Art's Blood (24 page)

“This fence is pretty cool,” Phillip said as Elizabeth came to join him. “Reminds me of stuff I’ve seen people out in the country do— Aunt Omie has a garden gate her neighbor made out of the headboard of an old iron bed. And the neighbor down the road has a fancy apparatus in the yard made from the tines of an old hay rake. It looks kind of like a giant umbrella without cloth, and it’s got baskets full of pink and red and orange flowers hanging from each tine.”

“I’ve seen one of those. Miss Birdie’s husband used to make them.” She smiled at the memory. “When Sam and I first moved to the farm, Luther was still alive. He had his own little forge under a big beech tree and he never threw away any metal stuff that might come in handy. He mostly just repaired his farm equipment but he made those flower hangers and he used to make really nice knives from old circular saw blades.” She gave the steep steps along the side of the building a dubious look. “Okay, onward and upward— to the Candlestation!”

“What did you think of all that stuff Rafiq was saying? Was any of it reliable or was it just the vodka talking?” Elizabeth closed her eyes and leaned back. The air-conditioning had finally cooled off the car interior, and the blower could be cut back to allow for conversation. They drove slowly down Lyman Street, savoring the cold air.

Phillip considered before answering. “Mostly the vodka, I’d say. The police looked into Rafiq pretty thoroughly. They decided that they had a better case against Aidan.”

“Well, obviously, since it was Aidan they arrested.” Elizabeth turned the vent to blow directly at her face. “That’s it, up here on the left with the yellow flag. Could we just park and keep the AC going till I quit sweating?”

“ ‘Horses sweat; men perspire; ladies glow.’ ” Hawkins grinned at her as he pulled into a parking place. “Sandy used to tell Janie that.”

“As my mother told my sister and me. And her mother told her. But it’s been a long time since I’ve felt ladylike.” Elizabeth wiped her face with a bandana from her shoulder bag. “Phillip, all that stuff Rafiq was saying about being in love with Kyra and hating Boz…couldn’t that have been a motive? Did Rafiq have an alibi for the time of death?”

“Remember, he also said he was in love with Laurel. But about the alibi…According to Hank— you know, my friend in the department— one of Rafiq’s pals was with him the night of the murder and they both got to drinking. The friend swears that Rafiq passed out but he fell asleep. Said he slept pretty late and the next morning Rafiq was still passed out.”

“But Rafiq could have been faking it and left while the other guy was asleep and got back before he woke up.”

“Possible, but—”

“On the other hand, Rafiq said Boz was dealing crank. That’s methamphetamine, isn’t it? And you said there was some rumor that your good buddy, ol’ Travis back there, was involved with a meth lab. And Carter Dixon said—”

“Yeah, I don’t think there’s any doubt that Boz had some dealings with a meth lab. Hank said that if Boz hadn’t turned up dead, he would probably have been arrested soon. Evidently they have the lab under surveillance, hoping to identify all the manufacturers and distributors.”

“What about your buddy Travis?”

“They’re not sure. They think the junkyard’s used for distribution but it may be happening without Travis’s knowledge. That’s part of why they haven’t made a bust yet— waiting to see if they can get something on Travis.”

There was a tap on the window and Elizabeth turned to see Ben, leaning down and grinning knowingly. Somewhat reluctantly, she climbed out of the car into the dusty heat of the parking lot.

“…heading out to pick up some sandwiches but I’ll be back in a few,” Ben was saying. He pointed to a set of skeletal iron steps that snaked up to a blue-painted door on the second story. “The quickest way to the studio is up that fire escape. It’s kind of our personal entrance. Kyra’s just inside the door waiting to show you the way. You’ll need a guide; the place is like a maze.” He turned to go, then stopped. “By the way, Aunt E, I forgot to pick up that sketchbook of Kyra’s. Did you bring it with you, by any chance?”

“Sorry, Ben. I left it for you in the workshop and forgot to check to see if you’d gotten it.”

Her nephew frowned. “Well, hell. She’s been kinda bugging me about it.” He brightened. “I’ll just have to come back in tomorrow and bring it to her then, I guess.”

