The Vampire Files, Volume Two

by P. N. Elrod

  “Leighton’s artistic manipulation.”

  “What’s that?”

  She gestured at the painting, this one of a vase of flowers. “See the colors, very bland except for this touch of red here and here, which gives it all balance. I’m not denying he has a great deal of technical skill, but it’s all very carefully planned, as you said, just a little too perfect.” Her attitude was more amusement than jealousy, like a teacher instructing a pupil and enjoying the interaction for its own sake.

  I looked at the flowers again and knew that with or without Sandra’s information I still wouldn’t like it. “What do you paint?”

  “The same sort of things as Leighton, only I don’t get paid as much.

  I was lucky enough to get in on the WPA program to produce art for federal buildings, which certainly helps at rent time.”

  “I didn’t know the WPA even had a program for artists.”

  “Oh yes, and it’s saved more than a few lives.”

  “Do you paint what you like or what they tell you?”

  “A bit of both. Remember what I said about artistic integrity? They don’t really dictate what they want to me, but I am expected to paint something acceptable. Leighton’s a great help to me there, he has a knack for knowing exactly what people expect, and then gives it to them. Whenever I think I’m going dry, I come over here for a refresher course.”

  “How does he feel about that?”

  “He doesn’t know about it,” said a dark-haired man, turning around from his own station near the still life. “And since Sandra is quite tactful, he never will.”

  Sandra flashed a very devastating smile on him and touched his arm with an impulsive hand. “Alex! I’m so glad you came. How are you?”

  His response to her obvious affection was minimal. His body went stiff at her touch and then relaxed visibly, as though he had to consciously remember she was a friend. “I’m well enough.”

  He didn’t look it. He held his body straight, but his clothes were loose from weight loss and the skin on his face was dull. The impression was not so much ill health as neglect. The term “walking dead” had a more meaningful application to him than to myself. His suit was expensive but unpressed, and his collar and cuffs frayed beyond saving. He noticed my assessment and a slight spark of resentment lit his dark eyes for a brief second, then went out. He didn’t give a damn.

  I understood why when Sandra introduced us. Alex Adrian: one of the very few who had become famous outside artistic circles. In the last ten years hardly a week went by that his work didn’t appear on some major or even minor magazine. He was in demand for snob advertising, illustrative work, society portraits, you name it. His talent crossed all boundaries and had kept him at the top. But this year, in January, the work stopped, and with enough notoriety to make headlines in more places than Chicago.

  We shook hands briefly to obey social convention and then he pulled back into himself, hands held in front, the fingers of the right slowly twisting his wedding band around. I was interested to note he still wore it, perhaps as silent defiance to the rumors he’d murdered his wife.

  “How is your WPA work going?” he asked Sandra.

  “As well as possible, I’m working on a series for a civil-service building in Rockford.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Mountains, flowers, and sunsets; I don’t know what the building looks like so I’m assuming the workers there would be glad of a little color.”

  “No doubt. Has Evan sold anything lately?”

  “Another nude to Mr. Danube, and too far below the asking price.”

  “Tell him to stop having those pre-negotiation drinks with his buyers. What about that gallery deal?”

  “It fell through. I was hoping to talk with Reva about carrying some of Evan’s more restrained work.”

  “Why doesn’t he do it himself?”

  “You know how it is, Alex. He just can’t seem to manage; I’ve tried. I pushed him in the right direction tonight and he ended up in the back fountain again.”

  Adrian almost looked interested. “Again?”

  “Jack fished him out this time. He’s in the kitchen waiting for his clothes to dry.”

  “Perhaps I’ll check up on him, if only to protect the virtue of Brett’s hired help.”

  “The hired help are perfectly able to look after themselves,” said Evan, breaking in. His hair was combed, if a little flat, and though his clothes were still damp and wrinkled, he was cheerful. “You’re looking awful, Alex, you should drink more.” He held up a glass as an example and drained half of it away.

  “No luck with Jannie?” said Sandra wryly.

  “Not with Jannie, no. What are you all talking about me for?”

  “We’d exhausted the conversational possibilities of the weather,” said Adrian.

  “But not drying paint,” Evan shot back. “Done anything lately?”

  “No.”

  Adrian’s tone was not encouraging. Sandra noticed it and changed the subject. “Evan, I saw Reva in the small drawing room—”

  “That’s a good trick in this crowd.”

  “Evan—”

  He held up a placating hand. “Peace, dear baby sister, I’ll take care of it in my own way.”

  “When?”

  “On a day when Reva doesn’t have hundreds of people around her, all wanting one thing or another. This isn’t the right time. The day after tomorrow, maybe.”

  “Why so long?”

  “Because if she feels tomorrow the way I plan to feel, she’ll need her rest. The day after, she’ll be recovered a little from the shock but still be tired and fairly vulnerable to suggestion. That’s when I’ll tackle her on the gallery.”

  “Promise?”

  “Word of honor. But tonight I’m planning to make every effort to enjoy myself so that when I tell Reva what a wonderful hostess she is, shell know I’m sincere and not merely flattering her. Now, would anyone else like a drink? No? Then I’ll just help myself.” He finished the rest of his glass and went off in search of more.

