Death of an Artist (17 page)

“Easy, Van. Knowing and proving can be oceans apart. What I know is that anyone tripping and falling doesn't scream the way Freddi described the scream she heard. A victim of an attack who sees it coming and is terrified screams like that, not a falling person who goes down without warning. She might gasp, cry out, but she wouldn't pause long enough to scream like that. If the falling person is holding something, it just gets dropped, or else tossed in a reflexive way. It wouldn't get banged down on a banister hard enough to chip paint and break a picture frame. Reacting to a fall is pure reflex. Fast, unthinking reflexes and instinct take over. A quick grab for support, protecting the head, an attempt to stop falling, is what you would expect, not a head-over-heels, unchecked tumble.”

Van was staring at him, wide-eyed, not moving. She moistened her lips. “That's all?”

Tony set his own coffee down on the table, rose, and took the few steps to the balcony rail, where he stood with both hands on it. “He said he heard her scream and he ran to the outside door by the stairs. He had told Freddi she was in the studio. Why didn't he go there, up to the studio? For a scream to be heard by Freddi, with the studio door closed, the back house door closed, it had to have been loud and prolonged, and it should have sounded as if coming from the studio, not the bottom of the stairs.”

Van came to stand near him at the rail. “Why isn't that enough?” she demanded. “You can demonstrate that his story is a lie, it didn't happen the way he says. What more do you need?”

“Proof,” he said harshly. “Incontrovertible proof. This is all conjectural, hypothetical, subjective, an opinion. It isn't evidence that a prosecutor could take to a grand jury. A defense attorney would tear it to shreds with expert testimony from half a dozen witnesses. But it would never get that far, to a trial. This is the starting place for an investigation, not the end place. You form a hypothetical case and go dig for evidence to support it. If you can't find that evidence, you don't have a fucking case. Period.”

She was taken aback by the intensity of his words, the harshness of his voice, and she moved away a step, then returned to her chair and sat down again. She watched him at the rail. He was rigid with frustration or anger, it was impossible to tell which was more galling, and she wondered how many times he had dealt with such a situation, knowing who committed the crime, unable to do anything about it, watching a criminal, a killer, walk away from it.

She picked up her coffee and sipped it. “Tony, I'd like to fill you in on what's been going on at the house and what else the lawyer had to say today.”

His broad back visibly relaxed after a moment, and he turned toward her. “Okay, shoot.”

“The two men Freddi sent over finished moving all the artwork to storage, and it's going to take them about a week now to sort and tag it. They'll use those little round stickers with numbers and catalog everything. Number one, title if there is one, and name the medium, oil, pastel, whatever. If no title, a brief description will go with the number—‘landscape in oil,' ‘figure study in charcoal,' that sort of thing. Freddi said it will make the appraisal go faster if they do it, and they work cheaper than an appraiser will. So a week for that, then at least two weeks for the appraisal—apparently some research will have to be done. After that, insurance should take another day or two at most. We're talking about the next three to four weeks, if the others can get to it promptly, and that's how long the attorney intends to put off taking that contract to court.”

Tony returned to his chair as she talked. He was listening intently.

“Mr. Gladstone,” Van said, “he's the attorney. He said a court decision could be issued within weeks or it could take months, no way of predicting when a judge would move. He thinks that if the appraisal comes in very high, there might be taxes to pay on the collection. Tony, he was talking about a couple of million dollars, that an appraisal for thirty years of art could be that high. And until all of this is settled, not a single piece of that art can be sold.”

“I wouldn't even show any of it, if I were you.” Tony was wondering how desperate Dale might be to pick up another piece of change during the next two months, what this would do to discomfort him. He hoped Freddi would go ahead with an audit, let the bastard really start squirming and sweating.

“He also said,” Van continued, “that Marnie should have him rewrite her will, to name me as executor of the art estate, just in case something happens to her.”

