“No,” Frank told him, “but I’ve been tracing her movements in the days before her death. One night, she came here.”
Curtis looked surprised. “Here? But the Cyclorama is closed until the restoration is finished. She wouldn’t have been able to get in.”
“She didn’t come into the building,” Frank said. “She parked in the lot outside.”
Curtis smiled quietly. “Oh, I see. Well, that’s not unusual. The park is open to everyone. That’s the way it should be.” He looked at Frank pointedly. “You, of all people, should know that recently the parks have been taken over by the less wholesome element of the city.” He smiled cheerfully. “But now we’re taking them back. It’s happening all over. New York City. Boston. Everywhere. And in Atlanta, part of that effort involves the restoration of the Cyclorama.”
“But she seems to have come here for a reason,” Frank said.
“What reason?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said. He pulled out his notebook. “Are you here at night, Mr. Curtis?”
“Sometimes,” Curtis said. “I love this work. It moves back into history.”
“How about other people?”
“What other people?”
“The ones you work with?”
“Well, a maintenance crew comes in at around seven, but they’re usually gone by nine.”
“How about security?”
“Only during the day.”
“Why?”
“It’s for personal security,” Curtis explained, “in case some derelict might try to get in.”
“But you’re not worried about break-ins at night?” Frank asked.
Curtis smiled. “There’s nothing to steal here,” he said calmly, “except a vision of human history. And of course, that’s not something that can be stolen.”
“How about other workers, do they come in at night, the artists you use on your restoration?”
“Sometimes,” Curtis said. “They have a key to the rear entrance.”
“But all the workers use it?”
“Of course.”
Frank wrote it down, then looked up. “She knew this area very well,” he said. “And we don’t know how she came to know it.”
Curtis looked at him closely. “So you don’t think the body was simply dumped?” he asked.
“It was dumped,” Frank said, “but that doesn’t change the fact that she knew this area.”
Curtis shook his head slowly. “I wish I could help you, Mr. Clemons.”
“Did you ever see a red BMW parked in the lot outside?”
“No,” Curtis said, “but that doesn’t mean much. I wouldn’t have noticed it. I would notice a vintage automobile, something old and with a lot of character. But these new sports cars? No, I wouldn’t notice them.” His eyes fell back toward Angelica’s picture. “Beautiful face,” he said softly.
“She didn’t always look the way she does in that photograph,” Frank told him.
Curtis looked up, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“She sometimes dressed differently. Sometimes fixed her hair in a completely different way.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know,” Frank said.
Curtis looked at the photograph again. “So sad. One life.” He glanced up at Frank. “That’s the tragedy. That we have only one life, and it’s so short.” He smiled solemnly. “That’s what I think when I walk through the diorama. All those people, dying.” He shook his head mournfully. “When you think of them as a group, the death gets lost. But when you think that each one is losing his or her one and only life, that, Mr. Clemons, is almost too much to bear. “ He picked up one of the small figurines on his desk and turned it slowly in his hand. It was a Confederate soldier, his gray uniform torn by musket fire, his arms thrust back and frozen in an attitude of sudden and astonished death. “Who was this man? And why did he die like this? That’s the real mystery.” His eyes shifted over to Frank. “This is my dead body, and I think of it just as you think of that girl’s. “ He placed the figure back on his desk. “I wish I could help you, but I never saw her. That’s the hard, dull fact.” He stood up. “I’ve a lot of work to do now, Mr. Clemons, so, if you’ll—”
“One more thing,” Frank said. “Do you know a woman named Miriam Castle?”
Curtis looked surprised to hear her name. “Yes. Why?”
“She mentioned to me that she sometimes gets work for local artists.”
“Yes, she does.”
“Did she get any from you?”
“You mean to work on the restoration?”
“Yes.”
“She tried to get some work for Derek Linton,” Curtis said, “but he wouldn’t work on the project. It was some objection, something about how it glorifies war.”
“Anyone else?”
“Well, we have about three local artists who are working on the Cyclorama,” Curtis said. “By local, do you mean artists who live in Atlanta?”
“Yes.”
“That would narrow it down to two,” Curtis said. “All the rest are imported.”
“But you have two from the city?”
“Yes.”
“And did Miriam Castle recommend them?”
Curtis thought about it. “No, I don’t think so. She was very keen on Linton, but I don’t think she brought up anyone else for this particular project.”
“These two,” Frank said, “who are they?”
Curtis pulled a sheet of paper from his desk. “Everyone who works on the project is listed here.” He handed Frank the paper. “I hope this helps you.”
Frank’s eyes moved down the column of names and addresses. Many were from out of state, specialists brought in from Washington, Boston and New York. Only six were local artists. One lived in Doraville, one in Marietta, and yet another in Hapeville, a southern suburb of Atlanta. Two of them lived in the city itself. And one of these lived on Mercer Place.
Frank looked up from the paper. “Who is Vincent Toffler?”
“He worked mostly on touch-ups,” Curtis said.
“Worked? He’s not here anymore?”
“His part of the project was finished about a week ago,” Curtis said.
“Is this Mercer Place address where he still lives?”
“As far as I know.”
Frank wrote the address down in his notebook. “How well do you know him?”
“Not well at all.”
“Do you have a picture of him?”
“In his personnel file.”
“Would you mind if I took it with me?”
“Not at all,” Curtis said. “He’s finished here, anyway.” He walked to a single, freestanding file cabinet and pulled out a picture of Toffler. It showed a tall, lean young man with curly blond hair. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. There was a paintbrush in his hand.
“Thanks,” Frank said as he pocketed the photograph.
“My pleasure, Mr. Clemons,” Curtis said. “Here, let me show you out.”
Frank turned his head out toward the front of the building.
“No, no,” Curtis said quickly. “We’ll use the rear entrance.” He took Frank’s elbow and tugged him gently to the right.
They went out the side door on the north side of the building. The drop cloths were still piled by the single
