Cutwork (18 page)

“Ouch.”

“Indeed. But I know better now, and the market has started to climb back.”

“John got out in time. Inside information, probably.”

Betsy frowned at him. “You’re not serious!”

Godwin shrugged. “I don’t know if I am or not. He had some kind of information, I know that; he was on the phone for most of a Saturday afternoon and on Monday he placed a lot of orders to sell. And less than a week later,
le deluge.
”

“Goddy, is he some kind of crook?”

“No, no. Well, not really. I mean, if you play golf with someone and that person mentions that an uncle has told his children to sell, is that insider trading?”

Betsy shrugged. “I don’t know. I understand that even people in the investment business, including the enforcement end, don’t know what the term means, exactly. Are you going home now to tell John it’s over?”

Godwin shrugged and then huddled a bit inside his shirt. “I may not have to. I may go home and find all my things out in the gutter again.”

“If you do, pick up what you need and come back here. You can stay in my guest room. Unless you’d rather stay at Shelly’s house like last time.”

“I don’t know if Shelly wants company.”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“She’s dating Ian Masterson, you know.”

“Yes, she told me all about it.”

“Well,” sighed Godwin, and he stood. “I’d better go see how bad it is with John.”

“Call me and let me know. At least you’re not going in unarmed, Mr. Vice President.”

12

I an woke from a lovely dream without knowing why, to crisp sheets (funny, he didn’t remember changing them) and sunlight sieved through miniblinds. That was definitely wrong; he had heavy drapes in his bedroom to keep the sun from waking him. And the mattress was too firm. And there was a faint scent of perfume.

It had not been a dream.

Or perhaps it still was.

The cell phone rang—again, he realized. Not a dream, then; cell phones didn’t ring in one’s dreams. That meant—that he’d better get the phone. He reached for it on the unfamiliar bedside table.

“Uh-huh?” he said in a sleep-thickened voice.

“Hmmmm?” murmured a voice beside him. He glanced over. Yes, she had been real, too. Delightful!

A voice from the cell phone said, “Ian?”

“Yes, this is Ian Masterson,” he said.

“Ian, this is Skye.”

“Who?”

Impatiently, “Skye McFey.”

His heart clenched painfully. “Skye, my dear, how sorry I am for you!”

“That’s all right, I’m fine, I’m really just fine,” said Skye. Which wasn’t true, the tone of her voice was so altered he would not have recognized it if she hadn’t identified herself.

“Who’s it?” asked a sleepy voice from the other side of the bed.

“It’s not important, go back to sleep,” he said, and to the caller, “Can you hold on for just a minute? I want to go into another room.”

“Do you have company?”

“No, I’m in someone else’s house.” He rose from the bed and walked quietly into the living room. He closed the bedroom door and said, still quietly, “How are you, my dear?”

Sky said, “I need your help.”

“Of course, if I can.”

“Mommy showed me Pop’s will, and he left all his art to me.”

“Good for you! That’s fortunate, and very appropriate. You’re the one member of his family best able to appreciate his work. He loved you for many reasons, but that one was special.”

“I know, I know,” said the voice wretchedly. “But I wasn’t wrong, or was I? You really did think he was good, that he should get into a gallery to start building a national reputation.”

“Yes, I thought that—and it was true. But my dear, he’s past all that now, on this plane, anyway.”

“He’s past it on
any
plane!” she replied, her voice harsh with anger. “Dead’s dead.”

He felt suddenly sad and old. “Oh, poor Skye, how awful to believe that! But true or not, don’t you see? Fame doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Of course it does! Oh, not to him! But I want people to remember my father as the great artist he was! That means we need to build his reputation! You
have
to help me! You promised my father you would help him!”

She was excited and wretched at once; he couldn’t deal with her in this state, not on the phone. He said, “I remember my promise. And I keep my promises, to the best of my ability. What is it you want me to do?”

“First of all, we have to stop Mommy.”

His stomach lurched. “Why, what has she done?”

“She told me she’s going over to Pop’s place to organize an estate sale.”

