Art's Blood

by Vicki Lane

  “Yeah, I don’t think there’s any doubt that Boz had some dealings with a meth lab. Hank said that if Boz hadn’t turned up dead, he would probably have been arrested soon. Evidently they have the lab under surveillance, hoping to identify all the manufacturers and distributors.”

  “What about your buddy Travis?”

  “They’re not sure. They think the junkyard’s used for distribution but it may be happening without Travis’s knowledge. That’s part of why they haven’t made a bust yet— waiting to see if they can get something on Travis.”

  There was a tap on the window and Elizabeth turned to see Ben, leaning down and grinning knowingly. Somewhat reluctantly, she climbed out of the car into the dusty heat of the parking lot.

  “…heading out to pick up some sandwiches but I’ll be back in a few,” Ben was saying. He pointed to a set of skeletal iron steps that snaked up to a blue-painted door on the second story. “The quickest way to the studio is up that fire escape. It’s kind of our personal entrance. Kyra’s just inside the door waiting to show you the way. You’ll need a guide; the place is like a maze.” He turned to go, then stopped. “By the way, Aunt E, I forgot to pick up that sketchbook of Kyra’s. Did you bring it with you, by any chance?”

  “Sorry, Ben. I left it for you in the workshop and forgot to check to see if you’d gotten it.”

  Her nephew frowned. “Well, hell. She’s been kinda bugging me about it.” He brightened. “I’ll just have to come back in tomorrow and bring it to her then, I guess.”

  The fire escape rattled unnervingly as they climbed it. “I never have liked these things,” muttered Elizabeth. “Not since fire drills back in grammar school.”

  “Maybe there’s another way up—” Phillip eyed the rust-covered handrail. Several of the bolts that held it to the side of the building were missing. “Sure doesn’t look like this thing gets much use.”

  The blue door swung open and Kyra smiled down at them. “Elizabeth! And Phillip! I’ve been waiting for you.” She met them, hands outstretched, as they reached the landing at the top. Though little more than a week had passed since her hair had been shorn, a fine golden down covered her scalp. The black clothing that she had worn as one of The 3 was gone, and she wore a very short dress comprised of a white satin slip with a floating transparent overlay of the palest apricot. Her eyes seemed a deeper green; her previously pallid complexion showed hints of gold. The nose ring was gone, replaced by a tiny emerald stud. Only the tattoos were the same. And the eyelashes, thought Elizabeth, watching Kyra gazing up at Phillip as she clasped his hand in both of hers.

  “I’m so glad you came. My studio is back this way.” She seemed to have forgotten to let go of Phillip, and she tugged him along after her through narrow hallways and strange open spaces.

  The Candlestation, according to the map Elizabeth had perused on the way over, took its name from one of the businesses it housed. Dating from the final years of the nineteenth century, when it had been built as a tannery, it was actually a pair of buildings, one in front of the other, joined by a kind of enclosed bridge. As she followed along after Kyra and Phillip, Elizabeth had a quick impression of small studios, one after another, giving way to dark hallways and crumbling walls.

  At one point they passed through a large open area where rubber mats and traffic cones seemed to define a course of some kind and the words “…obedience training…lots of dogs…” drifted back to her as she hurried to keep up.

  At last they arrived at a glossy red door. Kyra stopped and gestured down the hall. “There are a few more studios back here: a potter and a wreath maker— you’d enjoy seeing her stuff, Elizabeth. And there’s a community kitchen down at that end with a pay phone and a bathroom. But the studios on either side of me are empty right now, so I lock the door when I leave.” She twirled the dial on the combination lock that secured a shiny new hasp.

  The studio was a long narrow room. All the walls had been recently painted a severe white, and the old wooden floors seemed to have received several coats of varnish. The half of the room that the door opened into was given over to display of framed drawings, paintings, and mixed-media pieces. A table draped with a piece of heavy old celadon-green brocade held a pile of brochures and a tall cut-glass vase filled with roses of every hue. Beside the door a VCR sat atop a television showing scenes from the show at the Museum of Art. Elizabeth started as Boz’s big, acne-pitted face filled the screen, mugging for the video camera.

