Dior or Die (Joanna Hayworth Vintage Clothing Mysteries Book 2) (22 page)

The scent of turpentine lingered in the cool air. Small windows did little to brighten the studio, but round lamps on stands cast pools of white light on a large canvas against a concrete wall. Another freshly stretched canvas leaned against the opposite wall.

"Thank you for making time to show me your paintings. I brought lasagna. Apple said you liked it." She held out the pan.

"Oh, noodle cake. That's what my family calls it. Let's put it over here." On the dimmest side of the room was a small counter and sink. Tranh laid a fresh dishtowel over the counter and set the lasagna on it. He clicked on a desk lamp. "I detest fluorescent lights. Until I have a studio with bigger windows, this will have to do. A piece for you, too?" His voice carried only a trace of an accent.

"Thank you."

He carried plates of lasagna to two stools facing the painting he was working on and handed one to Joanna before sitting down. Paint smeared his sweatshirt and white painter's pants, but his tennis shoes were pristine red. "Where did you see my work? I haven't been in a lot of shows," he said between bites.

Here came the tricky part. "Apple told me about it. She thought I'd like it."

"Have a look around. I'm working on one of the nudes right now." Tranh had already finished his lasagna and got up to load his plate with more. Apple was right. For such a little guy, he could sure put it away.
 

On an easel leaned a painting of a nude woman resting in a chair. Her hands clasped the chair's arms. Tranh had been detailing her face. Her body was only an outline in green-blue paint on gesso. It was nice, but no different than lots of student work she'd seen.
 

Get him talking about Gil, Joanna thought. "Was this a model from the life paintings Apple goes to, also?"

Tranh's fork dug into the new slab of lasagna. "Uh huh."

"What a great idea you guys had, chipping in on a model. Are there a lot of you?"

"Me, Apple, a few others."

He wasn't making this easy. "I seem to remember Apple mentioning Gil North painted with you sometimes, too."

"Uh huh." His fork hovered mid-air. He looked at Joanna. "There are some more nudes over there, against the wall. Don't miss those."

Joanna arranged three of the smaller canvases next to each other, but she barely saw the flesh-toned paint. "You'd think Gil could afford his own model."

He set his fork and empty plate under his stool. "I guess he likes to hang out with other artists sometimes."

Her back to Tranh, she absently pulled a few other nudes from the stack and stepped back as if she were looking at them, but her brain churned. How to get Tranh to open up about Gil? The swirling colors of his painting against Helena's fireplace were still vivid. "
Pacific Five
sure is gorgeous," she said almost without thinking.

"Thank you." Tranh's voice had softened.
 

Eyes wide, Joanna turned to face him.
 

"I know Gil would want me to thank you," he added quickly.

He knew something. Apple said Tranh and Gil had an "odd" relationship. Joanna struggled to remember her exact words. Could Tranh have had a hand in painting
Pacific Five
? If so, he'd be working off of larger canvases than the nudes.
 

"What's on that big canvas, over there?" Joanna wandered toward a dark edge of the studio. The smell of oil was stronger. The canvas was propped, painted side in, against the wall. She tipped the painting back to glance at its face.

"No, that's not for sale." Tranh leapt off his stool. "I was just working on it—it's not ready."

She ignored him and pulled it from the wall. Joanna stared at Tranh's painting in progress. It was astonishingly similar to Gil's painting. They were both large canvases with stretches that looked post modernist in their swathes of color, but tiny, precise images of objects—people, suitcases, cooking utensils—peeked from behind the waves.
 

Tranh's hands dropped to his side. Gingerly, Joanna pulled the painting around, face out. Tranh lifted it and carried it into the light. He turned his head defiantly toward her.

"You—" Joanna started, then stopped. "Are you copying Gil's work, or—?"

"Not copying." He picked up his palate, a rectangular piece of acrylic covered in splotches of mixed paint. He selected a fine-tipped paintbrush and mixed two circles of paint from his palette to create a third.
 

"Tranh, what do you call this painting?"

"
Pacific Five
." His eyes were defiant. The electric heater in the corner of the room kicked on with a whirring sound. "I'm always painting
Pacific Five
."

