Art's Blood

by Vicki Lane

  She started at the top, in her small herb and salad garden, tidy with its rectangular box beds. The dew had dried on the herbs and she began by trimming the golden oregano, the sage, the marjoram, and thyme. These would be tied into small bundles to hang in a darkened upstairs room to dry. The beds where the fall lettuce was growing showed a light dusting of green— tiny weeds waiting for her to turn her back so that they could overpower the lettuce. Oh, no you don’t, she thought and turned to get her light hoe, which she had left hanging from the latticework of the little arbor a few days back.

  The arbor was almost hidden by an exuberant display of hyacinth beans: big green leaves that showed a tint of violet veins in the sunlight, lavender blossoms, and long, heavy-podded, glossy purple beans. She fumbled through the lush growth and discovered that the hoe’s handle was wrapped about with the quick-growing tendrils of the prolific vine.

  Here in early fall it seemed that nature’s bounty was rampant. At any time a frost could destroy most of the garden, but till then each plant seemed hell-bent on producing and reproducing. Below the herb garden in the long rock-walled tiers were pumpkins gleaming yellow, orange, and red amid cascading vines, cucumbers sprawling fatly on their trellises, and a block of Indian corn, drying where it stood. Volunteer Thai basil with its compelling, almost fetid, odor ran amok amid the old broccoli plants, which, though their heavy green crowns had long since been cut, were sending out myriad side shoots.

  Elizabeth picked and hoed and trimmed till, weary with the heavy heat of the day, she sought the shade. From her perch on a big rock under a willow tree, she surveyed the garden, mentally assessing how much was left to be done. Trim back the asparagus ferns and strawberry runners; pick the rest of the basil and Italian parsley to make pesto; get the last of the sweet corn. Beautiful and productive though it all was, somewhere a part of her longed for frost and the end of garden work for a few months.

  Above the late-bearing golden raspberries, two swallow-tailed butterflies, one black, one yellow, were spiraling around each other. Their once beautiful wings were ragged and dull— the price of survival through summer’s perils and pleasures. The pair seemed unaware of their fragile state. Up and up they fluttered— mating? fighting? playing? It was difficult to say.

  Elizabeth watched in openmouthed absorption— her busy thoughts almost silenced. Almost, but not quite. I have a real feeling that’s a metaphor for something or other but I’m not going to go there. They’re just two butterflies. I will not bring my English major’s sensibilities into this.

  Time for lunch. She stood, stretched, and tried not to think of Phillip Hawkins and herself as she climbed the hill back to the house.

  CHAPTER 30

  LETTER FROM A DEAD WOMAN

  (WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28)

  THE HEAT WAS EVEN MORE OPPRESSIVE AFTER lunch— the sullen, dead air that often precedes a storm. Elizabeth showered and spent a little time catching up with bills and correspondence. Then, remembering that she was almost out of dog food, she made a quick list and set out for the grocery store.

  Birdie was sweeping her front porch as Elizabeth went by, and they exchanged friendly waves. I need to go for a visit soon; who knows…if Lily Gordon could die so suddenly…and Birdie’s in her eighties…

  She neared the bridge and glanced over at the little green house where Franklin Ferman lived. A pale blue Fairlane was parked in the drive and a small but vigorous-looking woman was pegging out wet garments on the clotheslines that stretched across the porch. She waved cheerfully when she saw Elizabeth’s car and then disappeared back into the little house.

  All right! Dorothy’s on the case! She’ll clean up that place, even if she does talk his ears off. Elizabeth grinned to think of the solitary old man in the company of the energetic and loquacious Dorothy. Maybe he’ll hide in Loretty’s roomtill Dorothy finishes. Though I wouldn’t put it past her to strip him down and scrub him along with the kitchen floor.

  The thought of Loretty’s quilts reminded her that she needed to stop by the library and decide where the quilts would be hung. She had collected two dozen so far and was not sure if there would be space to hang them all. If I have to show some folded and laid on tables, I’ll do that. It’s going to be so gorgeous to see them all displayed.

