by Mary Daheim
Craig winced. It almost looked as if there were tears in his eyes.
“Wasn’t what?” I asked. “Wasn’t a saw?” Maybe he was talking about the poachers.
But he shook his head. If not tears, there was perspiration on his gaunt face. Whatever he was trying to tell me was at a great cost to him mentally and maybe emotionally as well. I felt so sorry for him that I was about to insist that he didn’t expend any further effort.
Before I could say anything, Craig spoke again. “Go,” he said in a voice that was more like a sigh. “Go.”
“Go? You want me to go?”
He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Go,” he repeated.
I rubbed my aching head with my free hand. The Excedrin hadn’t yet started to work. “Go where?”
Craig grimaced and shook his head again. “For …” He closed his eyes, obviously exhausted as well as frustrated.
“Go for what?” I asked as patiently as I could manage.
“Donna.” His gaze fixed on me, waiting for my response.
“Donna Wickstrom? The art gallery?”
A single nod.
“Your new painting?”
The nod that followed sapped his strength. His eyes closed again. I tried to decode what he meant, other than something to do with Forest Watch. “Go,” he’d said. Craig must’ve meant I should go to the gallery.
“You want me to go to Donna’s?” I asked.
There was no response. His whole body had gone slack. Slowly, I withdrew my hand. I was frightened. Then I looked at the monitor that showed his vitals. I understood the green lines enough to know that Craig was still alive and relatively stable. I got up and went out to the nurses’ station. Ruth Sharp had just hung up the phone.
“Did you give Mr. Laurentis a sedative?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied, looking self-righteous. Her rigid demeanor wasn’t softened by the round pleated cap she wore on her short gray hair. “Just before you came. Someone on the previous shift should’ve done that sooner. It serves no purpose for a patient in his condition to become so distraught. It upsets hospital routine as well.”
There was no point in further discussion. Nurse Sharp was probably right. “It’s working,” I informed her. “Where’s Mr. Fleetwood?”
“In the visitors’ lounge,” she replied. “I assume he has no intention of broadcasting from here? That would also upset hospital routine.”
“Of course,” I murmured, turning to head for the lounge.
Spence appeared immediately. “I heard your voice. Nothing worth watching on TV,” he said lightly, with a quick glance at Nurse Sharp.
I looked at my watch. “It’s almost four-thirty.”
“So?” Spence hit the elevator button. “We’ve got plenty of time to get back to your place for the news at five.”
“We aren’t going to my place,” I said, loudly for the sake of Nurse Sharp. I didn’t need any more tittle-tattle about my private life. “We’re going to the art gallery.”
The doors slid open and we got in. “Why?” Spence asked.
“I don’t know.” I leaned against the back of the elevator. “I’m so torn. Craig’s trying to tell me something important about his new painting. I can’t think what, but I feel that at least I have to see if Donna knows what he might be talking about. Can you do me a huge favor?”
“What is it?”
We’d reached the parking garage level, so I withheld my answer until we were in the Beemer. “Drop me off at the gallery. Ginny and Rick Erlandson live one block up on Pine, between Seventh and Eighth. It’s the second house from the corner on the southeast side of the street. You can watch the TV there. I’ll call them now, if you’ll do it.”
“I can handle it,” Spence said. “I hope I don’t scare the children with my hideous appearance. How will you explain why I’m there?”
I was already dialing the Erlandsons’ number. “I’m winging it.”
Ginny answered on the first ring. “Oh, Emma,” she said before I could get out more than a quick hello. “I’m really still worn out. You wouldn’t believe the week I’ve had. First, Brett fell off his—”
“Stop,” I said sharply. “This has nothing to do with the Advocate. Spencer Fleetwood wants to watch your TV.”
There was dead silence at the other end, broken by a child’s shriek. “I have to go, Emma. Brad just—”
I hung up on her. “Brazen it out, Spence. Tell Ginny you’re from CPS. Or use the charm you didn’t waste on Prune Face at the hospital.”
“That was one hopeless case,” he murmured, taking a left off Pine. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell Rick that his sister needs your artistic opinion on a new painting. Are you going to be okay?”
