Still Lives

by Maria Hummel

  Once at the lake near my childhood home, I cut my foot badly on a beach shell. I’ve forgotten the pain, but I remember the feeling of the shell slicing into my foot. That awful, eerie feeling of my skin being entered and opened—it’s stuck with me all these years. The truth—or what I think is the truth—feels like that now. A gash. Impossible to believe.

  Memories whir through my mind. I see Evie in her first weeks at the museum, shrugging when I asked where she was from.

  “All over California. My mom moved us around a lot, depending on the guy.” And then later, telling me about her stepfather Al, declaring his love to her. “He was sure I would run away with him.” But Evie didn’t. She ran away alone. Something about that story always seemed off to me: the way Evie cast herself as both the victim and the romantic lead.

  I see Brent at the Jason Rains opening, and Evie plucking a champagne bottle from his hands. She drank a sip, then threw it away almost full. I remember the heavy clunk it made in the trash. I remember thinking she was protecting a colleague from embarrassing himself, but now the gesture seems so proprietary. Almost wifely.

  I see the crew’s rooftop party on the night of the Gala. I see Evie watching Brent ranting to the sky about how Kim was the best artist he’d ever seen. The crew looked mostly surprised and alarmed to see Brent’s outburst. Only Evie looked betrayed.

  “I wonder how long it took her to die,” Evie said when she handed me back the Still Lives photographs of Judy Ann Dull, bound and gagged in the Melrose apartment. That day I’d chalked Evie’s question up to a certain professional detachment—museum registrars are always interested in the effects of time—but when I said, “Not long, I hope,” she looked at me curiously, as if she didn’t understand what I meant.

  Evie, who was strong. Evie at the gym, pedaling faster than anyone.

  Evie, who lived alone and had no close friends.

  Evie, who’d reminded me so much of Nikki Bolio when we’d first met, with her self-conscious air and the yearnings she so thinly hid to live a bigger, more interesting life.

  Evie would have hated Brent’s closeness with Kim Lord: Kim photographing his wife, Kim changing clothes in his office. Their secrecy might have driven Evie mad with jealousy. And yet—mad enough to murder? I still don’t get the motive, quite. It’s the facts that point to Evie. She had access to all the means of the act: the saws to cover the noise, the hammer or mallet to strike the blow, the sodium thiopental, the crate. She had the same body size as Kim Lord, to wear her clothes and hurry away from the museum. She possessed the insider knowledge to text Greg and Lynne, to make them think the artist was still alive. She knew about Greg and me. It wouldn’t be hard to frame us, one at a time. Which means she’d have to hate me, too.

  If this is the truth, I want to be wrong this time. And I am probably too late anyway. Just in case, I hitch my purse higher on my shoulder and slip a hand in to find my recorder, the first button on the right. Press it down.

  I recite a line from Daisy in Gatsby, rewind the tape, and play it back. A voice emerges, tinny and not my own.

  Beautiful little fool.

  “You coming on the grand adventure after all?” Dee says. She’s leaning on a big crate with Yegina in the loading dock. She looks jittery, and she’s freshened her face with uncharacteristic lipstick and blush.

  Lipstick and blush. Wait. Her girlfriend works for Janis Rocque?

  I look to Yegina for some confirmation, but she folds her arms and stares at her feet. A frilly sleeveless shirt hugs her tight around the neck.

  “How’s Don?” I say cautiously. Yegina is so private, I don’t know if she’s told Dee anything.

  “He’s doing fine,” Yegina says with a meaningful emphasis. “I thought you were out sick.”

  “Officially I am. But I wanted to see you.” I try to keep my voice steady. “Where’s Evie?”

  “Getting her car,” says Dee. “She’s probably going to have to drop us off.”

  “Why?” Fear slices through me. I feel Yegina’s eyes flick to my face.

  Dee shrugs. “She has to fly to Amsterdam tonight.”

  I’ll bet she does. And I bet she’s not coming back.