The fire escape rattled unnervingly as they climbed it. “I never have liked these things,” muttered Elizabeth. “Not since fire drills back in grammar school.”

“Maybe there’s another way up—” Phillip eyed the rust-covered handrail. Several of the bolts that held it to the side of the building were missing. “Sure doesn’t look like this thing gets much use.”

The blue door swung open and Kyra smiled down at them. “Elizabeth! And Phillip! I’ve been waiting for you.” She met them, hands outstretched, as they reached the landing at the top. Though little more than a week had passed since her hair had been shorn, a fine golden down covered her scalp. The black clothing that she had worn as one of The 3 was gone, and she wore a very short dress comprised of a white satin slip with a floating transparent overlay of the palest apricot. Her eyes seemed a deeper green; her previously pallid complexion showed hints of gold. The nose ring was gone, replaced by a tiny emerald stud. Only the tattoos were the same.
And the eyelashes,
thought Elizabeth, watching Kyra gazing up at Phillip as she clasped his hand in both of hers.

“I’m
so
glad you came. My studio is back this way.” She seemed to have forgotten to let go of Phillip, and she tugged him along after her through narrow hallways and strange open spaces.

The Candlestation, according to the map Elizabeth had perused on the way over, took its name from one of the businesses it housed. Dating from the final years of the nineteenth century, when it had been built as a tannery, it was actually a pair of buildings, one in front of the other, joined by a kind of enclosed bridge. As she followed along after Kyra and Phillip, Elizabeth had a quick impression of small studios, one after another, giving way to dark hallways and crumbling walls.

At one point they passed through a large open area where rubber mats and traffic cones seemed to define a course of some kind and the words “…obedience training…lots of dogs…” drifted back to her as she hurried to keep up.

At last they arrived at a glossy red door. Kyra stopped and gestured down the hall. “There are a few more studios back here: a potter and a wreath maker— you’d enjoy seeing her stuff, Elizabeth. And there’s a community kitchen down at that end with a pay phone and a bathroom. But the studios on either side of me are empty right now, so I lock the door when I leave.” She twirled the dial on the combination lock that secured a shiny new hasp.

The studio was a long narrow room. All the walls had been recently painted a severe white, and the old wooden floors seemed to have received several coats of varnish. The half of the room that the door opened into was given over to display of framed drawings, paintings, and mixed-media pieces. A table draped with a piece of heavy old celadon-green brocade held a pile of brochures and a tall cut-glass vase filled with roses of every hue. Beside the door a VCR sat atop a television showing scenes from the show at the Museum of Art. Elizabeth started as Boz’s big, acne-pitted face filled the screen, mugging for the video camera.

Kyra extended an arm and made a sweeping gesture. “Ben helped with all the painting and varnishing. I couldn’t have been ready for the stroll if he hadn’t come in almost every night. And that reminds me, Elizabeth—” The delicate face, shockingly beautiful, the eyes seeming larger than ever, smiled up at her. “Did you remember to bring my sketchbook? Ben’s just hopeless. I told him I really needed it—”

“Oh, Kyra, I’m hopeless too. I meant to check the shop to see if he’d gotten it, but I was running late and drove right by without thinking about it.”

The angelic smile disappeared and Kyra turned away. Her voice was brittle. “It’s okay. I had just—” She broke off on seeing two women enter the studio.

“Kyra honey, I
love
your
hair!”
squealed the taller of the two, a lean, tanned woman in a linen shift, the probable price of which, Elizabeth decided, meant that its color would be described as aubergine rather than muddy purple. The tall woman leaned down to kiss the air just beyond Kyra’s ear. “It’s
charming.
I just wish I
dared—”

“Kyra!” The second woman, a plump, deep-bosomed little person with shaggy, streaked blonde hair, grasped Kyra’s hand. “Darlin’,
how
are you doin’? We’ve all been so worried about you—”

