For Every Evil (5 page)

A poetry reading, thought Louie, though he had the sense not to say it out loud. Folding his tall frame into the wing chair once more, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. What an evening. His night out on the town was beginning to feel more like a day at the circus.

Bram walked briskly down Penn Avenue on his way to the Chappeldine Gallery. He felt loose. Exhilarated. Pleased with himself for the brilliant way he’d handled this morning’s program. After airing a rather dull, taped interview he’d recorded last night with Senator Arlo Barrows — an interview in which the senator artfully sidestepped every important question put to him about the Twin Cities’ newly proposed light rail transit system — Bram launched into two hours of deadly political satire. He could almost see the radios out there in radioland melting from the heat. Well, it served the old fart right. Nobody liked a politician doing the two-step on taxpayer time.

Smiling at his reflection in a shop window, Bram stopped to straighten his tie. It was funny. A radio personality could live his entire life in relative anonymity — that is, until he opened his mouth. On the other hand, Bram knew he bore a striking resemblance to a certain movie actor. Unfortunately, this legend, as some were calling him these days, was dead. So unless people took him for an unusually animated corpse, he was an obvious impostor. Oh well. Things could be worse. He could actually
be
an animated corpse. Or an actor, forced to repeat
other
people’s words on unto eternity. Either option caused him a moment of psychic pain as he continued on down the street.

At the end of the block he swung open a carved wooden door and entered the gallery. It was an old building, long and narrow, with stark white walls and tons of track lighting. Kate Chappeldine was sitting behind the reception desk in the back, talking on the phone. She waved him a greeting and then motioned for him to look around while she finished her conversation. Bram was glad to oblige. He stepped over to a series of drawings, bones and feathers tumbling together, each drawing a different moment frozen in time. He studied them closely, finding their intricacy quite amazing. He was glad Sophie had suggested he stop by and take a look.

“What do you think?” asked Kate, coming up behind him a few minutes later. Her usual tailored blazer and slacks were replaced today by jeans and a sweatshirt. A smudge on her face told him she’d been working in the back.

“Quite impressive.” He gave her a warm smile.

Kate Chappeldine was a tall, no-nonsense young woman, with straight, extremely thin blonde hair and a pallid complexion. Viewed from the right angle, she looked a bit like an ostrich. Her personality was well suited to running a gallery. In other words, she was a born diplomat when it came to dealing with egos. Bram envied her patience.

“As a matter of fact,” he added, standing back, “I think these drawings are remarkable.”

“John will be so pleased.” Kate beamed her delight. “He was going to stop by this afternoon. I’d hoped you two might get a chance to meet.”

As they continued to talk, the door opened and Hale Micklenberg puffed into the room surrounded by a cold gust of air. He grunted a greeting, taking off his wool coat and whipping a pair of glasses out of his vest pocket. “I need to look at this exhibit,” he announced, “if I’m going to include it in my column on Sunday.”

Bram watched Kate’s good mood turn sour. He knew Hale had that effect on people. He was sort of a modern day twist on Johnny Appleseed, spreading indigestion and heartburn over the countryside.

Kate signaled her apology to Bram with a small shrug and then led the portly, middle-aged man to the far wall. “Perhaps you’d like to start over here. These are some of my favorites.”

Hale squinted at the first one in the long row, making no comment. Ten minutes later, after viewing everything in the gallery in total silence, he took off his glasses, and, with a weary sigh, said, “Just about what I expected. The man is an amateur. No depth. No … complexity. I suppose to be fair, one would have to admit he does have a certain technical ability. But that’s it.”

Bram, who’d taken a seat in one of the front chairs, had been watching this inspection of John Jacobi’s latest crimes with great interest. “I liked them,” he said.

“Did you?” Hale turned and gave him an indulgent smile. “I don’t doubt it.” He returned his gaze to Kate. “Thank you, my dear. Now, on to more important matters.”

She appeared confused. “Important matters?”

“Have you received any more work from Ezmer Hawks?” He rubbed his hands together, a tremor of excitement passing over his solid face.

“Who?” asked Bram, noticing Hale’s unusual interest.

“To my mind,” said Hale, drawing in his breath for a grand pronouncement, “he’s one of the most important artists at work today. His drawings have a rare sense of the primitive. Prairie primitive, I call them.”

Bram knew Hale liked to use the word
prairie
instead of the more common term, Minnesotan. Or even Midwestern. It was an affectation, like his red bow ties, which delighted some, but nauseated most.

“So,” said Hale, returning his full attention to Kate, “do you have anything new?”

“A few things.”

“Wonderful.” He started for the back.

“I’d be happy to show them to you, but right now I wanted Bram to finish — “”

“Oh, don’t mind me.” Bram stood, glancing at his watch. “I’m afraid I’ve got to run. I’ve got a dental appointment in half an hour. My right molar.” He pointed to his mouth.

“Ezmer has an opening here at the beginning of April,” continued Hale, as if the subject had never been changed. “You’ll want to make sure you stop by to see his work.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Bram wondered briefly if sarcasm was becoming his normal tone of voice. Politicians and monomaniacs did that to him. As he turned to say a
sincere
goodbye to Kate, his mind flashed to next week’s lineup at die station. “Say, I’ve got an idea. We just had a cancellation on next Tuesday’s show. What do you say the two of you come on to discuss the art scene in the Twin Cities?”

Hale quickly whipped out a pocket calendar and gave it a look. “I believe I’m free that morning.”

“It’s fine with me,” said Kate. “Anything to advertise the gallery.”