  Sandra half started after him, but Adrian gently caught her arm. “Let him go, you can’t live his life.”

  Sandra glared at him a moment, then her face softened. She had a lot of things to say about the subject and managed to pack it all into that one-look before nodding agreement. “All right, but I am going to see he eats at least one sandwich before he starts his debauch.” She went after him.

  “She’s his younger sister?” I asked.

  Adrian continued to twist his ring. “Yes, but a good deal more responsible, so she seems older. I’m sure he’ll get his work into Brett’s gallery, his plan for talking to Reva was sound enough. Sometimes he’s not as foolish as he appears.”

  “And other times?”

  Adrian abruptly smiled, showing a row of large but perfect teeth. “He is exactly as he seems.” The smile vanished just as abruptly as though it had never happened. “How did Evan manage to end up in the back fountain?”

  I briefly recounted the crap game and fight.

  “Dreyer?” he interrupted.

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve heard of him, he’s not exactly polite society. I’m surprised you were able to handle him; generally the man’s a maniac. It’s just like Evan to try cheating him at his own game.”

  “He’s a gambler?”

  “I’m not certain. Chicago seems to specialize in his type, if you know what I mean. I wonder why he’s at this party, but then a lot of other un-savories are here as well. Money and manners don’t always go together.”

  I remembered Madison Pruitt and could see his point.

  “Are you connected with the art world, Fleming?”

  “Not really, my girlfriend is singing here tonight and wanted me along.”

  “Bobbi Smythe? You’re very fortunate. I heard her, she has a lovely voice.”

  “I’ll tell her you said so.” And that’s when the idea clicked in my head. “Alex, h
ow does one go about commissioning a painting?”

  “I couldn’t say for other artists. For myself, I decide what I want to work on. The general rule is half payment in advance and half on completion. Why do you ask?”

  “I wanted to get a special present for Bobbi, she won’t take trinkets from me, but I don’t think she could turn down her own portrait.”

  “Especially one by Alex Adrian.” He wasn’t boasting, but simply aware of his talent and reputation.

  “Would you consider taking on a commission?”

  He did at least think it over before shaking his head. “I have to say no. It’s not the subject or you, I just haven’t the time. I’m sorry. Perhaps you could commission Evan or Sandra, they’re both very competent. Evan in particular, when you can get him to do realism. I warn you, though. Go along with Miss Smythe during the modeling sessions. Evan rather enthusiastically fits most people’s cliché ideas of an artist. I think if he had no talent at all he would still be an artist, if only to exploit the popular reputation involved.”

  “You’re certain you won’t take it?”

  “Very certain. Sorry.”

  He excused himself and moved back into the crowd. He was puzzling, because I was positive for a moment that he was going to say yes. The dullness had left his face, and even in the packed room, I’d heard his heart hammer a little faster. He’d been genuinely interested and then the walls had come up, visibly and quite sudden. I glanced around to see if anything had inspired the change. The only thing in his direct line of sight were people, none of them known to me, but then a woman moved her head and I saw Reva Stokes, smiling and playing hostess.

  She caught my look and nodded, then came over, graceful, smooth, and with a warmer attitude than before now that she was certain of the success of her party. “Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Fleming?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I saw you talking with Alex. Are you friends?”

  “Just met him tonight, I take it you know him, too.”

  “Yes, he and Leighton are good friends. He was over here a lot before … before Celia died.”

  “Celia was his wife?”

  “Yes. It was suicide, he found her in their garage. She’d shut the doors and started the car and just sat there and let it happen. What a horrible way to die.”

  “The papers were less than kind to him, I suppose.”

  “Those disgusting rags. One of the reporters all but broke into his home for an interview. Alex threw them out, and that’s when they started writing those awful stories. They were clever about it, they didn’t print anything they could be sued for, but the innuendo was nearly enough to ruin him. He’s had to change his phone number several times because of the terrible calls, and once some kids stoned his studio and broke windows. People can be so awful.”

  “He did seem withdrawn.”

  “You can hardly blame him. He’s been a complete recluse since then; I’m hoping his coming here means he’s getting back to being his old self.”

  “Does that also mean getting back to painting?”

  “I hope so. I know he hasn’t done any work for months.”

  “He must have loved her a lot.”

  “Oh, yes,” she agreed, absently distracted because a large man came up and put a friendly arm around her shoulders.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked with good humor. He had a drink and cigarette balanced in his free hand and looked comfortably happy about the world in general. Like Reva, I knew his face from the photo in the paper.

  “Just fine, Leighton,” she replied. “And you?”

  “I can do this for hours yet.” He removed the arm from her shoulders and extended a hand at me. “Leighton Brett, guest of honor of all this madness.”

  “Jack Fleming.”

  He was larger and even more solid than the newspaper photo implied. It only hinted at the rich, curly brown hair and had left out the laugh lines round his eyes. There was no hint of the planned calculation his paintings showed, and I wondered if Sandra had just been pulling my leg.