  Kyra extended an arm and made a sweeping gesture. “Ben helped with all the painting and varnishing. I couldn’t have been ready for the stroll if he hadn’t come in almost every night. And that reminds me, Elizabeth—” The delicate face, shockingly beautiful, the eyes seeming larger than ever, smiled up at her. “Did you remember to bring my sketchbook? Ben’s just hopeless. I told him I really needed it—”

  “Oh, Kyra, I’m hopeless too. I meant to check the shop to see if he’d gotten it, but I was running late and drove right by without thinking about it.”

  The angelic smile disappeared and Kyra turned away. Her voice was brittle. “It’s okay. I had just—” She broke off on seeing two women enter the studio.

  “Kyra honey, I love your hair!” squealed the taller of the two, a lean, tanned woman in a linen shift, the probable price of which, Elizabeth decided, meant that its color would be described as aubergine rather than muddy purple. The tall woman leaned down to kiss the air just beyond Kyra’s ear. “It’s charming. I just wish I dared—”

  “Kyra!” The second woman, a plump, deep-bosomed little person with shaggy, streaked blonde hair, grasped Kyra’s hand. “Darlin’, how are you doin’? We’ve all been so worried about you—”

  “I just couldn’t get a moment to speak to you at the performance the other night,” the taller woman broke in. “You know the girls were all there, all of your mother’s friends. We’re just so proud of you and how you’ve taken hold after losing her and now you’re making a name for yourself with your art. I told Cameron, it just doesn’t seem right for one little person to suffer so much. And listen, honey, I convinced him to buy some of the photographs from Strike on Box. I know they’re going to be just wonderful. I heard how you switched the cameras before the finale and I told Cameron, those pictures are going to be historic. We’ll need ten or twelve, I think, depending on the size. We’re having the house redone and I told Cameron some nice black-and-white photographs would be perfect for the library. Our designer is covering all the books in shiny red paper and lacquering the walls and woodwork Prussian blue—”

  She paused, looking troubled. “Now, honey, are you sure you’re going to be all right? Are you still going to have the show? With one of your partners gone and the other—”

  “Hush now, Harrison!” The plump woman still held Kyra’s hand and beamed at her. “Kyra’s goin’ to be fine. I just know it.” She leaned in to hug the young woman, shooting her friend a meaningful look as she did so. “I heard you were stayin’ with Miss Lily. And your faithful Reba’s there too! We saw her in the parkin’ lot— she said she’d brought you some of Miss Lily’s roses. I’ll bet those two are tickled to death to have you there. Now you just stay put and let them spoil you for a while. You’re goin’ to be just fine.”

  Kyra skillfully disentangled herself from the older woman’s embrace and motioned to the studio walls. “I am going to be fine— see, these are all things I’ve done on my own. And yes, there will be a show at the QuerY. Carter’s making it a kind of tribute to The 3, with photos and videos from Strike on Box. But it’ll also be the beginning of my solo career, and Carter wants to devote a major section of the show to just my work.”

  The limpid green eyes widened and Kyra turned aside for a moment. She passed her hand over her face and turned back to her mother’s friends. “Don’t you see? I have to keep moving forward. Boz and Aidan were a part of my life and my art, but I can’t stay in the past. Not now, not ever. Carter thinks that my best work may be ahead of me and I—�
� Her voice faltered and again she turned aside.

  “But I heard that Carter was in some kind of trouble and might have to close the gallery. I told Cameron—”

  The plump woman jabbed her friend’s side with a vicious elbow. “Harrison, that’s just wild gossip. There’s probably nothin’ to it.”

  Elizabeth and Phillip had moved to the far end of the studio when the two women entered and were attempting to ignore the conversation by studying the various half-finished works propped against the walls or lying on tables.

  Elizabeth, a lifelong bibliophile, was drawn immediately to a small crate of books. Art books, for the most part, and several titles on healing herbs that she recognized from her own collection. She smiled: Kyra was true to form for her sex and generation, refusing to abandon the care of her health to mere doctors. If only these amateur “wise women” would realize how dangerous some of the herbs can be.

  During the few days she had spent at the farm, Kyra had quizzed Elizabeth relentlessly about the medicinal uses of the various herbs and plants. “Reba, my old nurse, grew up in Marshall County and she knows all about what different plants are good for. She said that her mamaw was a witchy woman and taught her all the old ways.” Elizabeth had carefully explained that she dealt in the culinary herbs and that, though she was aware of the potential uses of the many medicinal herbs that grew on her farm, she was cautious about using them.