I glared at him. “I’ve been through a lot of crap in my life, too. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I hope.”
He pulled up to double-park outside the gallery. “Go, girl. Call me when you’re done.”
I all but flew out of the car and stumbled on the curb. If it hadn’t been for being able to steady myself on an Advocate box on the sidewalk, I’d have fallen flat on my face. I patted the box in gratitude and went into the gallery. Donna was chatting with Warren Wells, who was studying a Kenneth Callahan numbered print from the Pacific Northwest artist’s later period.
Both Donna and Warren greeted me warmly. Warren even offered his hand. “You’ve been working too hard, Emma. Francine hasn’t seen you in the store for months. She’s afraid you’re going around town in a barrel. Or are you waiting for her pre-Christmas clearance?”
I didn’t have time for chitchat, even for the sake of fellow parishioners and Francine’s Fine Apparel weekly ad revenue. “Tell your wife to mark down all her Max Mara pieces to fifty bucks each, and I’ll be there when she opens the door.” I turned to Donna. “Is the Laurentis still in back?”
“Yes. Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know.” I moved on through the gallery. “Ignore me. Sell Warren something expensive.”
Forest Watch was on a table surrounded by various matting and frame samples. Obviously, Donna hadn’t made up her mind about how to show the work off to its best advantage. There was a light on a chain overhead, but it was turned off. I clicked the switch, realized that it had more than one setting, and turned it up as high as it would go.
The painting was still disturbing, even more so than it had seemed the first time I saw it. What was I supposed to see? Time of day? It looked like evening, but only because the background was so dark. Time of year? Not spring or summer—too bleak. Craig’s style was so unrealistic compared to Sky Autumn that if there were any deciduous trees, such as the vine maples in my painting, I couldn’t tell. He’d used some green, but the shades were murky, even sinister.
I heard Donna say good-bye to Warren. A moment later she joined me in the back room. “Warren’s buying that Callahan print for Francine,” she said. “It’s a Christmas …” She stopped, probably realizing that I wasn’t paying much attention. “What it is, Emma? Has something happened to Craig? Or to you?”
“Both,” I said, finally looking at her. “Craig’s actually improving, but he wanted to see me. By the time I got to the hospital, they’d given him a sedative. He could barely speak. I figured out that he was trying to tell me something about Forest Watch. I haven’t a clue what he meant. Do you know?”
Donna shook her head. “Let’s try magnifying it.”
She moved a Daylight Naturalight tabletop magnifier over to the table. I should’ve noticed it sooner. Kip used a less expensive version in the back shop when we needed to get a better look at blurry photos submitted by our readers who were involved in group activities.
Donna and I both studied every inch of the painting in silence. Nothing we saw inspired any revelations. I posed a question. “Can you tell when Craig painted this?”
“You mean from the paint itself?” Donna shook her head. “I can guess. It’s probably not very recent. Craig used different pai
nts—acrylic, oil, some watercolor. If you touch certain parts of the canvas, you can tell that by the thickness of one kind on top of the other. It’s as if he was having trouble getting the effect he wanted. My point, I guess, is that I have a feeling it took him a long time to finish this.”
“In other words,” I suggested, “he wanted to get it right. But why? It’s …” I shook my head. “I don’t like it. There. I’ve said it out loud. In fact, when I saw Craig the first time in the hospital, he knew I didn’t. Have you ever seen any of his other work that looks like this?”
“Not the actual paintings,” Donna replied. “I’ve seen photographs in catalogs from a couple of other galleries that show his works. There was one in this style three or four years ago at a Bellingham gallery, and another last spring in Boise. I’ll admit they weren’t as different as this one, yet I could tell Craig was experimenting. That’s what artists do. Callahan’s a good example.”
“I know,” I said. “I interviewed him years ago for The Oregonian. I wasn’t quite as fond of his later works, either, though they certainly weren’t depressing.” I gestured at Forest Watch. “That one is. Or maybe ‘disturbing’ is more appropriate.”
