Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) (15 page)

Slipping smoothly into the second exercise and then the third, I groaned aloud as I felt the pull of muscles. I stayed in this position for a long time, longer than usual, because I found myself staring at Elizabeth’s picture propped up against my wall. 

It was a soft watercolor landscape, its subject a small pond dotted with snowy-white ducks and circled by high green grass that was ruffling in the wind. But as I studied the picture more closely, I realized it was a study of light and darkness and that the serenity evoked by the soft pastels was deceiving. Looming in the background was a dark mountain etched in charcoal. The face of the mountain, bare of pine trees, flowers, or other foliage, stood scarred with ragged lines, sharp stones and boulders. Stormy clouds hovered menacingly over the pond, twisting in the air like a child in the throes of a tantrum. Beyond the pond sat a dilapidated wooden bench, its green paint peeling, boards cracking, half-hidden in the tall thin reeds.  The picture no longer seemed peaceful or even angry, but lonely and sad, like a person warring within himself. The landscape turned into a forlorn scene, one of emptiness. Of isolation.

It was the first time I had ever seen Elizabeth’s work. She had spoken often of her attempts to paint in her youth and her regret that she had given up her art when she married, but this was the first painting of hers I had seen, and it surprised me. Although her talent was obvious, I had expected something different, something more vibrant and dramatic, like the scarves she wore. Where was the flair, the boldness, and the pride? This picture spoke of pain and hopelessness, of resignation—the antithesis of the Elizabeth I knew.

But then, I wondered, how much do we really know of anyone? The image an individual chooses to present to the world doesn’t necessarily match the person inside. More often than not, the outside facade may actually mask personal pain, depression, and sadness. Moving into my fourth and last stretch, I pretended to stick my finger down my throat and gag. Whenever I attempted heavy philosophical thought, I ended up sounding like talk radio psychobabble. Soul-searching just wasn’t my forte.

All of this ruminating was getting me nowhere and I still had two basic problems. One: Elizabeth’s murder. What was the next step? I had to find the person who committed the crime. Two: Dinner this evening. It had all the signs of being a disaster...a real shame considering how much I loved to eat. Leave it to an Italian to wreck my favorite part of the day.

I finished stretching and decided to hit the studio.  Summer has always been my favorite time for sculpting. With no lesson plans to write, report cards to finish, behavior problems to deal with, or parents to call, I could really relax and enjoy the process. For nine months out of the year, I struggled to squeeze my art into the few hours I had left each evening after teaching and planning for the following day. But each year, when June finally arrives, I feel drugged by the sheer freedom of blue skies and warm afternoons. I will admit, though, after a few days of blissful immersion in clay, oil, and charcoal, I notice that my productivity lessens and imaginative ideas slow to a dribble as I realize once again that making art is real work.

Every summer I plan full days of sculpting in my studio, but sooner or later hours are carved out to make time to plant my flowers, experiment with new recipes, hike in the woods, and play pool with my buddies. Procrastination is the name of the game. I’m definitely not one of those Type-A personalities who find it hard to relax and waste time. I’ve always labeled myself a Type-R personality—“tends to recreate.”

It’s hard to be disciplined with the sun banging on my window and beckoning me outside to play. Before I know it, I’m idle and lazy.  And now, with the death of my dear friend, I found it harder to push myself into the studio, but I knew Elizabeth would want me to do exactly that. It made me wistful to remember her walking into my house to visit, although her walk was actually more of a march, with her upright carriage and firm steps. She always knocked briskly, and then just swooped in without waiting for an answer, as though she had every right to barge into my house uninvited and start making demands. And of course, she did. Have the right, that is.

It wasn’t always that way, though. I could still recall the first time I met her.  She strode over to my house, her heels clacking against the wooden porch steps, and rapped sharply on my door.

I cautiously pulled it open a few inches.

“You’re my neighbor,” she announced as though it was headline news.

“Yes, I know that. I’ve seen you out and about,” I said, impatiently tapping my sock-clad foot against the wooden floor, waiting for this lady to get to her point, if indeed she had one. If this was the neighborhood welcome wagon, I wasn’t too anxious for it to stay. At that moment I was afraid I had a dotty old lady standing on my porch with no intention of ever leaving or finding her way back home.

