His scornful tone puts me in my place as someone too ignorant to understand painting. People like this are annoying, but they can’t seem to stop talking. Especially about themselves.
So I egg him on. “You had a pretty close relationship with her?” It’s a suggestive question, designed to elicit a reaction. He’ll want to set me straight.
Eric cracks his neck. The sound makes me wince, and he smiles. “I’d hardly call it a relationship. She was too young to be a real friend. But sometimes she would model for me.”
“What, stand there and let you draw her?”
“Nothing so formal. I’d watch her playing with dolls or Legos or digging in the dirt and sketch whatever she was doing. I learned a lot that way, about movement and grace and the human body.”
Again, my creep meter pings. “And her parents were okay with that?”
“Her parents were too busy climbing their status ladder to worry about it.”
“So, what happened to your relationship?”
“You’re not listening. Nothing happened — there was no relationship. The Harknesses moved away when I was a senior in high school. I think V. was thirteen or so. Just beginning to be a little woman. Who knows? If they’d stayed, maybe I’d have dated her in a few years. As it was, she was still like my kid sister.”
Little woman. Asshole.
For once I agree with Zoe. “Were you surprised when she came back to town?”
“Maybe she was trying to get back to her roots.”
“I wasn’t asking you why she came, only your reaction to it.”
“A lot of people move away and come back. I wasn’t expecting her, no, but it didn’t surprise me unduly either.”
“How did you reconnect?”
He shrugs, a movement that starts in his shoulders and ripples down to his wrists. Before the ‘little woman’ comment I’d have been impressed. Now I just want to pistol whip him. “She came to a show of mine. She came up and introduced herself, but I’d have remembered her without that.”
“Did she invite you to the church? Call on you later for old times sake? I’m trying to get a picture of her routine, her life, the people she knew and associated with.”
“I don’t know anything about her life. I went to a service or two, just to be friendly, but I didn’t really believe in her message.”
“Why not? It seems like she thought artistic expression was a direct message from God.”
“She didn’t have any discrimination. To her, some hunk of metal welded together, some childlike watercolor, had as much meaning as the work of a dedicated artist, someone like me who has actually gone to school, and studied abroad. It belittles everything I’ve striven to accomplish with my life.”
“I can see why you’d think that. But you donated a painting.”
“I did that as kind of a thank-you for being my muse. For old times’ sake.”
“Did you still consider her your muse?”
“Not now, obviously. I’ve moved on in the past twenty years. I don’t even see why you’re pursuing this — Daniel must be an idiot, if he’s the one who hired you. Her suicide is a tragedy, and I’m sorry about it. But I’ve got my own work to do, pictures to finish for a gallery showing in a month. So, I’ve really got to get back to work.”
Gee, so much for sorrow at the passing of his muse. “Why do you think her death is a suicide?”
“Isn’t it?”
“No official cause has been announced.” That I knew of.
“Well, what else? You’d have to be pretty stupid to walk off the end of a pier by accident.”
“Did she have a reason to commit suicide, do you think?”
“Well, her church was failing. It owed a lot of money. Her mother hated her. She couldn’t maintain a relationship. Take your pick.”
I haven’t heard about any of that. Wouldn’t Daniel have told me about financial problems, if there were any? Although he had mentioned selling some of the art. “You seem to know a lot about her life.”
“She came by to visit every now and then.”
“Sounds like she confided in you.” I amble among the easels, looking at the pictures. See views of the river, women in various poses, street scenes.
“What can I say? Women often unburden themselves to me.”
Okay, I really don’t like him. His looks have definitely lost their power.
“Sounds like you were willing to do her favors.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She asked you to help mentor a young artist, Jason Morganstern.”
He snorts. “Jason isn’t an artist, he’s an idiot. But since you ask, yes, I did help him some, tried to get him to think of imagining a particular sculptural form as a goal to work for, rather than just sticking parts of things together.”
“I thought you were a painter, not a sculptor.”
“I’m a man of broad horizons. As it happens, I’ve been branching out a little, and trying new forms of expression.”
Ye gods. “One more question then. How would you feel if Daniel Chandler sold some of the artwork, including your piece, to pay the church’s bills?”
“He can’t do that. It’s not why I gave V. the picture.”
“Well, he seems to think he can.”
I feel smug and satisfied as I leave the studio, having succeeded in pissing him off.
To complete my day of tree-shaking, I stop by the Portway to talk to Claire, let her know what I have been up to, and get her to weigh in with ideas and suspicions. The bell on the door announces my entrance, and Claire comes out of the back. Breakfast was a long time ago, so I order a root beer and basket of fries, and lean my elbows on the bar.
“So Claire,” I begin, “level with me. Who do you think killed
