by Vicki Lane
The urge to make a list became overpowering. Elizabeth pulled herself up, wrapped a towel around her dripping body, and padded soggily to her bedside table. Taking a notepad and pen from the drawer, she returned to the bath, noting that the warmth was just right. She stretched luxuriously in the scented water and began to write, holding the notepad high.
Her first entry, in big block letters, was BE OBJECTIVE! She smiled and began her list.
1.
Check out MP past— newspaper stories, friends (who?)
She paused. But the real question is Boz. Did Peterson kill him? Kyra’s convinced he did— or at least made it happen. But who else might be a possibility? Willow was saying something about blackmail— that Boz had something on someone. I’ll try to find out from Kyra what Willow said.
2.
Willow/Kyra— what blackmail?
And at the opening, that flamboyant bald guy who got so pissed when Boz shot a picture of his crotch— he’s the one with a gallery who was going to be giving The 3 a show— the photos from the performance piece. But Boz destroyed the cameras and someone destroyed Boz. So there’s no more 3. But what was the name of the gallery?
3.
Kyra— name of gallery/owner?
And the crushed-car artist and the junkyard operator— I need to find out more about them.
4.
Junkyard guys
was added to the list followed by Laurel’s name.
It’s a start. I know Phillip’s supposed to be looking into all this, not to mention the police, but if all of them think Kyra might have burned down her own house… The intoxicating fumes of the lavender oil filled her nostrils. Elizabeth tossed the pen and pad onto the pile of folded towels resting on the small chair behind the tub, extricated a gardening magazine from under the towels, lay back, and began to read.
* * *
She awoke with a start. The water was cool and English Gardens was lying open on her belly. Or rather, floating.
With a sigh of disgust, Elizabeth lifted the sodden magazine and let it drip, then laid it gently on the towels. She yanked the drain plug loose and the water began to run out with a mocking gurgle.
When she was in the oversize T-shirt that was her nightgown, she turned her attention to the magazine, hoping that it could be salvaged. Carefully, she spread it open to a double-page photograph of a luxuriant garden. Roses cascaded from trellises, arbors, and trees— in all shades of pink, coral, and red. The title shouted in bold turquoise print: “Don’t Forget the Rose.”
She blinked, trying to focus her eyes and her mind. For a few seconds she stood there, staring at the soggy pages. Then she wrote on her notepad: There’s always a previous murder.
CHAPTER 9
QUERY AT THE QUERY
(FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 2)
QUERY, THE ASHEVILLE GALLERY THAT HAD BEEN slated to exhibit the photographs from The 3’s ill-fated performance piece, was on a street lined with galleries, antique stores, and an ever-changing array of restaurants. As she hurried along, just a step behind the fast-moving Laurel, Elizabeth noticed a place where she had eaten lunch with a friend back in the spring. At that time it had been a serene, expensively tasteful establishment, sparely decorated in shades of gray and serving even sparer Asian fusion cuisine. Now it was painted with a dizzying kaleidoscope of patterns in hot tropical colors and called itself Jerk Kitchen. It was, however, closed and a sign on the door read Coming soon— In the Raw— A Natural Foods Eatery.
“So, Laur,” Elizabeth called after her daughter, hoping to slow her pace, “reckon it’s a clothing-optional restaurant?”
“Oh, Mum!” Laurel paused in her long-legged stride. “You need to get out more. Raw food—it’s a big deal just now. They do all kinds of fancy stuff with juicers and dehydrators and they never heat the food above, oh, like 115 degrees. That way all the enzymes are preserved. They say it’s really the only healthy way to eat because you get the complete nourishment from the food.”
…to the nourishments of our bodies… thought Elizabeth, remembering the blessing Phillip had stumbled through and the bountiful meal, all no doubt cooked at well over 115 degrees. And Aunt Omie is way up in her eighties and spry and sharp. My god, I bet she even uses lard. What would the food police say? A picture formed in her mind of Aunt Omie chasing the food police— an earnest cadre of hemp-clad, Birkenstocked vegans and fruitarians— out of her kitchen with a broom.
