Art's Blood (18 page)

Ben said nothing for a moment. He stared angrily down the road and seemed to be thinking hard. “That theory is—”

“— a piece of crap?” Elizabeth asked, hoping to lighten the moment.

“Shit. That theory is a piece of shit. I can’t believe you would listen to something like that— not after seeing her, the way she was—” He broke off with an impatient gesture and started back for the truck.

“Ben!” She hurried after him. “We have to consider all the possibilities. Kyra’s father says that she’s unstable— that she had a kind of breakdown after her mother’s death. I don’t know…maybe the shock of what happened to Boz—”

Ben climbed into the truck, slamming the door with unnecessary force. Over the roar of the engine, he shouted, “I’m going in to see Kyra— before your boyfriend puts her in jail. What the fuck is he thinking?”

“Ben!” Elizabeth called, “Ben, wait!” but he was gone.

He had come back, of course— eventually. The next morning he had been busy in the greenhouse taking cuttings and starting seeds for the fall and winter crops. Elizabeth had come down to help, but Ben’s cool manner and monosyllabic responses to her attempts at conversation had driven her away and she had spent the remainder of the day in the workshop constructing wreaths. The following days had seen a gradual warming trend— as long as the subject of Kyra was avoided. Though he had not said so, Elizabeth guessed that when Ben left the farm every evening as soon as the last bit of work was done, he was going to see Kyra. She was heartsick at the barrier that now existed between her and her nephew— but she was unable to share his complete faith in Kyra’s story.

On Tuesday Ben announced that Kyra was doing much better and that he was helping her to get set up in a studio in the River District. “It’s not in The Wedge where Laurel’s studio is,” he said. “It’s in a funky old place called the Candlestation. Kyra’s gotten really energized about getting her show together for the QuerY. She’s even working on a new piece— a kind of homage to Boz.”

When Elizabeth asked if he thought Kyra would be safe at her studio, Ben looked at her coldly before replying. “There’re lots of studios in the Candlestation and people all around. And she’s still spending most nights at that mansion in Biltmore Forest. Besides, safe from who? You and Phillip don’t think there
was
any attacker.”

All of this was in Elizabeth’s mind on Thursday morning as she made the farm’s scheduled deliveries: fresh packaged and potted herbs to the organic supermarket; herb, baby lettuce, and flower petal mélange to four different restaurants. She squeezed in a quick trip to the art supply store to purchase some of the materials for the painting class, then ate the sandwich she had brought with her as she drove to AB Tech, arriving a little before one.

The parking lot for the Pines Building was crowded. Elizabeth at last found a place on the far side, parked the farm delivery van, gathered up her bag of supplies, and made her way to the low brick building. She was surprised at the variety of the students: all ages and ethnicities were represented. Ahead of her on the sidewalk, two young men in vast baggy jeans, the crotches sagging almost to knee level, trudged through the deep water of their adolescence. Each held up his voluminous garment with one hand, a necessary sacrifice to fashion. Two beautiful Asian girls hurried by, giggling at some shared secret. In the building’s lobby a knot of intense-looking young people argued in what, to Elizabeth’s unaccustomed ear, sounded like Russian. Gray-haired ladies pulling sewing machines on little rolling carriers hurried purposefully down the hall, and a gaggle of cheerful, developmentally disabled adults was shepherded out the door toward a garden plot across the street.

A cluster of more young people gabbling away in rapid Spanish were entering a room labeled
ESL.
Elizabeth looked around, hoping to find a similar sign directing her to Beginning Painting. She couldn’t see one but she did notice a small, bespectacled woman, carrying a bag from the art supply store and heading down the hall to the right. Elizabeth followed her.

“Excuse me, are you in the beginning painting class? I’m not sure where to go.”

“I am.” The woman smiled and pointed to a sign on the wall. “Down here.”