  * * *

  It took about twenty minutes to determine where the quilts would go. She consulted with Barb and together they arranged a time to hang the show. Then she sat down at one of the library’s computers to redo the description of the animal quilt— the one Omie had called the Fanchon quilt. As she labored to come up with a description that would honor the maker without telling the whole ugly story, once again she found herself reflecting on the terrible strength of jealousy…and of artistic pride.

  How do ghostwriters do it? she wondered. Do all the work, then let someone else have all the credit. I guess it’s the money. Even in a group like The 3, I wonder if one did more work than the others…was the idea person. I know if I actually created something, I’d have a hard time not resenting someone else taking credit.

  * * *

  All the way home the questions rode with her. Tildy had sold her artistic ownership of the animal quilt for the money Lily Gordon offered, but had then taken out her bitterness on Fanchon through all the long years of Fanchon’s disability. And why had Lily Gordon wanted Fanchon to have the credit? It’s a mystery, she told herself, turning into the drive. And Lily’s gone and Fanchon can’t speak.

  The white SUV was waiting under the pear tree at the top of her drive. Buckley, in the familiar chauffeur’s cap, was leaning against the rock wall in the shade. As she pulled to a stop near her house and got out, he came to her. A large manila envelope was in his hand.

  “Mrs. Goodweather, my late employer asked me to deliver this to you. She gave it to me the night before—” His voice was husky. Dark glasses hid his eyes but there could be no mistake: Buckley was crying. He turned away briefly, as if to compose himself, then said, “She didn’t…we didn’t know.”

  “Please, Mr…. Mr. Buckley, come up to the porchand sit down. I’d like to talk to you about Mrs. Gordon. I just heard the news this morning.”

  * * *

  He insisted on helping her carry the groceries from the car to the kitchen, then accepted a glass of cold water. They sat on the porch and he told his story.

  “I always report to her in her sitting room around five in the afternoon. She tells me if she has plans for the next day— if I will be driving her somewhere or if she has some other…assignment for me. When I went in to see her on Monday, she seemed about as usual— maybe a little more tired. I know she had several visitors that day— her lawyer, her doctor, Mr. Peterson, and, of course, Kyra. None of that was particularly unusual. Her doctor often dropped by; his grandfather had been her original doctor and the young man more or less inherited Mrs. Gordon as a patient. I think he was afraid to tell her doctors don’t make house calls anymore. The lawyer was the same— you do what it takes to keep your wealthiest client happy.

  “Anyway, she seemed tired. There on the table by her was the usual glass of sherry and this envelope. She told me that I was to deliver it to you the next day. That was it; nothing more.”

  Buckley fell silent. Elizabeth asked, “How long have you been with Mrs. Gordon? She seemed to rely on you completely.”

  “I came to work for her in 1975— and yes, she has relied on me in many ways. It’s been my pride to serve her and to carry out her orders to the letter.” His voice faltered. “I failed to carry out her last request. You should have had her letter yesterday but the household was…disrupted and I couldn’t leave—”

  “Tell me what happened.” Something in the grieving man’s demeanor suggested that he had more to say about the death of his employer.

  Buckley leaned his head back, pulled off the dark glasses, wiped his eyes, and put the glasses back on. “Reba took up morning tea at eight, as usual. She found Mrs. Gordon dead. She was in her nightclothes, lying
in an easy chair by the fireplace in her bedroom. Evidently she had felt chilled, for she had asked Reba to lay a small fire after her supper. The fire had gone out and there were many ashes; Reba said that Mrs. Gordon must have been burning pages from a journal she’s been writing in for the past months. One page had been only partially burned and I pulled it out of the fireplace. When I saw your name on it, I decided to bring it to you.”

  Buckley stood and handed the manila envelope to her. “It’s in here, along with her letter. I apologize for bringing it later than Mrs. Gordon had wished.” He turned to go.