“Why do we have to stop her?”

“Because she’s going to have like a garage sale!”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she said she’d give me the proceeds.”

“I don’t understand, I should think you’d be happy about that,” said Ian, bewildered.

“Don’t you get it? She’d never give me thousands of dollars! So that means she’s not expecting to get more than a couple hundred, and
that
means a dollar apiece for everything! Don’t you see? She’ll sell the lion for a dollar and the sea birds for fifty cents and his practice pieces for kindling!”

He said quickly, “She wouldn’t!” Then, “Surely she knows better. Why would she spoil your inheritance like that?”

“Because she’s still mad at him for selling Information Please.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, of course. I see. Do you know how much material there is?”

“Quite a bit, if you count his practice pieces.”

“I remember him telling me he destroyed his practice pieces.”

“The
clay
ones he did,” she said with exaggerated patience. “He dumped them back into the clay barrel. And the really bad wooden ones, he broke those. But some, they’re almost done, and some are just pieces, like a paw or a head. I suppose most of them aren’t worth anything, but I remember that one that’s just the face of a fox, it’s beautiful, and I bet we could get three hundred dollars for it if we put it up on a wire spoke and found a pretty base for it.”

He’d seen that mask; he didn’t think it was a practice piece but a finished one. He asked, “Are there a lot of those practice pieces?”

“Sure. Pop did practice pieces of almost all his stuff, even those silly animals that look like cartoons. He always started in clay, then did them in wood. And then he wouldn’t be satisfied and he’d start over. But sometimes he kept the practice wooden ones, because sometimes he could rework them and sell them.”

Again his heart was squeezed. There were two of him, one very amusing—and a very cruel one. “That’s interesting, that he did practice pieces of the caricatures. I thought he just did them quickly, like doodling.”

“Is that what they are, caricatures? I called them cartoons, they made me laugh. But speaking of them, that reminds me: We
have
to get there ahead of Mommy. I think there are two or three versions of that cartoon, I mean caricature, the one he did of her as a Doberman pinscher. If she finds that, she’ll go postal and not hold even a garage sale but a big weenie roast, studio and all.”

He found himself trying to make a fist of his burned hand and gritted his teeth in pain. “When did she say she’s going over?”

“Monday or Tuesday. Today’s Saturday and I’m going to be busy tomorrow, so we’d better get our butts in gear today.”

“Yes, you’re right. Okay, let me think. You said someone has already collected all your father’s work into his studio?”

“If you mean the stuff from the art fair, someone brought that back, yes. I have two pieces in my bedroom which I’ll bring along, but everything else should be there; he didn’t have anything out on consignment. We’ll need a good-size chunk of time, because after you take a look, then you have to go talk to Mommy.”

“Why do you even think she’ll listen to me?”

“Because you’re rich, and to Mommy, that makes you important! It’ll be easy, just tell her they’re worth a
whole lot
of money. I’m sure Pop told you money is like her god. He told me that often enough.”

Ian smiled, a bit tightly. “Yes, he mentioned that.”

“It should be easy to convince her there’s a lot of money at stake, because there is. Then you can help us organize a real auction, something we can advertise, maybe get a gallery interested, maybe even someone from a museum.”

“I don’t know—”

“Yes, you do know. But first you have to go see what’s there.”

“Yes, all right, all right,” he said and sighed heavily. “But listen, why do you need to get involved? How about I come over to your place and get the key to the studio?”

“No, huh-uh, Pop left this stuff to me, so I have to be involved, it’s my responsibility. So please,
please
come over real soon, and take me with you.”

He sighed again, this time in surrender. “Yes, all right. What time is it, anyway?” He held his watch up to one eye. “My God, it’s seven o’clock in the morning!”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” she said. “I waited as long as I could.”

He said, jocularly but sincerely exasperated, “Dear Skye, you will never become a true artist until you learn to stay up late and sleep in!”

“I know, I know, but I can’t help it; the sun comes up and I get up. Anyway, you’re up and out.”

