And”—she looked grave—“about family. That was the problem. Jack approached me because I am one of Evelyn’s closest friends. In fact, when he came to the gallery, I wasn’t surprised. He’d made a special effort to be friendly to me. One evening at The Castle, he asked me to tell him about some of the artworks. He wanted to be able to talk to Evelyn about the art and, as he put it, he’d spent most of his life in a rough-and-ready place and he wasn’t an art connoisseur. I realized when he came to the gallery”—she waved her hand at the magnificent arrays of paintings —“that he’d used art as an excuse. What he really wanted to talk about was Evelyn.”
She brushed back a strand of blond hair, sighed. “Their situation was sad. Evelyn was angry with him. She felt that he’d neglected the family, that he’d hurt their father deeply. She especially resented the fact that her brother didn’t come home when his father was dying. Oh, he came for the funeral. But Evelyn told him, I’m afraid not very kindly, that he’d come too late. He didn’t come home to Adelaide to see his father one last time.” She pointed at me. “He sat in that chair and asked if I thought there was any way he could reach her. He said, ‘My sister hates me. If she had the chance, I think she’d shoot me. I don’t want to go home with that on my conscience.’”
The words, spoken in Alison’s soft, quiet voice, seemed to hang between us.
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing new. Maybe there’s nothing new in the world when it comes to love. And hate.” She looked pensive. “We’ve all made mistakes with people. I never had a sister or brother, but I know when I’ve hurt someone, the best words are ‘I’m sorry.’ That’s what I suggested he say to Evelyn: ‘I’m sorry.’ He came to see me the afternoon of the day he died. He didn’t know he had so little time left. He wanted to make things right with his sister. I hope he had a chance to tell her. But I won’t ask Evelyn. If he didn’t, it will only grieve her.”
I shook my head. “I’d consider telling Evelyn. If she doesn’t know, you might bring her great comfort. And certainly, this is material that will add depth to the book.”
“You may be right.” She sat straighter on the couch. She looked poised to rise, making it clear that the interview was at an end, that she was a businesswoman, that she had matters to deal with.
I stood and smiled. “Thank you so much for your time.”
She walked with me to the door.
As I pulled the door open, sunlight flooded the entryway. She stood with the grace of a model. I admired her indigo trousers and zebra-print blouse, the zigzag blue stripe evocative of a shimmering Caribbean lagoon. Large crystals glittered in a summery golden bib necklace. She might have been any well-to-do woman on a lovely summer day except for a hint of weariness in her smooth face.
I paused. I’d forgotten one point. “Jack had made a note about Leonard Walker.”
Something moved in her blue eyes. Wariness? Fear? Or was she simply surprised? Her reply came slowly. “Leonard Walker? I can’t imagine—oh.” She shook her head. “I’d forgotten. When Jack and I talked about paintings one evening at The Castle, he asked about local artists. He said he had a photograph of his late wife and he wondered if he could commission someone to paint a portrait for him. I must have suggested Leonard. He’s in the art department at Goddard.”
CHAPTER NINE
I didn’t bother going to the campus. It had never been my experience that academics spent much time in their offices and certainly not during the summer. I disappeared and zoomed to a nearby dress shop. An empty office provided a phone book. I found Leonard Walker’s address.
I felt no need to hurry, so I wafted through the shop to see the clothes. Oh, yes. Very nice. I changed into a salmon rose-print blouse and cool gray trousers, then arrived on a shady street near downtown with well-kept bungalows from the 1930s. The modest homes were unpretentious, charming, and livable. I immediately applauded Walker’s taste.
I waited until the mailman walked away to become visible. I admired the crisp white of the heavily timbered front-porch gable, then climbed the shallow front steps. The shingled wood exterior was painted a soft sea green. The gleaming mahogany front door featured an opaque oval glass inset with a daylily incised in the center.
I rang the bell and faintly heard a distant chime.
Cicadas rose to a crescendo, dropped away, began again. In the moments between their songs, I heard the poignant cry of mourning doves and the rustle of magnolia leaves. But the house lay silent.
I rang again.
Possibly Leonard Walker was out of town. The mention of his name had apparently surprised Alison Gregory. I had only her word for Jack’s question to her. Had he really sought an artist to create a painting of his late wife? Or had Jack been interested in Walker for another reason?
I only knew for a fact that Leonard Walker’s name had been written on the back of Alison’s business card, his name and a time.
I pressed the bell again.
Suddenly the door swung in. A tall, stocky bear of man with a mane of golden hair filled the doorway. He gave me an admiring glance from dark brown eyes. He was handsome in a bohemian way, a blue work shirt loose over cotton shorts, a single earring, a gold-link necklace. “Yeah?”
I introduced myself. “I’m hoping for a moment of your time. I’m gathering information on Jack Hume for a book and apparently he was in touch with you before he died.”
He looked blank. “Hume?” He sounded puzzled.
“I understand he wanted to commission you to paint a portrait of his deceased wife from a photograph.”
“Oh. Yeah. Dude in his sixties.” He lifted his heavy shoulders, let them fall. “He never got back to me.”
“He died in a fall.”
Again he shrugged, though this time he added a commiserating shake of his head and the thick blond hair rippled. “Sorry about that. Anyway, he came to see me a couple of weeks ago, I never heard back. That happens.