  Elizabeth stood as well. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Buckley. She was quite an amazing woman. I’m so glad to have had the opportunity to meet her.”

  Buckley stared at the distant mountains. Finally he said, in an abstracted voice, “Her eyes were open, but when I closed them she looked peaceful, like she’d fallen asleep in the chair. Reba told me to lift her onto the bed. I did and we laid her out and crossed her hands on her chest.” He gestured toward the envelope Elizabeth was holding. “I put it in there too— a dirty old piece of ribbon Mrs. Gordon had balled up in her hand. Reba was going to throw it away but it didn’t seem right. It’s in there with the letter and the page that didn’t burn.”

  * * *

  She watched Buckley return to the car and start down the road. Then she reached into the manila envelope and pulled out the long creamy rectangle that was addressed “Mrs. Goodweather.” She ran her finger under the sealed flap, took out the heavy sheet of paper, and sank into a rocking chair, reading the shaky but still elegant handwriting.

  My dear Mrs. Goodweather,

  I beg your indulgence once again. I have some things that must be said and, sadly enough, I find myself with no one near to me I can trust to understand. So I turn to you.

  Why? Because I believe you to be a woman of intelligence and integrity, one who will make proper use of the information I am about to lay before you. And you are a woman who knows something of Kyra— something, but not all. Action may be necessary and there are signs— all but unmistakable— that I may be unable to see this matter through to the end. And so I present you with these— shall we call them background sketches? Use them to enhance the picture my great-granddaughter has painted of herself.

  When Kyra was very small, about five years old, Marvin and Rose ill-advisedly chose to adopt an infant— a sickly baby boy. I say ill-advisedly because Rose’s heart was not in the endeavor— her love was all for Kyra. This experiment ended abruptly when the baby’s nurse, who had slipped outside for a surreptitious cigarette, heard the baby shrieking. She lingered to finish her forbidden pleasure— the baby was always crying, she told us later, she didn’t know— but when she did return, the baby’s crib contained not only the terrified and wailing infant but a small conflagration of flaming bits of paper and, unfortunately, a plastic toy. It was the melted plastic that did the damage, of course.

  The nurse found Kyra hiding in the closet. Later a box of matches was found on the lawn where it had landed after being thrown from the window.

  The baby was taken immediately to the hospital and, so I understand, made a full recovery except for some scarring caused by the melted plastic. We consulted with a child psychologist and he agreed with me that it would be better if this adoption had never taken place. I made it so. I trust that Kyra has no real memory of that brief fiasco. My housekeeper Reba, who was, for many years, Kyra’s nanny, assures me that Kyra is completely unaware of this brief, unpleasant episode.

  The second event that troubles me may be mere coincidence. When Kyra was about fourteen (such a difficult time for girls) she was totally immersed in horses. She had several fine (and very costly) animals and was an inevitable winner in her age group. Then came a most important show. If she won, she would be eligible for Olympic training. It was considered a certainty and she was aglow with the possibilities that lay before her.

  The show went badly for her. One horse stumbled; the other refused a jump. Kyra took a second and two thirds. At the end of the day, I saw her drop the red and yellow ribbons and trample them into the mud. That night the stables burned; her horses with them.

  It may have been a coincidence. I would like to believe that it was. There were those who whispered that it was Marvin’s doing. The investigators poked through the sorry ashes for weeks before pronouncing it to be a fire of unknown origin. Neither Rose nor Marvin would discuss it with me, and Kyra never spoke of it either.

  I feel that I have been blind and mute too long; Marvin has invested all his hopes in her and cannot be objective. Nor can I, despite recent revelations. But I cannot allow this situation to continue.

  It may be foolish of me to ask this of you; indeed, I am not sure exactly what I ask— a watchful eye, perhaps? I must be certain that someone is watching. I have been mistaken before but not, I think, this time.

  And if I am wrong, what then? She seems so sweet, so solicitous of her old GeeGee.

  I should prefer to believe she loves me. But I must be sure.