“Terrific. You know, we might also want to include your wife, Hale. Ivy is quite the authority in her own right.”

Hale gave a grudging nod. “I’ll ask her.”

“And I’ll notify my producer. She’ll get back to you with the particulars.” As he opened the door to let himself out, he hesitated. “Oh, by the way . .. don’t prepare anything. I like my shows to be spontaneous.”

“Do you now?” replied Hale, a smirk forming. “Well, I’ll make you a promise then. This will be one of your
most
spontaneous shows.”

For some reason, Bram didn’t like the sound of that.

“I received a few new things from Soldiers Grove yesterday afternoon,” said Kate, opening the door to the storage room.

“Soldiers Grove? Is that where Ezmer lives?” asked Hale. “I just knew it was somewhere in northern Minnesota.”

She nodded, switching on the light.

He paused in front of a worktable and glanced idly at a serigraph. “How was it you first came across his pastels?”

“About six months ago, I got a package of drawings in the mail. Ezmer explained that he lived in a small town and didn’t have access to matting and framing facilities. He said he’d heard about my gallery through a friend, and asked if I’d mat and frame his work, and then send it all back to him. I liked a number of them so much I wrote to ask if I could show them to my customers. From there we’ve developed a relationship.”

“Really? You never mentioned that before.” Hale’s eyes took in the cluttered room.

Kate quickly stepped to the rear and drew out several matted but unframed drawings. “Mr. Hawks has no phone. Nothing but a post office box. We handle everything through correspondence.”

Hale took one of the works and propped it against the wall, studying it for a long moment. “His style is evolving. See here what he’s doing with color?” He folded his arms over his chest. “Wonderful. Yes … I like it. What else do you have?”

Kate placed the next one in front of the first.

“Ah.” He smiled, his pomposity dropping away. He spoke now almost reverently. “It’s so simple. The gesture says it all. This moves me very deeply, Kate. It’s the innocence. I don’t understand it And yet… I want to. You don’t suppose he’s planning to come down for the show?”

“He hasn’t said.” She set the third drawing in front of the second. “This is all I’ve received so far.”

“Hmm,” mumbled Hale, cocking his head and frowning thoughtfully. “This one is odd.”

“Why do you say that?”

He walked over and picked it up, studying it more closely. “Do you see a form in here?” He pointed to the bottom.

Kate moved up behind him. “No, not really.”

“Right here,” he said impatiently. “Logs and a flame.”

Kate shrugged. “Maybe. Now that you mention it, I can kind of see it. Then again, the flames, as you define them, could easily be tall grass. Or wheat. Ezmer uses lots of naturalistic images. Some are more abstracted than others.”

Hale’s eyes remained fixed on the drawing. “I suppose you’re right. It just struck me as …” He abandoned the end of the sentence.

“Does the image have some particular meaning to you?”

“No. Certainly not.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just … ever since last night —”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Kate stood up very straight. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have said something as soon as you walked in. Your assistant, Charles Squire, told me about the shots that were fired. How is Ivy? Have the police found out who did it?”

Hale took a partially smoked cigar out of his coat pocket and lit up, blowing smoke high into the air. The act of doing something familiar seemed to relax him. “Ivy’s fine. Just a little shaken. And the police haven’t got a clue. Just between you and me, I don’t have much confidence in our boys in blue these days. All they did was come out to the house and ask a bunch of inane questions. For a while, I think they even thought I’d done it.” He took several indignant puffs.

“That’s awful.”

“Damn right it is.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I’ll tell you a little secret. I went out this morning and bought a gun. Who knows what some people have in their minds.”

“Did you buy one for Ivy, too?”

He bit down hard on the cigar stem. “I can protect my own family, thank you very much.”

Kate waved the smoke away from her face.

“And anyway —” His eyes returned to the drawing, causing him to lose focus. After a long minute, he said, “You know, I think you’re right. I’m reading something into this that simply isn’t there.” He laughed, taking several small puffs on the cigar.

Kate felt as if she were in the midst of a poker game. She quickly took the drawings and placed them back inside their packing. Show-and-tell was over. “By the way, Hale …”

“Uhm?” This time his attention had been captured by an etching. He crouched down to study it.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to put out your cigar before we return to the gallery.”

He grunted. “I suppose we mustn’t annoy the clientele.” Tapping the burning tip very carefully against the side of the framing table, he pinched it until it was completely cold and then put it back into his pocket. “These are too fine and entirely too expensive to simply toss in an ashtray.”

Kate resisted the urge to cough. “I should be receiving more of Ezmer’s works Monday afternoon. If you’d care to stop by.”

“I may just do that,” said Hale, following her out of the room and back down the hall.

Glancing now at the front window, Kate noticed the sky had turned cloudy. The forecast called for snow late in the day. As she helped him on with his coat, she said, ‘Try to be kind to our latest exhibitor in your column on Sunday.”

“That, my dear, I can’t promise. I have to write what I see. And to my mind this John Jacobi should use his talents, such as they are, to illustrate biology textbooks.”

Kate bit her lip so hard she could almost taste the blood. “Give my best to Ivy.”

“I’ll do that. See you Monday, my dear.”

After he’d gone, she stepped to the window and watched him trot across the street to his Mercedes. Her eyes darted to a second-floor window just above the spot where he’d parked. Hot oil flung through a screen, she thought to herself — or a small bomb dropped right at his feet. Either would do the trick. She leaned heavily against the cold glass wondering where all the assassins were when you needed them.

Sophie looked up from her book when she heard the back door open. An ancient black mutt asleep in front of her easy chair lifted a rheumy eye and let out an obligatory growl.