A Drunkard's Path (28 page)

“You nailed it,” I exclaimed.

Kennette frowned. “I felt a little silly drawing a nude woman with Oliver standing there.”

“Really? Drawing nudes is an important part of learning basic art skills.”

“I know. I guess I’m just being silly.”

“Besides, Oliver used hundreds of models in his work. If he weren’t dating my grandmother, I’d pose for him. Wouldn’t you?”

Her eyes widened. “God, no. I can’t even imagine it.” She rolled up her drawing and stuck it in her bag.

“I guess it would be weird,” I said, trying to think of a new direction to take the conversation. “After all, we’ve become friends with him.”

“Exactly,” she said.

“And I know you like him,” I said.

“Who doesn’t? It’s not like he’s just any old artist. He’s famous. He’s won awards. He even got an LSA Fellowship.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get to the shop. You don’t look ready to go, so I’m going to grab the bus. Okay?”

Without waiting for my answer, she grabbed her bag and sprinted from the room. I followed close behind but lost her in the parking lot. Since there was now no point in hurrying to the shop, I went back into the school and looked for Oliver.

He wasn’t in his office or in the teacher’s lounge. I went back to the classroom, wondering if he’d returned there, but he hadn’t. I walked over to the dean’s office but no one had seen Oliver. There was no place left to check except the exhibit hall, so I headed over there, but what were the odds he’d be staring at his own paintings?

Good, apparently. I found Oliver looking at some of his earliest work. Paintings of homeless people and drug addicts in the late 1950s and early 1960s. He seemed lost in memories, and not happy ones either, based on the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Oliver,” I said quietly. “Are you okay?”

He jumped. “Heavens. Yes.” He wiped his eyes. “Yes, Nell, fine. Caught up in the past.”

I walked close to him to see what exactly he was looking at. It was a painting of a young man, unshaven and unwashed. He held a knife in his hand as if he were about to strike, but the eyes were blank. On the whole he was more sad than menacing.

It struck me all at once. “It’s you,” I said.

He nodded. “Many years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” The words came out of my mouth. “I mean, you look so sad that I’m sorry you ever felt that way.”

“So am I. Thank goodness I’m much happier now.”

“I guess my grandmother has something to do with that.”

Age and pain seemed to fall away from Oliver and he grinned widely. “That she has. She’s a lovely woman, your grandmother. Wise and smart and kind. I imagine she’s always been that way.”

“As long as I’ve known her.”

He nodded. “What she’s doing with a man like me, I can’t imagine.”

“Meaning?” This was my opening. This was where he would confess, I felt it in my bones.

Instead he sighed. “A tired old has-been.”

“You are a famous artist, a working artist,” I tried again. “You use models from the school, don’t you? You still paint and you still sell your work, so how could you be a has-been?”

Oliver took a few steps and stopped again. This time between
Nobody
and a painting of an unhappy woman unbuttoning her shirt. Both had shiny little gold-plated signs that read: “On loan from the Oliver White Collection.” I stared at the paintings for a moment before I realized it was the same person in both paintings.

“Is this Julie Young?” I guessed. Since he had more than one painting of her, it seemed logical that she was someone he’d had a relationship with, and Julie Young—the woman he’d pushed at the gallery opening—was the only name I knew.

He nodded. “That’s her. She was quite beautiful, or would have been if drugs hadn’t taken away her beauty.”

“Your models are still quite beautiful,” I said. “I’m kind of surprised I don’t recognize them, though, from around school.”

“So am I. I use a lot of the advanced students. It’s a good learning experience for an artist to try one’s hand at being a model. You learn about your own body as you pose. Especially how uncomfortable it is to stand in one position for a long time.” He smiled. “But it’s also extra money. And true to the cliché, there are a lot of starving artists out there.”

Suddenly my mind went in another direction. “Was Sandra one of your models?”

Oliver seemed startled at the thought. “No. Why would you ask me that?”

“I was walking down the hallway,” I lied, “and I saw you give her some money. It was the day she died.”

Oliver stiffened and took a deep breath. “You must be mistaken, Nell. I did no such thing.” He looked at this watch. “I have to go. A patron of the arts has commissioned a painting from me and I really must set to work.”

But I had one more question. “What’s the LSA Fellowship?” I asked.

Oliver stopped and turned. “Are you interested in attending the London School of the Arts?”

“No,” I stammered. “Kennette.”

“Well, she’s certainly got the talent for it. Fellowships are extremely hard to come by, but I’d be happy to recommend her.”

“Did you get one?”

Oliver paused. “I haven’t thought about that in years. I did receive the scholarship, yes. I wasn’t able to take advantage of it, though. I was leaving for the States.” He took several steps toward the door. “I’ll have to chat with Kennette about this next time I see her.”

“Well, she might be interested in work as a model, if you’re interested. To make extra money.” I threw it in, hoping for some reaction.

But there was only puzzlement.

“Really? She’s a bit shy, don’t you think?”

Then he was gone. I was left in the room with the unhappiest moments of his past on display. And a thousand new questions.

