“Keep going. Don’t stop,” she said.
Evelyn hobbled throughout the studio over the next three weeks as I painted four more in a series I called “Charcoal Blue.” The canvas gave me a place to be free. I felt out of breath, as if I had been racing for years to catch up. I felt . . . exuberant! Excited to be alive.
How dare I have felt this way? My skin tingled. Guilt hovered around the edges.
“Yes, my love. You’ve done it. You’ve come back,” Evelyn said.
Later, I overheard a phone conversation she had with the exhibit’s director. “I want to add five more pieces to the show. They’re not mine, but I want them hung.”
JOHN D’ORFINI HAD a habit of arriving late for non-police-related events. When I arrived with Evelyn an hour early, he was standing outside the Warehouse, a gallery in the former Meatpacking district, now turned cutting-edge in the world of art. Originally scheduled for a gallery in Greenwich Village, the show had attracted such huge anticipation, the venue had to be moved. Evelyn’s friend Nina, who died during their years at Cooper Union, had a sister, Helen, who had risen in the art world as caretaker of her sister’s estate. She had been interviewed for an article in the New York Times. Her support drew dozens more followers. Helen wielded a strong arm in the art world. Caretaking for her sister’s estate had taught her the importance of good relations with the art critics in Manhattan. She did not shy from the powers of skillful marketing and chose her words with a keen ear.
“The underappreciated artist Evelyn Daly was close to Nina. Of course, I’m looking forward to going to her show. Nina would want me to be there.” The director of the exhibit hired an assistant to deal with the influx of calls from artists around the world.
JOHN D’ORFINI HELPED us move Evelyn into a wheelchair. We had had many discussions about the chair over the past week.
“I will not—do you all hear me?—will not attend this opening in a wheelchair.”
I covered the seat in an elegant purple silk to match the long skirt she wore. It looked like a throne with yardage flowing over the back like a train.
Kay arrived, dressed in slim trousers and over-the-knee black leather boots. I might have been jealous of how good she looked, except for the wall. Evelyn had demanded that I have one short wall dedicated to my “Charcoal Blue” series. I wore a long lilac skirt bustled in the back with thirty-six antique fabric-covered buttons. I had found the blouse in a consignment shop a year before—lilac and green like young grass, cropped in the front, with a flowing back shaped in a V before the bustle. The matching jacket was cropped at the waistline.
“You look good,” John D’Orfini said when he saw me.
“Do I?” I asked.
“Yes.” He hesitated, as if deciding what horse to bet on, then added, “Radiant.”
Although we spoke on the phone, we hadn’t seen each other since the evening he’d told me about the discovery of Hilda’s car—when he had cooked duck.
Once, I had caught my own reflection in the mirror in Evelyn’s bathroom and noticed my hair seemed thicker. Short. At least it didn’t look sick. The steam from Evelyn’s baths cleansed my skin. As I knelt on the floor and hovered over Evelyn from behind to massage her worn muscles, the steam rose up and fed me.
Radiant was too strong a word. Wasn’t it used to describe an inner glow? Hardly a way to describe a woman like me. A childless woman who longed for the womb. Of course, John D’Orfini saw things in people that others missed.
“It’s my job to notice,” he said.
WITHIN ONE HOUR of the opening reception, over four hundred people had arrived. More were expected as crowds lined up outside. Excitement crackled in every corner of the vast space. Evelyn had never shown the series she had been working on at the time her baby stopped breathing. Until now. As people walked by, a hush felled them into silence. Sixteen paintings began with the baby as an amoeba in Evelyn’s womb, followed by birth and then death. In one piece, a toe—perfectly balanced— sat on top of the pointed side of an upturned elbow. Another held five empty glass milk bottles with fully formed babies— one each—floating in water in the fetal position.
Evelyn called the series “Life.”
The opening was a huge success. The New York Times referred to me as Evelyn’s student and discovery—“someone new to the art world but worth paying attention to.”
