Cutwork (20 page)

“And did he?”

Skye shook her head. “No. Pop never said anything more about it, but I know Banner still called, at least once in a while, because once I answered the phone and it was him.” She frowned. “No, it was twice, because the first time Pop was getting his car serviced, and the second time it was after Pop moved out. Coy told me that one time he answered the phone and Banner thought it was Pop, and Coy caught an earful. He said Banner used really filthy words. Coy laughed about it, but . . .”

“Yes, I see.”

“When Pop moved out, he told us not to give Banner his address or phone number.”

“Did you all obey this?”

“I did. When Banner talked to me that second time, he sounded like he always did, nice and polite. He asked for Pop’s phone number, but I told him I couldn’t tell him that.”

“Did he get mad?”

“Nope, he just said ‘All right,’ and hung up.”

“Did your mother and Coyne obey?”

“I think they did. But I don’t know for sure. I mean Coy wouldn’t, I’m sure . . . but Mommy was awful mad at Pop.”

“If your mother didn’t tell him, would Banner have any way of finding out Robbie would be at the Excelsior art fair?”

“No, I don’t think so. They don’t advertise the names of artists ahead of time, I know that. But Pop had told lots of people he’d be there. I don’t know if Banner could’ve talked to any of them.” She was looking rather pale. “Oh, Ian, do you think . . .?”

“Probably not. I think it was probably that juvenile delinquent who was arrested to start with. But I also think it wouldn’t hurt to have Mr. Wilcox questioned. I wonder if he’s got an alibi. What do you know about him, Skye? Did you ever meet him, I mean before all this happened? Did he always have a bad temper?”

“Oh, I’ve met him lots of times. He and his wife used to come over to dinner and have us over to their house. I know they have two kids. Jennifer’s almost finished with college, or maybe has finished now, and Jake is married and his wife has twins, they were so adorable. And no, Banner doesn’t have a bad temper, or he didn’t. That’s why we’re wrong to think Banner could have murdered Pop. I mean, Banner’s sweet—kind of a wuss, really. When Coy said Banner sounded insanely angry, I couldn’t believe it. He was always nice and quiet before.”

“Then he probably got it out of his system with just yelling. When did he call last?”

“I don’t know. Coy told me about the call back before Pop moved out. But Mommy mentioned not long ago that Banner had called her and said she told him that if he didn’t stop it, she was going to get a, a cease and desist? Is that what’s it’s called, the legal paper?”

“A restraining order. When was this?”

Skye thought. “It was when we just finished final exams. That was the first week in June.”

“And your father was killed the second weekend in June.”

“But she didn’t say anything about him screaming and yelling, so maybe he was getting over it,” said Skye. She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of one hand, and he smiled a little at her, a smile full of sympathy for her youth and ignorance.

He said, “Why don’t you go wash your face?” and gently rubbed one cheek with his thumb.

She reached up for his hand, and saw the black on it. This made her smile, too, and attempt a weak jest. “Phony advertising, they said this was waterproof. All right, excuse me.”

While she was gone, he began looking at the art on the shelves. He paused for a moment to admire the sandpipers. What an amazing economy of line! Yet one could almost hear the shush of waves as the lively birds ran along the shore or prodded the wet sand for—what were they after, anyway? Bugs? Clams? Ian shrugged and moved on. Here were half a dozen of the little caricature pieces, all in a cluster. He selected the pair that showed a furious Doberman standing on its hind legs and wearing a very becoming dress with a suggestion of an elaborate necklace. Dobermans are slender dogs with delicate bones, and perhaps that was what made Robbie select that breed to represent his wife, who was, if Ian remembered correctly, fine-boned. The teeth in the pieces were not delicate, however, and the eyes were evil slashes. He looked among the others but couldn’t find either of the two Robbie had done of him.

He went around the room again, looking at the practice pieces that took up two-thirds of a shelf. Some of them were definitely salable. Maybe not the wolf’s head with the lips pulled back but somehow not looking very fierce, but the lion’s head in a ferocious snarl was great, and the raccoon head looking wise and amused, and maybe the empty turtle shell that was only half done, seeming to emerge in some natural process from the wood.