  The sight of the crates sickens me. Blond plywood boxes, the small ones stacked on the wall twenty feet high, the big ones the size of doghouses and garden sheds, parked alone on dollies. All bear their stenciled arrows and warnings. The crates have always reminded me of giant birthday presents, each one full of mystery and splendor, carrying paintings from a Venice studio, or sculptures from a museum in Queens—or objects with a luxury provenance, shipped from a famous actress’s second home, or taken down from a wall in a castle in Italy, where they were owned by a real count. But now the boxes look like instruments of torture, and their wooden scent tastes false in my mouth, like air freshener covering the smell of rot.

  Yegina is still staring at her feet. I need her. She’ll never believe me.

  “I’m really sorry. I lost my phone,” I say again, hoping Yegina is in a forgiving mood.

  She sniffs. In the half-light of the open loading-dock door, she appears aged, an older sister to the self that she’s always been. Her hair is darker and heavier, her mouth harder. Her arms are crossed so tightly, her fingers are pressing circles into her biceps. With a chill, I remember the straps tightening on my arms in the lethal injection chair in Executed, the capped syringes nearby loaded with the drugs that might have helped to kill Kim Lord.

  “How long ago did Evie leave?” I ask, impatient.

  “Just a minute ago.” Dee looks at her watch. “Don’t worry. We should be right on time. Janis might even show us around personally.”

  The possessive way she says Janis, the lipstick and blush—Yegina darts another glance at me and I finally meet her gaze (old habit, this way we have of registering news together)—J. Ro and Dee: a couple? Normally we’d fight back delighted grins, but this time Yegina’s gray-brown eyes wince and she knits her lips. I’m sorry about Don, I want to shout at her. And I don’t care what you did with Bas.

  Instead, I chat politely with Dee about the sculptures we’re going to see, a Richard Serra and a Mark di Suvero, some arte povera pieces from Italy, and a giant lifelike horse made of driftwood that’s actually brass.

  “And there’s a real surprise for you,” Dee adds, jutting her chin at me. “Or maybe it’s not surprising. With Janis’s tastes being so eclectic, it’s possible she owns something by every contemporary artist who’s ever been worth collecting.”

  The supercollector. My old suspect. I’ve been wrong before. I need more proof now. Was the scene of the crime Brent’s office? If it was, it looks clean; besides, I’m no forensics team. I excuse myself to use the restroom and sneak into Evie’s dark alcove instead.

  I flip a switch. White light stains the walls and shelves. Evie hasn’t left an item out of place—huge blue binders lined up straight, pens standing erect in a cup, keyboard and mouse at exact angles to the computer—and yet there’s nothing here to soften all the hard lines. No photographs or stained mugs. She makes Juanita look like a slob. And human. Still, a murderer? Shy, quiet Evie?

  Flipping through neat files of yellow carbon invoices, I find three outgoing deliveries last Wednesday, two to the airport and one to our off-site collection facility. Maybe I am staring at the ticket for the crate that held Kim Lord’s body, but why would a killer keep a record?

  Evie is cleverer than that. She wouldn’t send the crate to the facility the Rocque usually used. What about that second one in Van Nuys that she was checking out?

  I peek out the doorway, spot Dee and Yegina still waiting by the crates, and flip through another binder. There’s a delivery of a sculpture a few weeks ago in the Ds: Diamond Storage, Van Nuys, California. She had already set up a contract with them. I grab Evie’s black office phone and dial.

  When the receptionist picks up, I introduce myself as Evie. “I was calling to inquire about an item we had delivered last Wednesday,” I say. “I
’m sorry, but I lost the tracking number and we actually need to bring it back to the museum for restoration.”

  “Please hold,” the receptionist says in an annoyed tone. I pull the phone as far as I can to check on Evie’s arrival. Yegina is tapping her foot. She glances back and I duck out of sight. How much time do I have? I open another line on the phone and dig in my bag for Hendricks’s card. And dig. Past the recorder, the wallet, the receipts, the lipstick. The card is gone. I must have dropped it at Grand Central Market. I have no way to reach him.

  The storage facility line starts playing Vivaldi. I put the soaring strings on speaker and search Evie’s windowless office.

  The computer is locked. I open drawers, find nothing but paper clips. On a low shelf behind the desk, all art catalogs—except one textbook, in worn dark-green cloth, Introduction to Drama and Stage. I open it, shake it. Nothing falls out. But inscribed on the first page, right-hand corner, is a name in girlish handwriting. Evie Long.