  “Mr. Fleming is here with Bobbi Smythe, Leighton.”

  This garnered a broad smile. “She’s doing a wonderful job in there.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her.”

  “Did you know that Alex was here tonight?” Reva asked him.

  “Yes, I finally talked him into coming. It’s about time he got back to normal again. He’s had too much of his own company and needs to remember life goes on.”

  “We were just talking about Celia—”

  “Not where he or anyone else could hear, I hope. You know he’s just coming out of it, the last thing he needs is for all that gossip to start up again.”

  “It won’t be repeated,” I said.

  “I should hope not,” he rumbled, and Reva looked uncomfortable. A subject change again seemed in order.

  “I had a question for you on one of your paintings—”

  “Certainly, go ahead.”

  “The farm scene in the paper that won the award, have you painted any duplicates of it?”

  “Certainly not. What do you mean, ‘duplicates’?”

  “I happened to see a very similar painting once before in someone’s office, and I’d heard that artists sometimes make copies of their own work.”

  “If I want copies I do a print or an engraving. Where did you see this?”

  “In a private office, three fairly big paintings. The owner got them through a decorator, but I don’t know the name.”

  “Reva?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t remember selling three of that size to any one person or company, not all at once, anyway. It could be an imitator, there are a lot of them around.”

  “Far too many and you’re being too kind, girl. Those bastards are little more than forgers, as far as I’m concerned. A man works for years to get his style, and then they just jump in and make a fortune off all my efforts. I want to see these paintings. Where are they?”

  It did not strike me that Gordy would appreciate having an artist of even Brett’s reputation barging around his office and asking questions. “I’m not at liberty to say, but I can ask the owner permission for you to—”

  “Ask permission? Look, if someone is cheating me and the public out of my work, I want to know about it.” His voice rose; apparently he was very unused to getting no for an answer.

  Heads were turning and Reva had backed away, flushing beet red with embarrassment. I did what I could to keep my voice calm and even. “I can’t tell you now, but I’ll look into it for you, I promise.”

  He paused, blinked, and seemed to realize he was on the verge of making a scene. He chose to ignore it altogether. “Good, call me as soon as you know anything.” His good humor returned an instant later. Reva’s color evened out again, but her tone was a little forced as she drew my attention to a still life on the wall. The people around us gradually went back to their own conversations. I stuck it out and made some kind of comment or other. Brett responded well to my inexpert praise, and even indulged in some modest self-critique.

  “Yes, but it’s a bit old now, at least to my eyes. I’ve learned a lot since that one was painted. I suppose we ought to sell it off and replace it with something better.”

  “It looks fine to me,” I said, hoping the remark didn’t sound as false to him as it did to me.

  Reva stepped in. “Brett always says things like that; every artist knows his next painting will be better than the last.”

  “And it’s always true,” confirmed Brett. “Have you been by the gallery yet?”

  The safe and sane small talk continued until someone else claimed their attention and I could decently slip away. It was past time for me to return to the long hall and see how Bobbi was getting along.

  The sound of the music was my guide, Bobbi was singing again, an-other slow club number that could make a statue weep. The place was as crowded as before but I managed to squeeze through and catch her eye. She
gave me a discreet nod without pausing in her song of hope and heartbreak.

  The crowd had backed off to create an impromptu dance floor, and couples swayed to the slow music. I was a little surprised to see Adrian among them. He didn’t seem the sort to indulge in frivolity, but perhaps Sandra had talked him into it. She was one of those rare ones who could do that without seeming pushy. Her head rested contentedly against his shoulder and neither of them were in any pain.

  Someone appeared abruptly at my side, Walt from the kitchen. He was looking anxiously at the dancers.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  He recognized me. “Well, yes, sort of…Mr. Robley …”

  “He needs to see his sister?”

  “No, sir, I think the last person he’d want to see is his sister. He mumbled something about Mr. Adrian.”

  It sounded ominous, but I didn’t want to break in on them. All the world loves a lover and all that, and I had more than one romantic bone holding up my carcass. “He’s busy, let’s see if I can substitute.”

  Relieved, he led me out by another door to a hallway and eventually to a linen closet. Evan was at the bottom of it with blood on his face.

  3

  HE moaned as the hall light hit him.

  Walt said, “I was getting some more towels and found him. I thought he was just sleeping one off until I saw he was hurt. He wanted I should get Mr. Adrian to help take him home.”

  I knelt next to him and felt his arms and ribs. Since he didn’t yell any objections, I assumed nothing was broken. “Evan? Clan you tell us what happened?”

  “Truck with fists,” he mumbled. There was a small cut over one eye, but most of the gore was seeping gently from his nose. I borrowed one of the rowels, held it to his face, and told him to tilt his head back.

  “There’s a bathroom just next to us,” Walt offered helpfully.

  We gave Evan another minute to get his breath back, then I all but carried him out. He sank gratefully onto the closed lid of the toilet and sat quietly while Walt and I cleaned off the worst of the mess. In addition to his already-bruised cheek, his left eye was swelling shut. The first real sign of life was his shocked yelp when I dabbed antiseptic on the cut.