Near the end of the reception, I saw an elegant-looking woman with silver hair pulled into a chignon walk through the door. At first I couldn’t place her, but then, as I watched her weave her way through the crowd toward Evelyn, I remembered. She was Evelyn’s friend Tuba, the art patron and owner of the estate in New Jersey. Now she was here and she would see what I was capable of. As I made my way across the room to speak to her, I stopped as my gaze left her and settled on the rounder female behind her.
John D’Orfini followed my steps. He had seen Hannah a few seconds before I did.
“Let’s go outside for some air,” he said.
“No, I don’t want to go outside.”
“Come with me.” His voice had an edge that matched the feel of his hand on my arm as he steered me toward the door.
The fresh air snapped me back into autumn and real life— far away from radiance. The cool night propelled me as I broke away from John D’Orfini. Hannah was directly in front of Tuba in the archway of the door.
Right before I lunged for her, Hannah’s head jerked back in surprise, someone grabbed my arm midair.
A mother beast doesn’t let go. Must I explain to you that I could no longer control myself? That practicing control wears down the soul? That something inside me snapped at the mere sight of Hannah—this woman who I knew hid something vile?
I wrestled the tips of my fingers toward Hannah’s neck. My desire to squeeze out what she knew about Vinni came to an abrupt halt as John D’Orfini lifted me off the ground and carried me away from the crowd. I turned and screamed, “Talk to me or I’ll kill you!”
Language wounds but never kills. I had no desire to kill Hannah. All I wanted was for her to speak to me. To tell me what she knew.
Hannah put her hand in front of her mouth. Her round shoulders rounded more, as if she wanted to disappear. Yes, go hide, I thought. But then she lifted her head and shot me a look that I will never forget.
She was scared.
Kay linked her arm in mine and steered me down the street, away from the gallery. In a voice low and stern, she instructed me, as she had for years, “Stay away from that woman, and, for God’s sake, stay away from the bakery. You could jeopardize everything we’ve been investigating.”
She, John D’Orfini, and I went for a drink around the corner. John D’Orfini sat between us. Kay was already plotting the scenario for the judge. I knew Hannah wouldn’t do anything. She had too much to hide.
“What were you thinking?” Kay asked, as she raised her arm for the waiter. “You were out of control.”
“Who invited that woman? That’s what I want to know,” I said.
Kay began, “Look, Evelyn’s exhibit has been advertised all over—”
“She’s following me. What I do. What I paint.” My mouth felt dry from the combination of cool air in the gallery and the chill outside. “She’s watching.”
“What Hannah Mueller does is one thing, but how you react is another,” Kay said.
“Oh, shit, please. You know as well as I do why Hannah came to the gallery.”
“Why? To see if you’ve gone crazy yet? Well, now she knows, doesn’t she? I want you steering clear of trouble. And that means restraining yourself from attacking bakers.”
“Maybe we should all stop worrying so much about the law. What good has it done us?” I said. I looked over at John D’Orfini in time to see him raise his glass in a silent toast.
TWENTY-FIVE
JOHN D’ORFINI LISTED BULLETS ONE THROUGH FIVE ABOUT why I had to control myself.
“Number one: the law requires following protocol. Number two: trained person
nel means just that—trained. Number three: a kidnapping is a dangerous crime, and you are not trained. Number four: the deduction is that Hilda took Vinni, but there is no unequivocal proof that a third party was not involved. Number five: even the threat of pulling out a criminal’s eyes doesn’t mean you can coerce a witness to talk if she can live with the guilt of remaining silent.”
“I’ve got it,” I said.
“I’m not sure you do. Assuming Hilda took Vinni, we’re still in the dark about why.”
“I’ve got it. Now walk me home.” The exhibit already seemed a distant memory.
“Walk?”
“Yes. Walk.”
It was well after midnight. I knew Stanley had taken Evelyn home.
“Don’t worry, Detective, I’ll protect you. It’s my city.”
As we turned the corner, I caught sight of a black limousine parked in front of the gallery. Headlights shone onto the cobblestone street. Late-night passersby ignored the truck parked behind it.
