A Woman’s Eye

by Sara Paretsky

  Now, despite my neat avoidance of the subject, Rico would have to be told. I could no longer convince myself that it was just a prank. Perhaps professional jealousy was the poison here. How many times had Catherine pointed out how young Rico was? Other artists, embittered after years of struggle, might also resent Rico’s success.

  The delicious smell of vegetables sizzling in sesame oil filled the kitchen. Rico stirred them, then grated fresh ginger into the wok.

  “Was that Catherine? I thought I heard her voice but it sounded kind of funny.”

  Time to plunge in. Lettuce begin, I thought. “She’s worried. She, uh …” Orange you going to tell him? I demanded of myself. “She found a newspaper article. Slipped under the galleiy door. A picture of you and one of your paintings. It was cut and the edge was stained with something that looked like dried blood.”

  Rico dribbled tamari over the vegetables and I went on. “That’s the second time. The first was eight days ago. It looks like someone is threatening you, Rico.”

  He set the wooden stirrer on the stove. “Me? Who would threaten me?”

  His bewilderment was genuine. I hated asking him to think the way I’d been thinking, off and on, for the past week, but I had to. “Another artist, maybe? Someone whose girl you stole? Someone you had an argument with at the record store?”

  With each suggestion he shook his head. “None of the above. Listen, I get to have my first gallery opening once in my life. And nobody-no nameless enemy, no one playing jokes-nobody is going to keep me from enjoying it.”

  He smiled at me and stopped just short of admonishing me to do the same.

  It was ten after five when the taxi deposited me at the curb in front of the gallery. Fat snowfiakes drifted lazily to the ground, dusting everything with a sugary whiteness. No wind, temperature hovering near thirty. If I could let go of the nagging anxiety that had kept me company all afternoon, the weather might even feel festive.

  I pushed open the door and surveyed the gallery.

  The minifioods cast an even, untinted light on the paintings. White movable walls, arranged with enough angles to keep the space from feeling predictable, carried attention to the paintings rather than to the room itself. False modesty aside, Catherine and I had done a superb job of hanging this show and of placating artists’ egos, sensitive to such questions as which was the better wall and what critics would see first when they entered the gallery.

  Rico’s large canvases, those faces emerging from abstract swirls of strong, clear colors, hung at the far end of the room. To the left of the door, a profusion of tiny paintings-florals a la O’Keeffe but signed Siandra-dotted the wall. On the right, Ken Artie’s monochromatic, detailed landscapes of New England scenes served as somber balance. The total effect was stunning.

  “Hello. Anybody here?” I called.

  “I’ll be out in a moment.”

  The voice was exactly as I remembered, a rich baritone, a little haughty but approachable, redolent of old money and Harvard.

  I brushed the snow from my hair and peeled off my gloves, took off my coat, and shook it.

  “Very fetching. You look like a Mary Cassatt, high-necked demure dress, dark eyes.” Patrick was tall, golden-haired, and polished; if he had been bald, he would have resembled an Oscar statuette wearing a gray wool suit.

  “Thanks. I think. How do you like it?” I said, sweeping my arm to take in the whole room.

  A flicker of something I didn’t understand shone in his eyes. “You’ve both done a fine job of it,” he said. “Fine.”

  I gathered my coat and walked toward the small rear office, thinking about faint praise and damning myself for not pursuing my uneasiness over his feelings about the gallery. “Catherine’s a little nervous about tonight,” I said as I deposited the Johnnie Walker in a desk drawer. “She’s done a wonderful job. She has some terrific artists.”

  “Even if you do say so yourself.” His voice was flat.

  When I walked back into the gallery, he was standing in front of one of Rico’s paintings, arms crossed against his chest, the habitual skeptic’s pose. His head was tilted; considering that he was a corporate attorney, his hair curled toward his collar in an almost decadent way.