 

 

 

 

I
drove to the nearest Internet café and grabbed a coffee and donut, and then one of the computers. I might have waited until I got home and used my own computer for free, but I couldn’t wait.

I searched for the London School of the Arts. It had a splashy Web site and the names of several prominent English artists among its graduates. As he admitted, Oliver White wasn’t among them. Neither was Oliver Lyons.

I searched the LSA Fellowship recipients. The list went as far back as 1918, but Oliver wasn’t there. Of course he said he’d turned it down. So I went back to the search engine and typed in “LSA Fellowship” and “Oliver White.” No hits. I typed “LSA Fellowship” and “Oliver Lyons.” Nothing.

I tried again. I searched both of Oliver’s names crossed with “fellowships,” “awards,” “education,” and “London” in separate searches. While there was plenty about the accolades he received over the years, there wasn’t one hit for the London School of the Arts.

I leaned back in my chair and gulped some coffee. How had Kennette known about the LSA Fellowship? Had she been searching through his past like I had? Or more likely, had he mentioned it when he was painting her?

And that brought me to another question, why were they lying about it? I couldn’t imagine Eleanor caring about Kennette posing for Oliver. She wasn’t a prude. She understood that artists need models, and even with Kennette’s obvious crush on Oliver, my grandmother wasn’t so insecure as to let a little bit of modeling make her jealous.

There had to be another reason. And since I couldn’t ask either of them without admitting I’d been in Oliver’s house, I had to figure out another way. But after sitting there for almost an hour, I still hadn’t come up with an idea.

Frustrated, I drove toward home but without any intention of actually going there. I didn’t have to work and I didn’t feel up to going to Carrie’s, though I was tantalizingly close to finishing the mural.

I wanted to see Jesse. I did ask myself if I was jonesing to see him because I couldn’t, and because I hate being told what to do. But in my heart I knew it was simpler than that. I just wanted to see him. Aside from our potential relationship, Jesse had been a reliable and supportive friend. I liked the way his mind worked and I liked to talk things over with him—how things were going at the shop or in class or just anything. If we were sitting next to each other on the couch, he would stare off into space as I talked and I’d be absolutely sure he wasn’t listening to a word I was saying, but then suddenly he’d comment on it. And days later, when I’d forgotten the bulk of our conversation, he’d bring up a tiny little piece of it.

Except, of course, if I talked about the murders. That was something that was clearly off-limits. And it made me wish all the more that I could tell him what I was learning, and that instead of being angry at me, he’d be happy to have me on the case.

But that wasn’t going to happen, and I was at an impasse. I felt as though I were going around in circles. I found one clue after another, but instead of leading me in one direction they were leading in all directions. It was Kennette. It was Oliver. It was a stranger. It was a friend. The women knew each other. Their murders were unconnected. Everybody—Jesse, Powell, Kennette, Oliver, even me—seemed to have a secret, and I was no closer to finding out which one led to the killer.

I really needed more help than the girls could give, but without Jesse, I had no official channel through which to get it. Then, as I stopped at a red light in Morristown, I realized I finally had a destination. I parked in front of the police station and went inside.

“Chief Powell?” I asked the desk sergeant.

“Wait here,” he directed. “I’ll call him. What’s your name?”

“Nell Fitzgerald.”

I looked around the impressive station. There were marble columns near the front door, large plaques honoring officers over the years, a framed poster announcing a detective exam on March 1, and the city emblem inlaid in the tile floor.

This was definitely a more formal operation than the Archers Rest Police Department, but that made sense. Morristown was more than twice the size of our little village. We shared a fire department and a high school with them, as well as some other city services like garbage collection. It was almost as if Archers Rest was Morristown’s little brother, though I doubt any Archers residents would have admitted it. The only thing that reminded me of Archers Rest was the large poster announcing a fund-raising effort for bulletproof vests: bake sales and rubber bracelets and apparently anything they could think of to raise money. Archers Rest was always short of cash for even the most vital of police services.

“Nell.” Powell’s voice startled me.

I reached out my hand and he shook it vigorously.

“Do you have a minute?” I asked.

“Absolutely. Come back to my office.”

He motioned for me to follow him down a long hallway to a door at the end. Once inside he pointed to a chair and then sat on the other side of a large desk. He took a bottle of scotch from his desk and put it in a bottom drawer.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. “Not in any trouble I hope.”

“Not today.” I smiled. I watched him for a second as a smile broke across his face. Once he warmed up, he really was quite nice in a drill sergeant sort of way.

“How’s Jesse?”

I hesitated but what was the point? “Pretty annoyed with me.” Powell nodded. “The fingerprints.”

“He told you?”

“No. I was waiting for him to but, no, he hasn’t said anything.” He leaned forward. “It actually made me curious. Finding fingerprints on the windowsill was a terrific lead. People don’t usually enter an apartment from a fire escape.”

“I’m aware of that,” I admitted.

“Well never mind. Once I realized that Jesse hadn’t told me who the fingerprints belong to because they were yours, it all fit together.”

“How did you realize that?”

“I asked Greg to send me a copy of the report.”

“That’s pretty sneaky. He’s supposed to get Jesse’s permission, isn’t he?”