The last third of the shelf was taken up by the little caricatures. The nearly finished caricature of a plumber as a sleepy possum in overalls, with its tail around a plumber’s helper, was cute and would certainly sell. And too bad there were only two of the attorney with the briefcase and the face of a weasel; Robbie had said he usually sold three or four of those a day.

In a cardboard box on the floor were a half-dozen finished and half-finished caricatures, all of them snapped in half—Robbie broke the ones he wasn’t satisfied with. These weren’t salable; Ian picked out two and put them in his pocket to keep for himself.

He searched the room thoroughly, opening the file cabinet drawers and even peeling the flexible cap off a five-gallon steel drum behind the work bench. He found it about half full of pale gray clay, the kind that hardens only when baked. On top he could recognize a fox’s head, a powerfully muscled lion’s shoulder, leg and broad paw set into the hindquarters of the fleeing antelope—apparently Robbie had meant at first for the lion to get his dinner. The rest all seemed to have blended down into unidentifiable hunks.

He was handling the fox’s mask when Skye came back, face clean and spikes combed out of her hair—they had gotten bent when he held her during her weeping.

“If you tell me I look about twelve years old, I’ll never speak to you again,” she said. So he didn’t.

“This can’t be everything of your father’s,” he said.

“Sure it is.” She looked around. “He’s been selling quite a few, and I’m pretty sure this is all that he had left last time I saw him. No, wait, the snapping turtle is gone. He must’ve sold it on Saturday.” She looked along the shelves quickly. “Oh, and he sold the cringing wolf, too. I never thought anyone would buy that, I mean, it had its tail between its legs and its head kind of twisted sideways and its tongue stuck out, like the wolf at the bottom of the pack does to the alpha wolf, ick. I told him people want their wolves howling or biting, but he liked it, and I guess someone else did, too.”

“Is that all that’s gone? How about the little caricatures?”

She went to look at them. “The German shepherd soldier is gone, and the turtle house painter, and the pig police officer—he sells a lot of those, he can practically carve them with his eyes closed now—I mean . . .” She took a calming breath. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, he did a caricature of me as a peacock setting fire to my tail with a blowtorch,” he said. “I found a broken practice piece, but not the finished one.”

“That’s because I have it.” She was wearing those outsize jeans the kids liked, and her arm disappeared up to the elbow as she leaned sideways to reach into a pocket. It was a basswood carving not quite three inches tall. “It’s so like you, Ian, proud and sometimes careless.”

“I am
never
careless,” he asserted, taking it from her. “I’m just not as much of a craftsman as some. I thought you only had two of your father’s pieces.”

She shrugged. “Okay, if you count these cartoon ones, I have three. Or four. Does it matter all that much?”

“When I am supposed to convince your mother there is enough of your father’s
oeuvres
to hold a proper show and/or auction, then every piece counts.”

“Well, you can have the peacock if you insist. And we forgot to bring in the two big ones. Want me to go get them?”

“I’ll do it.”

He went back out to his Miata in the parking lot. It was far and away the best-looking car there. Poor Robbie had really come down in the world. Ian remembered the big house and the SUV and Lincoln Town Car—Robbie had been driving a second-hand Kia, which wasn’t here, he noted; and even it was nicer than most of the other cars around this apartment building.

He sighed, opened his trunk, and got out the two wood carvings. One was of two stallions fighting, a fiery and exciting piece, if a bit clichéd. The other was of a little hairy dog leaping in the air with a ball growing out of one side of his face. The dog, he knew, was “Spanky,” who had been a much-loved tyrant in the McFey household back when the children were in grade school. Spanky had been one of Robbie’s first efforts to put his figures into action poses. The anatomy was peculiar and the ball a mistake, but even in that early piece the vigor was remarkable, and according to Skye, Spanky used to snap sideways at the ball just as depicted. Ian had every intention of buying the Spanky carving and giving it to Skye. It meant too much to her to let it go into strangers’ hands.

He went back into the building and down the echoing hall to Robbie’s apartment.

“Now, do I have everything?”