  The man had taste. This was the painting on the invitation, the one in the newspaper. Catherine and Rico had chosen carefully; it was the best work Rico had ever done. The painting surged with compressed power that swept the eye to the upper left quadrant where a web of magenta lines delineated eyes, nose, mouth, and a spidery jumble of hair amid the gradations of blue and gray. If I squinted, it really did resemble Rico. Particular about titles, he had called it Feature This.

  “I’m terribly old-fashioned,” Patrick said, stepping back from the canvas. “I believe that paintings should be of recognizable things, that music should have a melody one can hum, and that books should tell a story.”

  And that women belong in the kitchen and the bedroom? I wondered. “Well, then it’s a good thing Catherine has such an eclectic trio of artists. Something for everyone, you might say.”

  “Old-fashioned doesn’t mean ineducable. Maybe someday I’ll get the point of these paintings.” Patrick’s smile made him look less like the portrait of a disapproving Mather paterfamilias-Cotton, not Jerry-and more like someone my friend Catherine might fall in love with. “Anything I can do to help?” he asked.

  “Thanks, but it’s all under control. Bound to be surprises-there always are-but as far as I can tell, there’s nothing to do now.”

  Patrick’s gaze swept the room. “How about if I dice up this meat?” he said as he held up a crusty, wrinkled Italian salami.

  “The caterer would kill me if I let anyone else touch her food.” The knife lay on the table, gleaming fiercely in the light. I wanted to hide it, throw it away.

  The door swung open and the harpist and her unwieldy burden stumbled in. I pointed her to a corner to practice and busied myself with checking artists’ statements, price lists, champagne glasses, half listening as she brought David’s composition to life. The music was solid, lithe, fanciful, substantial; the notes flew around the room or marched, as the theme changed.

  I couldn’t wait to see David. I shifted some of my anxiety to concern about his plane landing in the snow, pushed away the imagined sight of Rico’s face with a raw scar running down his cheek, left my worries in one corner of my mind while I attended to the problem of the three cases of Chablis that had arrived instead of the champagne I’d ordered.

  By six forty-five, the caterer’s assistant had replaced the wine, everything else was in order, and I was holding David’s hand. His tumbled hair glistened with snow and his smile as the music spilled from the harp thrilled me nearly as much as his whispered description of how he intended to make up for lost time.

  I had just finished telling him about this morning’s slashed newspaper when the door flew open and Catherine hurried in, stomping her feet and rubbing her hands.

  “This is terrible. No one’s going to come out in this weather. The press will be covering the first snow of the season and the opening will be a flop. The whole thing is a terrible idea, and the critics are going to crucify me.” She shrugged out of her coat, mumbling all the way to the back room.

  In fact, it had crossed my mind that the weather might keep some people away. I wondered if our correspondent would show up. Unless he (she?) was already here.

  “Nonsense. The same reporters don’t cover snow and gallery openings, you know that. The guest list is loaded with people with a personal interest in you, the artists, or being seen at the new and happening place. And tonight, my dear, this is it.”

  Catherine tried not to smile. “You really think so?”

  “I’m sure of it.” Patrick took her in his arms. “You look wonderful. Your artists are marvelous and Porterfield’s is going to be a success.”

  So supportive for someone who just a while ago told me how much he favored traditional values, at least in art and music.
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br />   Just then the door tinkled and a round woman swathed in a rainbow of gauzy stuff, a gold turban wound around her head, undulated toward the coat rack. “Cath-er-ine,” she purred. “The ten of pentacles in the future spot! I did a reading on the gallery and that’s what it said. Pentacles! Money, money, money. The tarot never lies.” She blew on her fingers and frowned. “Isn’t it cold in here?”

  The thermostat was set for seventy but the red temperature indicator pointed to sixty. This was one of those things that ages an event coordinator beyond the mere passage of time. Like the broken water pipe outside the Central Park tent where four elephants were waiting for their cue in the benefit performance of Aïda, this was something I had to fix.

  I soon discovered that the only piece of electrical equipment not on a circuit breaker was the furnace. By the time I found a fuse, installed it, and then made the necessary repairs to my dress and makeup, the party was well under way.

