“Trooper, this is hardly the time to discuss it,” Babette answered sharply, managing to look down her nose at Des even though Des towered over her by perhaps a foot. This was a woman who was trying very hard to command respect. If there was one thing Des had learned at West Point, it was this: The ones who had to work at it were seldom the ones who received it.
“So when would be a good time?” Des asked her, as Melanie watched the two of them intently from behind her desk.
“I suppose you could swing by my house this afternoon,” Babette allowed. “But I don’t understand why you’re pressing me on this.”
“Because my job is to see that things like this don’t happen. That’s rule number one in the resident trooper’s unofficial handbook.”
“And is there a rule number two?” Babette demanded.
“Oh, absolutely,” Des said, smiling at her broadly. “Rule number two is to make absolutely sure that they don’t ever happen again.”
The Patterson Gallery was located right down Dorset Street from the old Gill House, home to the Dorset Academy of Fine Arts. The gallery was in a bright-yellow converted barn that had previously been a grain-and-feed store. The gnarly oak tree out front had a red ribbon tied around it, indicating where Colin Falconer’s wife stood on the school-bond issue. Whatever was wrong between the two of them, Des reflected, it wasn’t local politics.
Inside, Des found a clean, brightly lit space with sparkling white walls and polished fir floors. A fire crackled in the fireplace. Downstairs, the gallery featured an array of luminous early-twentieth-century landscape paintings from noteworthy shoreline impressionists such as Childe Hassam, Henry Ward Ranger, Carleton Wiggins and Elbert Frye, Wendell’s grandfather. Prices ranged anywhere between one and five times what Des took home in a year. On the second floor Greta Patterson offered more modestly priced works by contemporary artists, many of them recent graduates of the Dorset Academy. She served on its board, as had her father and grandfather, who had operated the Patterson Gallery before her.
A discreet sign on the wall behind her massive oak partner’s desk noted that the Patterson Gallery was the exclusive agent and legal representative of Wendell Frye, although there was no evidence of the great man’s work to be found anywhere-no catalogs, no photographs. It was very low-key, considering the amount of hype that generally went on in the art world.
Greta was talking on the phone, but she quickly got off, bustled to her feet and offered Des a seat in one of the cozy armchairs set before the fire. Des declined an offer of coffee and sat, trying not to stare at the woman. Greta Patterson was a good deal older than she’d been expecting. At least sixty, possibly sixty-five. Plenty old enough to be Colin’s mother. She was a wide-bodied, square-faced woman with close-cropped silver hair and a red blotchy complexion that suggested many years of serious drinking. She wore a hand-knit cream-colored vest over a burgundy silk blouse, roomy wool slacks and a good deal of bright-red lipstick, some of which was stuck to her front teeth.
“I know why you’re here, trooper,” Greta said to her in a booming, forthright voice. “Colin’s already phoned me from the ambulance. He’s assured me he’s fine, totally fine.” She did not seem the least bit fazed by her husband’s suicide attempt. Or even surprised. “We’ve been living apart lately, as I’m sure you must know, but I’ll bring him home just as soon as the clinic releases him.” Greta settled in the other armchair, clutching a Dorset Academy coffee mug tightly in her blunt-fingered hands. “Naturally, I’ll try to see that he behaves himself in the future. But I can’t guarantee anything.”
“Has this happened before?” Des asked, crossing her long legs.
Greta let out a guffaw. “What is this, his fifth try? Sixth? I’ve lost count. Colin is a deeply, deeply unhappy man. He’s been undergoing treatment for depression for a number of years, and lately-” She broke off, weighing just exactly how forthcoming she wished to be. “Let’s just say he wanted to work things out on his own. A lot of men undergo a change when they hit forty. I’ve seen it with countless artists-even the real swashbucklers. Their self- assurance is suddenly overtaken by doubt, anxiety, even panic. Some rush right out and nail the first female who’s willing. Some buy themselves a convertible. And some, like Colin, fall into a deep, deep funk. Call it hormones. Call it male menopause. Call it whatever you want. But it’s real. And for Colin, who was a brooder to begin with, it’s been pure hell.” Greta took a sip of her coffee and stared fretfully into the fire. “Up until now, we’ve managed to keep it between us. But now I suppose the poor boy will have to take a medical leave.”