  Phillip seemed to be engrossed in a piece that involved torn bits of pencil drawings and personal letters assembled jigsaw-style on a canvas and highlighted with splashes of transparent glazes in shades of red and umber. He was, however, Elizabeth noticed with some amusement, listening intently.

  As was she. But now the ladies were studying the works for sale at their end of the studio and demanding detailed explanations of each one from the artist. The plump woman had her checkbook in hand and was avidly scrutinizing a painting of an elflike child emerging from a partially opened white rose.

  Roses figured heavily in Kyra’s work. Painted almost photo-realistically in some pieces, drawn in pencil, rendered in ink with watercolor washes— the medium changed but the subject matter did not. Elizabeth moved quietly among the various pieces, noting the intensity and skill that the young woman brought to her art.

  One particularly large piece in the work area was on a heavy easel, facing away from the rest of the studio. Curious, Elizabeth edged around it to have a look. At once there was a feeling of familiarity— the rose, of course, was there. But there were other forms taking shape that seemed—

  “Elizabeth, if you and Phillip don’t mind, I really prefer not to have my work seen till it’s completed.”

  The two friends had departed, though Harrison’s gabble could still be heard as they disappeared into the gloomy hallway. “…and I told Cameron…”

  Kyra came toward them, her sweet smile softening the steely edge of her words. “Silly, I know, but—”

  Feeling absurdly guilty, as though she’d been caught peeping through a keyhole, Elizabeth felt her face flush as she tried to move out of the corner from behind the heavy easel. “I’m sorry, Kyra. I just got carried away, looking at all your beautiful pieces. You do so many different things— what’s your favorite? The paint? Mixed media? Drawing?” Who’s gabbling now? she thought. “You do them all so well.”

  “Thank you, Elizabeth.” Kyra’s voice was cool as she shepherded them back to the other end of the studio. Phillip, a half-smile on his face, said nothing but moved to the wall to examine the works for sale. “I think I would say that my favorite is whatever I’m working on at the moment.”

  She turned to Phillip. “Did you hear what they said about Carter? Just this morning a friend who has a studio in the Cotton Mill told me there’s a rumor that Carter has been using the QuerY for some kind of illegal stuff and he could be arrested.” The eyelashes came into play again. “Well, of course I called Carter and asked him— here I’ve been doing all this work to get ready for the show. So I felt I had to make sure there was even going to be a show.”

  “And what did Dixon say?” asked Phillip.

  “He just laughed and said not to worry: there’d been worse rumors about him before this and that the show was definitely happening.”

  “And there are definitely sandwiches.” Ben came through the door brandishing a bulging paper bag. He grimaced. “Well, hell, I forgot to get us something to drink.”

  “Oh, Ben, can’t you remember anything?” Again, Kyra’s smile was at odds with the tone of her voice, but she patted Ben on the arm and slipped past him out the door. “I’ll just run down the hall; I left some mineral water in the refrigerator in the kitchen.” She looked back at Elizabeth and Phillip. “If no one’s ‘borrowed’ it.”

  “She’s still pissed I forgot that sketchbook.” Ben laid out the wrapped sandwiches on a table near the window. He pulled a wooden stool over to join the three folding lawn chairs that clustered around the table. “Hell, she hadn’t even missed it till you found it. Then that creepy housekeeper came by a while ago with those roses and that fancy tablecloth and had to start asking about it. Seems there’s a picture of Reba in that sketchbook and she’s hot to see it finished.”

  He dug some rumpled paper napkins out of the bag. “The sandwiches are all the same— Greek salad wraps with lots of feta and kalamata olives.” He finished his preparations and stood looking at the vase of roses. “You know, it’s a weird thing about the housekeeper. It’s ‘Miss Kyra’ this and ‘Miss Kyra’ that, but I get the feeling that as far as Kyra’s concerned, Reba is still the grown-up in charge.” He shook his head. “Which doesn’t make any sense, when you look at the way Kyra stands up to her dad. But she’s always calling and checking in with Reba and then there’re these long whispery conversations— lots of ‘yes, Reba,’ and ‘I will, Reba’— that kind of crap. I said something about it to Kyra but she just laughed.”

