

  “Why not?”

  I turned and ran toward the Japanese screen.

  “What is going on, Nora? Tell me!”

  “Later. Please.”

  I ducked behind the screen, nearly banging my hip on a utility table strewn with mountains of papers, books, rags and paint tubes. Crouching between a cloth-covered easel and a work sink, I tried to catch my breath as the door opened and the cold wind blew in.

  “Mr. Masout,” Tobias said, stomping off snow and closing the door. “How are things coming along?”

  Silence. Abbas wasn’t answering. I held my breath. Oh God. He was going to give me away. Finally, I heard one of the men clear his throat.

  “I am almost finished,” Abbas said. “Another hour, I think.”

  I began breathing again. But my nose had started to tickle. It must be all those chemicals: the cans of paint thinner, turpentine and spray varnish reeking on the shelves behind me. I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t sneeze.

  “I thought I’d be able to stay until you were done, but I’ve got to go back to the inn. Ruth called. I’m afraid our niece is not doing well. Not well at all.”

  “That poor child,” Abbas said. “My heart breaks.”

  “She’s in a terrible state. She’s been crying all afternoon. The loss is overwhelming. I know it must be very emotional for you, too. Looking at these paintings, today of all days. Let me thank you again for staying to help, especially in this weather.”

  “If it will help Callie, I’m glad to do it.”

  “It surely will.”

  I heard footsteps tread further into the room.

  “My God. When did Hugh begin painting pornography?”

  “What?”

  “The beast with the erection.”

  “That is art, Mr. Walker.”

  “Really. What is this particular piece of ‘art’ worth?”

  “About one point two.”

  “Million?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the rest?”

  “My estimate is not completed, but including unsold work at the gallery . . . it could be thirty-five million, I think. Maybe more.”

  I was floored. I knew Hugh’s net worth had risen since his death, but that was more than twice what I estimated.

  “I’m impressed,” Tobias said.

  “You should be. Your brother became a very successful artist.”

  The men went silent. My urge to sneeze was so strong I had to bite my tongue and pull my ears. Tobias finally spoke.

  “That’s thirty-five million minus your commission, correct?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Are you a religious man, Mr. Masout?”

  “I am not. I’ve seen too much destroyed in the name of religion.”

  “What about God? Do you believe in God?”

  “He doesn’t exist.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that’s your position. I believe God had reasons for allowing my brother and his wife to be killed, Mr. Masout. And now he has called on me to become Callie’s guardian and conservator. As such, I will be making financial decisions on her behalf.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll begin with this: if you want to continue representing this ‘art,’ you might consider donating a portion of your commission to His righteous cause. I have a foundation that does the Lord’s work. Perhaps these paintings can redeem their existence. Otherwise, I’m certain there are auction houses that will be eager to negotiate their fees—if you understand my meaning.”

  There was another long pause before Abbas said, “I understand.”

  “Good.”

  Footsteps retreated. A series of electronic beeps sounded before Tobias spoke again.

  “I called the security company and changed the alarm code. You’ll have to contact me if you need access again in the future. Please press ‘Armed’ when you leave. And one more thing . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you be so kind as to move your car? It’s blocking the driveway.”

  More footsteps and the jingle of car keys. The door opened and closed. The men were gone.

  So, Tobias believed God wanted Hugh and Helene murdered, and God chose him to raise their daughter. Did God ask him to threaten Abbas, too? To take Hugh’s paintings elsewhere if Abbas didn’t fork over money to his cause? Tobias had just secured a sizable flow of funds on top of what he might eventually get from Callie. Abbas might be willing to talk to the police about this conversation if I convinced him of my theory. Along with a receipt from Dollar Rental Car and his rush to adopt Callie, there might be enough evidence—circumstantial, but so was mine—to stop Tobias from getting on a plane. Maybe even enough to keep me out of jail until the police could investigate further.

  I should tell Gubbins what was going on. I whipped out my burner phone, but the battery was dead again after all those rental car calls.

