I grabbed my handbag and smoothed my linen pant legs, then straightened the matching jacket, together comprising the second-least-casual outfit I’d taken to Nowheresville. The flat sandals with their narrow straps were not as comfortable as my running sandals. Houston summer clothes felt constricting after a few weeks dressed for workouts and country home office. The front door opened, and I startled. No one was exiting, and there was no hand on the door. Automatic, I realized. On a sensor, maybe, or activated by a button inside. I stepped through. The glare of the sun blinded me as I entered the relative dark of the gallery. I took a few sightless steps, feeling like a mole and trying not to bump into anything that would eat me.
“May I help you?” A young woman. I tracked toward the sound of her snotty voice.
“Just a moment while my eyes adjust.”
She didn’t reply. I got a fix on her silhouette, and slowly her face came into view. She was a thin-to-the-point-of-anorexic twenty-something with flat-ironed black hair hanging past her shoulders. Thick black eyeliner under flat eyes. Bright red lipstick on pursed lips. Translucent skin. She had on a Dior outfit that probably cost as much as I made in a year. She occupied a tall stool. Her clamped knees were tucked under a glass desk. The top was bare, and I could see through to her hands in her lap. No telephone. No register or iPad. No computer. Nothing. Not even any brochures of the art in the gallery.
A woman about my own mother’s age was standing in front of her. She had shoulder-length dark hair blending into a dark jacket of the same color.
“Sorry, Ms. Sloane,” the receptionist said, her voice chastising me as the other woman avoided looking at me.
I blocked them both out. And that’s when I noticed the art. It was otherworldly. Colorful paint splashed across metal in tall abstract shapes, almost alien. A milky white glowed from the walls, and the floors were an industrial-looking stained concrete.
Her voice grew even snottier. “I said, can I help you.”
The other woman studied her shoes.
I smiled sweetly at her. “Sorry, just browsing.”
“This isn’t Walmart.”
I was so shocked, I had no reply. I heard a buzzing noise that I realized was inside my own head. A chainsaw that I wanted to smash through her glass desk. My fists balled. Who did this vapid little twit think she was? I breathed through my noise, pictured the tension meter and willed it down from the instant 9. Behind me the front door opened again. I turned to see who was entering as I took smooth, cleansing breaths. I recognized the face with the Mark Twain mustache immediately. Gidget’s partner, Lester Tillman.
I put on my most winning smile, trying to forget the supercilious creature behind the desk. “Mr. Tillman, good morning. I’m . . . Marsha Bryan,” I adlibbed, “here from Juniper Media.” I stuck out my hand and he took it, a confused look on his face. “We have a ten o’clock appointment for your interview, and I’m afraid I’m early.”
The man standing before me looked younger than Gidget had at the time of her death, yet he’d founded the gallery and brought her in as a twenty-year-old. He had to be older than her. I pegged him at seventy. He dressed fortyish, in a bow tie and saddle oxfords with designer jeans and a Ralph Lauren shirt.
“Of course.” His Georgia accent evoked ripe peaches. “Right this way, Ms. Bryan.” He nodded toward the desk. “Julie.”
The matronly woman said, “Um hmm.”
I shot a look of victory at the receptionist, but she was picking at her fake nails. I followed Lester across the high-ceilinged apex of the gallery. It was empty except for one sculpture twenty feet high.
Lester caught me looking at it. “Do you like it?”
“Um, it’s very tall.” I wanted to retract the unflattering statement, but it was too late.
He laughed. “The artist, Henry Chavez, is a very short man. Methinks he’s trying to compensate for something. His pieces are selling very well, though. He’s the next big thing on the Houston art scene.”
His work didn’t do anything for me. “Impressive.”
Lester opened a hidden door built into a section of paneling. It led to a narrow hallway with gleaming blonde hardwoods. Bare walls created a tunnel feel broken only by doors. Lester turned into one on his left. I peeked back to my right and saw an Asian man about my age. His eyebrows were raised high. I nodded at him, then turned into the room Lester had entered.