“Well,” she said grudgingly and went again into her pocket. There was plenty of room in there; Ian half expected her to bring out a life-size crow. But the fourth piece was another caricature, of a boy as a gawky giraffe in jeans and sweatshirt, with big, gentle eyes and a thick book labeled MATH. “He’s not as pencil-necked as he was when Pop did this, and he’s toughened up, too.”

“Who is it supposed to be?”

“Coy,” she said, surprised he didn’t recognize him.

“I was Robbie’s friend and yours, not your family’s,” he reminded her. “I don’t think I’ve talked with Coyne more than twice.”

“Oh, yeah. And this was done when Coy was twelve.”

“Now I want you to look at every piece here and tell me what else is missing.”

But she didn’t think anything else was. They searched the rest of the apartment, which was relatively clean and furnished in Motel Six style. Ian could not have lived in this place for more than two days; he could have welded a couch with more style than what slumped against that wall. There were no other carvings, though on the wall over the graceless couch were three neatly framed pencil sketches, one of Robbie, one of France Avenue in Edina during their annual art fair, and one of the wood carving of Spanky. All were very competent, any flaws overcome by the passion of the artist for the subjects. Ian spent a few minutes looking at them—each was signed
Skye,
the letters twisted to form a little cloud.

“What are we looking for?” Skye complained impatiently, coming back from the bathroom. “I mean, is it one of those cartoon pieces or something bigger?”

“I don’t know,” Ian said. “Maybe we do have it all. I just want to make sure.”

“I don’t see how we could’ve missed anything. Is there enough to do a show with?”

He hesitated, then decided on candor. “There would be, if all the pieces were as extraordinary as the lion. But one marvelous piece doesn’t make a show. I think we should see if a Minnesota gallery would handle them for us, or if they could join an auction of outdoor art. We could place a couple of ads and, if we’re lucky, might easily realize twenty or twenty-five thousand dollars, perhaps more.”

Her eyes shone. “That’s pretty good, isn’t it? You’re being so good, helping me with this. Do you really think we can get twenty-five thousand dollars? Wouldn’t that be great? Pop would be so proud!”

 
“That much?” said Pam McFey thoughtfully. “Really, I had no idea. He’s been selling things at those silly street fairs, where things aren’t generally that expensive. No wonder he wasn’t making a decent living, if he was asking those kind of prices at a street fair.”

“As you possibly know,” said Ian, throwing a repressive glance at Skye, who immediately put both hands over her mouth to show she would keep still, “he wasn’t asking those kind of prices. We can, because he’s gone and won’t be doing any more work. And because some of his work is much better then he knew. I tried to tell him, and I’ve been working to arrange a show for him at my gallery. He was in the process of selecting some of his work to send them to look at. I have no doubt they would have accepted him, and worked with him to get the recognition he richly deserved. Who knows how far it might have gone? That’s why this whole thing is a tragedy.”

“I had no idea,” Pam repeated. Her hand went to her throat, where the slim fingers gently touched a necklace of carved amber beads that looked too heavy for her slender neck.

“And although Marvin Gardens would not be interested in representing so few pieces from a deceased artist, I hope you will allow me to look into getting them into an art auction, or perhaps another gallery willing to take on such a sadly limited number of pieces.”

“You think you can do that?”

“I’m sure I can make some kind of arrangement that will get you much more money than an estate sale would bring.”

“What about the other things in his apartment? Clothes and furniture?”

“I’m no expert on that sort of thing, but I don’t think there’s anything else valuable in there. There might be a market for his newer tools, if we can attract the attention of other wood carvers. Certainly they would want the band saw, and probably the unused wood.”

“Should they be included in an auction, then?”

“It depends on the kind of auction. Will you let me see what I can find out?”

“Thank you.” Pam smiled just a little bit, and thawed enough to say, “You really are being very kind.”

“Not at all.” And as a reward for those words of praise, Ian gave her the two little Doberman caricatures. “I don’t think we need to let anyone see these,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, and her fist closed so quickly over them he knew she had seen them before. The look she gave him was startlingly fierce, and it was only in retrospect that he realized she was angry because he had seen them.