“Babette Leanse was waiting outside his office to see him,” Des said. “Could this particular suicide try be related to that?”
“I have no doubt that it is,” Greta answered emphatically. “Babette has been making his life pure hell ever since this mold issue came up at Center School. Attila the Hen, he’s taken to calling her. Babette’s a driven, determined woman, and God help anyone who gets in her way. Sadly, that anyone has been Colin.” Greta shifted her bulk in her chair, sighing regretfully. “Dorset used to be a special place. Everyone got along with everyone else. There was an aura of true contentment-artists made it their home. Now we’re living in a war zone. Sometimes the war is fought over whether to put in a sewer system. Sometimes it’s about condos. And sometimes it’s about building a new school. But it’s always the same war. And it’s always the same outcome-the future always wins. I know that as well as I know the difference between the genuine artist and the fraud. But I don’t have to like it.”
A piece of wood collapsed in the fireplace, setting off a shower of sparks.
Greta stared at it in heavy, angry silence for a moment. “Besides, this one leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Our school board president, a woman who has turned that new school into a holy crusade, happens to be married to a real estate developer who happens to be building new houses all over town. Please! She’s his puppet, and little Brucie is busy pulling the strings and lining his own pockets. But don’t get me started on them.” Greta got up and put a fresh log on the fire, then stood there warming her broad backside as it crackled. “I honestly will try to get Colin to come home. But he’s a very stubborn boy.”
That was the second time she’d called him a boy, Des noticed.
“I’m sorry that the children had to be exposed to this. They must have found it alarming.”
“It was handled very quietly,” Des said. “Just Mrs. Leanse, his secretary and the custodian were there. And one teacher, Miss Frye.”
Greta’s face lit up. “Moose is Wendell’s oldest girl. Isn’t she wonderful?”
“I liked her quite a bit.”
“Very fine girl,” Greta said, nodding. “Considerate, kind. Steady as a rock. His other daughter, Takai, has that realty office right across the street from me.” Des noticed that Greta did not say that Takai was a fine girl. What she did say was: “Takai was the first realtor in Dorset to hire fluffers.”
“Hire what?”
“They’re like set decorators,” she explained dryly. “They dress up the houses to make them look like they’re straight out of House Beautiful, thereby jacking up the selling price. They truck in family heirlooms, antique furniture, dishes, silver. Totally faux, but that’s Takai. With her, it’s always about making a style statement. She was a runway model in New York when she was still in her teens. And, to this day she remains totally image- oriented. Which I guess is her way of rebelling against her father. Wendell, you see, has a visceral loathing for anything that he perceives as manipulative or fake-such as, say, the entire concept of business. Not that I’m complaining, mind you,” Greta pointed out quickly. “It’s a great, great privilege to be his dealer. Ordinarily, an artist of his stature would be represented by a big outfit in New York, not a funky local gallery such as mine. But Wendell’s magnificently quirky that way. The Pattersons were good enough for his grandfather and his father and that was all he needed to know. And this way more of the money stays right here in Dorset to nourish local artists. Thanks to Wendell, I’m able to provide scholarships to the academy, student loans, rent money, even money for canvases and paints.” Greta smiled at her, her eyes glittering. “Tell me, trooper, are you a fan of his work?”
“I’m a tremendous fan,” Des said. “But please don’t ask me to explain why, because I don’t believe I can.”
“You’re not alone, my dear,” Greta said reassuringly. “The closest anyone’s ever come to describing a Frye statue was a French critic in the early seventies who wrote that it was like a mirror into one’s soul-when you try to understand it, you end up trying to understand yourself. Hell, I’ve known the man for the better part of fifty years, and I’ve never really known him at all. You just missed him, actually. He left not five minutes before you got here, full of my good Irish whiskey. Stopped by to discuss a legal matter-doesn’t call, just shows up. That’s Wendell. Mostly, I’m his gatekeeper. If someone wishes to commission him, they go through me. And either he says yes or