“I’d like to introduce myself.  My name is Elizabeth Boyer,” she stated in that regal voice of hers.

She stuck out her hand, forcing me to open the door a bit more. When I reached out, I was totally dumbstruck. All I could do was stare at the thing. Not at her hand, but the huge diamond solitaire on her fourth finger.

“Awfully large, isn’t it?” she noted when she saw me gawking at her jewelry. “I know it borders on being gaudy... actually it is most definitely gaudy, but it’s a family ring, my mother’s, and I just can’t bear to part with it and there’s no point in keeping it locked away in a vault.”

“It’s lovely,” I stammered, blown away by a rock the size of a shooter marble.

“It’s not lovely at all, dear, but it’s very polite of you to say so,” she said, clasping my hand firmly and giving it a quick shake. She smiled. “Now that the preliminaries are over and we are officially introduced, I’d like to invite you over for a cup of coffee one morning this week.”

“That would be great,” I said with a thin, phony smile, “but I work every morning.”

“Do you?” she asked dubiously. “Well, then, perhaps some other time.”  Elizabeth Boyer turned to go, leaving me completely free to return to my nice, peaceful, uncluttered life. But I knew she didn’t believe me, and in spite of a strong intuition that this woman would raise havoc wherever she descended, I just couldn’t let her leave thinking she lived next door to a dishonest recluse of a neighbor.

“I work out of the house. I’m an artist,” I explained. “At least, that’s what I’m working to be.”

“Really?” A gleam of interest shone in her eyes. “What is your medium?”

“Clay. Bronze. I sculpt.”

She nodded. “And who is your agent?”

“No one at the moment. I’m at the bottom of the learning curve with a steep hill to climb.”

“Are you taking lessons?”

I shook my head. “I can’t afford a teacher right now.”

“Well, let me see what you’ve done,” she stated boldly... and firmly. “You can’t be an artist in a vacuum. You need to show your work and let people—knowledgeable people,” she amended, “suggest and critique.” She checked me up and down. “From what little I know of you already, and I’m a fairly good judge of character, you’re very independent and you like to keep to yourself. The problem is, the art world doesn’t promote wallflowers. You have to promote yourself. ‘Nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent’,” she quoted, staring off into space. “I don’t remember who said that, but it’s true. I see it all the time.”

I’m sure I stood gaping like an idiot as she delivered this monologue. Who was this lady who was apparently intent on invading my life? And more importantly, how in the hell did I get rid of her?

As though she could read my mind, she laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not a crazy woman. In fact, I’m the perfect person for the job. I have lots of experience with art; it’s a passion of mine. I’m on several boards.” She rattled off the names of several prominent galleries. “I realize you don’t want to hear my resume,” she said, pausing in midstream, “but I do know what I’m talking about.”

“I’m sure that you do, Mrs. Boyer, but—”

“Call me Elizabeth, dear. Now, I understand your hesitation; you’re not used to people bulldozing their way into your life, are you?” She patted my arm. “Sometimes Fate just waltzes in and takes over and the only thing you can do is hold on tightly and enjoy the ride.” She laughed at the look on my face. “Now that I’ve got you completely flummoxed, why don’t I take a peek at your work?”

“Well, I’m not ready to show anything publicly yet,” I stammered.

“Nonsense.” She waved away my reticence. “Whatever you have available right now will do just fine. I’ve an excellent critical eye. I’m perfectly capable of weeding the good from the bad, and I’m not afraid to let you know exactly what I think.”

No doubt about that.

“May I?”  she asked, gesturing toward the door. I stood by dumbly while she walked past me into my house, her spine straight and proud, her designer dress worn with ease, her hair pulled back and a scarf wound around her waist like a sash. From the moment she followed me down the hallway into my studio, I understood that life as I knew it would never be the same.

It took me some time to warm up to Elizabeth. I told myself I resented her attitude and her pushiness and unsolicited opinions, but all the while I let her into my house and, more importantly, let her into my studio and listened to her advice over coffee. Some mornings I would mutter about her overbearing behavior... and then I’d find myself watching the clock wondering why she was late. It wasn’t long before I realized that her arrogance was actually a kind of idealism—a strong belief that people could achieve whatever they wanted with a little grit and determination and elbow grease. So it was only natural that Elizabeth detested my tendency toward laziness. What can I say? Sometimes I got tired watching all that boundless energy.