“What’s going on down there?” I said.
John D’Orfini slowed to a stop. “Wait here,” he said.
“No way. I’m going with you.”
He pulled me into a doorway as we watched four men lift painting after painting into the truck. I gasped out loud when I saw the curator of the exhibit, Helen Henning, step outside. She pulled at the white silk jacket around her shoulders. A hand extended from the window of the limousine, and she reached in to shake it. Moments later, the limousine pulled away, with the truck close behind it. Helen stood at the curb, hands crossed at her chest. She was smiling. The white of the jacket glistened against the night.
John D’Orfini grabbed my hand, and we ran toward the gallery. “Just let me do the talking. I mean it. Be still.” I was out of breath when we reached Helen, who looked startled when she saw us.
“What was that all about?” John D’Orfini asked her. “Please step inside.”
Helen and I followed him.
In the light of the gallery, I could see she was almost giddy. “Why do you look like a schoolgirl?” I asked. I had already forgotten about being quiet.
“You’ll be smiling, too, Maddy, when I tell you,” Helen said in a triumphant voice.
She continued to speak, but I heard nothing from that point on. The wall where my paintings had hung was bare. John D’Orfini charged several steps ahead of me.
“Where are Maddy’s paintings?” he asked.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. They sold!” said Helen.
“All of them?” I squeaked. “Who bought them? No one mentioned anything to me during the reception.”
“He wasn’t at the reception. My assistant and I were talking on the phone after we had locked up for the night. A man knocked, and from outside the closed door, he said he wanted to make a large purchase. I hung up right away. He told us that he was the attorney for a client who knew about your opening, Maddy, and his client wanted to purchase your work immediately and remove it from the exhibit. Of course, we explained that this was not standard protocol, but he was adamant that we’d lose the sale if we didn’t comply with the client’s request. He gave me a check from his firm’s trust account for twenty-five thousand dollars for your five paintings. Congratulations!”
Helen reached into her pocket and pulled out the check to show me.
“He didn’t by chance mention the name of his client, did he?” John D’Orfini asked.
Helen shook her head but said, “You should be very proud of yourself, Maddy!”
“I’ll need a copy of this check,” John D’Orfini said.
“Detective, you don’t think that this has anything to do with . . . with Maddy’s circumstance, do you?” asked the curator. She looked at me with a troubling glance.
John D’Orfini shot me a warning. Be still. Of course, he had no idea how still I truly was, as the black limousine reminded me of the one I had seen near Mueller’s from my room across the street.
Helen put her arm around my shoulder. “Dear, whatever you’re going through right now, you must congratulate yourself on making such a sale on the opening night. And besides, the gentleman in the limousine was quite polite. He even wished me a good night.”
“Did you get a look at him?” John D’Orfini asked.
“In the dark?” Helen countered. “I heard his voice as he extended his hand. He had some kind of accent—Lithuanian, maybe. I never saw his face.”
“The lawyer left his card,” Helen said, as she handed it over to John D’Orfini. DONALD HOWARD, ESQUIRE.
WE REACHED THE steps of my building.
“You should be in a support group with other grieving parents,” John D’Orfini said. He liked to do this—switch highways—as though we were driving along in separate cars.
“I’m not grieving. I’m fighting. Why aren’t you talking to me about Donald Howard?”
“I will when I know something.”
I was exhausted, worn from the excitement of the exhibit, from the mess with Hannah, and now from the idea that a mysterious collector had bought my paintings.
“Come up,” I said. It had been three months since we had been together.
John D’Orfini reached out and touched my arms. I sensed the warmth of his hands through the sleeves of my jacket.
“Do you want me to?” He spoke with such gentleness, I thought my heart would break.