"So you did paint it—Gil's painting." Apple was right. This put a whole new light on the situation. Gil took credit for someone else's work. Tranh knew more than he was letting on. He had to.

At first he didn't respond. As he painted, his hand covered a small part of the canvas, the brush moving in a space no larger than a nickel. Surely he'd heard her.
 

"Yes," Tranh said, finally. He put down his paintbrush and sat on the stool again. "My family—there are five of us—came here from Laos. Our ocean crossing was a real sea change. A cliche, but true. Here, we were the same people, but also had the chance to be someone new. I think of us as the
Pacific Five
."

"Are you saying Gil won a prize for your painting?"
 

Another long minute passed before Tranh spoke. "Surprised me, too."

"That seems kind of mild. I mean, he claimed your work as his own and even submitted it to the art competition."

"Gil is searching for his own sea change. He didn't want to be some rich guy owning a vegetable cannery." He got up for his third helping of lasagna.
 

He was oddly philosophical for an artist whose work had been co-opted by someone else, then entered in the art biennial for a prize. "You don't resent it? You aren't mad that he's going around telling people he painted your work?"

"Nah." His back was toward her. She couldn't see his expression.

Really? He didn't mind that someone else stole credit for his art? "But if it got out that Gil didn't paint
Pacific Five
, his reputation would be trashed. Word would spread like wildfire." She imagined the scandal, the shushed tables at restaurants when Gil entered, the art dealers' doors slammed in his face.
 

"In a way, he did me a favor," Tranh said. "This town is rough on artists. Once you get a name, you're golden. But until then, it's a struggle. What gallery is going to even look at the work of a Laotian refugee, unless it's something ethnic? With Gil's name on it, the panel at the art museum would be sure to consider it."

"But that’s just it. Gil’s name is on it, not yours."

"It will all come out eventually. I’ll be on top. Who knows? I might even benefit more if it turns into a scandal."

Joanna’s mind turned. "How did Gil come to have your painting, anyway?"

Tranh set his plate down for the third time and pushed it under his stool with a foot. "In life drawing, I work on detail, the little bits here and there on this canvas." He waved a paintbrush at a delicately portrayed fly, almost hidden in a gray swath of paint. "Gil wanted to see my work, so we came back here. He's an all right painter, but one thing I'll say for him is that he has an amazing eye. The guy could teach art history or something."

Joanna set her lasagna plate in the sink as Tranh talked. She returned to the stool and the relative warmth of the studio lights.
 

"So," Tranh said, "he fell in love with one of my first
Pacific Fives
. Couldn't stop talking about it. I ended up selling it to him. After that, the best I can figure is someone saw it at his house, and he claimed he'd painted it. Then it showed up in the biennial." His expression was almost studiously calm.

Joanna was sitting on the edge of her stool. Her mind ran through the gamut of possibilities. He might have wanted to prove something to Vivienne. Surely he didn't set out to steal credit for the painting. "He had to know you'd find out."

"Of course. He felt guilty, too, I could tell. I saw him at a wedding where I was working, and he seemed horrified. He tried to give me money, just like that, straight from his wallet. Then an anonymous money order for a thousand dollars—exactly the prize amount in the biennial—came in the mail."

Joanna took in the cement floor and raw wall of the basement. "I bet that money came in handy."
 

"I'm doing all right. I donated it to a refugee organization."

"But all those hours working for the catering company—"

"My family's business. They live upstairs. We own the house."

Joanna's face warmed with embarrassment. She had fallen into the same trap the people Tranh was talking about did, assuming because he was an immigrant he wasn't successful.
 

"That's quite a story. But you're not bitter? Or angry?"

Tranh drifted to the canvas again and picked up his paintbrush. "At first, yes. Maybe just a little." He suddenly spun toward her. "And why shouldn't I be?"
 

"I get it." Joanna clutched the edge of the stool.

Tranh sighed. He turned again to the canvas. "The night of the biennial I drove over to Gil's to talk to him, but he'd already left."

"The night Vivienne was poisoned."

"From her cocktail. I know."
 