  Buckley will deliver this to you. Please feel free to call on me for further discussion of this matter. I fear I have not expressed myself as clearly as I could have wished.

  Sincerely yours,

  Lily Gordon

  Elizabeth laid the dead woman’s puzzling letter on the table by her rocking chair and pulled out the single, partially charred sheet of paper. This too was in Lily Gordon’s hand and a wavering E. Goodweather was written across the top of the page. She peered closer to make out the words— cowbird’s so no account she won’t even build a nest— just finds someone else’s and drops her egg in it. Then off she goes and leaves the other birds to raise her young un. And the young un, when hit hatches, hit’ll push all the other babies outten the nest and they’ll die.

  A dark scorch mark obliterated the center of the page but the last paragraph was just legible:

  And as her sweet clear tones fill my ears, my heart, my soul, I untie the blue ribbon and slip it into my pocket. A few bright strands of her hair twine around my fingers, clinging briefly, then the red-gold locks tumble about her shoulders. She sings on, never taking her eyes from me as I pick violets, and weave them into her hair. Her eyes are shining when she looks at me.

  “What is all this supposed to mean?” Elizabeth asked Molly and Ursa, who had just emerged from their cool lair under the porch. “She believes— believed I’m a woman of intelligence, but this is…this is baffling. I see where she’s going with the fire thing— but cowbirds— red-gold locks— that couldn’t be Rose or Kyra, they’re both blonde. And what does this have to do with anything?”

  She reached back into the envelope to pull out the last item Buckley had delivered. A crumpled length of silk ribbon, stained and brittle with age, lay in her hand. Its faded sheen revealed a hint of blue.

  CHAPTER 31

  INCUBATION

  (THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 29)

  SHE SAID SHE’D HEARD THAT HE WAS IN BIG TROUBLE with the IRS— some kind of tax scam that he’s been running through the gallery…. I know him socially, of course, but no, not intimately…. Oh, please, you know what I mean…. As if!”

  Blondie was back in painting class, her expensive set of oils scattered before her on the table, a blank canvas propped on an easel, and the cell phone to her ear.

  Daphne, attempting to define some painting terms to the class, raised her voice slightly. “Pentimento occurs when the artist paints over something in his picture and those top paints, over time, become transparent, allowing the earlier image to show through. The term comes from the Italian word meaning repentance: the artist repents his first choice and paints over it.”

  “No, nothing important. Stuff I had in my other class. He’s not going to be arrested, is he? I always thought there might have been something not quite right— I mean he’s always so cagey about how he got his start.”

  Elizabeth looked around but the brave woman who had escorted Blondie and her cell phone o
utside on the previous occasion was absent. Elizabeth contented herself with a viperous “Shhh!” in Blondie’s direction and was rewarded with a scowl— and a slightly lowered voice.

  “Fugitive color,” Daphne continued, with a grateful nod toward Elizabeth, “refers to those pigments with a tendency to fade. Look at your tubes of paint; most of them will have a permanence rating from double A to C. Double A is the most permanent; C is fugitive.”

  “Oh my god, I can’t believe it!” Blondie’s voice soared above the murmur of the rest of the class, all busily checking the permanence ratings of their paints. “You can’t be serious!”

  “And then,” said Daphne, her voice firm and measured as she took the still-chattering woman’s arm and steered her to the door, “there is negative space.” She gently shoved the incredulous Blondie out the door and shut it behind her. “Negative space is the area around the principal object. When the principal object is removed,” her eyes darted back to the door and her lips quirked slightly, “when the object is removed the remaining space assumes its own importance— which is crucial to the overall picture.”

  * * *

  “Did the Blondie woman ever come back?” Ben helped himself to more salsa. The flour tortilla bulged and dripped as he conveyed it to his mouth, dropping bits of grilled onions and steak back to the plate. He looked down and grimaced. “I always put too much stuff in these things.”

  “She did come back eventually and she and Daphne had a little conversation over in the corner of the room. I hope the message got across.”