The room was full of long paint-spattered tables. The chairs at the tables were almost all taken, but Elizabeth found a seat on the far side of the room and began to study her classmates, wondering which one was the second Mrs. Peterson, the woman who had become Kyra’s stepmother.
It’s got to be one of the younger ones— in her thirties, I think Laurel said.
That narrowed the field considerably, as most of the members of the class were on the far side of fifty. There were three candidates in that age group, Elizabeth decided. There was the beautiful young woman with long straight chestnut brown hair, a shining face, and a white T-shirt tucked into tight jeans.
Too young and innocent,
Elizabeth decided, turning her attention to the tired-looking woman sitting next to her wearing polyester pants with a matching top. She smiled nervously at Elizabeth, then began copying the schedule that had been chalked on the blackboard
— And this one’s too dowdy to be a homewrecker.

Finally there was the glamorous blonde with big dangling gold earrings, an oversized white linen shirt that suggested a painter’s smock, tight cropped pants, and high-heeled sandals that Elizabeth recognized from the pages of
The New Yorker. My god, those must be, what’s the name, something about a train— Jimmy Choos. Oh boy, I’ve got a real feeling this is the one.

The low murmur of conversation stopped as an attractive woman with a mop of gray-blonde ringlets entered the room. “Good afternoon, class. I’m Daphne and this is Beginning Painting. We’re going to start right in with a warm-up exercise, and I’ll be coming around with the attendance sheet and a parking permit card for you to fill out before you leave. We have three hours and I want to make the most of it.”

Daphne began passing out large sheets of newsprint and an assortment of ratty pencils. “We’re going to start with blind drawing—”

“I thought we were going to be painting,” the blonde whom Elizabeth had tagged as the second Mrs. Peterson complained. “I did drawing last year.”

“Drawing is the basis we begin with.” Daphne continued on, unperturbed. “This exercise is almost a meditation; it helps you to focus on
seeing,
which is vital to a painter. Too many people draw their ideas rather than what they actually see. As a painter, you need to approach your subject without preconceived ideas and rely solely on what your eyes tell you. Now, I want each of you to draw your hand, using a continuous line and
without
looking at the paper. Begin at the wrist and let your eye travel very slowly around the outline of your hand. While your eye is moving around the outline, your pencil should be making the same outline on the paper.”

There were a few muffled groans and the blonde was heard to say, “We did that in my class last year.” But soon the whole group was at work, each focused intently on drawing.

It
was
like a meditation, Elizabeth realized as her eye slowly followed the outline of her little finger:
up…up…slowly…out and back a tad…and again for the wrinkle at the knuckle…slowly…slowly…dip down for the cuticle…back around for the fingernail—

“De-doo-deedle, de-doo-deedle-doo.” The tinny computer melody of a cell phone broke into the heavy-breathing silence of the class. Elizabeth gritted her teeth and tried to regain her concentration.

“Well, when
can
you get to it?” the blonde was saying. “I don’t want my husband to see that scratch. He’s a maniac about his cars.”

Elizabeth looked up to see the blonde, cell phone trapped between ear and shoulder, drawing blithely on with repeated glances back and forth from hand to paper. At the front of the room Daphne was frowning as she handed the attendance sheet to an elegant white-haired woman.

“I don’t care about that,” the blonde went on without lowering her voice. “I’m bringing the car in today at three-thirty and I expect you to take care of it right away. God knows we’ve given you enough business—”

Elizabeth watched in amazement as she saw the small woman she had spoken to before class rise deliberately and take the blonde by the elbow. A look of mild amusement was on her face as she escorted the surprised blonde, in midconversation, out the door. The smiling woman returned immediately and took up her pencil. Elizabeth caught her eye and grinned, giving her a thumbs-up signal.

Elizabeth’s neighbor whispered, “I’m glad she did that;
I
sure wouldn’t have had the nerve. But I hate it when people do like that with cell phones. It’s just so rude. I know how that lady feels though— about getting her car fixed. I’m driving my husband’s car while mine is in the shop and I’m in fear and trembling of getting a scratch on it.”

Back to the hand,
another fingernail…slowly…and down…down…a little jog at the knuckle…have my handsalways had all these spots?…are they freckles or those old-lady things, what did Gramma call them? liver spots?…slowly…slowly—

“Okay, let’s stop and take a look.” Daphne came to the center of the room, ignoring Blondie, who, her call completed at last, was returning to her seat.

“But I haven’t finished—”

“It doesn’t matter whether you finish; this is just an exercise. Now, people, what do you think about your drawings?”

