“It’s not that Naomi hates Cayce,” she said, “because that would be really sad, but I think it’s more of the fact that she really wanted Elena’s top position. And even now that Elena is gone, I don’t think Naomi realizes that she won’t get the top spot. There was something special between Elena and Cayce, and Cayce would say it wasn’t the reason why she gave her the jobs,” Anita said hurriedly. “She would say that Elena fit the bill perfectly.”
“Do you think she drew designs that fit Elena properly, maybe better than others?”
Anita nodded with relief. “That’s it. I think she saw the beauty that was in Elena, and certain art installations just worked perfectly for her. Naomi? She doesn’t like working with anyone, and she doesn’t like listening. So Cayce has to block her out. She can’t stand the greedy miserable persona behind who Naomi is. But I don’t know that Naomi is so black-hearted that she would have killed Elena.”
He nodded slowly. “I met her once.”
“She was also in the installation with the children. Even when she stepped out to take the applause, it’s like it was only her. She’s not supposed to be the piece that gets the applause,” Anita said waspishly. “She’s supposed to blend in and be just a part of the art, but she won’t. She insists that the art is a part of her. A slight difference but one that’s very important, if you get what I mean.”
“So, she’s a little on the arrogant, egotistical side, and that can cause problems.”
“A little?” Anita shook her head.
He motioned at the computer. “Keep pulling names.”
She just groaned. “I’m pulling them from the accounting system. It’ll be everybody we’ve had to pay, and you’ll have to sort it out from there.”
“Or we’ll sort it out together here,” he said mildly, “because I don’t need to know everybody you bought paint from.”
“Why not?” she asked darkly. “Some of them weren’t very happy with Cayce either.”
“Seriously?”
Anita shrugged. “She has a certain cachet about her, so, if she buys from somebody, you can bet that the others want her to buy from them.”
“Professional jealousy.”
“She doesn’t like to take any advertising for suppliers,” she said. “Cayce would say that takes away from the art itself. She’s not promoting the paint. She’s not promoting where she got the brushes or any of it. Believe me. She buys everything purely for her art alone. She doesn’t promote anything or anyone, except for whoever it is she is doing the job for. You know what? In some cases, we do art for big charities, so she’ll help promote those charities, and she’ll do it for the art piece itself.”
“So she’s all about the art?”
“She is.”
“What about the masterpiece that Elena wore as her body art?”
“That was a special show for a collector who wanted copies of all the masterpieces on his wall to come to life, and he really wanted Elena to wear one.”
“And who was that?”
“I gave you his name earlier,” she said. “He’s the company that isn’t really a company.”
“Right, John Hallmark Company.”
“Yes that’s him. I don’t know that I’ve ever called him. I only have the invoices.”
“I have, and it’ll just go to a voicemail that I’m sure no one ever listens to. So how does he pay your invoice?” the detective asked.
“Usually bank drafts.”
“That’s an odd way, isn’t it?”
She turned and smiled and asked, “How much do you think she got for that painting?”
“Which one?”
“The one with the children.”
“I have no clue.”
“Seventy-five thousand dollars,” Anita said.
He stopped and stared.
She smiled, nodded, and said, “So, when you think about professional jealousy, you also need to understand that she did that one for a fraction of her normal price because it was raising money for charity. She really doesn’t do anything for under a quarter million.”
He had been in the act of standing up, but, when he heard that news, he sat back down and said, “Okay, that opens up a whole new level of motive.”
She gave him a fat smile. “Doesn’t it?”
*
He picked up the paintbrush once again and made a stroke. He knew that was where the stroke belonged, but somehow it was wider, thicker, and more defined than the stroke he had wanted to place. He stared in frustration at what was supposed to be his masterpiece, but instead it was coming out clunky, like a caricature.
He’d been painting for decades but had stopped multiple times, frustrated with his lack of success, but he had been so damn sure this would work, and he felt like he was staring a monumental failure in the face right now. Something he had never wanted to see. This was his swan song. This was the way he would make it back to the lost soul that he was. He’d done everything right, so why wasn’t it working? He looked over at the stretched-out frames of the various paintings that had led him here.
He could see the progress; he could see the improvement. But this? This was nothing.
Angrily, he stood and kicked the frame off to the side, dumping paint and throwing his palette. He didn’t care about the mess. He didn’t care about his art when the damn art wasn’t working. Of course, something was behind that damn art too, but, so far as he could tell, that wasn’t working either. Cayce had her art and there was something special behind her art. So where the hell was his something special?
He stormed around his apartment, pouring more coffee, then dumping it down the sink without tasting anything, pouring a glass of water instead and throwing it back, and then poured himself a second one. He stormed back to where his stacks of paintings were, staring at them and wondering how he was supposed to make this leap to become the artist he wanted to be.
It seemed like every stroke he did was careless, even though he was fine-tuned in his efforts to place