Joanna tilted her head. The police hadn't released information about the Bee's Knees. "How did you know she was poisoned from her drink?"

Tranh squinted at his painting. He refused to look at Joanna. "I don't know. From the news, I guess." He set down the paintbrush and grabbed his napkin. He absently twisted it in his fingers.
 

"It wasn't in the news, Tranh."
 

"Maybe Gil told me. Anyway, I talked it over with my family, and in the end I understand why Gil did what he did, and I made peace with it. It will all work out in the end. People make assumptions all the time about each other. It's just that some of us are braver than others about showing who we really are."

Joanna remained silent. Tranh looked at her and shrugged. He picked up the paintbrush again, dipped it into a hay-tinted smear of paint, then paused, brush in the air. Worry passed over his face. "You're not here to buy a painting, are you? Why are you asking all these questions? Are you from the museum? Or" —he carefully set down the paintbrush— "the police?"

"No, no." Joanna slipped off the stool. Maybe he had been the person drinking the second cocktail at the North’s. Helena had said the cocktail was in a tumbler. Not a Bee's Knees. "You're right that I'm not here to buy a painting, though. Remember the auctioneer Saturday night? Poppy?"

He grimaced. "Of course. The hanging."

"She was a good friend." The funeral was tomorrow morning. Her heart tugged. "So much—weirdness surrounded her, what with the diamond theft charges and Vivienne North's death. I heard you were friends with Gil and wondered if you knew something the police don't." There was more he wasn't telling her. She was sure.

"Except for the NAP auction, I haven't seen Gil since his mother died. I never met the auctioneer at all."

Didn't he just say Gil might have told him about Vivienne's cocktail? She settled back on the stool. He was lying to her. Why? "Tranh, does anyone else know you painted
Pacific Five
?"

His back was to her as he returned to work on the canvas. "No. I haven't told anyone. And you won’t either, will you?" He stared at her. "After all, it’s really none of your business."

She didn’t reply.

"Anyway," Tranh continued, "I almost think Gil would be relieved if the truth came out. Who knows? Besides, now that the biennial and the art auction are over, people will forget about the painting."
 

And he won't have it rubbed in his face. She leaned forward. "You are upset about it, aren't you?"
 

"No," he said. "I'm fine. Really." On the canvas behind him, painted with the detail of a Flemish master, was a noose with a frayed end.
 

***

Helena slipped off her gauntlet-like beekeeper's gloves. "I was sorting through some things and found one of Vivienne's dresses. I thought you might like it." A netted hat lay on the floor next to her.
 

"I'm glad you thought of me," Joanna said. She didn't even need to make up an excuse to pry about Helena and Clary, thanks to Helena's message waiting when she returned to Tallulah’s Closet. Joanna suspected Helena knew nothing about
Pacific Five
’s real creator, and she wouldn’t tell her, either. Tranh was right. It wasn’t any of her business. As long as it didn’t have anything to do with Poppy or Vivienne’s deaths. Then, all bets were off.

"Can you believe this warm weather?" Helena asked. "Glorious. The garden is exploding. I'm sure it will be raining tomorrow, though. After all—"

"—It always rains during Rose Festival," they said at the same time.
 

Helena laughed. "I get so tired of hearing that. Anyway, I thought I'd take advantage of the lull to check on the bees. Hive mites. The colony died out." The words clearly had led to a new line of thought. Her expression darkened. "I was—shocked to hear about the auctioneer. What a horrible night."

"I still can't get over it." Good thing she hadn't told Helena about the sting operation ahead of time. They'd both be miserable.

"I'm sorry. It’s terrible to lose a friend." Helena's voice was gentle. "There's been so much loss lately."

"Yes." A sudden urge to cry overcame her. She drew a long breath and let it out slowly. Joanna wasn’t the only one feeling loss. This big house must feel so quiet without Vivienne. Helena’s mood seemed to slip along with Joanna’s. Joanna glanced toward the den, the den where Tranh may have shared a drink with Vivienne and revealed Gil’s secret. And then—what? Demanded money? Threatened him?

Pacific Five
leaned against the unlit fireplace. "Your husband's painting—I didn't get to see it up close at the auction. It's so striking."