Her eyes were wide and apprehensive as she said this. “He asked me when I have to report to the hospital for my internship, and he wondered what would happen if I asked to postpone it for a year.” She swallowed hard, then ducked her head to look at the cup in her hands.

“Do you know if you can ask for a postponement?”

She shook her head.

“When do you have to check in?”

“September, the day after Labor Day.”

For several seconds neither spoke again. Then Van said, “If I'm fully engaged in my internship, and I will be immediately when I get there, I won't be able to participate in any legal fight, or anything else going on here. And if Marnie—” She stopped and looked away from him. “He frightened me, Tony. What he was implying frightened me.”

“Van, remember what I said? The conjecture is the starting place, not the end. Okay, I've got the starting place, give me a little time before we decide I've come to an end. I'm following up on a couple of things. There'll be weeks, possibly months, before anyone can make a motion toward that art, and I'll be using that time in going from point A to B, and onward. Meanwhile, let's talk about how much of this you'll bring up with Marnie. As for the will, she should write a new one. The situation has changed drastically, her will needs updating. No other reason has to be given or even hinted at. There's the trust that's reverted, two houses to consider, executor, and so on. Routine stuff for the legal profession.”

Van took a deep breath. “That's right, of course. And there's no reason for her to see the autopsy, those pictures. I'll just say I handed it over to you and tell her the conclusion we reached, no details.”

“Good. I'm leaving it up to you to decide how much you should tell her about my own opinion. Would it help or hurt her?”

Van studied his face, then shook her head. “I don't think it would help, not right now. Later, just not yet.” She was afraid that Marnie would decide to take her own action if she knew Tony was as certain as they were that Dale had murdered Stef, and that Tony might not find enough evidence to prove it.

“It would be good for her to know something about the timeline, that four or five or even more weeks will pass before any decisions are made about the collection. That it can't be touched for at least that long.”

Van nodded, grateful for this kind of collusion, collaboration, whatever it was, and that it was also rational and practical.

“Do you want more coffee?” Tony asked. “Wine maybe? Or a beer? Anything?”

“No thanks. And especially thanks for leveling with me, Tony. I really appreciate that, more than I can tell you. Now I want to ask a favor. Will you let me help? Anything I can do, gofer, transcriber, look up something, anything. I want to help.” She smiled a little half smile. “Maybe just talk to you now and then.”

“Or listen to me blather,” he said with a grin. “If there's anything, I'll let you know. Fair enough?”

“Yes,” she said, rising from her chair.

He stood also and reached for the cups to take in with him. Van put her hand on his arm, and he felt as if an electric current had touched him. For a moment she looked startled, and she quickly pulled her hand away. Without looking at him, she picked up her own cup and walked into the apartment. Tony did not move for another second or two, then followed her inside, walked ahead of her to the outside door, and opened it. He moved aside so that when she left, she would not brush against him.

Again, she avoided looking directly at him as she walked from the apartment and to her car at the curb. Midway down the sidewalk, she turned back partway and said good-bye.

In her car, as she inserted the ignition key, she realized her hands were shaking. She closed her eyes hard and drew in a deep breath, another, aware that he was still standing in the doorway watching her. Under her breath she whispered, “Oh, my God!”

He watched her fumble with her key, watched her drive away, closed his door, and walked back to the balcony. “Forget it!” he said aloud. “For Christ's sake, just forget it! Keep away from her!”

He sat down and gazed at trees and saw her hand on his arm, felt the warmth of her hand on his arm, and he closed his eyes. His own hand went to the spot where hers had been. It stayed there.

 

14

T
HE
HOUSE
FELT
different, emptier, lonelier, as if Stef had gone with the paintings, leaving a vacuum that no music or radio, no television program in the background, could fill. Marnie hated it that she was allowing Josh to spend the late afternoon watching his programs, but she felt powerless to turn off the set, let the silence intrude once more. Usually Van made him take a nap when he came home from day care, but Marnie had not wanted him to go upstairs, be up there alone while she was downstairs alone. She had closed the door to the downstairs bedroom, closed the door to the studio, but the emptiness of both rooms seemed pervasive and was more haunting than the other rustling sounds had been.