Vinni had been taken almost four years ago. Up until that night, I hadn’t known what could dull the pain. I had unleashed a passion that began with my fingers on Hannah’s throat. John D’Orfini’s hands continued the story, gently smoothing out cries from inside the cage that housed my ribs. I believed that nothing, not even John D’Orfini, could reach me—it was to be a physical thing. That’s all. Afterward, right when he came inside me, it changed. The physical crossed over, and although I had guarded it, I managed to squeak out, “Don’t stop.” He must have heard me, because he gave me more until I cried. He wiped my face with gentle strokes. I came again. I thought of the woman at the coffee shop who blessed herself before she took the first spoonful of her yogurt. Even if I could unwrap my arms from around his back, I couldn’t make the sign of the cross. He was still inside me. Like a man who had found a home. John D’Orfini rested his head on my shoulder. The sound of his breathing, even and sweet, rocked me into a deep sleep. The next morning, when I awoke, there was a note on the kitchen table.
Hope you don’t mind. I made a cup of joe. I’ll get back to you on
D. Howard.
Thanks. John
“MEN ARE LIKE that,” Evelyn said, when I had to tell someone about the note and I wasn’t ready to talk about it with Kay. “It’s not what they say; it’s never about that, dear. Nothing would have been built. Starting with Rome.”
We laughed until our cheeks hurt.
“There’s one more thing. Someone bought my paintings last night.” I waited a second and then said, “All of them.”
Evelyn’s eyes widened. She repeated, “All of them?”
I nodded. “Someone by the name of Donald Howard—an attorney—came in after the gallery had closed. Helen was just settling things for the evening. He bought the paintings, as directed by a client of his, for twenty-five thousand dollars. Of course, I know Helen takes a commission, but it happened so unexpectedly . . . I’ve got a strange feeling in my gut.”
“Let it go,” Evelyn said. “Take the money and let it go.”
I didn’t understand how Evelyn could dismiss something so fast. She’d been doing this lately. Listening. Reacting. Then moving on, as if her mind couldn’t stay for long in one place.
Of course I was thrilled that my paintings had sold. Someone willing to pay a handsome price wanted my work and wanted it quickly. Although I tried returning to the topic of my first paintings being sold, Evelyn never engaged. I didn’t know why she was unwilling to discuss it, other than perhaps because Helen Henning represented a painful time from Evelyn’s past.
As I care
d for Evelyn, I noticed a pattern. She’d simply wave her hand when she didn’t want to talk further, or else she’d say, “I have larger things to think about.” I guessed it was a way of keeping her priorities in order. She had disciplined herself from an early age to work without distractions.
Vinni was an exception. Ever since we had met Evelyn on the stairwell, she had made time for Vinni. She set up a small table and chair off to the side, away from the stacks of her work, and encouraged Vinni to draw a picture in her mind. “What do you see right now?” she’d ask.
With confidence, Vinni would say, “The blue blanket on my bed” or, “Mommy’s face!”
EVELYN’S ART SHOW had been a huge success. Although she had loved the opening, she was exhausted, and the following week I often found her asleep on the chaise in the studio at the end of the day. The northern light lowered to a slit and cast a shade of gray. No signs of blue anywhere.
YEAR FOUR
TWENTY-SIX
IT WAS EARLY MORNING. I RECOGNIZED STANLEY’S VOICE on the phone. “I’m downstairs at Evelyn’s. I need to come up right away.”
He sounded as if he were almost whispering.
“Okay.” I hung up the phone on the night table. Steve had suggested two years earlier that I forgo the landline, but I couldn’t bag up my old life. I hung on to the landline in case Vinni tried to call.
A soft knock stirred me more awake. I walked to the door and opened it.
Stanley’s eyes told me before he spoke a word.
“She’s gone,” he whispered.
Evelyn was dead.
MOTHER GONE. FATHER gone. Now Evelyn gone. Vinni, too—not dead, like the rest, but gone. I began to shake. I leaned against the door outside the apartment. I slid down the wall, skin to paint. I pulled my knees up and dropped my head on my arms and cried. I wondered why Evelyn hadn’t called me when she fell ill. She had known it would take Stanley at least twenty minutes to reach her apartment.
A Matter of Chance Page 16