  I’m sliding it back when I see a familiar shape, hidden behind the volumes. I pull it out, flip it open. The screen and keypad are dead. The SIM card is gone, but all the scratches and dents are mine. My cell.

  The Vivaldi stops.

  “We had an escorted delivery from the Rocque on Wednesday, but your staff member rerouted it almost as soon as it arrived,” the receptionist says. “We’re working out the charge.”

  Someone grabs my elbow and I nearly jump out of my skin.

  “Evie’s waiting,” Yegina says, and stalks away before I have a chance to respond.

  I apologize to the receptionist, hang up, throw my phone in my purse, and run after my friend. A beige sedan has pulled up, Evie silhouetted inside. We hurry toward her through the canyon of crates, Dee first. Watching Evie’s profile, I can suddenly picture it: the cold, focused look she must have had when she killed Kim Lord. I picture Brent’s tiny office, Kim Lord changing clothes in front of his desk, by the door. Evie must have opened the door fast, brought the mallet down. One blow. One blow only? What about the blood? She could have shut and locked the door, cleaned it up. Changed clothes.

  Shock tastes like soap on my tongue. I still don’t have physical proof. I should get Hendricks’s number from Yegina, go back upstairs, involve him and the police. Instead, I’m still walking through the loading dock to Evie’s car. If I don’t get into it now, she will escape. She will board the plane to Amsterdam tonight, never to be seen again. I’m sure of it. Yet as I pass beyond the massive doors, the day’s heat rolls over me and I halt, afraid.

  Dee opens the passenger side, hops in. Yegina bumps against my arm, brushing past, to take one of the back seats. I usually think of Yegina as solid as granite—but not today. No one is safe today. That high white shirt. Her neck appears encased in bandages.

  Evie glances over her shoulder when I get in. Her face is a smooth, pale bowl. “Maggie,” she says, raising her sculpted eyebrows. “I didn’t know you were here today.”

  Evie can’t stay for the entire tour. She had to reschedule the whole Judd shipment last night because the Amsterdam museum is freaking out about timing. She’s so sorry. Really. This was going to be the highlight of her week. Her month.

  “Well, except that it’s such a sad day,” she says, with a glance back at me. “It’s terrible news. I mean, not about Shaw, but about …” She trails off.

  “It’s terrible all around,” I say. “Somebody obviously tried to frame him.”

  If Evie is guilty of the crime, I can’t believe the smoothness of her delivery, the loose grip of her hands on the wheel. I can’t believe the warm light in her eyes when she showed me the provenance of Kim’s work. She must have been thrilled to set me on the wrong investigation. She must have taken me for such an idiot.

  Yegina sighs. “Let’s just talk about anything but Kim Lord.”

  We are on the 101, merging into a steady four-lane stream that will take us to Hollywood. I sit in the back seat, behind Dee riding shotgun. Dee is bent forward, fiddling with the radio. Yegina has scuttled as far away from me as possible, and stares east into the receding downtown skyline. The air conditioner threads a cold wind through the car, but the windows and doors radiate heat. I still don’t believe it. Did Evie intend to kill me, too, in my apartment, when I blundered in, home early from my supposed night at Bootleg? Instead, she took my phone and let me go. Because I’m her friend? I doubt it. She must need me alive, to take the blame. Now that Greg is in the clear, she needs someone else to frame.

  If Evie’s act of murder and cover-up was so meticulous, I can’t imagine the flawlessness of her getaway today. I have to delay her as long as possible, and meanwhile get a message to Hendricks. But how can I make her stay with us?

  I mull over various scenarios. Direct confrontation. No, then she might just bolt. Dark hints. Only if she’s not entirely sure of my intentions.

  “Evie, I was hoping I could interview you for the next members’ magazine,” I say to the back of her head.

  There’s an awkward silence.

  “The theme for the issue is behind-the-scenes,” I say.

  “Oh. I don’t think anyone will be interested. In me,” Evie says slowly, as if it’s difficult to enunciate each word.

  “Of course they will,” I say. “People love to know about the art, the crates, how everything comes and goes.” I pause. “Dee—you build the crates. Do you always build them for specific works?”