Donna shrugged. “A painting definitely can evoke the artist’s mood at the time while he’s working on it.”
“I understand that, but …” I stared at Donna. “What did you say?”
Donna frowned. “That an artist’s work reflects his state of mind. Why do you ask?”
“No. It was how you said it. I was reminded of something, but I don’t know what it is.” I sighed. “Let me take another look with the magnifier.” Peering through the three-and-a-half-inch glass, I went over every detail. “Those two small gold blobs are the only bright spots. What are they? I can’t tell even with the enlargement.” I stepped aside so Donna could take a look.
“It could be moonlight reflecting off of something,” she said. “Or symbolic of the gold mining around here a hundred years ago.”
“Gold,” I murmured, thinking back to what Craig had been trying to say in his hospital bed. “I thought he was telling me to ‘go,’ as in go here to the gallery. But I might be wrong.”
Donna glanced at the painting. “Has any gold been found near Alpine in recent years?”
“Not that I ever heard,” I admitted. “Do you have any idea where Craig lives?”
“Only that it’s somewhere nobody else seems to go,” Donna said, turning as she heard the gallery door open.
I checked my watch. It was five straight up. “I’ve got to dash. You take care of your customer. Is it okay if I go out the back way?”
If the request puzzled Donna, she didn’t show it. “The key’s in the lock.” She lowered her voice. “It’s Mary Lou Blatt, Vida’s sister-in-law. She’ll talk my ear off and not buy anything.” With a little wave, Donna headed back into the gallery. “Mary Lou! How nice to see you! Is there something I can show …”
I was out in the alley before Mary Lou could start driving Donna crazy. The dumpster that Craig had apparently slept in was on my left. I shook my head, sorry for him, sorry for me, but even sorrier for Milo.
By going out the back way, it was only half a block to Ginny and Rick’s house. I should be able to catch most of the newscast. I walked uphill as fast as I could through the downpour. Melted snow water was rushing into the drains next to the curb. Red, green, and yellow streetlights lit up the dark December evening like Christmas decorations. My mood, however, was far from festive. As I reached the Erlandsons’ front door, I realized my heart was beating far too fast. My hands were shaking as I pressed the doorbell. It seemed like it took a long time for Rick to open the door.
“Hi, Emma,” he said. “Kind of nasty out, huh?”
“Better than being snowed in,” I said. “Where’s Spence?”
“Watching the news,” Rick said, leading me into the small entryway. “Gosh, he’s got a worse cold than I do, poor guy. At least I don’t have to wear a bandage on my nose. I guess he’s following some news story for the station. Is it one you’re doing for the Advocate, too?”
“That’s what we’re both trying to determine,” I said, hoping to sound casual.
Ginny, carrying the new baby, came out of the kitchen into the hall. “Oh, hi, Emma. Can you take Bando? That’s what the other boys call him. Rick, you need to run to the store,” she went on, after handing off the infant to me as if he were a football. “I forgot I didn’t have any sauce for the lasagna.”
A loud crash sounded from the kitchen. “Brett?” Ginny cried. “Brad?” She raced back down the hall.
“I’d better go,” Rick said. “See you later, Emma.” He grabbed his heavy jacket from a peg near the front door. “What kind of sauce?” he yelled to his wife, who was out of sight if not out of hearing range.
I carried baby Bando into the living room. Spence was sitting on one half of a two-piece sectional. The TV showed what looked like another Iraqi neighborhood destroyed by one side or the other—or both.
“Well?” I said, sitting on the other sectional while the baby stared up at me with what seemed like a quizzical expression.
“Nothing.” Spence looked disgusted. “I missed the very beginning because one of the kids grabbed the remote and turned it to a cartoon. God, I’m glad I never had kids.”
Bando objected to the remark, letting out a piercing yowl. Or maybe he’d realized I wasn’t his mother. “What shall we do?” I asked, trying to jiggle the baby to shut him up.
“This is all international stuff,” Spence said, standing up. “Next will come the national after the commercials, and then we’ll get to local news. Since they haven’t broken in, I assume nothing’s happening. Or the situation is over.”