“Mum! You’re grinning like an idiot!” Laurel tugged impatiently at Elizabeth’s arm. “What is so funny? No, never mind, I don’t even want to know; just hurry up. Carter agreed to talk to us at eleven but said he could only give us about fifteen minutes.” Like an anxious sheepdog, Laurel herded her mother down the sidewalk toward the gallery.
It was Friday morning and the streets were busy. Casually dressed tourists, many carrying multiple shopping bags, strolled along, wandering in and out of the various shops. Self-important professional types in impeccable suits hurried by, cell phones firmly affixed to their ears. And here and there, in little clots on the sidewalks, the street kids of Asheville expressed their individuality with their dreadlocks, tattoos, body piercings, and curiously uniform clothing. They sprawled across the pavement, lounging on their bulging knapsacks, arguing, eating, smoking, reading, and sleeping. Girls in long skirts added to the impression of a gypsy encampment.
“All that’s missing is a little campfire and a kettle hanging from a tripod. They could make stew from pigeons,” Elizabeth muttered to herself. She hurried after Laurel, detouring around a young woman who was executing a self-absorbed little dance, swaying and waving her arms languidly to the hollow tones of a long wooden flute played by a bearded man.
“Mum, this is it.” Laurel gestured to a broad display window. Inside, an arrangement of rounded forms poured across the floor. Three birdlike objects crafted from rust-covered metal and suspended on thin wires hovered above the— were they river rocks?— pottery? The placard in the window simply read Intermezzo— a mixed-media installation.
As they pushed through heavy glass doors banded with pristine brass, the heat and bustle of the streets gave way to an air-conditioned chill and a hushed, somewhat reverential, and definitely expensive, atmosphere.
“Well, Laurel, you just made it.” A slender young man in a black silk shirt and exquisitely tailored trousers oozed from behind a desk. He arched an eyebrow as he looked at his gold wristwatch. “You know how anal Carter is about punctuality— among other things.” The last was delivered in an undertone and accompanied by a smirk.
Without waiting for a reply, he continued. “He’s in his office—” Then he hesitated, regarding Elizabeth with suspicion. His gaze took her in from head to foot— the long gray-shot braid, the loose linen shirt and non-designer jeans. And the sneakers— Elizabeth suddenly wondered if they bore evidence of her stop-off to feed the chickens before heading in to Asheville. The constriction around the young man’s nostrils suggested that they did.
Hastily, she moved away to study a wall hanging that consisted of stained white satin covered with rusted straight pins in swirling rows. Behind her she could hear the pained question, “And this…lady is with you?”
“Yes, Anthony, she is.” Laurel lowered her voice slightly. “She’s a collector— a little eccentric but a definite player. She has a summer home near here and she’s buying art for it. She usually concentrates on the big names— Lee Krasner, Chuck Close, Cindy Sherman— but she’s decided to branch out to some regional and emerging artists. I met her— Well, it’s a long story. But I owe Carter a favor, so I’m bringing her in to see what he has to show her.”
“Well…I had no idea—” From the corner of her eye Elizabeth could see the young man smoothing back his dark hair and straightening his impeccable tie.
“I know you didn’t, Anthony.” Laurel raised her voice. “Elizabeth, I’ll take you back to see Carter now.”
The QuerY occupied a large four-storied corner building, previously a car
dealership. The old brick walls, some painted white, some burnished to a soft rosy hue, together with beautifully refinished hardwood floors, formed a striking backdrop for the varied artworks on display. Huge abstract paintings in sea greens and indigo blues dominated one wall, while the central area of the gallery was given over to more of the rusted metal birds— if they were birds.
Elizabeth followed her daughter toward a door at the back marked Private. They picked their way through an obstacle course of rectangular white pedestals, each supporting a slightly different tangle of some fibrous material. Elizabeth glanced at a placard under one particularly random-looking mass and shuddered when she saw the price.
“Not her best work.” Laurel’s comment was thrown over her shoulder as she continued toward Dixon’s office. “But it sells.”
“Laurel, wait a minute.” Elizabeth stopped by a triptych featuring a delicately painted nude stretched out across three panels. A beautiful woman with a perfect body— all of it covered by quite realistically rendered fuzzy spiders. Elizabeth shuddered again.
“I can’t believe you told that guy all those lies. You’re not going to tell Carter Dixon I’m a rich collector, are you? It is not a role I could sustain for over a minute— if that.”
