Kate gasped. A woman with brown hair and a blue dress was holding a naked child to her breast. The child was dead. The woman, the mother, had just realized that her daughter's blue, limp sprawl was final, forever. The finish was exquisite, the background detailed, the texture of hair and fabric palpable, and the overall effect on the viewer was of a knife in the heart.
'But that's—my God, you're Eva Vaughn!'
Vaun turned with a surprised look, the first real emotion that had crossed her face since they had arrived.
'You didn't know?'
'I saw your show in New York last year. Al, you know—'
'Yes, I know who Eva Vaughn is. In fact, I helped out when the painting was stolen in Los Angeles a couple of years ago. It wasn't my case, but I remember the painting.'
'I owe you thanks, then, Inspector,' said Vaun, one eyebrow arched in amusement at the turn of events. 'It no longer belonged to me, of course, but the owner is fond of it.'
'And here we thought you were some hippie painter who sold magical unicorns at the flea market,' Hawkin mused, and turned to eye the door to the storage room.
'Doesn't it worry you just a bit having them all sitting there?'
Vaun actually laughed, warm and much amused.
'Very few of my paintings are worth what that one in Los Angeles was, particularly if they were stolen, and they're probably safer here with the doors unlocked than in a gallery in New York with burglar alarms. Besides, so far—touch wood—none of my neighbors know that I'm Eva Vaughn when I'm 'out there.' That's the main reason why I keep the paintings under wraps until I send them off,' she added, and lowered the covers again. She turned back to face the two detectives. It was an awkward moment, which she herself broke.
'But all of that has little to do with your investigation, doesn't it?' She went back and sat on the couch to pour herself another cup of coffee with steady hands. 'In fact, considering the sorts of things Eva Vaughn is known for, it may even make your pointed questions that much more necessary. You were asking about Monday, I believe, three days ago. Amy Dodson came up on her pony just before lunchtime with some bread her mother had baked. Angie usually bakes Mondays and Thursdays, and she always sends me some of whatever she's made. I let her use my hillside for her garden, and she feels she owes me for it.' Which explained the incongruity of the pale face and hands with the considerable garden outside the door. 'She doesn't owe me, but when it comes to her bread, I don't argue. Have you talked with Amy yet?'
'Not yet, no.'
'You'll find her a sensible child, very bright. She's had home schooling, like most of the kids here, since she was seven, and her test scores are high-school level by now. Anyway, she was here a bit before one. I also saw her father later, it must've been almost six, because the light was changing too much to paint any more so I went for a walk along the road. He makes a trip to town most Mondays and he was—' She sneezed again, blew her nose, coughed. 'He was just getting back. I stopped him to ask if he could take some canvases into San Francisco for me next week, which he's done half a dozen times.'
'Did you see anyone else?'
'Did anyone else see me, you mean. I don't think so. It started to rain, so I cut it short and came back here. Someone else went by a few minutes later, but I was already off the Road so I didn't see who it was. It sounded like Bob Riddle's truck, but I can't be sure.'
'What did you do after that?'
'The same thing I do every evening. Stirred up the fire, had a drink, read for a while, ate some soup and the bread. After dinner I usually write and sketch. The sketches were lousy, so I used them to start my fire the next morning. The letters Tommy Chesler took down to Tyler's for me on Tuesday, for Anna to stamp and mail. I had a bath, dried my hair, and went to bed, about ten-thirty. And slept until about five the following morning.'
'Alone?'
Her smile was ironic, and acknowledged his peculiar right to intrude on her.
'Yes.'
'Every evening?'
There was a pause while she studied him, her smile deepening.
'No.'
'Who?'
'I think, Inspector Hawkin, we are nearing the point at which I am going to ask you to put this interrogation on a more formal basis.'
'Tyler?'
Kate thought she wouldn't answer, but it came eventually.
'Occasionally.'
'Why didn't you come down to Tyler's Tuesday morning?'
She must have been expecting the question, for she answered without hesitating.
'These people are my friends.' She weighted the word heavily. 'I never had friends before, and I found myself reluctant to have you accuse me and peel apart my life in front of them. No one here knows who I am, other than that I'm Vaun the painter. There's no Eva Vaughn on Tyler's Road, and no felon either. Just 'Vaun'.'
'Nobody knows?'
'Tyler knows that I've been in prison; I'm not sure if he knows the reason. I offered to tell him, but he said he didn't want to know. He may have found out since then, but he won't have told anyone else.'
'You sound very sure of that.'
'He didn't tell you,' she pointed out. 'Tyler is famous for his stubborn refusal to talk about anyone else. The Road gossips find him enormously frustrating.'
'Who are the Road gossips?'
She hesitated for a moment.
'You really should ask someone else about that. I'm not fully a part of the Road society. Angie Dodson could tell you. She isn't what I would call a gossip, but she lives closer to the Road and knows better than I do what goes on.'
It sounded a feeble excuse for avoiding an answer, but perhaps to respond to the question would have felt too much like informing for a convicted felon's taste.
To Kate's surprise, Hawkin stood up abruptly.
'That'll be all for the moment, Miss Adams. We'll be back if we need to finish 'ferreting about.' You won't leave the area without informing us, please.'
'Of course.' She too seemed at a loss. 'Will you… that is, I suppose I'll need to leave my work as it is for a while. On hold.' Her voice came perilously close to pleading.
Hawkin looked down at her for a long minute and finally relented into something close to sympathy.
'That would probably be for the best, Miss Adams.'
Kate watched the deadness creep back into the remarkable ice-blue eyes and was annoyed to feel a twinge of sorrow. She's a suspect, Martinelli, she told herself harshly, and ignored the little voice that protested, But not Eva Vaughn!
Outside the house Hawkin set a fast pace down the slippery path, muttering to himself.
'What did you say?'
'I said, what's the world coming to, drinking coffee with goat's milk and honey, that's what I said. It's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard of.'
'It wasn't bad black. And those ham sandwiches were great.'
'The sandwiches were good. The coffee was disgusting. Can you run in those shoes?'
'Run?'
'Yes, run. To cover ground in a rapid manner. You're supposed to be the athlete here. Would those shoes do for running, or would you need your Nikes or Adidas or whatever they are?'
She looked down at her feet, which were covered with a pair of relatively soft, low-heeled leather shoes, chosen that morning for walking in the wet hills.
'Sure I could run in them. I wouldn't want to do a marathon, but—'
'How far could you go?'
