“It’s not,” he said, “but, of course, we have to consider cases in the past where people have tanned the hides of people. Turning them into atrocities, like little purses and things.”
She could feel the bile rising up in the back of her throat at his words, her right hand instinctively going there. It was hard to consider.
“Don’t pass out on me,” he snapped at her.
She swallowed, blinked rapidly, pushed back her chair, and dropped her head into her hands. Just the thought of somebody doing something like that to such a beautiful and vibrant woman like Elena made Cayce want to scream and rail at the world.
“Why do you paint?”
Stunned at the question, she turned to look at him and asked, “Pardon?”
“I asked, why you paint?”
“Because I’m an artist,” she snapped. “Is that really the question you wanted to ask me?”
A ghost of a smile appeared as he shook his head, picked up a pad of paper, and said, “No, you’re right. We do have specific questions. So tell me. When did you last see her?”
“At the installation. I already told you that.”
“And how long was she there with you?”
“We’d been working all day,” she said. “The show opened at seven o’clock in the evening.”
“So she was there from seven until when?”
Cayce had to stop, took several deep breaths, corralled her brain cells that were already firing off in a million different directions, most of them in horror. “I think she was there until ten. And then I’m not so sure. At ten she walked around, separated herself from the installation, and became a moving art piece.”
“What does that mean?”
She groaned. “One of the things that I do a little differently at times,” she said, “is I paint the installation behind her, then I paint her, but this time I carried the image all around to the back, so, when she walks, she’s covered.”
He stared at her. “Covered?” he asked delicately.
She glared at him. “It’s a very intimate process. It’s a very intimate job. Elena felt naked if she wasn’t 100 percent painted, especially if she was expected to walk around and to visit with people.”
“Being covered by paint is hardly being covered,” he said.
“It’s covered enough,” she said with a sigh and sat back. “Look. Each model feels a very different way about being painted. For Elena, as long as it wasn’t her bare skin, she wasn’t nude. So, when I knew that she would be walking around, and not just going home afterward, I made sure that her back was fully covered as well.”
“And is that normal?”
She shook her head. “No, not at all. A lot of artists don’t want to use any more paint than they have to, and, to a lot of the models, the special artistic ones, it’s like that two-sided part of their personality, as in, the front is covered, and the back is not. It shows the two sides to who they are.”
“So, they’re exhibitionists?”
“That’s a judgment call, Detective,” she said tiredly, as she pressed her fingers through her long strands of blond hair. “Elena was not an exhibitionist.”
“She appeared nude in all kinds of art pieces for you,” he said. “How is that not being an exhibitionist?”
“She’s an artist.”
“You’re the artist,” he corrected.
She shook her head. “I am the artist, but to say that the model isn’t also an artist would be to minimize what their role is.”
“I don’t get it,” he said, shoving back his own chair slightly. “What does the model do except be still?”
“Sure, being still is one thing,” she said, “but consider the fact that she has to be still for hours, that she has to maintain the exact same position, and that she has to find that same position again, no matter what. She has to hold it. She has to know which muscles to engage, which facial expressions she was in, in order to regain that exact same look.”
“And can they hold it for hours?”
“Yes,” she said. “Every hour, or every couple hours, we give them a break, but we definitely keep it going.”
“And you have to paint the models for hours too?”
“Depends on how complex the installation, yes, but what I’ll often do is I’ll paint, say, her legs, and then I’ll do something else, so she can walk around and take a break. Or I’ll paint her torso and carry on. I do the last layer when she’s in place, in position, and I tune her right into the background painting itself.”
“So, she’s a part of the bigger masterpiece, is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t this about hiding? Isn’t this about not seeing what we’re seeing?”
She stared at him thoughtfully. “You mean, body-painting?”
He nodded slowly. “I’m trying to understand the mind of the killer.”
She winced at that, her gaze darting to the photo and back again. “I so wish we didn’t have to,” she said sadly.
“But that’s not helpful,” he said. “This person has taken the life of somebody you care about. But the why of it is what I need to know.”
“I have no idea,” she said.
Then realizing she hadn’t answered his other question, she took a deep breath and said, “I don’t think this body-painting artwork is about hiding anything. I think it’s about making you look deeper.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “Do you think maybe somebody looked deeper and found something they liked?”
“Obviously.” The tears choked her again. “Why don’t we get off those kinds of questions before I start bawling again?” she asked. “Can you ask the rest of your questions, so that I can leave?”
“Yes,” he said. “I have some information that I need to confirm.”
They went through some of the basics in her world. Quickly they ran through Elena’s address, phone number, and circle of friends, which was so vast that she shook her