The space was small and efficient. A little bitty Apple Air sat in the middle of his desk. Wall posters announced gallery exhibitions for different artists over many years. I recognized Andy Warhol, of course. Most were unfamiliar to me.
Lester gestured to a Keurig coffee maker on a credenza. “Something to drink?”
“I can make myself a coffee.”
“Great.”
“Can I make one for you?” I smiled at him.
He lifted a tall, stainless steel travel mug from the desk. “I’m good.”
I popped French Roast into the slot.
“So, Ms. Bryan, tell me what I can do for you and your publication today?”
I shot him a smile over my shoulder. My coffee finished dripping into the cup, and I took it to the metal chair with spindly legs in front of his desk. The hard plastic under my tush reminded me of school cafeterias.
“I’m writing an article about Gidget Becker.” I put my phone on his desk. “Would you prefer I take notes or record?”
He scanned his phone, shifting in his seat. “Ms. Bryan, I confess. I don’t seem to have noted our appointment on my calendar.”
“Oh my goodness. Well, I’ll make it as fast as I can, then. And no recorder.” I pulled out a yellow legal pad and pen.
He twirled the end of his mustache.
I hurried before he could respond. “So, how did Gidget come to work with you?”
He straightened his posture. “If you’ve done your homework, then you know from the many articles written about us that she was the most promising art student at the University of Houston. I was lucky to entice her here.”
His tone raised hackles on my neck. I’d fallen asleep reading an article on my phone the night before. What little I’d read was scant on detail, and I knew I needed to step up the research. “Always best to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Did she come on as an intern?”
“At first, but she quickly proved herself valuable. The gallery was new, and other than her, it was just me. She was a godsend.”
“And became an owner.”
“Yes.”
“And how did that come about?”
He tugged at his bowtie. “Ownership interest as a reward and enticement. Kind of like stock options, but in a privately held company.”
“I see. I’d love to see the papers on that. It’s historically significant, now that the gallery is a landmark in the art world.”
He laughed, a brittle bark. “Oh, heavens. Didn’t I just tell you this place was only me back then? We did it on a handshake. The old-fashioned way, and it worked out just marvelously.”
“And you were partners for the better part of four decades?”
He nodded. “Longer than any other relationship in my life except my parents. Neither Gidget nor I ever found the right man.” He winked.
“Tell me about your partnership. What kind of work did each of you do?”
“Gidget was a born flirt and was pretty enough to carry it off, in the early days. She coupled that with brains and a personal understanding of what it took to be an artist. She became the face of the gallery. The media loved her and the artists adored her. I, on the other hand, had less success with the human side of things”—his mouth formed a moue—“and focused on the business end.”
“Gidget handled the public and was primarily the person artists would interact with?”
He pondered a second. “Unless they needed me.”
“Are you an artist, Mr. Tillman?”
“Never any good,” he said. “But that didn’t stop me from trying.”
“What�
�s your medium?”
He looked over my shoulder and waved a hand. My eyes followed his and I saw the retreating back of the Asian guy from across the hall. “Mixed media. It’ll be the death of me.”
“Did Gidget have any particularly special relationships with anyone that I should talk to as I research the article?”
He looked at his fingernails.
A student of his own appearance.
“Not really. Gidget did remarkably well her first few years at the gallery. She was personal friends with some of the most celebrated artists in the world, and she remained an important figure all of her career. But, she engaged in behaviors that alienated her from anyone who tried to get close.”
“What kind of behaviors?”
“Well, it was common knowledge she was a hopeless addict. I’ve lost count of how many times we staged interventions, sent her to rehab, or carted her somewhere to dry out.”
“That’s too bad.”
He popped the cuffs on his shirt. “No one is perfect. Not Gidget and certainly not me.”
“So what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Where’d you go to school?”
“I grew up in Savannah, and I’ve always been a little obsessed with the art world.”
“How did that lead to Houston?”
“I went to school at the University of Texas and stuck around. Started the gallery. Never left.”