He started to reply, but stopped himself. He didn’t want to let her know he’d spent the night here. She dressed like a goth, but her soul was still innocent, he was sure. Well, probably. Or mostly. He said instead, “Yes, that’s true. But I haven’t had my morning coffee yet. Let me see what I’ve agreed to do this day, and what I have to do to break loose a big-enough chunk to comply with your request. I shall call you back in, say, two hours.”

“Make it ninety minutes. And I knew I could count on you! Thanks, Ian. Bye.”

He closed his phone and scratched his head hard with the other hand, trying to stir up some circulation. He really didn’t want to drive all the way over to the McFey house in Maple Plain, then all the way in to Golden Valley, look at Robbie’s work—a damnable task, especially with this frantic child-woman peering over his shoulder—then drive all the way back out again. On the other hand, Skye was right, he had to see what was there. Now.

He wondered how angry Pam was. And if some of that anger was directed at him. How much did she know about his encouraging Robbie to follow his dream? He might not be able to talk any sense into her. But what might she do if he didn’t try? Burn everything? Or hold a garage sale and sell that lovely fox mask for fifty cents to one of those magpie people?

Magpie people—good phrase to describe those creatures who flocked to garage and estate sales in search of something shiny to carry home.

His massaging fingers slowed as his muse continued, Who are those people anyway? What were they after? What must their own homes look like? Like a magpie’s nest, obviously. He contemplated a piece of art that looked like a large, badly made bird’s nest, do it in wire and sheet metal cut into bird feathers. Put in it a chipped vase in some impossible color, a velvet painting of Elvis, a string of Christmas tree lights with a bulb broken—everything would have those colored stick-on dots used to price garage sales items, of course—and let’s see, a blender, one very used ice skate . . .

The door to the bedroom opened and Shelly came out. “Ian? Is something wrong?”

Her voice startled him out of his musing. “No, no, my love, I just had a phone call from someone who needs to see me.”

“At seven o’clock in the morning?” Shelly’s voice was creaky from sleep, and she yawned hugely, stretching her arms over her head. Ah, God willing, he would make a worshipful sculpture of that body!

He came to gather it into his arms. “No, she doesn’t need to see me right away. Just later on.” He kissed her bed-warmed neck.

“She?” The voice was quite awake now.

Damn all women! He released her. “Yes, a very lovely young woman who in a few months will enter the tenth grade.”

“Oh. Wait, I thought you told me your younger daughter is in college.”

“She is. This is the daughter of Robbie McFey, who wants me to help her sort out her father’s artwork.”

“Oh, that poor creature! But is she your responsibility? I mean, do you really have to go?”

“Yes, I absolutely, positively have to go. But before I do . . .” Wait, there was another appetite asking for attention. “Could I possibly get you to make a pot of coffee?”

“Would you like some pancakes and sausage to go with?”

“Woman, your price is above rubies. I shall have a quick shower and join you in the kitchen. May I borrow a plastic bag for my bandage?”

 
Betsy was in the shop. It was Saturday, a few minutes after ten. The shop had just opened, but it was already crowded. Women who worked office hours were the norm these days, and they had only weekends for the kind of slow, savoring shopping called for in a needlework store.

Betsy was helping a woman choose among several baby sampler patterns for a nephew-in-waiting. “He’s due October ninth,” the customer said, “so maybe something in autumn colors?”

“Well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a baby design in orange, red, and gold,” Betsy said.

Shelly, eavesdropping, said, “We do have a clever one with an acorn and two trees.” She quickly fingered through the square basket of birth and marriage samplers to find it. “See? There’s no rule against changing the colors in any pattern. Substitute orange and brown, say Anchor 304 or maybe 925 and 901 or 374 for the two shades of green, do the lettering in 1015—no, 1041.”

The customer cocked her head and half closed one eye. “Do you know, I think that might work.” She took the pattern and began to count how many stitches wide it was. “Maybe on a natural linen, twenty-eight count, over two,” she murmured.

“Mark your substitutions on the color key so you’re consistent,” Shelly reminded her. “The result will be a really unique gift.”