Ella’s Corner was just that, a nook filled with art supplies, owned and maintained by a substantial woman named Ella. She examined the Identikit patiently, once with her glasses on and once with them off. A poodle wearing a knit vest poked from behind the counter, smelled Shephard’s shoe, and clicked away.
“I didn’t exactly sell him the paints,” she said finally. “He said he didn’t have any money, so I took one of his works in trade. I do it a lot. That’s probably one of the reasons this is Ella’s Corner and not Ella’s place, house, or castle.” She smiled beautifully and leaned over the counter, watching her poodle wander toward the easels. The dog turned a pair of gooey eyes to Ella when she called its name. “The painting is hanging over there.” She pointed behind her and called the dog again.
Shephard picked his way through the crowded store to the far wall, which was covered with frames suspended on wooden pegs. Balanced above the top row was a large painting that grabbed his attention and sent a sparkle of nerves down his back.
It was done in reds and blacks, thickly applied, a dense canvas that was as visceral as any painting he had ever seen. In the upper left, a figure in black loomed from an angular bench of some kind, while below him a man with his back to the viewer gazed upward. Jutting from the center of the scene and disappearing off to the right was a thin stable of sorts, filled with beasts that had horses’ heads and the bodies of men. As Shephard stared at the presiding figure, it seemed at first to be a hooded man, then a demon, then perhaps a woman with severe black hair, then a large reptilian bird. Slashed in black across its shadowy form was a dark protrusion. An arm? Wing? Cape? And deep in the dark recess of the head, two deep red sockets glowed dully.
He started when Ella appeared beside him.
“Unsigned,” he said.
“Powerful,” she said, cocking her head gallery-browser style, “but rather opaque. I kind of liked it after all the chintzy seascapes we see in this town. This painting has guts. So what the heck. I give up fifty dollars’ worth of paint and fifty dollars’ worth of canvas and brushes so he can do another one. It’s a fair shake even if I can’t sell it. You don’t sell nightmares in Laguna. Of course we’ve got enough real-life nightmares to keep us busy for a while, don’t we, detective?”
Shephard shrugged and continued to study the painting.
“No offense,” she said pleasantly. “I recognized you from the television news.”
Shephard accepted a cup of herb tea and sat with Ella for nearly half an hour, asking her every question he could think of about the man who had done the painting. But in the end her information was thin: he had come in one afternoon early last week, gone straight to the best paints and supplies, stacked them on the counter, and said that he was a great artist with no money but a painting he could give her in trade. He had then gone back downstairs—she had watched from the window—and brought back the canvas, framed, from the trunk of an early model red convertible Cadillac parked at the curb in front.
“How many blocks are we from St. Cecilia’s Church?” Shephard asked.
“Just three,” she said, then talked more about the strange painting, the humorless intensity of the man, his very near resemblance to the Identikit sketch that she now studied again. After a long pause she took the poodle up onto her ample lap and stroked its head. “Did he kill the old folks here in town?” Her eyes looked resigned.
Shephard nodded and touched the fluff of the dog’s head. “How much would you like for the painting?”
It fit nicely into the trunk of Shephard’s own convertible, which was parked, as the Cadillac had been, at the curb in front of Ella’s Corner.
With the evening traffic at its worst, Shephard took to the city on foot, moving north on the crowded sidewalk to the neighborhood overlooked by St. Cecilia’s Church.
His pace was quick, despite the throngs of tourists and beach-goers. He angled through the crowd, a lanky figure in a loose jacket, tall enough to be almost conspicuous, but otherwise unremarkable except for the Band-Aid that graced the bald spot on the back of his head.
Through a break in the buildings he saw the ocean, a smooth plate of bronze in the windless evening. The same ocean that had cradled Jane and him, he thought, and the same one that had swallowed Burton Creeley. He paused for a moment, as the pedestrians eddied around him, and witnessed the ocean as an admirer, perhaps a friend. The sun had begun its slow descent over Catalina, and Shephard could see the profile of the island, as choked in smog as the city of Santa Ana had been a few hours before. Then, back to the street where the shadows were as long and solid as dashes of gray-green paint.