“Relax, Mum. I was just messing with Anthony. He’s such a self-important little jerk now that he’s Carter’s flavor-of-the-month. Don’t worry, it’s cool. Carter’s always liked me ever since I worked here that summer. God knows why; I’m definitely not his type. But anyway, when I called, I told him we were trying to help Kyra and Aidan and I mentioned you and Phillip and how Phillip’s helping—”
“There is no ‘me and Phillip’—” But Elizabeth’s words were lost as Laurel rapped on the door and was answered by a curt “Come.”
The room they entered was large and airy. One wall was covered with bookshelves from floor to ceiling; another was hung with a series of large black-and-white photographs that at first Elizabeth took to be abstractions but on inspection resolved themselves into fragments of seashells— every whorl and spine in close detail.
A huge desk— one long slab of some highly polished purplish-brown wood— faced a row of windows that looked out on a small courtyard. A man, his back to them, was speaking into the telephone. Without looking around he motioned imperiously to a black leather sofa against the wall. Laurel and Elizabeth wordlessly sank into its deep cushions and waited.
“Yes, I know about the Guggenheim. But this is the South, David, and the veritable buckle of the proverbial Bible Belt. Buyers are just a tad conservative down here…. Well, send me the slides and I’ll take a look….No, they haven’t!… Well, I think we saw it coming…. Listen, David, I have people in my office; we’ll talk later.” A chuckle. “No such luck. Later.”
The phone dropped to the desk and the high-backed chair whirled around. “Laurel, my darling, you’re here at last.” Carter Dixon was on his feet and leaning down to kiss the air beside Laurel’s right ear. “And your charming mother?” He took Elizabeth’s hand and bent the polished dome of his head in an approximation of a Continental salute, then straightened and appraised her.
“Yes, I think I see the likeness— the same, shall we say, free spirit and indifference to fashion.” He dropped back into his chair and leaned forward earnestly, all his attention directed to Laurel. “And how may I help?”
Laurel stood and walked over to the windows. She gazed out, unconsciously twisting one beaded dreadlock— a nervous habit Elizabeth had thought abandoned years ago. Then she came back to perch on the arm of the sofa. “Carter, I don’t actually know that you can help…. But we had to start somewhere. Like I told you on the phone, my mother and I are trying to help Kyra and Aidan. Mainly we just want to clear up some questions about the performance at the museum. I mean, I know the police are investigating, but Kyra says—”
“The police!” Dixon waved his hand dismissively. “A herd of yokels. Do you know I had them in here last year when there’d been a break-in and the officer in charge tried to impound Marbuto’s installation? They were sure it was evidence— lovely fragile shards of lightbulbs and the inflated surgical gloves, so evocative— you saw that one, of course?”
“Powerful.” Laurel nodded. “He definitely speaks to a certain—”
“Mr. Dixon,” Elizabeth overrode her daughter’s voice. “What can you tell us about the performance piece at the museum? Were you surprised by the way it ended?”
The gallery owner turned a quizzical face toward her. He seemed to be weighing his response. “Well…the fire extinguisher was a surprise. Marilou is still trying to decide who she can take to court. That dress was an original…or so she says. Personally, I think Boz did her a favor. Turquoise! No one wears turquoise now!”
“But the outburst, the destruction of the…the piece,” Elizabeth persisted. “Did you know that was going to happen?”
“My dear, of course. I was there when they came up with the idea. Months ago.” Dixon’s smile was a nice mixture of pity and tolerance. “I had them to dinner in my apartment upstairs so we could finalize plans for the show I’m giving them here. And I need to talk to you about that, Laurel. I want you to—”
“Wait a minute,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Was it part of the plan for all the cameras to be destroyed? How could there be a show then…with no photos?”
Again, Dixon waved his hand airily. “Those cameras that Boz trashed were dummies. The 3 switched cameras just before the big scene. And we’d planted three other people in the crowd with cameras— Cory and Candace were shooting stills and Judith had a videocam. Oh, we’ve got it all. No worries there. As soon as Kyra pulls herself together and prints the pictures, we’ll do the show.”
