named Diana Proctor, who also happened to be your sister's patient.'
Millie, mouth partly open, gazed at Janek. For a moment she appeared to be relieved. Then, abruptly, she sat up, as if the implications of what he'd said had hit her like a blow.
'But you don't really think-! I mean, you couldn't possibly believe-!' Her forehead creased; her pupils dilated. 'You think Bev had something to do with… that Bev may have directed-?' And then: 'You do think that, don't you? Yes, I see you do.' She squeezed her eyes shut. 'Oh, my God!' Millie Cannaday began to scream. Her shrieks of anguish echoed through the house. they stayed with her until she calmed down. Then Janek explained to her that yes, Beverly was a suspect, although so far no more than that.
He and Aaron had come to Cleveland, he explained, on account of the portrait of her mother, which they'd seen in Beverly's bedroom. Certain objects, taken from the homicide victims, had been arranged in what seemed to be votive offering style before the painting. Thus the question arose as to whether Victoria Archer had in some way been the inspiration for the Wallflower murders. Janek readily admitted that such a theory must seem farfetched; he was certainly not prepared to tell Millie her sister was a murderess. Still, the case remained open. By the way, did Millie know anything about the portrait?
'The full-length one of Mama in her red dress? Sure, I know about it. A man named Peter Aretzsky painted it about twelve years ago.
It took up a whole wall of Mama's bedroom.'
'Your sister inherited it?' Millie smiled. 'Bev wanted that picture something awful. That, Mama's red dress, her miniature piano, and her big old four-poster bed.' Millie rolled her eyes. 'Bev always had her eye on the picture. She loved it, said it showed Mama the way she really was. Which is pretty funny… considering. You see, there's a story behind that painting.' Millie turned to Aaron. 'Are you taking him to see Melissa Walters?' Aaron nodded. 'Ask her about the painting, Lieutenant. She can fill you in about that and a lot of other stuff. She was Mama's best friend..
. if in fact, Mama ever had one.'
'Shit! She knew Bobby Wexler and Laura Scotto. That's proof she lied to us, Frank. So we got her, don't we?' Aaron hit the steering wheel with delight. 'I'm starting to feel good about this case.' they were back in their rental car, driving to their final appointment of the day. The snow had stopped falling. Although it was only four-thirty, the sky was already turning dark.
Janek wasn't sure that proof of Beverly's lies quite meant that they'd 'got her.' But he did think it might be enough to persuade Kit to grant them more time. So far the trip to Cleveland was working out.
Now how the hell am I going to get a confession? he wondered.
The lobby of the Alhambra Residential Hotel was a Moorish fantasy, a pastiche of thick walls, Arab col umns, C6rdoba arches, a central courtyard embracing a fountain, and a rectangular tiled pool stocked with carp.
Built in the late 1920s as a luxury establishment, the hotel was so well constructed that even now, after years of wear, it still emitted an aura of luxury and class. Palms planted in large teffa-cotta pots occupied the comers. Ceiling fans,- still now that it was winter, stood poised to whirl and cool perspiring guests. A creaking elevator, paneled in mahogany and trimmed with brass, took them to the fifth floor. Here they followed a corridor, one side open to the courtyard, until they reached the door to Melissa Walters's suite.
A short old lady opened up, a lady who clearly did not wish her visitors to find her old. Her hair was blued, her forehead was powdered, her cheeks were rouged, her eyebrows were drawn, and her lips were waxed bright scarlet. Melissa Walters showed the soft smile and refined social mannerisms of another era.
It was so exciting to meet real live detectives! Would the gentlemen like something to drink? Port? Sherry? She had some fine old Madeira@ould she tempt them with that? And she had taken the liberty of ordering in some prepared cana@s, as well as a good selection of cookies from Damons, Cleveland's finest bakery.
Melissa Walters settled into her favorite chair.
Oh, yes, she remembered Vicky Archer. My goodness, they'd been the best of friends! Impossible to forget her. A great entertainer, a great personality. She'd been the life of this city for a time. Had the gentlemen been to the Fairmount Club Lounge? Perhaps they should go down there and take a look. Not that the place was anything now but a shadow of its former self. Still, at one time, not too long ago either, the lounge had been Cleveland's premier night spot and Vicky Archer had been its most glittering star. But please forgive her. She was rambling; she knew she was. She apologized for that. She had so few visitors these days, most of her friends having passed away. Vicky had been one of the first. It was tragic the way she died so suddenly and so young. They'd been confidantes even though she, Melissa, was fifteen years Vicky's senior.