“Snap out of it, Maggie. Get your butt into the studio and begin.” Her voice rang in my mind loud and clear, even now as she lay in her grave.  Following orders, I bent over my sketchpad and began.

Four hours later I straightened and looked up at the clock. Damn, it was five-thirty and I was sweaty and smeared with smudges of charcoal and remnants of clay. Stepping back a few feet, I studied the unfinished sculpture. Nothing clear had emerged, but I felt calmer and stronger than I had in days. I wasn’t surprised to find myself taking refuge in my work. I gently wrapped the sculpture and left the room.

Jumping into the shower, I dunked my head under a stream of hot water and scoured my mud-crusted arms and hands with a soft bristly brush. My body was tinged pink when I was done. I turned off the water and toweled myself down. Standing in front of my closet, I reached for my favorite summer skirt in a light floral pattern that skimmed my thighs and fell a few inches above my knees.  I pulled on a white, scoop-necked t-shirt with cap sleeves, cinching it with a thin leather belt. I ran a brush through my hair and left it alone, knowing from past experience that if I played with it too much, it would stick out like a mushroom cloud.  On a lark, I swiped some mascara on my lashes, brushed on a little rouge, and painted my lips with a flesh-toned color.  Slipping into a pair of strappy sandals, I studied myself in the mirror. I wasn’t going to win any fashion awards, but at least I wouldn’t embarrass myself.

At the brisk knock, I ran down the hallway, knowing it was Villari. He was right on time—nothing less than I expected.

“Hey,” I said as I pulled open the door.

He stood perfectly still. The only things that moved were his eyes, which swept up and down my body.

“You really should do this more often.”

“Do what?” I asked, confused by his intensity.

“Dress like a girl,” he responded, his eyes twinkling.  “Mom is going to love that I’m bringing home a pretty lady.”

I groaned and leaned against the doorframe.  “I should have known you would revert to a fifties’ version of male chauvinism.”

He leaned over and ruffled my still-damp hair. “Come on. I told my mother I’d be there around six-thirty. Besides, I’m starving and I’m fairly sure you’re not going to offer me a drink and a small appetizer... something simple you whipped up this afternoon.”

“I don’t do appetizers,” I said, closing and locking the door behind me, “unless it comes already prepared. I do a mean can of peanuts. Besides, I’m not feeling particularly fond of you right now, given the way you’ve shanghaied me into this dinner.”

He dropped his arm around me and chuckled.  “You’re going to like my mother, you’ll fall in love with my dad, and the food will be so good you’ll be begging me to bring you back.”

“I seriously doubt it,” I muttered.

“Trust me,” he said, opening the passenger door of his 1990 black Bronco.

“That won’t be happening anytime soon,” I said under my breath, my hands fidgeting in my lap, while he walked around the car and got in. He took one look at my face and started chuckling.

“Relax. You look like I’m taking you to meet some kind of medieval Dragon Lady.”

I rolled my shoulders. “Is this a date?”

Turning on the ignition, he glanced over at me.  “Well, given that you put on a dress and I changed my jeans and slapped on cologne, I’d say it constitutes a date.” He paused a moment, trying to gauge my reaction. “Is that a problem?”

“Not really. I’m just surprised that a detective is allowed to date a suspect. Seems kind of odd to me... sort of a conflict of interest.”

“I told you this afternoon you were not a suspect, Maggie,” he said quietly.

“But I’m still on the official list, right?” I persisted.

“So is the Pope,” he said dryly, “until the murderer is caught.

“But you’ve still got some unanswered questions, don’t you? The septic tank is in my yard and there’s still the lack of footprints you keep mentioning.”

His eyes met mine. “There are a lot of ways to cover up footprints.” He shifted into reverse. “There’s a fairly good chance they’re underneath the tire tracks made by the Waste Management truck.”

“Then tell me, Villari, why do I keep bumping into you every time I turn around?”

“Because I’m trying to keep you safe.”