I gazed down at my notes, scribbled the word Pompous. “Do you know whether Gidget had a daughter?” I cut my eyes up quickly to see his reaction.
He froze. No more pulling on cuffs or bow ties or his mustache. Finally he spoke. “Heavens, no. I don’t doubt she could have gotten pregnant. Men flocked to her from the day I met her. That former fiancé of hers showed up.” He wrinkled his nose. I wrinkled my forehead. Jimmy? But I didn’t interrupt. “A randy minister she knew from her teen years, too. It was a wild time, and she was a wild girl. But I would have known if she had a baby.”
I circled my scribble and wondered if people ever talked about my mother like this. I’d punch them in the face if they did. “How did your partnership end?”
He exhaled. “She was in rough shape. She was desperate for cash and asked me to buy her out, which I ultimately did. We executed mutual powers of attorney, in case something happened to either of us. Anyway, thank God we did, because right after her parents died, she had an aneurysm, the poor thing. And that was it, really.”
“What do you mean, ‘that was it’?”
“She wanted to move home, be done with the gallery. I helped her. She wasn’t right in her head anymore. Never was again.”
“Did you inherit anything in her will?”
His eyes went dark. “I’m the independent executor of her estate and the trustee for the arts foundation she set up as the nonprofit beneficiary. That was her last and dearest wish, you know, to keep giving to the Houston art community.”
I looked him straight in the eye, trying to hide my growing disgust. He was so wrong about Gidget’s last wish, and her last will, for that matter. “So I guess the revenue for the pipeline being built through her family place will be the first big infusion of cash for the trust?”
“Yes.” He blinked. “Um, I mean, I don’t . . . what?”
Chapter Seventeen
I had less than I wanted from Lester, but I could make another run at him later if research and other witnesses didn’t fill in the gaps he’d left. As he led me out, the Asian guy I’d seen earlier cat-footed to the door of his office. Without a word, he stuck his arm out toward me and shoved a folded piece of paper in my hand. He put a finger to his lips. I nodded once. He slipped back into his office so quickly he was outside of Lester’s range of vision by the time the older man had opened the door at the end of the hall and turned back to hold it for me.
I preceded Lester through the cavernous gallery with its bright, eerie metal sculptures. When we reached the front desk, the snooty receptionist didn’t glance up from contemplation of her knees.
“Thank you again, Mr. Tillman.”
Lester and I shook. Callouses rimmed his thumb and index finger, but otherwise his hand was silky smooth.
His accent deepened. “If you have any other questions, feel free to call.”
Was it my imagination, or did he emphasize the last word? “Absolutely.”
The door swung open, spilling heat and dampness into the dry, cool oasis. I held my head erect as I walked out, then straightened my shoulders and leaned into the wall of wet. I glanced back from the Jetta. Lester stood at the glass, making sure I would leave, no doubt. I saluted him and he raised one hand laconically, Kevin Spacey in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. I shuddered.
I was dying to read the note, but I decided to get out of view first. I made a few turns then parked in front of a dry cleaner’s. A beige Land Rover pulled in and parked on my passenger side. I’d clutched the note in my hand, even as I held the steering wheel. Now it was damp and wadded. Oops. I unfolded it in my lap. It was written in smeared ink on gallery stationery. I stared at the ink blotches, willing them into legibility. I made out Catalina Coffee, half an hour. The rest was a lost cause. Well, I knew who’d handed it to me, and I had a place and a time. Or I probably had a time, anyway.
I headed north. Catalina Coffee was on the south side of the Heights, which in turn was west of downtown and north of the arts district. It took about fifteen minutes to traverse the lighted streets between the gallery and the coffee shop. Right before I parked, I saw a Land Rover pass on a side street, the same tan color as the one earlier. Well, we were on the edge of River Oaks, an expensive area. Walking in from the dirt parking lot, I was overcome with nostalgia. Adrian—as a professional triathlete and freelance writer—had been able to schedule his days as he pleased. That included spending them where he wanted to when he worked. His most frequent hangout had been Fioza’s, a coffee shop near our house. But his second-favorite haunt was Catalina Coffee.