“I just couldn’t get a
moment
to speak to you at the performance the other night,” the taller woman broke in. “You know the girls were
all
there,
all
of your mother’s friends. We’re just
so
proud of you and how you’ve taken hold after losing her and now you’re making a
name
for yourself with your art. I told Cameron, it just doesn’t seem
right
for one little person to suffer so much. And
listen,
honey, I convinced him to buy some of the photographs from
Strike on Box.
I know they’re going to be just
wonderful.
I heard how you switched the cameras before the finale and I told Cameron, those pictures are going to be
historic.
We’ll need ten or twelve, I think, depending on the size. We’re having the house redone and I told Cameron some nice black-and-white photographs would be
perfect
for the library. Our designer is covering all the books in shiny red paper and lacquering the walls and woodwork Prussian blue—”

She paused, looking troubled. “Now, honey, are you
sure
you’re going to be all right? Are you still going to
have
the show? With one of your partners gone and the other—”

“Hush now, Harrison!” The plump woman still held Kyra’s hand and beamed at her. “Kyra’s goin’ to be fine. I just know it.” She leaned in to hug the young woman, shooting her friend a meaningful look as she did so. “I heard you were stayin’ with Miss Lily. And your faithful Reba’s there too! We saw her in the parkin’ lot— she said she’d brought you some of Miss Lily’s roses. I’ll bet those two are tickled to death to have you there. Now you just stay put and let them spoil you for a while. You’re goin’ to be just fine.”

Kyra skillfully disentangled herself from the older woman’s embrace and motioned to the studio walls. “I
am
going to be fine— see, these are all things I’ve done on my own. And yes, there
will
be a show at the QuerY. Carter’s making it a kind of tribute to The 3, with photos and videos from
Strike on Box.
But it’ll also be the beginning of my solo career, and Carter wants to devote a major section of the show to just my work.”

The limpid green eyes widened and Kyra turned aside for a moment. She passed her hand over her face and turned back to her mother’s friends. “Don’t you see? I have to keep moving forward. Boz and Aidan were a part of my life and my art, but I can’t stay in the past. Not now, not ever. Carter thinks that my best work may be ahead of me and I—” Her voice faltered and again she turned aside.

“But I heard that Carter was in some kind of
trouble
and might have to
close
the gallery. I told Cameron—”

The plump woman jabbed her friend’s side with a vicious elbow. “Harrison, that’s just wild gossip. There’s probably nothin’ to it.”

Elizabeth and Phillip had moved to the far end of the studio when the two women entered and were attempting to ignore the conversation by studying the various half-finished works propped against the walls or lying on tables.

Elizabeth, a lifelong bibliophile, was drawn immediately to a small crate of books. Art books, for the most part, and several titles on healing herbs that she recognized from her own collection. She smiled: Kyra was true to form for her sex and generation, refusing to abandon the care of her health to mere doctors.
If only these amateur “wise women” would realize how dangerous some of the herbs can be.

During the few days she had spent at the farm, Kyra had quizzed Elizabeth relentlessly about the medicinal uses of the various herbs and plants. “Reba, my old nurse, grew up in Marshall County and she knows all about what different plants are good for. She said that her mamaw was a witchy woman and taught her all the old ways.” Elizabeth had carefully explained that
she
dealt in the culinary herbs and that, though she was aware of the potential uses of the many medicinal herbs that grew on her farm, she was cautious about using them.

Phillip seemed to be engrossed in a piece that involved torn bits of pencil drawings and personal letters assembled jigsaw-style on a canvas and highlighted with splashes of transparent glazes in shades of red and umber. He was, however, Elizabeth noticed with some amusement, listening intently.

As was she. But now the ladies were studying the works for sale at their end of the studio and demanding detailed explanations of each one from the artist. The plump woman had her checkbook in hand and was avidly scrutinizing a painting of an elflike child emerging from a partially opened white rose.

Roses figured heavily in Kyra’s work. Painted almost photo-realistically in some pieces, drawn in pencil, rendered in ink with watercolor washes— the medium changed but the subject matter did not. Elizabeth moved quietly among the various pieces, noting the intensity and skill that the young woman brought to her art.

One particularly large piece in the work area was on a heavy easel, facing away from the rest of the studio. Curious, Elizabeth edged around it to have a look. At once there was a feeling of familiarity— the rose, of course, was there. But there were other forms taking shape that seemed—

“Elizabeth, if you and Phillip don’t mind, I really prefer not to have my work seen till it’s completed.”