  I scanned the bright, noisy crowd for Rico. A man in a dark suit and white shirt nodded to me: one of Frankie’s NYPD buddies, no doubt. Any others would be easy to spot, too. The invited guests dressed along a fashion continuum from Hell’s Angels chic to Kamali slouch, with hardly any room for Brooks Brothers, faux or vrai.

  I finally spotted Rico on the other side of the room. I would not transmit my worries to him. I would not, tonight of all nights, be the hovering, overprotective mother. I would not ruin this celebration.

  The lighting and the harp music and the tinkle of glasses and conversation were festive; I couldn’t help smiling as Rico, elegant in a camel-colored sweater and dark slacks, walked through the crowd toward me.

  “You want a name tag? How about ‘Capobella’s Mother’?” Rico, his arm around David, grinned down at me. Frankie Fretelli stood nearby, clutching his glass half filled with amber liquid.

  “A chiaroscuro mom in a rocking chair? No, thanks.” I hugged Rico, a little longer than he would have liked but a little shorter than would have pleased me. He was beautiful, radiating pleasure from his smile, from his perfect, unmarred skin. “The paintings look wonderful,” I whispered as I kissed his cheek and squeezed his arm.

  “Thanks. So do you.” He kissed me back; then a leather-skirted lady appeared, slipped her arm through his, and led him into a thicket of well-wishers in the middle of the floor. Frankie stuck close behind him.

  “You’re Rico’s friend?” A blue-eyed, platinum-haired, classically handsome young man stood beside me. A smile crinkled his face. In his right hand he held a champagne flute. The cast on his left arm was cradled in a sling, as fresh and white as his shirt and the scarf around his neck.

  “How did you know?”

  “I saw the two of you talking.” He shifted his arm.

  I nodded; I would make pleasant talk with this fellow and not pursue Rico, with my eyes, all over the room. “I hope you’re not left-handed and not a painter.”

  “I’m not a painter. I’m an aficionado. A particular fan of Rico’s.” He sipped from the champagne glass. “Can I get you some?”

  “Thanks, no.” I craned my neck to look for David’s tousled head, which should have been towering above the crowd. I caught Catherine’s eye; she beamed back a message of gratitude.

  “So Rico’s living with his girlfriend now, right? They must be really serious about each other. I mean, to be living together.” The young man’s gaze flitted around the room, resting for microseconds here and there. Then he turned to look at me; his eyes were blue, intense, and direct.

  The conversation had taken a decidedly personal turn. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Peter. Peter Webster.”

  Harp music wafted through the din; the angel with blond hair and a cast on his arm grinned at me, but before I could say anything, Rico materialized at my right side. His worried eyes scanned the crowd. “You see Laura yet? I thought she’d be here by now.”

  “She’ll be here soon,” I assured him. Now I could worry about her, too. I expected that Laura, who had seemed almost as excited about the opening as Rico, would have been here an hour ago. His leather-clad lady called his name and he winked at me and walked away.

  He hadn’t said a word to this supposed friend standing beside me. Not even hello.

  “You’ve known Rico a long time?” I smiled because it seemed the thing to do.

  “We’ve got a mutual friend,” he said, his pale face expressionless. “You’re his mother aren’t you?”

  My smile this time was genuine. “It shows, doesn’t it?”

  “Since Rico came into my life, I can’t work, can’t concentrate.”

  Before I could ask why, he turned and was gone, maneuvering through the crowd to the large silver coffee urn.

  He’d said he was a fan. But he never really said a fan of the paintings. It was Rico himself. He had a crush on Rico, and Rico, trying to discourage Peter, was ignoring him.

  I stepped back to let someone pass and almost bumped into Catherine. “The Times critic told someone that Rico is a-quote-bright new talent-unquote,” she said. “I really am soaring.” And she drifted away, not quite on the ground.