Two blocks short of St. Cecilia’s he stopped again to survey the task before him. The west side of the highway was a solid front of shops, galleries, and apartments. To the east, the highway sprouted two hotels, a bed-and-breakfast house, and more galleries, the windows of which caught the sun and threw it back at him in bright rectangles of copper. With the stack of Identikit sketches in hand, he slipped through the crowd and into the first gallery, an incense-reeking little place called Outer Visions.
He was met by a huge canvas that hung on the far wall and easily dominated the dingy room with its electric blue hues. In the center of the painting was a life-sized depiction of Jimi Hendrix playing his guitar right-handed. The gallery manager sat at a desk, swamped in the smoke of incense rising from a brass burner in front of her. She eyed Shephard suspiciously through the blue smoke and finally rose to approach him.
He complimented her on the incense, which she said was homemade and named Hodgepodge. She showed a momentary interest in the Identikit but hadn’t seen such a man and promised to call if she did. He left a card and stepped back out to the highway to cleanse his Hodgepodge-filled head with the sharp aroma of the ocean.
One door north was the Haitian Experience. The gallery windows were filled with small, bright, primitive works on canvas and wood. The owner introduced herself as Beverly Doan and spoke with a chipper British accent about the “primitive heathenism,” “sensual innocence,” and “magical visions” of the Haitian painters. She explained that her largest seller was S. W. Bottex, a Haitian known for his childlike enthusiasm and innocent energy.
“You can see it all in this one,” she said, leading Shephard to one wall that was Bottex-covered. The scene was of an old man and a young girl sitting outside a wooden shed. Serene as the scene was, the canvas vibrated with hot pinks, bright yellows, and rich cinnamon reds.
Sensing his hesitation, Beverly Doan eased Shephard away from the Bottex to another wall featuring smaller paintings done on wood.
“You’ve probably never heard of some of these artists, and you probably never will,” she said matter-of-factly. “They are desperately poor men and women who live in the city and work night and day on their art. I’m biased, of course, but it all has an enchanted quality for me. It speaks of voodoo, poverty, sensuality.” She offered Shephard a quick smile. “But it’s never forlorn or bleak. The Haitians are a happy people and a spiritual people.”
Shephard brought Beverly Doan’s attention to the drab sketches in his hand and felt bad for interrupting her charming enthusiasm. Something as unhappy and dispirited as the search for a killer didn’t seem to fit with the Haitian Experience. She had seen the picture in the Tides and Times, and the face meant nothing to her.
“Think about one anyway,” she finally said. “A little Haiti can brighten up any home in the world.” She took his card with a polite smile and said she’d put him on the mailing list.
He continued, gallery after gallery, sketch after sketch, until the sun had gone down and the city hung in the brief penumbra of pre-darkness. Headlights flashed on, storefronts came alive for the night, traffic thinned, and the heartbeat of the city slowed for dinner, family, friends. The night was warm, and still no breeze had arrived. Shephard noted the last streak of orange over Catalina. He passed St. Cecilia’s Church and glanced in at the burnished silence of the chapel and the dark wooden c
ross that hung behind the altar. There were flowers and a white-robed father, with his back to Shephard, arranging them. The pews were empty but polished. A short block from the church he found another row of galleries. One specialized in seascapes, one in the work of a prominent Laguna artist, one in budget-priced posters.
But none of the owners had ever seen the man in Shephard’s Identikit.
Farther north he crossed the highway, jaywalking nimbly through the oncoming pairs of headlights. By then the stack of sketches in his hand was smaller, and the bottom ones were limp and ragged. He passed them out to the Gallery Andrea, the Coveside Gallery, and Gallery Laguna. Then the Jones/Churchill/Adams Gallery, the Gallery Panache, the Gallery Elite; Artiste’s, the Seaside Gallery, the House of Art, Svendell’s, Mason’s. Some of the owners had seen the Identikit—none had seen the man it pictured. Finally, his legs beginning to fatigue and his stomach gurgling for dinner, he stopped at a dark, dusty store called Charles’s, whose owner offered him a cup of coffee from a nineteenth-century cup and saucer.