Oh, they'd had some great times together, wonderful times…
What? What was that they were asking? The painting, Aretzsky's painting? Of course, she remembered it! She'd seen it practically every day. Whenever she visited Vicky's suite, just two doors down the hall. A story? Oh, yes, there was a story about that picture, a scandal if they wanted to know the truth. Oh, they did, did they? What sly devils they were! Well, certainly, she'd tell them about it. In fact, it would be a pleasure. But would the gentlemen take a glass of Madeira first…?
Janek and Aaron accepted her glasses of Madeira. they even licked their lips over her delicate canap6s and grinned foolishly as they nibbled on her tasty little cookies. Anything to keep the old lady talking.
Janek, who'd conducted thousands of interviews over the course of his career, recognized that Melissa Walters was a potential gold mine of information. If there was a secret about Beverly and Victoria, a secret even deeper than what he and Aaron had managed to dig up so far, this lady might reveal it if she were handled carefully enough. The way she sang Victoria Archer's praises suggested a profound ambivalence.
He had picked up on undertones of anger, envy, even dislike.
'Aretzsky! Ha!' Melissa's scarlet painted lips parted in a smile. 'He was smitten by her, of course. Utterly smitten! He would come around the lounge every night just to see her, watch her move, listen to her sing, perhaps be so fortunate as to be the recipient of one of her ravishing smiles. He was an excellent painter as it happened, probably Cleveland's best. But so temperamental! He'd refuse to paint a person he didn't like. He lost out on a lot of lucrative corporate work on account of that little peccadillo. Still, Aretzsky was your first choice if you wanted your portrait done. That's how he got Vicky's attention… although he didn't hold it very long.' Melissa asked if she could refresh their drinks.
When they shook their heads, she shrugged and poured herself a double.
'I remember the night Aretzsky presented her with some drawings, quick little sketches he'd made of her right there in the lounge. She liked them, of course. She was no fool. And when he told her he wanted to paint her in oil, big, life size, maybe even bigger than life size, she certainly did not refuse him although she may have pretended to waver a little bit. Well, then he had her; at least he thought he did, the idiot! She began going to his studio to sit every afternoon. That dreary dump he lived in, near the lounge down at Camegie and One Hundred Fourth, up four flights to a big, undusted room with his easel and messy paints at one end and his awful, smelly unmade bed at the other. they made love on that bed, of course.
Vicky always knew how to inspire a man! I know he made nude sketches of her. She showed them to me once. But the big painting was the thing. Vicky in her red dress surrounded by a halo of reddish light. That's how they always lit her down at the lounge, you see. Oh, he made her look terrific-vibrant, bursting with energy and life. She was always glamorous, but he doubled her glamour. He idealized her. It was a picture painted by a lover. You couldn't look at it and fail to see that.'
Melissa spread her arms. 'Poor Aretzsky! That ugly, little, shrunken waif of a man with his bad skin and little wisp of a mustache@id he really think he was good enough to hold the interest of the Great Victoria Archer? Poor idiot! She ditched him, of course, soon as she got her mitts on his painting. Then he was hearthroken, or perhaps worse-a man destroyed. He started to become a nuisance, too. Long, reproachful, beseeching stares at the lounge. Silent phone calls to her suite in the middle of the night. He must have sent her fifty letters drenched in tears. She didn't bother to open them; just a glance at the envelopes and she'd toss them in the trash. I remember seeing him hanging around the stage door at the lounge or here, in front of the Alhambra, hoping to beg a precious moment of her time.
And of course, the deeper he humiliated himself, the more disgusted she became, and the greater her disgust, the more cruelly she behaved. For make no mistake about it, gentlemenVicky Archer could be a real bitch!'
But, Melissa explained, there was a second act to the story, the scandal that arose later on. Aretzsky, hearthroken, disdained and scorned, turned bitter and took to drink. And, as is so often the case, the excesses of