Get used to it,
she told herself sharply, wishing Van would return, no matter how dreadful it would be to hear about the autopsy. Just a voice, she thought, not the unreal, disembodied voices of cartoon characters; a human voice would drive away the silence that was so invasive.

She thought about the coming months, with Josh upstairs by himself at night, and she shook her head. She wanted him close to her. She thought again about the empty room across the hall from hers. It could be a bedroom for Josh. She went to the other chair in front of the television, sat down, and said, “Tomorrow we have to go shopping, you and I. Want to turn that off and talk about what colors you want in your room?”

His look was skeptical. “What room?”

“I think when your mother goes to Chicago, we might move you down here, across from me, but we have to buy furniture and paint and drapes and things like that first.”

He jumped up and turned off the television. “Yellow. And red.”

“We'll see what the stores have. And twin beds so you can have a sleepover pal now and then. Would you like that?”

“Yeah. Can I have my own television?”

“No. A desk, a toy chest. What else? A bureau for socks and things. You might want some posters. It's going to take a lot of shopping, I'm afraid. And Sunday is your mother's birthday so we have to buy her a present.”

“And make a cake. Can I help make a cake? Chocolate, with lots of chocolate icing, and candles. A lot of candles.”

Thirty, Marnie thought with a pang. Thirty candles. She nodded. “Lots of candles. What kind of present do you want to look for?”

His face furrowed in thought. “No clothes,” he said after a moment. “She has enough clothes. And no books.”

Marnie smiled and nodded. “Maybe we'll have to look around for your present.”

Tipper raised his head, cocked his ears, and then Marnie heard the car also. “I think she's back. You be thinking about a present, but no talking about it. Okay?”

He nodded and jumped to his feet. “It's a secret.” He ran to the door to greet Van.

“We're going to paint my room and get twin beds so I can have Petey over to sleep. And make a chocolate cake for your birthday. But I can't tell you about the secret.”

Van looked past him at Marnie, who spread her hands helplessly. “It's a secret,” she said ruefully. “No party Sunday, just us, and a cake. Maybe I'll ask Tony over. He must get lonesome, knowing so few people around here.”

Van looked drawn, strained, Marnie thought, and realized how hard all this was on her, too. And now the autopsy on top of the rest. “Let's have a glass of wine out on the deck. Or do you want a Bloody Mary or something else?”

“I'll settle for wine,” Van said. “And you can tell me what he's talking about.”

“Can I have a Coke?” Josh said.

“Of course not,” Van said. “We don't even have any in the house.”

“You can get some.”

“No way, and you know it.”

“Okay.” He turned the television back on and sat down in his own chair again.

Neither Marnie nor Van said a word about it and went on to the kitchen to pour wine, then out to the deck.

“That little monster knows we want to talk,” Van said. “I think he's a step ahead of me almost all the time these days.”

Marnie agreed silently. Ahead of them both. “Tell me,” she said quietly.

Van repeated what she and Tony had discussed and finished by saying, “I think Mr. Gladstone was right about the time involved, and he's also right about your will.”

“I suppose so,” Marnie said, gazing at the unquiet ocean spread out like a rippling blanket fringed in white, frothy lace. “I'll go in next week and take care of it.” Like Van, she had wanted the verdict to be that Stef was already dead when Dale threw her down the stairs. She closed her eyes, thinking of her child tumbling down, over and over.

“Tony said he's following up on a couple of things. Maybe Sunday we can get him to tell what they are,” Van said. “Now, you tell me what Josh was talking about, painting a room, twin beds.”

“I kept thinking of him upstairs alone after you leave and just thought it would be better if he's down here. We'll paint that room and get posters, whatever. Make it his own space. He wants yellow and red.”