Shephard declined the coffee and watched the man study the Identikit. His face reddened. He brought his hand across his hair—an involuntary urge to cover himself, Shephard thought—then shook his head slowly.
“No. No, I’m sorry,” he said finally. He gave Shephard a diluted smile. Shephard saw that his business cards, arranged in a porcelain tray atop the counter, said Charles Mitchell. “What did he do?”
“He killed two people in town, Mr. Mitchell. They were about your age. Good people.”
Charlie Mitchell’s hand shot again to his thinning hair. “The Fire Killer?”
“He’s still in town. He’s a painter. Trying to sell some of his work to the galleries. Maybe he tried you.” Shephard watched Charlie Mitchell lift his teacup with unsteady fingers. He sipped quickly, set down the cup, and sighed. “Have you seen him?”
“Dammit. I’m afraid … it might cost me.”
“Cost you what?”
“That depends on you.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to depend on me, Mr. Mitchell.”
The owner sighed again, then turned to a cabinet behind the counter. “Borderline, some of them,” he said with his back to Shephard. “The ones that work require a state and local check, as you well know. And a fifteen-day wait. The ones that don’t work are classified as antiques, and we sell them as-is, no forms, no wait.” He brought a large wooden case to the counter and lifted the lid. Inside were five derringers, and space for one more. “When a customer looks dependable, I’ll sell him a gun without the usual forms. I reason that anyone spending good money isn’t going to use it on someone else.”
Shephard pointed to the Identikit and Charlie Mitchell looked very disgusted with himself. His entire face lit with red; his ears seemed ready to bleed. “When?”
“Yesterday. Friday. An old Colt thirty-two. Jesus Christ. He was an old fellow and very polite. And he paid … oh hell, he paid cash.”
By nine o’clock Shephard had worked his way into the gay sector of town, the hub of which was the intersection of Crest Street and the highway. Things were still quiet, although the streets were beginning to fill up with the men who nightly crowded the bars, hotels, beaches, and stores until the early hours of morning.
At Valentine’s, the most popular gay bar/hotel in town, Shephard ran embarrassedly into an old schoolmate, who was about to show two men to their room when he looked at Shephard and smiled enthusiastically. He gave the key and instructions to an assistant—a boy who looked no older than fifteen—then shook Shephard’s hand politely. “I remember you from high school, I think,” he said. “I’m Ricky Hyams.”
“I remember you. Tom Shephard.” Shephard noted that Hyams had permed his hair and put on weight since he’d seen him last. He was dressed preppie—penny loafers, a pink golf shirt, and cotton trousers—and Shephard detected a hint of liner on the eyes.
“Are you looking for a room?” he asked happily.
“No, thank you,” Shephard answered, aware of the stares from two gentlemen who loitered near the lobby cigarette machine. “But I am looking for—”
“You’re a policeman, aren’t you? That’s right, you left for Los Angeles with Louise Childress right out of high school. Did you get married?”
“Yes, two years later.”
“How is she? Louise was always so funny.”
“Well, fine. It didn’t work out all that well.”
Hyams nodded understandingly and shot a quick glance to the men by the cigarettes. Then back to Shephard.
“It’s hard to get along. Always will be.”
When the assistant returned, Hyams left him in charge of the desk and led Shephard into Valentine’s main bar. The place was dark and still quiet. The disco music, strangely subdued, issued from two large wall speakers. A network of tiny lights on the ceiling and walls blipped to the beat of the music, pulsing with each quiet thump of the drum.
“We’ve got two dozen rooms upstairs and behind,” Hyams said proudly. “The dancing doesn’t start really happening until about ten. Food is good and everybody gets along. First time you’ve been in?”
Something in Ricky Hyams’s voice told Shephard that he was being looked on as a convert. He nodded abstractedly and handed Hyams the Identikit. In the beam of a small flashlight, Hyams studied the sketch momentarily, then looked up. It was apparent to Shephard that something in Hyams’s mood had changed.