Sometimes I’d meet him at Catalina after one of his working sessions, and we’d go to lunch. I touched the butterfly around my neck. Warm. I wandered to the counter, lost in memories as I read the chalkboard menu.
“Welcome to Catalina Coffee. What can I get you?” I’d seen this barista before. A young guy with ear disks and unruly light-brown hair. He glanced up at me and did a double take.
“Hey, you’re um . . .”
I smiled. “Michele.”
He grinned back. “You used to come in here with Adrian.”
“Yes, I did.”
“I’m real sorry. About him, uh . . .”
“Me, too.” I remembered they used to keep expensive Kona coffee behind the counter, just for Adrian. “You don’t happen to have any of his Kona left, do you?”
He cocked his head, his eyes searching shelves as he pondered. They lit up. “I’ll be right back.”
The people in line behind me shifted back and forth, their shoes making impatient noises, but I didn’t care.
The young man returned with a bag of Kona, which he held aloft. “About a fourth of a bag left. Sealed up real good, so the beans are probably still fresh.”
I cleared my throat. “Well, then, I’ll have an Adrian special.”
“One large Kona with almond milk and maple syrup, latte style. For here or to go?”
My eyes burned. I wasn’t the only one who remembered my husband and his big splurge. He had an aversion to all things plastic and processed that included to-go cups, even if they were made of paper. “For here, please,” I said.
The barista had already started grinding beans. “Have a seat. I’ll bring it out to you, Michele.”
“Thanks. And I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Hayden.” He raised his voice to be heard over the whir of the grinder.
“Thanks, Hayden.”
I took a seat at one of the low-slung metal chairs at a table in the back. I pulled the crumpled note out, scrutinizing it closely
. I’d obliterated the writing in the middle of the page, below the legible part. The last blot appeared to be someone’s name. The guy who’d handed it to me? I didn’t know his name, so there was no way to be sure. He could have been handing it off for Jack the Ripper or—less likely—the snotty receptionist.
Hayden set an enormous mug and saucer in front of me.
“Beautiful. Thank you.”
He held up the near-empty bag of Kona. “Do you want the rest? We don’t use it because it’s too expensive and nobody else wants to pay to upgrade their brew, but I won’t tell if you don’t.”
I reached into my handbag and got a ten. He put the tightly rolled coffee bag into my hand, and I slid the ten into his.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Neither did you.”
We smiled at each other for a moment, then he set his heel and wheeled around like he was on a skateboard, returning to his work area.
I searched the faces in the room, looking for a familiar one here to meet with me. I got nothing. I scrolled through my email, answered a few, felt guilty for not texting Rashidi to see how his interviews went, flagged a few, felt guilty for not answering Blake, and listened to a voice mail from Ralph telling me he would be staying in El Paso for a day or two while his granddaughter packed.
I decided to make a sprint to the bathroom. It was occupied. Mere seconds later, the door opened. A woman with a five-o’clock shadow and enormous Adam’s apple stepped out. She had on a turquoise silk shift and sparkly silver heels. Dressy for midmorning in Houston, but gorgeous.
“Your dress is beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she answered, her voice a deep bass.
Another woman entered the shop by the back door. The sunlight behind her rendered her nothing but a silhouette. But her voice was very clear. “Excuse me, you can’t just use the women’s restroom.”
I put my fingers to my chest in question. Was she talking to me? But no, she blew past me, after the woman in the shift, who’d hustled out the front, lickety-split in her heels.
I slipped into the bathroom, cringing. I’d seen men in women’s rooms before—if the woman I’d just seen was even genetically male, and not just genetically unfortunate. I used the men’s room any time the women’s was full, as long as it met basic sanitation standards. But I’d never seen anyone make a big to-do about it, until today. This HERO thing had people acting like damn fools.
Fighting for Anna Page 19