  “Mostly,” says Dee. “Sometimes I make extras so Brent can give me the hours.” She gives a little laugh. “We say it’s the Rocque’s other permanent collection.”

  We are nearing the Hollywood exit now, a gray concrete wall beneath a small burst of trees. Bougainvilleas bloom in magenta profusion, as if they know they’re running out of time. The spring rains have greened everything in L.A., but by midsummer every flourishing spot like this will fade and wither beneath a glaze of smog.

  “I promise I won’t print that,” I tell Dee. “Say, did anyone ever play a prank with the spare crates? I bet you could smuggle some funny stuff in there.”

  “There was a keg for the Chris Branson performance,” says Dee.

  I force a chuckle. “It seems like you could fit an actual person in there.”

  “Not much air for a person, unfortunately,” Dee says.

  Evie turns sharply onto the exit, throwing Yegina against me. As our bodies collide, I smell my own rank odor and cringe. “Sorry,” I say in an abject tone. Yegina’s frown softens.

  “Do you think Janis secretly hates us all?” she asks Dee. “For not keeping her father’s museum afloat?”

  Dee snorts. “What do you mean ‘secretly’?” Then she glances back, unsmiling. “Nah. She hates that she can’t figure out a way to keep his vision alive either.”

  “Maybe we have to change the vision,” Yegina says. “Insider cachet isn’t enough anymore. We need tourists.”

  As interested as I am in speculation about the Rocque’s future—and Yegina’s sudden eagerness to alter it, her words sounding more like Bas’s than her own—I hunker in my seat while they talk, thinking about my next move. Storefronts on Hollywood Boulevard sail by: stiletto boots for drag queens, a few decrepit bars, pawn shops, taquerias.

  We pass the golden dragon and superheroes of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, and we’re through the big commercial district and into neighborhoods again. Then we’re coasting onto Sunset Boulevard, below the hills. Janis Rocque lives on a Bel Air road that meanders through mansion estates, all gated, all so far back from the street they are only a dream of habitation. Luxury pools, terraced patios, a private bath for every bedroom. From these massive palaces, you can see the whole city, but they are invisible to everyone but their own neighbors. Or so I was told once by Greg, who’d loved visiting them on his last job.

  They seem like traps to me. Once we get to Janis Rocque’s, we’ll be stuck behind some huge fence, down some winding road. Yet if I can convince Evie to stay, then she’ll be trapped, too.

&nb
sp; “I hate to be gauche here, but aren’t our attendance numbers huge this week?” I say. “What if the police find out the murderer was someone at the Rocque? Our budget would be made for years.”

  “That is really gross,” Yegina says, but I am watching Evie for a reaction. With incredible slowness, she reaches back and touches the bare place where her blond hair curls against her neck.

  “I know,” I say. “I would hate for it to be true.”

  Evie’s hand falls back to the wheel. The light goes green and the car surges forward again.

  “We’re getting close,” says Dee. “There’s a right turn soon.”

  “Can I use your phone for a second?” I say to Yegina. “I’ve got to text Jayme something.”

  Yegina hands it over reluctantly. I switch off the ringer and type a message to her instead:

  Get away from us and get J. Ro to call Hendricks. Tell him I’m here with Evie. Tell him that Evie had the drug from the Jason Rains show and put Kim’s body in an art crate. Tell him to call Diamond Storage about a recalled delivery last Weds. Say exactly that. You have to believe me.

  Then I hand it back. She slides it in her pocket without glancing at it as we turn past some hedges, down a private drive into the hills.

  26

  Janis Rocque’s gatehouse is barely larger than a toll booth, but when a gray-haired attendant slides open the window, I feel the cool gust of its air-conditioning and hear the murmur of a TV.

  “Dee here,” Dee says, and leans over to wave.

  The attendant gives her a knowing smile, and the two green-painted gates to Janis Rocque’s estate open inward.

  Slowly a narrow road appears before us, flanked by blue-headed bird-of-paradise flowers. Tall hedges make second and third perimeters, but, between them, lawns extend like primeval savannas for dozing dinosaurs of iron, stone, and steel. I see Yegina mouthing the names of the artists she recognizes, her hand drifting to her high white collar like a Victorian in an opera-induced swoon. Here and there, a winglike edifice soars over the hedges that conceal it.