He leaned back with a smug smile. “And the sooner the better, while everyone’s still talking about it. What about it, Laurel? Do you think Kyra’s ready to get to work?”
“Carter, give her a break…. Boz is dead, Aidan’s in jail, and did you know her house burned down a few nights ago?”
Laurel’s voice was fierce but Carter Dixon seemed unperturbed. “Well, thank god I have the cameras here. You just tell Kyra what I said— the sooner the better. She can do this on her own. In fact, from a publicity point of view…” His eyes closed and his voice grew thoughtful. “Yes, I think I see the angle…the brave survivor, making her art against all odds. The Courtney Love/Yoko Ono shtick.”
He rocked gently back and forth in the chair. Its butter-smooth gray leather cradled his body and set off perfectly his narrow black trousers and sage green silk shirt. One glossy black loafer tapped rhythmically on the pale gold of the bare oak floor. “Yes, this could be really big for her. But she’s got to get her head out of her ass and get busy. The show’s booked for next month.”
Laurel hesitated. “I don’t know…for sure you’re right about the publicity. But can she do it alone?”
“Laurel, my love, Kyra can do it if she wants it badly enough. You talk to her and tell her that I have to have a definite commitment from her by Monday morning. Otherwise I’ll have to hustle around and put together another show. Tell her that I’m sorry for her loss and all the usual but if she wants a show at QuerY, this is her chance. I don’t usually give shows to artists as little known as The 3.”
“Then how did you come to offer to do a show for them in the first place?”
Elizabeth’s question seemed to catch Dixon off-guard. He looked at her with quizzical amusement, as if surprised by her persistence. Then he leaned back in his chair, locking his fingers together across his chest.
“Well, dear lady, one must venture…and, as a matter of fact, I agreed to the show as a favor to a dear friend— a friend who, I may say, insists on anonymity.” A tight little smile said that the anonymity would be preserved.
“Someone told me,” said Laurel, “that you did it as a favor to Boz.”
“Boz!” Dixon spat the word. “Well, my dear, someone was mistaken. De mortuis and all that, but Boz was one of the l
ast people in the world I’d do a favor for. Great loud-mouthed, ugly poseur. Boz may have fooled everyone else but his was not the talent behind The 3.”
Dixon stood and paced across the floor, pausing to study his reflection in the glass of one of the photographs. “Laurel, my love, can we wrap this up? I have an important client coming by soon.”
“One more thing, Mr. Dixon.” Elizabeth stood, swinging her purse onto her shoulder. “Who do you think might have wanted Boz dead?”
Dixon whirled to face them. “The list is long, I should think. Boz did have one major talent and that was pissing off the wrong people. Or should I say on?” His voice was venomous.
The gallery owner smirked. “Literally, my dears. He was an animal. The night I had The 3 to dinner to plan the show, we were out in the rooftop garden having coffee and liqueurs. Boz was leaning over the railing, watching people down on the sidewalk and making unkind comments about most of them. Then, before I know what’s happening, he’s climbing up on the railing and calling out, absolutely bellowing, ‘This is for you, you double-crossing fucker.’ And he pulls out his schlong and starts pissing on someone below.” His face expressed a delicate revulsion. “Well, if I hadn’t already committed myself to the show, I think I would have backed out at once. Too disgusting. But there it was. Anyway, the great lout just stood there laughing. Finally he climbed down, zipped up, and got another drink. He muttered something about someone who screwed him in a deal of some kind.”
Dixon seemed to have forgotten his meeting with the important client. He leaned against his desk and lowered his voice. “I’ve heard that Boz was involved with some meth lab out in Marshall County— why else would he have dragged Kyra and Aidan out to that godforsaken farmhouse? They had cows, of all things, practically in their backyard. The only place I want to see a cow is as Steak Diane.” There was a thoughtful pause. “…or in one of those formaldehyde installations the Saatchi did so well with…. But where was I? Oh yes, Boz— why Aidan and Kyra ever got involved with him is a mystery to me— beyond a certain, shall we say, brute energy, Boz really contributed very little. For example it was Aidan— no, perhaps it was Kyra who came up with the plan for Boz’s outburst and disappearance. It was that very night— I had explained to them how a certain amount of buzz would help the sale of their photographs. Of course, as it’s turned out…”