A chill ran up my spine. “But …” Bando was crying in earnest. Ginny appeared in the living room before I could say anything else.
“Oh, Emma, let me take him. You wouldn’t believe the mess in the kitchen.” She reached out to remove the screaming baby. “Did you want to stay for dinner? Whenever I make lasagna, there’s plenty left over. Once Rick gets back, it’ll only take half an hour or so to bake.”
“No thanks, Ginny,” I shouted. “But we’re grateful that Spence got to keep up with the news.”
Bando was calming down as his mother held him against her shoulder and patted his back. “Gas,” she remarked. “Oops!” The baby blurped all over the place. “Oh, darn! Mind if I don’t see you out?”
“Not at all,” Spence said, managing to sound unperturbed. “Enjoy your dinner. Cute kids,” he added over his shoulder as he opened the front door for me. “Thanks.”
We both ran to the Beemer that was parked just one space down from the Erlandsons’ house. After I collapsed in the passenger seat, Spence reached over and patted my knee. “Take it easy, Emma. And hang on. We’re going to break the speed limit to get back to your place.”
He wasn’t kidding, especially since there wasn’t much traffic at five-fifteen on a Saturday night. We pulled into my driveway at five-eighteen and were in the house a minute later. While Spence turned on the TV, I fell into the easy chair, still wearing my wet coat.
The anchors had moved on to national news. Spence hung up his parka, then stood next to me. “Coat, madam. Why don’t you finish that brandy? You look like you could use it. I’ll get another Henry’s. Then you can tell me about the painting.”
I merely nodded, before struggling to take the coat off. “Thanks.”
Spence went about his self-imposed duties. He was in the kitchen when the male anchor announced that there was breaking news from “the Bellevue hostage standoff.” I yelled to him before I practically fell out of the easy chair.
A grim-faced John was waiting for his cue. I held my breath. Spence had picked up the remote and turned the sound up a notch, as if he could force the reporter to speak.
“The Bellevue crisis has come to a tragic conclusion just minutes ago,” he said, as blue and red lights flashed in the background. “Desp
ite the efforts of Bellevue and King County police to get the alleged gunman to free his hostages and surrender …”
“Say it, say it!” I screamed.
Spence rushed over to the chair and put his arm around me. “Shhh,” he said, tightening his grip.
“… when the gunman wounded the young woman thought by neighbors to be his fiancée before turning the gun on himself. Official identification is being withheld until the dead man’s next of kin have been notified. The injured young woman has been airlifted to Harborview Hospital in Seattle. Meanwhile, the other two hostages, Tricia Sellers, owner of the house, and her former husband, Jacob Sellers of Lake Sammamish, are being treated for shock at Overlake Hospital here in Bellevue.
So ends this sad drama in what until now had been a serene sylvan suburban neighborhood.”
“Hissing sibilant serpent sound-bite shit,” Spence said in disgust.
The picture switched back to the studio. “Thank you, John,” the pert blond anchorwoman intoned solemnly. “So ends another domestic tragedy involving …”
I barely heard her. I didn’t even realize I was crying until I felt the salt on my tongue. “Where’s Milo?” I whispered hoarsely.
Spence let me go and stood up. “How do I know? At least he’s not dead.”
“You don’t know that!” I shouted, staggering to my feet. “Maybe Buster shot him in some other part of the house and they haven’t found his body!”
“Oh, for …” He caught me as I succumbed to a weak-kneed fit of hysteria. “Good God. Emma.” I was out of control, beating my fists against his chest. He shook me. “Emma! Stop it!”
I stopped. And passed out.
NINETEEN
THE NEXT THING I KNEW, I OPENED MY EYES AND TRIED TO focus. I was on the sofa under the comforter from my bed. At first I had no idea why I was there or why Spencer Fleetwood was in my living room, seated in the side chair and talking on his damned BlackBerry. I must be dreaming. Why is Mr. Radio at my house and why does he have a bandage on his nose? This is crazy. I’ve got the flu, and Milo should be in the easy chair leafing through Vanity Fair.