  There must be a phone in the studio somewhere. I grabbed on to the easel to steady myself as I rose from my squatting position, accidentally pulling off the drop cloth. When I saw the image on the canvas underneath, I paused.

  Abbas sat in an old wooden banker’s chair facing the viewer. He wore a suit and his signature turtleneck. The painting style superficially suggested a portrait by Lucian Freud, but unlike Freud, this artist painted violence. On the right side of Abbas’s chest, a ragged hole had been torn in his jacket, revealing gored and bloodied flesh. The painting wasn’t finished—the faceless outline of a man stood behind him. I knew that man had to be Hugh. Hugh only painted self-portraits.

  I was perplexed: Hugh would often use sex in his work, but, like Freud, never carnage. Had he been angry with Abbas? Maybe Abbas had critiqued the new direction Hugh was taking with that grotesque satyr? Or was he unhappy with the retrospective Abbas organized? I couldn’t imagine what inspired this vicious image. I scanned the utility table for a phone amid the disarray as I began rifling through the mess. No phone. Maybe something in the heaps of papers would explain what was going on with that sadistic painting.

  I found shipping invoices, a book on Marc Chagall, and then I noticed the garish green turtles—Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles half-hidden under a Christie’s auction catalog. I pushed the catalog aside, and the turtles grinned manically from the cover of a cheap spiral notebook. I opened the book. Hugh had written a title on page one:

  Leaving Abbas.

  One fanciful image followed another, all drawn in graphite pencil and crayon. Hugh’s head emerging from the shell of a giant turtle; Hugh holding up a skull, like the gravedigger in Hamlet; Hugh riding a horse into the sunset in a cartoonish Western landscape. Halfway through the book, I found the completed study for the unfinished painting I’d unmasked on the easel: Hugh standing behind Abbas and squeezing his dealer’s bloody heart in his hand as if he’d just torn it out of his chest.

  Shocked, I stopped turning the pages. Leaving Abbas. That meant Hugh had planned to leave the dealer who’d nurtured and supported him for years. The man who’d helped to build his stellar career. Hugh’s departure would signal that Abbas was on the decline. Other artists
would smell failure and they’d defect, too. That’s how it worked in the art business. Abbas would lose a fortune. Clearly, no one else knew about this, or drums would be beating all through the art world.

  Hugh must’ve understood this act of betrayal would bring a bitter end to their friendship. The painting on the easel proved it: he was ripping out the man’s heart. But Abbas had still spoken so lovingly of Hugh. He’d given no indication he was aware of Hugh’s intention to leave. Hugh must have died before he dropped the bomb.

  I flipped to the last page. The final drawing showed a familiar image. Hugh stood at an easel. He was in the process of painting Abbas, who was curled in a ball on the floor. It was a variation on the painting Hugh had done of me after I discovered Helene was pregnant. He’d given this one a similar title:

  Self-Portrait with Abbas, Knowing.

  Wait. Did Abbas know Hugh was about to dump him? If he had known, he would have also recognized that Hugh’s death would be a boon to him. Abbas Masout, Hugh’s beloved dealer, would be the keeper of the Hugh Walker legend and make more money off Hugh’s paintings than ever before. The hard truth was sinking in, and it was chilling down to my soul.

  Money. Follow the money.

  The door creaked open. “Nora?”

  I whirled around in a panic. My arm hit the screen, and it went down with a crash. I stood there paralyzed as Abbas stared at me from the doorway.

  “Was it you?” I asked, astounded.

  “Was what me?”

  Abbas shut the door and started toward me.

  “You are upset, dear girl. What is it?”

  I came to my senses, reached in my pocket and took out the Champ, fumbling to open it.

  “Don’t come any closer,” I warned, shaking and pointing the knife unsteadily. “Stop right there.”

  Abbas halted at the edge of the fallen screen. His face was wet. Melting snow dripped off his silver hair onto his black cashmere scarf. I watched his eyes move to the easel and take in the image of himself with a hole in his chest. His right eye began to twitch.