“I’m with it,” Clete said, “and I can’t blame you for stammering, I suppose. You can’t afford to do the slightest thing to offend the rich relative.”
“I’d take a chance on swimming in sharky waters if she insisted,” Perky admitted.
“So why don’t you hang her?”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“She’s ruined,” Perky said bitterly. “From the day we got it, Cousin Melanie’s portrait has been in the storage room adjacent to our carport. These Florida insects and an audacious rodent have dined royally. Maybe there was some glue or sizing in the canvas that attracted them.” Perky shuddered and rolled his eyes heavenward. “If Cousin Melanie ever finds out the manner in which we treated her portrait, she’ll draw her own strong conclusions about the way we feel about her. We’ll never see the first copper of her money. It will all probably wind up in the hands of some Swiss charity!”
Clete shook stale coffee from a cracked cup and poured himself a helping from the steaming percolator. He carried it into the outer room of the cottage with Perky dogging his heels.
At the cluttered table, Clete ripped string and brown paper from the package which Perky had brought with him. The package, Clete noted, contained two likenesses of Cousin Melanie, a nine-inch by twelve-inch photograph and the desecrated two by three feet painting in oil.
While the face had escaped destruction, the portrait showed obvious signs of careless neglect. A mouse had nibbled the corners. Bug and larvae had burrowed into the board. Moisture and mildew had left stained spots.
Clete surmised that Perky had slipped the photograph from a frame prior to bringing it here. The photo held Clete’s attention. Cousin Melanie was not a beautiful woman, but she was patrician, with a finely cut face framed in white hair. The features had that small, firm quality that remained tenaciously young looking, making the hair seem prematurely gray, though it was the real key to her years.
The feature that struck Clete’s artistic sense most forcibly was Cousin Melanie’s neck. It was amazingly long, delicate, even fragile looking, but it held not a hint of stringy awkwardness. Truly, Clete thought, it was a rare neck, the kind that poets of old rapturously called swan-like.
Perky was literally jittering from one foot to the other. “Well? How quickly can you copy the portrait?”
“I don’t know that I can,” Clete said. “It’s an unholy horror as a work of art, flat, two-dimensional. I’m not sure I can paint so badly.”
“But you’ve got to try!” Perky begged. “She’s got to believe that her picture has never been off our living room wall.”
Clete dropped the portrait on the table. He gave a derisive laugh that wasn’t directed at Perky. Instead, it seemed to be for himself and his cottage and the years that were behind him.
“At least. Perky, our conspiracy has a new wrinkle. Many artists have copied masterworks, but I’m sure I’m the first to copy, for such a purpose, an artistic abortion!”
Perky yanked out a handkerchief and mopped his face and neck. “I can never thank you sufficiently, Clete, old boy.”
“Yes, you can. Just write the check. And understand one thing; I guarantee nothing. I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise to succeed in reproducing a portrait so lifeless.”
Perky had more cajoling words of pep talk, but Clete took him by the arm and ushered him out.
Clete sketched in the background, when he’d set up easel and canvas, in a matter of minutes. The rest became a nightmare. By the week’s end, he had ruined three canvasses. But in the fourth, he believed he’d produced a copy that would pass the rich relative’s inspection. He phoned Perky Bersom and told him to buy a frame.
Then Clete drank a tenth of Scotch and retired to his daybed to sleep around the clock. His exhausted brain purged itself while he slept. Lifeless portraits slipped and wheeled in and out of his dreams. They overlaid and obscured the image of a long, delicate, swan-like neck.
* * * *
The party was one of those small, informal, and entirely happy affairs for which the Bersoms had a long-practiced knack. The aroma of fine barbecue wafted across the patio. Excellent stereo music murmured from the tasteful beach cottage. The landscaping of tropical foliage combined with the background of Gulf and Florida sky to make the spot seem enchanted. Perky and Lisa were the perfect host and hostess. They knew how to choose a guest list, whom to mix.
As he walked from his dirty old sedan, Clete was spotted by Perky who rushed to meet him with a big grin. He punched Clete in the ribs with his elbow.
“Clete, old boy, you’re a genius.”
“I know,” Clete said without superiority. “I take it the portrait passed inspection.”
“The minute Cousin Melanie arrived,” Perky said, “she spotted the picture. She couldn’t have missed it, in the spot I’d chosen for hanging and lighting. She was so overwhelmed by the compliment that she got a little misty-eyed. Clete, old boy, we’re in solid with her. Real nice and solid.”
“I’m glad I was able to help.”
“Help? My friend, we’d be sunk without you! Remind me to put another century of bread in your bank account, as a bonus.”
“The worker is grateful for his hire,” Clete, said in a slightly insulting tone, “but I sure won’t forget to remind you.”
“Great.” Perky slapped him on the back. “Now, how about a drink? Your usual? And this barbecue is the finest the caterers have ever turned for us.”
Clete knew most of the guests, beach neighbors of Perky’s and Lisa’s. He drifted, passing small talk, sipping his drink.
Fifteen minutes later, Cousin Melanie came out of the cottage, entering the patio from the Florida room. She was slim, trim, youthful despite her years, as her photograph had suggested.
Clete’s gaze immediately centered on her neck. Wearing a simple cotton dress, with her neck