  The crowd should have been thinning but, apparently reluctant to go out into the snow, they continued to pick over the last crumbs of pat£ and drain the last sips of wine. Rico was at my side again, beaming as the front door flew open. “There’s Laura. I wonder how things worked out with her boyfriend. She was going to tell him that she’s ready to start seeing him again.”

  Snow swirling around her head, Laura waved and stepped inside. Rico went to greet her.

  I let out my breath and relaxed. The evening was almost over. David was here, Laura was here, and no one had tried to cut Rico’s face. Rico and Laura swept toward the champagne table. As I followed their progress, I noticed the young man, Peter what’s-his-name, standing with his back to Rico’s largest canvas.

  Sling knotted at his neck, Peter held his good arm up. His thumb and forefinger closed into a circle and he held the circle up to his eye. As though he were looking through a lens.

  As Laura had, that first morning I met her.

  Her filmmaker boyfriend.

  He was neither admirer nor art aficionado. His questions now made sense, not like Catherine-questions at all, but attempts to trick me into offering him information to confirm his suspicions.

  I was half a room away. Peter backed up, two large steps, his fingers still held to his eye like a make-believe camera.

  The air, vibrating with chatter and laughter and harp music, parted as I pushed my way toward Peter.

  A glint of light caught an object in his right hand. A silver pen, perhaps, or a cigarette lighter. Or a knife.

  He took a step toward one of Rico’s paintings, arm raised.

  “Stop!” I screamed as I pushed past three people who stood frozen between me and Peter.

  I was two steps away when Peter’s arm came down, dragging the knife across a corner of the canvas. I could almost hear the image-face scream, could almost feel the ooze of warm blood and fluid leak through the rent cloth. Peter pulled the knife out and raised his arm again.

  I grabbed his elbow and slid my hand down to his forearm. I dug my thumb into the soft inner flesh of his wrist. The knife clattered to the floor and I snatched it up.

  “What are you doing?” I snapped.

  Someone took the knife from me. Frankie clamped his beefy hand on Peter’s good arm.

  “I was evening the score,” Peter said, his body slack as Frankie led him toward the door. “A little suffering. A little pain. For both of them. For the hurt I feel every time I think of them together.” His misplaced jealousy and those sad, beautiful eyes filled his twisted angel-face.

  Shocked and pale, Rico put his arm around me. “My painting … I’m glad you …” He shook his head and drew me closer; we watched Laura run to Peter.

  Tears spilled over onto her cheeks when Peter shrugged away from her touch. Poor girl, all she had wanted was some quiet.


  I turned away from her pain and found myself staring at the square white card beside the painting. In neat letters, dark and clear, it announced the title of the painting: Feature This.

  The self-portrait.

  Rico’s face had been slashed.

  “Mom, it’s a pretty small rip,” Rico said, examining the canvas, “Don’t get all torn up about it. You stopped him just in the nick of time.”

  I didn’t feel at all casual but I joined the old game anyway. “Maybe someday what happened tonight will seem like just another slice of life.”

  Rico hugged me a good, long time and then smiled sadly. “I wonder if it’s always like this out here on the cutting edge.”

  Born in South Africa, GILLIAN SLOVO has lived in England since she was twelve, A journalist and television producer, she has written several excellent mystery novels featuring London-based Kate Baeier, including Morbid Symptoms and Death by Analysis.

  LOOKING FOR THELMA

  Gillian Slovo

  I was in the middle of doing my accounts when the doorbell rang. Or, to be more accurate, my accounts were in the middle of doing me. The center column was being cooperative: it was the ones either side of it that were making trouble.

  The bell sounded again. I ignored it: I didn’t feel like visitors, and besides, I’d just made a momentous decision. I’d decided to compromise-a few pence to the left subtracted from the right would achieve the proper balance. It wasn’t entirely on the level, but if the customs and excise noticed, all they would learn was what they must already know-namely, that I couldn’t add to save my life.

  “The door was open,” a timid voice said.

  Frowning at the distraction, I looked toward the door. My eyes came to rest not on a face but on a wide patent-leather belt. I shifted my gaze upward.