  He perched on the stool, then frowned and looked toward the door. “What’s taking her so long? The kitchen’s just a few doors down—”

  Suddenly Kyra appeared, clutching two bottles of mineral water. Her eyes were wide and she was breathing hard.

  Ben jumped up. “Kyra, are you okay?” He took the bottles from her. “What happened?”

  “He was out there.” Ben wrapped his arms around her and she continued, her voice muffled against his chest. “I looked out the kitchen window and saw this big guy going down the fire escape. He seemed kind of familiar, so I watched to see if I could tell who it was. He got to the bottom of the steps and stood there just looking around. Then when he went to his car I recognized him. My nanny, the one who’s always there.” Her voice rose. “I can’t stand it anymore, being watched like this all the time.”

  She broke loose from Ben at the sound of an approaching group of strollers. For a moment she looked wild and distraught, then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and, opening her eyes again, told them, “I’ll be fine. I saw him drive off anyway.” She looked at the table. “Maybe having lunch here wasn’t such a good idea— I didn’t think there’d be so many people—”

  “You’re absolutely right, Kyra.” Elizabeth gathered up Phillip with a glance. “We’ll take our sandwiches and find a shady place somewhere outside. Ben, you’ll be here, won’t you, in case…”

  A noisy group of middle-aged women crowded into the studio. Several greeted Kyra effusively and began to bombard her with questions. Elizabeth and Phillip quietly made for the door, edging through the throng and mouthing a silent goodbye to Kyra and Ben.

  “Elizabeth,” Kyra called after them, “please be sure to remind Ben about the sketchbook tomorrow. I promised Reba.”

  * * *

  Trying to find their way back to the fire escape, they found themselves passing by a studio that was devoted to soft sculpture. Nightmarish babies the size of linebackers lounged and leered on either side of the open door. Just inside, on a sofa, reposed three almost life-sized dolls, made to represent voluptuous wom
en. Naked, voluptuous women. Actually, beyond voluptuous, was Elizabeth’s considered opinion. “Morbidly obese” are the words that spring to mind. Their faces were painted as if heavily made-up and they were adorned with wigs in garish neon colors.

  “We took the wrong turn back there.” Elizabeth looked away from the sluglike creatures on the sofa. “We should have passed that freight elevator by now.”

  “Someone’s taken a wrong turn, all right. I think it could be the art schools.” Phillip was still muttering as they came to the open door that led to the old fire escape.

  “It looks worse going down.” Elizabeth stepped out onto the landing, averting her eyes from the cracked concrete pavement below. “But I refuse to be a wimp. I came up this thing and I can certainly go back down.” With an assumed air of bravado, she grabbed the handrail and started down the rusty iron steps. There was a grating sound and the handrail gave way. Elizabeth’s foot slipped on the metal step and she pitched forward.

  FROM LILY GORDON’S JOURNAL— SIXTH ENTRY

  Kyra seems to be reinventing herself— again— possibly the influence of that handsome young man who follows her around so like a persistent puppy. The ugly black hair is gone and she resembles an angelic waif. I had thought that she would wear a scarf or a hat till her hair grew a few inches but not she! I’m not embarrassed, GeeGee, she said with a defiant thrust of her chin that brought back so many memories.

  Reba too is transformed with joy at having Kyra here, though her ugly black hair is unchanged. For as long as I can remember, ever since she first came to Marvin and Rose, her hair has been an uncompromising jet-black. Home-dyed, of course— that unpleasant, unnatural look.

  She was still a young woman when she first appeared on the doorstep, saying that she’d heard we needed help with a baby. And why we trusted her— no references, no training— I still wonder at it. But the fact is that neither the uniformed nurse nor the English nanny from the expensive agency had been able to soothe the wailing infant, and my poor little Rose was in a state of prostration. (Amanda, of course, had not bothered to come down from Connecticut. A cesarean section for her champion bitch took precedence over her own daughter’s accouchement.) And so, when Reba marched in the door, put out her arms, andsaid, Give me that young un, I ( for I had been futilely endeavoring to comfort my longed-for great-granddaughter) simply handed the squirming, fretting Kyra over to this strange mountain woman. She took her and, I think, has never let her go.