They were amazingly good. Most bore a real resemblance to hands, allowing for occasional squiggly digressions. Elizabeth’s neighbor shyly held out her drawing. “I thought that was fun. I was pretending there was a tiny bug crawling around the outline of my hand and my pencil was following him.”

The woman’s face didn’t look tired anymore. Her gray eyes were shining and a sweet smile lit up her otherwise plain face. “I love classes like this. They can just take your mind off all your problems.”

The time passed quickly. Daphne discussed the supplies they would need, outlined what they would be doing in the coming weeks, and finished the paperwork attendant to the class. They did more blind drawing and then gesture drawing— working rapidly this time instead of slowly. By four o’clock, Elizabeth was happy that Hawkins had asked her to take the class. Then, with a rueful start, she remembered why she was there.

Omigod, I’ve got to make friends with Blondie. I don’t know, Phillip. That may be asking too much.

When Daphne called for the class to finish up, Elizabeth took her parking permit card up to the desk. The attendance sheet was lying there and she could see, in rounded printing
with a little heart to dot the
i,
for god’s sake,
the name Kimberly Peterson. With an inward groan, she hurried back to her table and collected her belongings. The blonde was making for the door, her high heels tapping as she dialed a number on her cell. Elizabeth called a hasty “See you next week” to her neighbor and dashed for the door.

She caught up with her quarry outside. Blondie was moving toward the parking lot, stiletto-heeled sandals setting a rapid, clicking pace as their wearer chattered once again into her phone. “I’m leaving class now; I have to go by the car place…she
didn’t!”
The enormity of whatever it was
she
didn’t do halted the blonde in her tracks, and Elizabeth was forced to resort to hastily stopping and investigating the contents of her shopping bag as if she were looking for some missing item.

Finally the call ended and the blonde made for her car, a shiny red BMW with a small scratch on the right front fender. As the red door swung open, Elizabeth,
just passing by, on the way to my car,
stopped and said, “Wow, that’s a beautiful car!” She stuck out her hand and added, “Hi, I’m Elizabeth— how did
you
like the class? I think Daphne’s a good teacher. I’m really looking forward to next week when we start using paint.”

The blonde looked up and stared blankly at Elizabeth. “Oh, were you in there? Well, I guess she’s okay but she should have given me more time to finish.” She studied her fingernails. “I’m going to miss next week anyway— we’re going to the beach house.”

“How nice.” Elizabeth forced a smile. “Well, see you week after next, then— what did you say your name was?”
Lame,
she thought with an inward groan,
very lame.

The BMW purred into life and the blonde, checking her lipstick in the rearview mirror said with a yawn, “Sondra…with an ‘o’…Sondra Shields.”

“Well, hell,” said Elizabeth, watching the BMW shoot off. Sondra was on her cell phone again and narrowly missed a young man crossing the street in an electric wheelchair.

“I swear, those things are a real curse.” The soft voice at her elbow belonged to her neighbor from class, the quiet-looking woman with brown hair. “My husband put one in my car but I always pull over to use it.” She smiled shyly at Elizabeth. “Daphne kept us so busy we didn’t even get to introduce ourselves— I’m Kimmie.”

“And I’m Elizabeth. Nice to meet you.” Elizabeth tried not to let her face reveal the major reshuffling of assumptions that was taking place at this moment.
Kimmie! As in Kimberly? Surely this dowdy little mouse can’t be The Bimbo?

“And it’s good to meet you. I think this is going to be a really fun class.” Kimmie peered around the parking lot. “I swear, I forgot I was in my husband’s car. Oh, there it is, over there. Sometimes I can’t remember
anything.”

Kimmie—
Kimberly?
— gave a little waggle of her fingers and continued on to her car— a huge white SUV. Elizabeth stared after her. Could there have been a
Kimmie
on the class roll as well as the
Kimberly Peterson
she had seen? She didn’t think so. But how in the name of goodness could this sweet-faced frump be the mistress Marvin Peterson had married so indecently soon after his wife’s murder?

As the big car pulled out of the lot, Elizabeth saw its license plate and her questions were answered. The vanity plate read, “MP # 1.” She was pretty sure it had nothing to do with military police.