“Never seen him,” he said with a tone of regret. “Sorry. He’d look better without the beard. Might try some of the other places. There’s the Little Shrimp or the Boom-Boom Room, you know.” Hyams gave Shephard the sketch and wiped his hands against his trousers. “If I see him I’ll give you a call, okay? I see lots of faces around here.”
“But not this one?”
“I already told you once.” Hyams sounded hurt. “And I promise I’ll call. Look, Tom, I’m getting ready for a big night. But come back earlier sometime. We can laugh about the old days at Laguna.”
Even at ten o’clock, when Shephard was approaching the last row of galleries south of the gay quarter, the night was still warm and balmy. He had tried the Little Shrimp and the Boom-Boom Room and been met with the same regrets, received the same promises to call if the man was seen.
In a brightly lit gallery called Laguna Sunsets, he found a tired woman counting out the register. She smiled wanly when he walked in. She counted out a thin stack of money and slid the drawer halfway back into the register. Still shuffling the bills in her hand, she glanced at the sketch that Shephard had laid on the counter in front of her and nodded.
“He came in this week,” she said. “Monday, maybe Tuesday. What’s he wanted for?”
“Murder.” She looked back down at the money in her hand and continued counting. Must have been a tough day, Shephard thought. Even murder doesn’t get a reaction. “Did he buy? Sell? What did he want?”
“Seller,” she said. “He had two canvases with him, and said he had more in the car.” She dropped the money in a sack and put the sack in her purse.
“And?”
“Couldn’t do it. Too bleak, too black. I sell art but I don’t sell gloom. Why should someone look at something that makes them feel dark inside?”
The question struck Shephard as deceptively simple, and the answer he gave seemed deceptively complete. “The same reason someone would paint it,” he said. “Because that’s how they are.”
“Then he was real dark, I’d say. He showed up a few days later. Yesterday, I think. He stuck his head in the door and said he didn’t need any cretin gallery owners anymore. Said he had a new car and lots of money. He pulled out a wad of bills and waved them at me. Robber, too?”
“Just a killer.”
“Well, at least he knows what he wants,” she said, turning the Yes We’re Open sign to Sorry We Missed You.
The woman’s exhaustion seemed to draw out his own. He walked her out of the shop and watched her disappear down the sidewalk, walk
ing slowly and stiffly. His car was waiting up the highway, two very long blocks away.
He drove out Laguna Canyon Road until he saw the willow tree sagging its green shadow over Jane’s house. A light was on inside, and when he parked he thought he saw her behind a window. He ran his hand through his hair and took a deep breath. Buster began yelping in his pen. He rang the doorbell twice, holding an Identikit sketch, his ostensible reason for coming there. Half wishing he hadn’t come, he rang again. Why is this so hard? Ah, he thought, footsteps from inside … but it was only the thump of Buster’s slick body on cement. From behind him the beast croaked with stupid verve. He felt a dribble of sweat making its way down his back, wondered if he smelled bad.
He rang once more, then turned away, started the Mustang and headed—for what reasons he wasn’t sure—to Tim Algernon’s stables up the road.
There was a light on at Tim’s house too, a feeble glow from the living room.
As the car crunched across Algernon’s driveway, the sound of the tires, the tall shadows of the eucalyptus, and the sight of Tim’s ranch house brought all the grim events of last Monday back to Shephard. Six days, he thought: two murders, no suspect in custody, no motive. He could see Jane’s father sprawled in the dust with a rock dividing his face, hear the mockingbird chattering away above him. And as he stepped from the car Shephard smelled smoke—the real thing, he thought—and with a sudden lurch of fear, searched the smell for something human.
The porch boards bent and creaked as he moved to a front window. Inside, the fireplace was alive with flames that cast an orange glow on the room. She sat on the floor facing the fire, her back to him, and a stack of cardboard filing cabinets beside her. She was wearing a blouse and jeans, and Shephard could see her hair held again by chopsticks, dark bangs curling across her forehead.
He knocked quietly on the door, and called out. A moment later she cracked it, studying him through the protective sliver, then pushed it open wide. He noted the puffiness of her eyes, the tissue in her hand. “You scared the hell out of me,” she said, closing the door behind him.
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